“And you shall have it,” said the male templar.
He and his companion started up the quay, accompanied by the bitterly complaining Salust. The trio’s half-giant escorts started to follow, but the woman signaled them to wait on the street.
“We have things under control,” said the sour-faced templar, picking her way past a heap of building stone. “You’ll just be in the way.”
Kester abruptly released Agis’s hand, then pulled a dagger from her chest harness. “I’ll take the woman!” she hissed.
With a flick of her wrist, the tarek sent the dagger sailing straight to the templar’s throat. The woman clasped her hands around the wound and dropped, gurgling, to the ground.
Even as she fell, Agis reached for one of Kester’s daggers.
The noble had no delusions about being able to throw a dagger accurately over such a distance, but he had other means of delivering the blade. After pulling the weapon from the tarek’s chest harness, the noble tossed the knife at the second templar, then used the Way to guide its path. The dagger took its victim in the same place the tarek’s blade had taken the female.
Salust paled and started to back away. At the same time, the half-giants waiting on the street screamed in fury, then stepped onto the quay. They did not rush, however. The half-giants were too large to run without the risk of tripping over a slave or stack of cargo.
“Thanks for standing by me,” Agis said.
“Ye paid me already,” the tarek replied in a gruff voice. She pulled another dagger from her harness.
“Next time, I won’t be so fast to take yer silver.” With that, she threw her weapon at Salust. The blade sank deep into the sailor’s breast. He collapsed, clutching at the leg of a passing half-giant. The brute angrily shook the dying man off, then hurled his club at Kester. The tarek ducked easily, and the big cudgel bounced off the hull of a nearby ship.
Agis drew his sword, bracing himself to meet the half-giants.
Kester grabbed him by the arm. “No need to fight,” she said. “Those oafs can’t catch the likes of us.”
“Then why’d you kill Salust?” Agis said, glancing over his shoulder. Slaves and dockmasters were cringing in terror as the half-giants stepped over them, shoving cargo off the pier and cursing in anger.
“Never trusted him,” she said, pulling the noble down the quay at a sprint.
They dodged past a stack of baled wool, pushed their way through a screeching flock of erdlus, then they were running for Kester’s caravel. As they came closer to the ship, the noble saw that it carried a dozen ballistae and catapults on each side.
As they passed beneath the stern, the noble gestured at the weaponry. “Why all the siege engines?”
“Giants,” answered Kester. She grabbed a thick rope dangling from the stern and handed it to Agis, then took another for herself. “Make way, Perkin!” she called as she began to climb. “Set a course for Lybdos, and be quick about it.”
“Not Lybdos,” Agis corrected, almost losing his grip on the rope as the caravel lurched into motion. “First, we go up-estuary a few miles.”
Kester scowled at him. “That’s no good,” she said. “After what we just did, I don’t fancy sneaking back past Balic. And the fleet’s already got a lead on us. Every hour’s costly.”
“It doesn’t matter. Before we leave, I have a promise to keep,” Agis said, throwing an arm over the gunnel. “Besides, with a little luck, a friend of mine just might be able to stop the fleet cold.”
“If that’s what you want,” Kester said, dangling from her rope with one hand and using the other to push the noble over the railing. “But it’ll cost extra.”
FOUR
THE STRAIT
OF BAZA
TO TITHIAN, THE DUSKY SHAPE TO THE SILT LION’S leeward side did not appear to be a boulder. For one thing, it seemed to be moving parallel to the ship, and for another, its profile resembled that of a massive head sitting atop a pair of colossal shoulders. Still, though the distance separating them was less than fifty yards, the king could not be sure of what he saw. For the fifth day straight, a heavy wind was ripping across the sea, lofting so much dust into the air that it was difficult to see clearly from the stern of the schooner to the bow.
Tithian turned to the ship’s mate, who was holding a large cone of solid glass to his eyes. “What’s that over there?” the king asked, indicating the direction in which he had been looking.
“A giant,” the mate reported. “But don’t worry. We’re in the Strait of Baza. As soon as we pass into deeper silt, he won’t be able to follow.” The catch in the young man’s voice belied his anxiety.
