The Obsidian Oracle

FOUR THE STRAIT OF BAZA

To Tithian, the dusky shape to the Silt Lion’s leeward side did not appear to be a boulder. For one thing, it seemed to be moving parallel to the ship, and for another, its profile resembled that of a massive head sitting atop a pair of colossal shoulders. Still, though the distance separating them was less than fifty yards, the king could not be sure of what he saw. For the fifth day straight, a heavy wind was ripping across the sea, lofting so much dust into the air that it was difficult to see clearly from the stern of the schooner to the bow.

Tithian turned to the ship’s mate, who was holding a large cone of solid glass to his eyes. “What’s that over there?” the king asked, indicating the direction in which he had been looking.

“A giant,” the mate reported. “But don’t worry. We’re in the Strait of Baza. As soon as we pass into deeper silt, he won’t be able to follow.” The catch in the young man’s voice belied his anxiety.

“Let me have the king’s eye,” Tithian said, ripping the cone of glass from the sailor’s hands.

“But the ship’s blind without it, King Tithian,” the sailor objected. “The dust is shallow here!”

Ignoring the mate’s complaint, Tithian pulled the dust-shields off his eyes, replacing the grimy lenses with the broad end of the cone. He pointed the tip at the shape he had been watching. Thanks to the magic Andropinis had instilled in the glass, the silt haze no longer obscured Tithian’s vision.

The thing was definitely a giant, with long braids of greasy hair hanging from his head and tufts of coarse bristle sprouting on the gravelly skin of his shoulders. His face seemed a peculiar mix of human and rodent, with a sloped forehead, dangling ears, deep-set eyes, and flat nose that ended in a pair of cavernous nostrils. A dozen jagged incisors protruded from beneath his upper lip, and a mosslike beard hung over his recessed chin.

“There can only be one giant that ugly,” Tithian growled. “Fylo!” He turned to the ship’s mate and ordered, “Stop the ship!”

Navarch Saanakal, high templar of the king’s fleets, stepped to the Tyrian’s side. Even for a half-elf, he was tall and slender, towering two full heads over Tithian. Beneath the grimy glass of his dust-shields, the commander’s eyes were pale brown and as fiery as embers. He had lean, sharp cheeks and a bony nose, but a silk scarf hid the rest of his face, protecting his airway from the dust.

“The Silt Lion is no dinghy, Your Highness,” he said with forced courtesy. “We can’t stop her at a moment’s notice.” He took the king’s eye and returned it to the mate. “If you please, Sachet needs the eye to guide the ship.”

“Then bring us around,” Tithian ordered, pointing into the haze on the leeward side of the schooner. “I must speak to that giant!”

Saanakal rolled his eyes. “In the Sea of Silt, you avoid giants, Your Highness,” he said. “Failing that, you run for deep silt, or fight if you must-but you don’t talk to them.”

“This giant belongs to me,” Tithian said, putting his dust-shields back in place. “I must find out what he’s doing here. He’s supposed to be taking care of an important matter outside Balic.”

“Very well,” Navarch Saanakal sighed. To the mate, he said, “Bring the Silt Lion around. Have the rest of the fleet form a semicircle with us at the center.”

As the mate relayed the orders, Tithian looked over the gunnel. He could see nothing but a pearly miasma of dust, with no demarcation between the surface of the sea and the air. Even the sun seemed half lost, its position marked only by a faint halo of orange light.

Despite the poor visibility, the king continued to search the murk for Fylo. No matter how he looked at it, the giant’s presence meant trouble. Either the oaf had killed Agis and somehow tracked Tithian to the Strait of Baza, or he had realized that his “friend” was not coming back and released the noble.

The king didn’t know which to hope for. If Agis lived, he would still be following, no doubt determined to make Tythian answer for the raid on Kled. Sooner or later, the noble would catch up and, probably, they would fight.

The king did not want that. His memories of their youthful camaraderie remained too vivid. Tithian could still hear a teenaged Agis pleading with him not to sneak out of the academy for a night of debauchery, then trying to comfort him after the master ordered him to pack his robes and leave the grounds. Later, after Tithian had betrayed his birth class by joining Kalak’s templars, the noble had been with several young lords when they happened upon him in the Elven Market. One insult had led to another until the meeting came to blows, but Agis had fought on the young templar’s side, saving him a severe beating. Then there was the time after his brother’s death.…

Tithian could not allow himself to think of that, not until he knew whether or not he would have to kill Agis. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the memories from his head, then looked to the ship’s mate.

