Troy Denning - The Obsidian Oracle

Although Mag’r faced away from Agis, the noble did not doubt that the look on the Joorsh’s face was every bit as angry and determined. The sachem was making good use of his single sword, turning each parry into a counterattack, thrusting first at the bawan’s throat and slicing next at his abdomen.

Both giants fought with a grace and skill that the noble found surprising, but the advantage clearly belonged to the larger Joorsh. Mag’r towered a full ten feet over his foe and was making good use of his size to force the Saram back. From all appearances, it would take him only a few more passes to drive Nal clear to the trench-path-cutting off any hope Agis still had of catching Tithian before the king captured the Dark Lens.

The noble slipped into the gateyard and picked his way along the edge of the valley of crushed stone. Filled as it was with death and unwashed giant flesh, the place smelled incredibly foul. Agis tried to breathe through his mouth and put the stench out of his mind, but the farther into the courtyard he went, the worse the odor became.

The noble was just trying to slip past one side of the battle when Mag’r let out a mighty bellow and pressed forward with a vicious series of slashes. At first, Nal gave ground rapidly, and it appeared he would be driven back to the trench-path before Agis could gain it. Then the bawan stopped and ducked a high attack, countering with an abdomen slice that the noble feared would bring an end to the battle.

Mag’r saved himself only by jumping to one side, almost crushing Agis as the giant landed at the edge of the valley of crushed rock. The ground trembled, and the rubble shifted beneath the noble’s feet, then he found himself struggling to regain his balance as the giants’ combat raged over his head.

Agis looked up and caught Nal’s golden eyes flitting away, fixing on Mag’r’s black sword as it flashed down from the sky. The bawan lifted his own blade to parry. The two weapons met high overhead, filling the canyonlike space between the giants with a tremendous clap that rattled the noble’s ears.

The sound had not even died away before Nal’s lance darted forward, a gray bolt of lightning streaking past just yards above Agis’s head. The Joorsh twisted away with surprising agility for his rotund figure, but still took a shallow gash across the abdomen. Several gallons of warm blood spilled from the wound, nearly knocking the noble from his feet as they splashed over his head.

Screaming in rage, Mag’r countered the successful attack by smashing a bare fist down on the lance, snapping the shaft in two. The head of the broken weapon landed a short distance away. Keeping a close eye on the huge feet dancing all around him, Agis scrambled across the rubble and picked it up.

As the noble retrieved the weapon, he heard a tremendous crack far above. He looked up to see the pommel of Mag’r’s sword arcing away from Nal’s face, taking the top mandible of the Saram’s beak with it. The bawan roared in pain and stumbled back, raising his free hand to cover the gruesome wound.

Mag’r moved forward to press the attack, and once more Agis found himself many steps behind the battle. He could see the Joorsh striking repeatedly at the beasthead, rapidly beating down the weaker giant’s guard. Raising the head of Nal’s broken lance, the noble rushed forward. As he came up behind Mag’r, he took a deep breath and, holding the lance in both hands, drove it into the king’s fleshy calf.

Roaring in pain, Mag’r stopped his attack in midswing and looked down. Agis saw the giant’s puffy cheeks grow red with fury, then the noble glimpsed Nal’s white sword arcing toward the Joorsh’s shoulder. The bone blade bit deep into Mag’r’s stout arm. Mag’r stumbled back.

Agis, diving between the Joorsh’s legs, narrowly avoided being crushed. He rolled once, then came to a rest in the no-man’s-land between the two giants. Nal’s blade passed low overhead on its way toward Mag’r’s knees, but the sachem blocked. Shards of obsidian and bone showered down on the noble’s head.

Nal raised his foot to step forward, lowering it toward Agis. The noble tried to scramble away, but gasped in agony as the giant’s heel came down on his left arm. He tried to pull free and heard a bone snap.

The giants’ swords crashed together over Agis’s head once, twice, three times. Beads of foul-smelling sweat fell all around. Mag’r and Nal rocked back and forth, grunting and cursing, smashing each other with their elbows and fists. Agis could do nothing but lie on the ground and scream in pain.

At last, Nal raised his leg to smash a knee into his foe’s thigh. Letting his arm dangle at his side, Agis staggered away. Keeping a watchful eye on the battle, he saw Mag’r smash an elbow into Nal’s face. The Saram grunted, stumbled back two steps, and crashed to the ground a dozen yards away.

Agis reached the path leading up to the castle and stopped to remove his belt. As he tied his injured arm to his side, he watched Mag’r lumber forward and kick the sword out of Nal’s hand. The Joorsh touched the tip of his weapon to the Saram’s throat. He did not even pause before pushing the blade in.

Agis turned and staggered up the trench-path, keeping his head low so that Mag’r would not see him.

Tithian stared into the utter blackness of the Dark Lens, trying to comprehend what he saw-or rather, didn’t see. Shaped like an egg and about the size of a small kank, the Oracle’s surface glimmered with the sheen of polished obsidian. Through this glassy skin swam languorous streaks of scarlet, often vanishing from one place and, in the same instant, reappearing another. But beneath these torpid lights, the king saw nothing-unless inviolable gloom could be called something.

The king had looked into obsidian depths many times before, and always he had found some hint of light: a gray-streaked flaw, tiny bubbles with a pale gleam trapped inside, an impurity that gave the whole stone a colored tint. Not so here. The blackness of the Oracle was more absolute than at the bottom of Tyr’s deepest iron mines, or even inside the cryptic dungeons of the Golden Palace. More than the absence of light, the lens held within it the embodiment of darkness.

Tithian smiled. Had he been born a dwarf instead of a human, his life’s focus would surely have been to find this lens.

The king shuffled forward, stepping out of the mica tunnel and into the small chamber with the Dark Lens. The room was lit by a curtain of crimson rays spilling down from above. When Tithian looked up to find their source, he was astonished to see the sun’s fiery orb shining down through a wide fissure that ran the entire length of the ceiling. The crack was just a little wider than a man, and, like the room itself, lined with glistening sheets of mica.

As Tithian tottered forward on his old man’s legs, the uneven floor crackled with each step, the ends of mica sheets bending and popping beneath his weight. He felt a sweltering heat rising from the Oracle. The closer he approached, the more flushed and tender his skin felt. Beneath his robes, sweat began to roll down his body in runnels, and soon wisps of steam were rising from the finely woven hemp of his garments.

At last Tithian reached out and touched the glassy surface of the lens. A soft sizzle rose from beneath his fingertips and searing pain shot through his hands.

Without removing his hands from the hot glass, Tithian worked his way around the lens, his heart pounding with anticipation as he ran his fingers over every inch of its searing surface. He did not stop until he felt blisters rising on his wrinkled flesh.

“By Ral, not a flaw anywhere!” Tithian cried, his voice trembling not with agony, but exhilaration. “Nothing but the Dark Lens could be so perfect!”