Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

The fire corps rushed forward, pouring their bags of silt over the flames to smother them. At the same time, the catapult crews pulled their release cords to return the giants’ barrage. Even the dwarves who had been burned unleashed their missiles, still howling in agony.

The Balican fire streaked away from the ship with a loud sizzle, lighting the sky and filling the air with such a caustic stench that Tithian choked on the acrid fumes. As the fiery balls reached their zenith, the ship’s wizard raised his gnarled finger and cried, “Shower!”

The globes exploded, spraying burning gobs over everything beneath them. For a moment, all was quiet, then a portion of the sea itself erupted into fire and greasy black smoke. A chorus of pained screeches rolled across the silt and broke against the hull. Then, as the flames slowly sank beneath the dust, the cries died away.

When the smoke cleared, the twelve giants that had attacked the Silt Lion were gone. The reinforcements stopped battling the fire long enough to give a rousing cheer. The dwarven crews simply began to pry their catapult arms down again, though the five who had been burned earlier lacked the strength to succeed-no matter how hard their templar overseer lashed their charred backs.

Tithian turned to Saanakal. “I thought you said we were doomed?”

“Our wizard’s timing was remarkable-this time,” the high templar said, pointing over the stern. “But when his good fortune runs out, so does ours.”

When Tithian looked in the direction Saanakal had indicated, a cold hand closed around his heart. In the heat of the Silt Lion’s exchange, he had lost track of the rest of the battle. Now, he found himself looking on in horror as eight giants charged the Wyvern . Each carried a large battering ram in his hands.

The Wyvern’s foredeck ballistae fired. One tree-sized lance lodged in the breast of a goat-headed giant. Another harpoon pierced the scaly throat of a serpent-headed giant. Both attackers fell immediately, vanishing into the silt as if they had never been there. The remaining six hit the ship with their rams, opening great breaches in the hull and shaking the masts with the force of the impact.

Dust poured through the holes in rivers, but the shipfloater continued to hold the schooner aloft. Dozens of sailors rushed forward to thrust their lances at the giants, while the catapult crews used their ladles to fling Balican fire over the side.

Neither effort was to much avail, for the giants slapped the lances aside and easily dodged the clumsy attempts to pelt them with flame. They pushed upward on the rams with which they had punctured the hull. The schooner, still levitated by the shipfloater, tipped easily. Men, catapults, cargo, and everything else not firmly attached to the decks went tumbling into the silt. After the shipfloater and his dome fell away, the Wyvern itself settled into the dust.

When it was about three quarters buried, it touched bottom and stopped sinking. Survivors immediately swarmed to the portion of hull still showing above the dust, but it was clear they would not live much longer. As the Silt Lion sailed away from the wreck, the giants were using their rams like clubs to smash the hull into tiny bits.

Tithian turned to Saanakal. “Cancel the order to flee toward the islands,” he said. “Tell each ship to engage the giants at close quarters. They’re to move the vats of Balican fire to the gunnels and dump them over the side as the giants tip their ships.”

The high templar stared at him as if he were mad. “That’s suicide!” he gasped. “Without a ship-”

“The giants will sink our ships anyway. We may as well take as many of our enemies with us as we can,” Tithian replied. He looked to the ship’s mate and helmsman, then added, “Does anyone else prefer a fighting death to that of a coward?”

The helmsman was the first to reply. “I will follow your orders, High One,” she said, speaking to Saanakal. “But I prefer a fighting death.”

Several junior officers added their support, which only angered Saanakal. “Silence!” he ordered. He switched his gaze back to Tithian. “King Andropinis commanded me to follow your instructions, so I have yielded to your wishes up to now. But what you ask is madness. I won’t do it.”

“That would make you a mutineer,” responded Tithian. He allowed his hand to drift toward his satchel, but did not put it inside.

“Refusing to squander my fleet is not mutiny,” countered the high templar.

“Your fleet will sink anyway,” Tithian said, stepping toward Saanakal. “What is there to be afraid of? Dying an honorable death?”

“There is always the hope-”

“Truly?” Tithian scoffed. He looked to Ictinis and asked, “How many ships remain?”

“Eleven,” answered the shipfloater. “No, now only ten.”

“Your schooners are sinking like stones, Navarch. The only men who stand a chance of surviving are those who can cross the silt without a ship.” Tithian glanced at the young officers crowding the quarterdeck, then asked, “Who would that be? Your sorcerers, your shipfloaters, and perhaps your captains?”

The high templar’s face darkened to an angry crimson, while bitter whispers of speculation rustled through the gathering of officers.

“I’m sure you have a magic ring or talisman that will see you to a safe place,” Tithian pressed. Although he did not know whether or not Saanakal actually possessed such an item, it seemed a logical assumption-and that was what would matter to the crew. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t want to fight at close quarters. When the ship sinks, you can escape. But your magic won’t save you if a giant grabs you.”

“One more word and I’ll have you launched from a catapult!” the high templar hissed. “Now return to the floater’s pit and let me command the fleet!”

“So your crew can die while you escape?” Tithian replied, shaking his head. “No.”

“Take this passenger below,” Saanakal commanded, motioning for his first mate to obey the order.

Before the man could step forward, Tithian stared him straight in the eye. “Andropinis himself loaned me this fleet,” he said. “By refusing to obey me, Navarch Saanakal is defying your king. Do you wish to join him in that?”

When the mate remained where he stood, the high templar cursed and reached for his dagger. “Enough!”

“I don’t think so,” said the first mate, grabbing Saanakal’s wrist. “If I’m going to die, then I will do it as I have lived-at King Andropinis’s pleasure.”

With that, he handed the king’s eye to the helmsman, then picked up the templar and pitched him over the side. Screaming in fear, Saanakal thrust a hand into the pocket of his robe. The dust swallowed him before he could withdraw the object hidden inside.

“Prepare yourselves to die like soldiers,” Tithian said, giving his crew an approving nod. “And take us into battle.”

As the astonished officers obeyed, Tithian had his shipfloater relay his attack orders to the surviving ships. Next, he took the king’s eye from the helmsman and began to scan the haze.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“My giant,” Tithian replied.

It did not take the king long to find what he was after. Within a few minutes, he saw Fylo’s ugly form leading an attack against another ship. The giants had already thrown their boulders and were plowing forward through the silt, their rams cradled under their arms.

As Tithian watched, the ship fired its catapults, but the wizard mistimed his command word and dropped the flames behind the giants. Nevertheless, the king could see that the battle was far from over. Vats of Balican fire were lined up all along the gunnel, ready to be dumped on the attackers, and the ballista crews were holding their fire until the giants came closer.