Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

“Why don’t you use the Way to fly or levitate?” suggested Nymos.

Agis shook his head, more to himself than to the blind sorcerer. “That’s not one of the areas my meditations have led me to explore,” he answered. “And the king’s too heavy for me to move with other forms of the Way. If I want to take him back to Tyr, I’ll have to walk over there and get him.”

The noble turned his attention to the plank of mekillot rib in front of him. It was about as wide as his shoulders and more than ten yards long with a weathered surface the color of ivory. Below it lay a pearly layer of dust, so loosely packed that it looked more like an oasis mist than a silt bed.

The other end of the gangway rested near the midpoint of the derelict bow, which lay with a steep slant toward the aft end. Because of the angle, only one corner of Agis’s plank rested firmly on the wreck. The other hung without support a few inches above the wooden hull.

Tithian lay on his belly in the center of the wreck, his satchel strapped across his chest and his face turned in the opposite direction. The king’s auburn hair was matted with blood, and the golden diadem around his head had been badly dented by a blow.

Agis released his hold on the gunnel and shuffled forward, his heart pounding in fear each time the gangway wobbled. As he crossed the halfway point, the plank twisted under his weight and began to slip down the hull of the wreck. He dropped to his stomach to spread his weight out more evenly, then pulled himself the rest of the way across without rising. It seemed to take forever to reach the end, but when he finally did, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and crawled onto the bow.

A muffled groan rumbled up from the timbers. The aft end slowly tipped more steeply toward the sea. Tithian’s motionless form slipped closer to the silt, and Agis nearly lost his balance. The noble scurried forward and caught the king by the shoulders, pulling him toward the bowsprit and stabilizing the wreck.

Agis shook Tithian’s shoulder. “Wake up,” he said. “You and I have places to go.”

When there was no response, Agis rolled the king onto his back. The body turned limply, with no hint of tension in the muscles. If not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Agis would have thought him dead. Tithian’s eyes were sunken, and dried blood caked both cheeks. From between his cracked lips protruded a dun-colored tongue, hugely swollen with thirst and as dry as the Sea of Silt.

“Even from here, he looks as dead as a toppled giant,” called Kester. “Push him into the silt and let’s be gone. It’s not wise to tarry in these parts.”

“He’s alive, more or less,” Agis reported. He looked back to see Kester, Nymos, and half the crew standing along the gunnels. “It’s just that I can’t wake him.”

“Wet his lips,” suggested Nymos. “Thirst is a powerful incentive, even to an unconscious mind.”

Since no waterskin lay in view, Agis opened the king’s satchel and peered inside. Despite its bulky outward appearance, it was empty. The noble closed the bag, then looked back to the ship. “Throw me a waterskin.”

Kester took a half-filled waterskin from a hook on the mainmast, then tossed it toward Agis. The heavy sack fell short of the noble’s grasp and dropped on the king’s chest with a dull thump. Tithian did not stir.

“If that didn’t wake him, nothing will,” said Kester. “Ye’ll have to carry him. If we don’t hurry, that wreck’ll sink beneath ye.”

Casting a wary eye toward the unsteady plank, Agis said, “Let me try Nymos’s way first.”

The noble sat down and cradled Tithian’s head in his lap, then poured a small amount of water over the king’s mouth. A few drops ran down Tithian’s swollen tongue into his throat. He coughed violently, but did not open his eyes or show any other sign of waking.

Thirst and heat, Agis knew, could thicken a man’s blood until he lost consciousness, but the noble did not think that was Tithian’s problem. If that had been the case, the king’s skin would have been flushed and clammy, instead of sun-blistered and peeling. It seemed more likely he had suffered a concussion from the blow that had bent his crown and split his scalp open.

Agis pulled a tangle of blood-matted hair away from the crown and gently tried to remove the diadem. The circlet moved only a fraction of an inch before the dented section snagged on the edge of the king’s wound. A distressed groan escaped Tithian’s lips, and he instinctively tried to pull his head away from the noble’s grasp. Encouraged by this development, Agis slipped a finger under the bent diadem and began to pry it off.

A gaunt hand flashed up from the king’s side, seizing the noble’s wrist. “Don’t touch my crown!” croaked Tithian, his broken fingernails digging into Agis’s flesh. Although his eyes had opened, they remained glazed and unfocused.

Agis released the diadem. “I think you’d return from the dead to keep this paltry circlet on your head.”

Tithian released the noble’s arm, struggling to focus his eyes on Agis’s face. “You!” he gasped weakly. “Traitor!”

Agis dumped a stream of water into Tithian’s mouth. “I’m not the traitor here.”

The king choked, then managed to swallow. “You cost me a fleet!” he sputtered, his thick-tongued voice barely more than a whisper.

As Tithian struggled to push himself upright, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he groaned in pain. He raised his fingers to his smashed diadem, then asked, “How did you make that fool Fylo betray me? I know you didn’t use the Way, because I tried that myself.”

“Fylo’s wise enough to know the truth when he sees it,” Agis replied, handing the waterskin to Tithian. “Now drink. It would be better if you’re still alive when I return you to Tyr.”

Tithian accepted the skin and raised it to his lips. After he had taken a half-dozen gulps, he said, “I’ve no wish to return to Tyr at the moment.”

“That’s not your choice,” replied Agis, laying a hand on his sword’s hilt. “I’m taking you back to the city.”

At the same time, the noble opened the internal pathway to his spiritual energy, preparing to defend himself with the Way. His palace spies had been keeping him informed of Tithian’s progress as both a mindbender and a sorcerer, and the noble knew the king would be a formidable opponent if it came to a fight.

Tithian shrugged. “I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me for a while,” he said. “But if you insist on taking me back, so be it. I’ll go.”

Agis narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think that your false promises will work on me,” he warned.

Tithian shook his head wearily. “We know each other too well for that,” he said. “I’m hurt and exhausted. I couldn’t resist if I wanted to.” He lifted the waterskin to his lips and drank deeply, then tied the mouth closed and handed it to the noble. “You’ll have to carry this, my friend.”

Agis slung the skin over his shoulder, then cautiously crawled toward the plank, motioning for the king to follow. Although the noble half expected an attack, Tithian caused no trouble. He followed close behind, breathing in labored, shallow gasps. As they moved, the bow slowly rocked toward the aft, tipping more steeply the nearer they came to their goal.

When they finally reached the plank, Agis waved the king ahead. “I’ll steady it,” he said, grabbing the end of the gangway. “You go on.”

“It’s nice to see you’re finally showing your king the proper respect,” Tithian joked, crawling onto the gangway.

“Concentrate on what you’re doing,” the noble ordered, his voice sour. “I want you alive.”

“How considerate,” Tithian replied, slowly pulling himself onto the plank.