“Let me have the king’s eye,” Tithian said, ripping the cone of glass from the sailor’s hands.
“But the ship’s blind without it, King Tithian,” the sailor objected. “The dust is shallow here!”
Ignoring the mate’s complaint, Tithian pulled the dust-shields off his eyes, replacing the grimy lenses with the broad end of the cone. He pointed the tip at the shape he had been watching. Thanks to the magic Andropinis had instilled in the glass, the silt haze no longer obscured Tithian’s vision.
The thing was definitely a giant, with long braids of greasy hair hanging from his head and tufts of coarse bristle sprouting on the gravelly skin of his shoulders. His face seemed a peculiar mix of human and rodent, with a sloped forehead, dangling ears, deep-set eyes, and flat nose that ended in a pair of cavernous nostrils. A dozen jagged incisors protruded from beneath his upper lip, and a mosslike beard hung over his recessed chin.
“There can only be one giant that ugly,” Tithian growled. “Fylo!” He turned to the ship’s mate and ordered, “Stop the ship!”
Navarch Saanakal, high templar of the king’s fleets, stepped to the Tyrian’s side. Even for a half-elf, he was tall and slender, towering two full heads over Tithian. Beneath the grimy glass of his dust-shields, the commander’s eyes were pale brown and as fiery as embers. He had lean, sharp cheeks and a bony nose, but a silk scarf hid the rest of his face, protecting his airway from the dust.
“The Silt Lion is no dinghy, Your Highness,” he said with forced courtesy. “We can’t stop her at a moment’s notice.” He took the king’s eye and returned it to the mate. “If you please, Sachet needs the eye to guide the ship.”
“Then bring us around,” Tithian ordered, pointing into the haze on the leeward side of the schooner. “I must speak to that giant!”
Saanakal rolled his eyes. “In the Sea of Silt, you avoid giants, Your Highness,” he said. “Failing that, you run for deep silt, or fight if you must—but you don’t talk to them.”
“This giant belongs to me,” Tithian said, putting his dust-shields back in place. “I must find out what he’s doing here. He’s supposed to be taking care of an important matter outside Balic.”
“Very well,” Navarch Saanakal sighed. To the mate, he said, “Bring the Silt Lion around. Have the rest of the fleet form a semicircle with us at the center.”
As the mate relayed the orders, Tithian looked over the gunnel. He could see nothing but a pearly miasma of dust, with no demarcation between the surface of the sea and the air. Even the sun seemed half lost, its position marked only by a faint halo of orange light.
Despite the poor visibility, the king continued to search the murk for Fylo. No matter how he looked at it, the giant’s presence meant trouble. Either the oaf had killed Agis and somehow tracked Tithian to the Strait of Baza, or he had realized that his “friend” was not coming back and released the noble.
The king didn’t know which to hope for. If Agis lived, he would still be following, no doubt determined to make Tythian answer for the raid on Kled. Sooner or later, the noble would catch up and, probably, they would fight.
The king did not want that. His memories of their youthful camaraderie remained too vivid. Tithian could still hear a teenaged Agis pleading with him not to sneak out of the academy for a night of debauchery, then trying to comfort him afte
r the master ordered him to pack his robes and leave the grounds. Later, after Tithian had betrayed his birth class by joining Kalak’s templars, the noble had been with several young lords when they happened upon him in the Elven Market. One insult had led to another until the meeting came to blows, but Agis had fought on the young templar’s side, saving him a severe beating. Then there was the time after his brother’s death.…
Tithian could not allow himself to think of that, not until he knew whether or not he would have to kill Agis. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the memories from his head, then looked to the ship’s mate.
“Can you see my giant?” he asked.
“No,” came the reply. “We’re too far past.”
Tithian turned to berate Navarch Saanakal for allowing Fylo to disappear, but the high templar was ready with a response. “With twenty ships looking for him, we won’t have any trouble finding your giant again.” To the mate, the half-elf said, “Ready the catapult slaves, all ships to do the same.”
“I don’t want Fylo killed,” Tithian objected. “Not yet, anyway.”
