Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

Agis drew his sword, and Tithian glanced upward to see Nuta’s hand descending toward his head. The noble’s weapon flashed up to intercept the attack, driving deep into the huge palm. The giant let out an earthshaking bellow and pulled away.

Agis’s sword became lodged in the giant’s thick sinews and would not slip free. Clinging to his weapon, the noble was lifted off his feet. Tithian grabbed him by the ankles, and even then they rose several feet into the air before the blade came free. They dropped back to the table, accompanied by Nuta’s roaring curses and the even more thunderous guffaws of his fellow giants.

“You see?” Tithian asked, picking himself out of the blood pool into which he had fallen. “It takes both of us to handle these giants.”

“I’d hardly say you’re handling them,” observed Nymos, his muzzle wrinkled in distaste as he waded through Patch’s blood. “So far, you’re barely staying alive.”

Tithian started to make a sarcastic retort, but Nuta’s thunderous voice interrupted him.

“Laugh, fools!” the chief yelled, glaring down the table at the giants who were snickering at him. “If we attack Balic instead of Lybdos, beastheads keep our Oracle locked on Lybdos forever!”

This quieted the crowd instantly, and the giant at the table’s far end said, “Nuta’s right. It’s our turn to keep the Oracle, our turn to get smart, but those Saram beastheads want the Oracle to stay with them. They just want to make us Joorsh dumber and dumber-until even the dwarves are smarter than us!”

Agis’s brow rose, and Tithian knew his friend also found the tribe names oddly familiar. Jo’orsh and Sa’ram were the dwarven knights who had stolen the Dark Lens from the Pristine Tower. The similarity between their names and those of the two tribes could hardly be coincidence, but the king did not have time to puzzle over the relationship.

Another giant pointed at Tithian and Agis. “What about them?” he asked. “We can’t just kill Balic’s spies. We must also punish the city for sending them.”

Tithian turned to face the giant. “I can solve that problem for you,” he said. “We aren’t Balican spies-or even Saram spies. We came to help you.”

This sent the giants into hysterics. The tempest of rumbling laughter did not sound so different from a massive rockslide.

“What do ye think yer doing?” Kester demanded, climbing over Patch’s neck. “Getting them to spare us will be hard enough without fillin’ their heads with such nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense,” the king hissed. “And we stand a better chance with my strategy than by begging for our lives like terrified slaves.”

“What do you know about bargaining with giants?” asked Nymos.

“More than you know about negotiating with monarchs,” Tithian replied. “I doubt any of you could have talked King Andropinis into lending him a fleet.” When no one rebutted his claim, he looked to Agis and added, “If you want to leave here alive, let me handle this.”

The noble gave a reluctant nod, then followed close behind Tithian as the king moved toward Mag’r. The sachem raised a hand to silence his laughing tribesmen, then asked, “Do you have any more jokes to tell before I kill you?”

“Considering the circumstances, I would think the clans of the Joorsh would welcome help,” Tithian countered.

“What can you do to help us?” chuckled the giant, waving a massive hand at Tithian’s glowing dagger. “Drill a hole in the Saram castle with your flying needle?”

“Of course not,” Tithian replied. “I have already done much more than that. Haven’t you heard how my fleet lured the Saram into the Strait of Baza, where we slew many beastheads?”

A giant seated to Nuta’s left called, “You lost many ships!” He raised all the fingers on both hands for his companions to see, then looked back to Tithian. “The Ewe Clan watched the whole battle. You didn’t win.”

The chief who had spoken was far from a powerful specimen of his race. He had limbs as skinny as the trunks of faro trees, and the sunken cheeks of one who seldom went to bed with a full belly. The tattoo on his brow depicted the scrawny figure of a sheep.

“Our goal was not to win,” Tithian said. “It was merely to draw the beastheads into battle, so a stronger force could ambush them outside the protection of their castle. Apparently, we erred in thinking the Ewe Clan would be brave enough to take advantage of our plan.”

The chief of the Ewe Clan scowled at the affront, then tore a boulder off the slope behind him. “The Ewes are as brave as any clan!” he thundered, raising his arm.

“Your insults will get us all killed!” Agis hissed.

The noble crouched with flexed legs, preparing to dive for cover, but Mag’r was on his feet instantly. “Orl!” the sachem bellowed. “Put that rock down!”

Tithian pulled Agis back to his full height. “You mustn’t show fear,” he said, smirking at the noble. “It makes us look weak.”

With that, Tithian gave Orl an imperious stare. The giant looked away, then hurled the boulder down the length of the canyon and out over the Sea of Silt.

“Nobody told me to help the Balican ships,” Orl grumbled, giving Mag’r a repentant glance. “But we would have. We’re not afraid to fight.”

Mag’r grunted his acceptance of the apology, then returned to his seat and fixed his gaze on Tithian. “King Andropinis promised to stay out of our war,” he said. “Why did he attack the Saram?”

“He didn’t,” Tithian replied.

Mag’r frowned at this. “But you said-”

“That my fleet attacked the Saram,” Tithian corrected. “And I’m not Balican.”

“He’s lying, Sachem,” said Orl. “That was a Balican fleet, or I’m the chief of the Iguana Clan.”

“They were Balican ships,” Tithian admitted. “I hired them from King Andropinis. But it was a Tyrian fleet, since it was under my command, and I am King Tithian of Tyr.”

“Them ships sailed from Balic,” said Nuta. “So them ships Balican, no matter what you are.”

“Maybe, and maybe not,” said Mag’r, raising a hand for the chief to be quiet. “Let’s say the fleet was Tyrian, King Tithian. What interest does Tyr have in attacking the Saram?”

“Yours is not the only tribe they have robbed,” the king replied. “They have something as valuable to my city as the Oracle is to the Joorsh.”

“What?” demanded Nuta.

Tithian smiled. “I’d be a fool to tell you that. You might decide you want it for yourself,” he replied. “But from what I’ve heard here today, it seems clear the beastheads are hoarding people and artifacts that possess powerful magic. What for, I wonder? So they can rule the Sea of Silt?”

A hush fell over the canyon, then Mag’r leaned down to inspect the king and his companions more closely. “No one rules the Sea of Silt,” he said.

“Not now, perhaps,” replied the king. “But with what they stole from Tyr …” He let the sentence trail off. After a moment’s pause, he added, “Let’s just say it would be better for both your tribe and my city to work together to make sure they don’t keep it.”

The giant chiefs muttered quiet comments to each other, studying Tithian and shaking their heads suspiciously. Mag’r allowed the murmur to continue for a moment, then said, “Good story, but I have no reason to believe you.”

“Perhaps you’d believe us if you knew the artifact had come from the Pristine Tower,” said Agis.

Tithian cringed, for the noble was gambling that just because their tribes were named after the thieves who had stolen the Dark Lens from the Pristine Tower, the giants would know what the Tower was. Agis’s strategy seemed to work, however. A squall of concerned whispers rose from the entire gathering of giants, and Mag’r scowled at his captives suspiciously. “What do you know of the Pristine Tower?” he demanded.