Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

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.”

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 after 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.