“I have no intention of killing him, but he may be disinclined to talk,” said the high templar. “Until we have persuaded him to behave, perhaps you should join Ictinis. The floater’s pit is the safest place on the command deck.”
The high templar pointed to a shallow cockpit in front of the helm, where a gray-haired man named Ictinis sat with his palms resting on a table-sized dome of polished obsidian. Although he had the haggard aspect of a pauper, the gold rings on his fingers betrayed his true status. Ictinis was a shipfloater, a mindbender especially trained to use the Way to keep the schooner from sinking into the dust. He kept the ship afloat by sending his spiritual energy through the dome and into the hull. The task was a difficult one, requiring both physical endurance and psychic strength.
Tithian slipped into the chaperon’s seat, a small bench where the floater sat while training his apprentices. During the last five days, the king had passed much of his time in this seat, learning Ictinis’s art. He was not so much interested in keeping the ship afloat as in understanding how the dome worked, for it resembled the obsidian balls sorcerer-kings used to tap the life-force of their subjects when casting their most powerful magical spells.
Having begun his study of sorcery only five years ago, Tithian did not yet know any enchantments so potent that he could not cast them through the conventional means. But the thought had occurred to him that he could increase the effectiveness of his limited abilities by using an orb. Besides, he suspected that the sooner he learned to control the flow of mystic energy through obsidian, the easier it would be for him when the time came to learn the most powerful spells.
Ictinis suddenly looked up from the dome, his red-rimmed eyes opened wide in alarm. At first, Tithian feared that the old man had fallen ill, but the shipfloater twisted his head toward Saanakal’s station to relay a message that he had received through the dome.
“Captain Phaedras reports that, as he began his turn, he saw a wall of giants blocking the exit to the strait, High One,” said Ictinis.
“What type?” demanded Saanakal. “How many?”
Ictinis turned his gaze back to the dome. His eyes glazed over, then he called, “Perhaps fifty, all beasthead.”
“Beasthead?” Tithian asked.
“The giants are divided into two tribes, the humanoid and the beasthead,” explained the sailor at the helm, an anonymous young woman whose face remained hidden beneath her dust-shields and silt-scarf. Although her voice was calm, she clenched the wheel so tightly that the veins showed in her forearms.
Saanakal scowled and peered into the dusty haze ahead. “So many,” he said, shaking his head. “They must have come from Lybdos.”
Tithian climbed out of the cockpit. “What for?”
“To ambush us. We’re only a couple of days from there, and the beastheads don’t allow visitors to that island,” the high templar explained. “Now I must ask you to return to the floater’s pit.”
Tithian shook his head. “I prefer to see what is happening.”
“Then stand aside,” snapped Saanakal, gesturing toward the gunnel. “We’ve a battle to fight.”
Tithian started to object to the rude treatment, then held his tongue and did as he was told. There would always be time after the battle to chastise the high templar.
Saanakal looked to the ship’s mate. “Terrain?”
“Seven low islands to port,” he said, peering to the left side of the bow. He swept the king’s eye to the right, then added, “Scattered boulders—no, make that giants—a half mile to starboard. Another fifty, I would guess.” He lowered the glass cone and looked at Saanakal. “They’re closing on our flank.”
“Chain the catapult slaves to their weapons,” said Saanakal, his voice strangely calm and quiet. “Have the wizard brought up and tell him to prepare the Balican fire.”
The ship’s mate blanched and swallowed hard. “As you wish, High One.”
While the mate relayed the order to the rest of the ship, Saanakal spoke to Ictinis. “Close the line. The Lirr Song is to lead a run for the islands, but no one’s to break formation. All ships are to use Balican fire in their catapults.”
“Yes, High One,” replied Ictinis. He returned his attention to the black dome, and his eyes grew vacant.
Tithian went to the quarterdeck rail to watch the battle preparations, hoping the crew would keep the ship afloat long enough for him to find Fylo. The king did not know what part the big oaf had played in this ambush, but it could be no coincidence that the giant happened to be crossing the Strait of Baza at that moment.
