Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

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 Ictinis 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.