Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

Returning his attention to the task at hand, Tithian shuffled forward and stepped around the jagged corner of the mica wall. He held his hands in front of his stomach, folded over each other and with the crossbow concealed beneath them.

The sentry’s nostrils sniffed at the breeze, and he squinted in the king’s direction. “You’re a funny-looking goat,” he said. He started forward, adding, “Don’t run. It’ll only make me mad.”

“Don’t worry,” Tithian snickered. “The last thing I have in mind is running.”

Gnashing his tusks together, the sentry hefted his axe and charged. Tithian waited a moment for the guard to build momentum, then raised his crossbow and fingered the trigger, speaking his incantation at the same time. The bowstring clicked softly, launching the tiny bolt at the giant. As soon as the needle cleared the groove, it began to sputter and hiss, spewing blue sparks from its tail.

As the needle streaked away, the giant came into range for his own attack, leveling his axe at the king’s head. Tithian threw himself down, and the blade clattered against the granite bedrock at the king’s side, so close that the impact sprayed his face with hot shards of chipped blade. In the same instant, the tiny quarrel pierced its target’s chest.

The sentry slapped at the puncture as though stung by an insect. Then, absentmindedly scratching at the wound, he sneered at the king’s prone form. “It’ll take more than a blue flash to kill Mal.”

A wisp of grayish smoke shot from the tiny wound, then Mal’s rib cage gave a great heave. A muted discharge sounded inside his chest. His beady eyes bulged in surprise, and a horrid gurgle, half growl and half groan, rasped from his throat. The axe slipped from his grasp, his knees already buckling.

Tithian rolled. He heard the crash of the bone axe handle striking the granite floor, then saw the dark shadow of an axe head spreading outward around his body. The flat of the blade fell squarely on him, sounding a sharp crack inside his skull. An instant later, the sentry’s lifeless corpse fell on top of the axe, and the king’s body erupted into agony.

The ground began to spin, and a terrible ache throbbed from his skull clear down to his legs. It hurt to breathe, and he felt his mind drifting off into the gray arena of nothingness. With a start, the king realized he was falling unconscious, allowing his mind to retreat from the fiery pain flaring inside his head. He could not allow that, for to sleep now would be to die. Worse, it would be to fail, with the Oracle all but in his grasp.

“Stand, you miserable cur!” yelled Sacha.

“Die now, and the Shadow People shall have your spirit as their slave-until Rajaat is free!” threatened Wyan.

Tithian seized on their angry words, visualizing his fingers closing around a burning rope. He began pulling hand over hand, hauling himself out of the darkness, into the blinding light and searing agony that was his body. Within moments, he was once again fully possessed by his pain.

For a moment, Tithian tried to accept his physical anguish, to let it wash over his body like a searing wind, uncomfortable, but sufferable for short periods of time. It was no use. He had never been good at enduring pain, and he was no better at it now. If he was to survive this, he would have to rely on an old trick, one that he had found useful since his adolescence.

Marshaling his spiritual energy, the king used the Way to form an image of his friend Agis. His own pain he viewed as a bottomless vial of syrupy brown poison, and this he tipped toward the noble’s open mouth. Tithian felt better immediately. He could still feel the agony of the giant’s crushing weight, but it went straight into the brown vial, and from there down Agis’s throat. The king’s ribs still ached, and his head still throbbed, but no longer was the pain overwhelming.

Slowly, the king dragged himself from beneath the axe blade’s crushing weight, then rose and stood at the dead giant’s side.

“You’re looking better,” observed Sacha. “More fit to be one of Rajaat’s servants.”

“What happened?” inquired Wyan.

“Agis is bearing my pain for me,” Tithian replied. “Remind me to reward him when we return from freeing Rajaat.”

“He’ll never survive that long,” replied Sacha. “Our task will take months.”

“Agis will find a way,” the king said absently, studying the interior of the enclosure.

It was roughly rectangular in shape, surrounded by ragged slabs of mica that rose from the granite bedrock like a tall, silvery hedge. In the center of the enclosure, a pearly film shimmered over the entrance to a dark tunnel, just large enough for a Saram giant-or a small Joorsh-to crawl through. The passage tilted to one side, so that anyone passing down it would be forced to lean sharply to the right.

Tithian started toward the tunnel, saying, “Besides, it hardly matters if Agis isn’t alive when we return. If he’s not, I’ll just raise him from the dead.” When neither of the heads said anything in reply, Tithian asked, “Rajaat will grant me such powers, won’t he?”

“Rajaat can bestow you with magic,” replied Wyan. “What you learn to do with it is not for him to determine.”

Tithian reached the passage and stopped. The tunnel entrance was covered by a single flake of mica, as thin as paper and as clear as glass. Behind it, the hole descended into the bedrock at a steep slope, lined on both sides by smooth walls of the mineral. The floor and ceiling looked like the torn edges of a book, showing the ends of hundreds of closely-pressed mica sheets.

“What are you waiting for?” snapped Sacha. “Go get it!”

The king opened his satchel and removed a black belt, so wide it was almost a girdle. The buckle was hidden by a starburst of red flames, with the skull of a fierce half-man in the center. As Tithian laid the belt over his arm, the stiff leather crackled like breaking fingers.

“That’s the dwarven Belt of Rank!” gasped Wyan.

Tithian nodded. “A little token for the ghosts of Sa’ram and Jo’orsh,” he replied. “You remember those slavers Agis is so mad about?”

“The ones that mistakenly raided Kled,” confirmed Wyan.

“Yes, except it was no mistake-and they weren’t after slaves,” said the king, smiling.

With that, he pressed his fingers against the shimmering mica. He felt a brief burning sensation as they sank through, then he was looking at his hand through the silvery sheet. The membrane reminded him of the lid that covered the pit where he had left Agis. Remembering how difficult it had been to get out of there, he hesitated before stepping through.

“You two wait here,” Tithian said to the heads. “I may need you to help me get back through this.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Wyan. “Sacha can wait here.”

Tithian considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “Have you forgotten that I found the lens by locating the undead spirits of Jo’orsh and Sa’ram?” Tithian asked. “I’m more certain of finding them down there than the Dark Lens. It wouldn’t do to have them recognize you from the days of Rajaat.”

“As you wish,” replied Wyan. “But if you fail-”

“You won’t do anything to me that will be worse than what Sa’ram and Jo’orsh do,” Tithian replied.

The king stepped through the mica, then looked back toward Sacha and Wyan. The two heads continued to hover outside the entrance, watching him with suspicious frowns.

“Hide yourselves!” Tithian ordered. “I don’t want you here when I send Jo’orsh and Sa’ram out!”

The pair narrowed their eyes and began to drift away. “We’ll be watching!” warned Sacha.

The king shuffled down the slanted tunnel. Each time he touched the mica’s slick surface, a feverish tingle buzzed through his fingers. The air felt sweltering and still, heavy with the stale smell of dankness. There was no sound, save for the whisper of Tithian’s breath hissing past his lips, and the soft crunch of his boots on the floor. As he advanced down the corridor, the color of the walls changed from silver to lavender, then to green, brown, and finally, when he had gone so deep that the entrance was only a point of light far behind, the tunnel became jet black.