On the main deck ahead, a half-dozen crews were laboring to ready their catapults. The skein cords creaked in eerie protest as powerful dwarven slaves pushed against long levers, struggling to wind the cup arms down and lock them into place. With each weapon stood a templar overseer, complicating the dwarves’ task by popping his whip over their bald heads and yelling for them to work faster.
Behind each catapult rested a stone vat, half filled with grainy powder, while the ship’s wizard, an old man with a bushy head of gray hair, stood at the far end of the deck. With him were two assistants, one pushing a cart-mounted tub of black sludge and the other carrying a long ladle.
Under the sorcerer’s direction, the first assistant stopped his cart, and the second poured a ladle of sludge into the vat of powder behind the first catapult. The wizard turned his palm toward the deck in preparation for casting a spell. The process took a little longer than usual, for few plants grew in the Sea of Silt, and most of the energy had to come from a distant island.
When the sorcerer finally had enough energy, he uttered his spell over the concoction. A fiery yellow flash shot into the air, licking the yardarms and setting the sails to smoking. A foul, mordant odor drifted back to the quarterdeck, and the mixture began to burn with an unnatural golden light.
As the wizard moved to the next vat, Tithian turned his attention to the sea near the ship. The giants were still screened by blowing dust, but he could see that the Balican fleet had already closed formation. Off the stern, the Wyvern had come up so close that a strong man could have leaped from its bowsprit onto the deck where Tithian stood. Its foredeck ballistae, with their tree-sized harpoons already nocked, were more clearly visible than those on the foredeck of his own ship.
The wizard kindled his fire in the last of the stone vats, then went to the foredeck to await battle among the ballistae. The catapult crews locked their firing arms into place and stood by with bone ladles in hand, ready to load their weapons as soon as the giants were visible. The rest of the sailors, except those needed to work the rigging, stood in the center of the main deck. Half carried long barbed lances, while the other half, serving as a fire corps, held sacks full of dust. The flapping sails and crackle of Balican fire were the only audible sounds.
“Captain Phaedras is firing his catapults.” There was a short pause, then Icti
nis completed his report. “The Lirr Song has gone down.”
“So fast?” Tithian gasped.
Saanakal nodded, and the ship fell even more silent than before word had come of the Lirr Song’s fate. Tithian stepped over to the gunnel and peered into the featureless haze. “Tell me, Saanakal, how many giants will we take with us?”
“A handful,” the high templar admitted, his voice emotionless.
“And the fleet won’t survive?” Tithian asked.
“Not realistically,” Saanakal answered. “We have shallow silt all around, so we can’t maneuver away from our attackers—and no one has ever survived a battle with a hundred giants.”
From the haze ahead came the muffled thumps of several catapult arms striking their crossbeams. A half-dozen streaks of yellow light arced through the sky, bursting into fiery showers as they started to descend. By the time the spray reached the surface of the dust, it had coalesced into a single curtain of golden flame. Across the distance rumbled muted roars and bellows, more akin to the yowls of wild beasts than the cries of manlike beings.
“The Giant’s Bane is taking a charge.”
The shipfloater had barely finished his report before the mate called, “Boulders!”
Instantly, Saanakal yelled, “Catapults!”
Tithian spun around in time to see the silhouettes of a dozen giants wading toward the Silt Lion. He saw the heads of a dozen different beasts—birds, lions, wyverns, kanks, and more—resting on the shoulders of manlike giants, then a barrage of stones came flying out of the haze. Most dropped short of the ship, sending silvery plumes of dust shooting into the sky. Four of the boulders found their marks, sending a series of thunderous crashes resounding through the decks.
One stone shattered a foredeck ballista. As its tightly wound skeins sprang loose, the cords knocked half the weapon’s crew over the side. Two more boulders hit the main deck, opening kank-sized holes in the planking and dropping a handful of reinforcements into the hold below. The last smashed a vat of Balican fire. Five dwarven slaves screamed in pain as yellow flame splashed over their shoulders, and small puddles of burning, syrupy liquid formed on the deck.
The Obsidian Oracle Page 7