“Can you see my giant?” he asked.

“No,” came the reply. “We’re too far past.”

Tithian turned to berate Navarch Saanakal for allowing Fylo to disappear, but the high templar was ready with a response. “With twenty ships looking for him, we won’t have any trouble finding your giant again.” To the mate, the half-elf said, “Ready the catapult slaves, all ships to do the same.”

“I don’t want Fylo killed,” Tithian objected. “Not yet, anyway.”

“I have no intention of killing him, but he may be disinclined to talk,” said the high templar. “Until we have persuaded him to behave, perhaps you should join Ictinis. The floater’s pit is the safest place on the command deck.”

The high templar pointed to a shallow cockpit in front of the helm, where a gray-haired man named Ictinis sat with his palms resting on a table-sized dome of polished obsidian. Although he had the haggard aspect of a pauper, the gold rings on his fingers betrayed his true status. Ictinis was a shipfloater, a mindbender especially trained to use the Way to keep the schooner from sinking into the dust. He kept the ship afloat by sending his spiritual energy through the dome and into the hull. The task was a difficult one, requiring both physical endurance and psychic strength.

Tithian slipped into the chaperon’s seat, a small bench where the floater sat while training his apprentices. During the last five days, the king had passed much of his time in this seat, learning Ictinis’s art. He was not so much interested in keeping the ship afloat as in understanding how the dome worked, for it resembled the obsidian balls sorcerer-kings used to tap the life-force of their subjects when casting their most powerful magical spells.

Having begun his study of sorcery only five years ago, Tithian did not yet know any enchantments so potent that he could not cast them through the conventional means. But the thought had occurred to him that he could increase the effectiveness of his limited abilities by using an orb. Besides, he suspected that the sooner he learned to control the flow of mystic energy through obsidian, the easier it would be for him when the time came to learn the most powerful spells.

Ictinis suddenly looked up from the dome, his red-rimmed eyes opened wide in alarm. At first, Tithian feared that the old man had fallen ill, but the shipfloater twisted his head toward Saanakal’s station to relay a message that he had received through the dome.

“Captain Phaedras reports that, as he began his turn, he saw a wall of giants blocking the exit to the strait, High One,” said Ictinis.

“What type?” demanded Saanakal. “How many?”

Ictinis turned his gaze back to the dome. His eyes glazed over, then he called, “Perhaps fifty, all beasthead.”

“Beasthead?” Tithian asked.

“The giants are divided into two tribes, the humanoid and the beasthead,” explained the sailor at the helm, an anonymous young woman whose face remained hidden beneath her dust-shields and silt-scarf. Although her voice was calm, she clenched the wheel so tightly that the veins showed in her forearms.

Saanakal scowled and peered into the dusty haze ahead. “So many,” he said, shaking his head. “They must have come from Lybdos.”

Tithian climbed out of the cockpit. “What for?”

“To ambush us. We’re only a couple of days from there, and the beastheads don’t allow visitors to that island,” the high templar explained. “Now I must ask you to return to the floater’s pit.”

Tithian shook his head. “I prefer to see what is happening.”

“Then stand aside,” snapped Saanakal, gesturing toward the gunnel. “We’ve a battle to fight.”

Tithian started to object to the rude treatment, then held his tongue and did as he was told. There would always be time after the battle to chastise the high templar.

Saanakal looked to the ship’s mate. “Terrain?”

“Seven low islands to port,” he said, peering to the left side of the bow. He swept the king’s eye to the right, then added, “Scattered boulders-no, make that giants-a half mile to starboard. Another fifty, I would guess.” He lowered the glass cone and looked at Saanakal. “They’re closing on our flank.”

“Chain the catapult slaves to their weapons,” said Saanakal, his voice strangely calm and quiet. “Have the wizard brought up and tell him to prepare the Balican fire.”

The ship’s mate blanched and swallowed hard. “As you wish, High One.”

While the mate relayed the order to the rest of the ship, Saanakal spoke to Ictinis. “Close the line. The Lirr Song is to lead a run for the islands, but no one’s to break formation. All ships are to use Balican fire in their catapults.”

“Yes, High One,” replied Ictinis. He returned his attention to the black dome, and his eyes grew vacant.

Tithian went to the quarterdeck rail to watch the battle preparations, hoping the crew would keep the ship afloat long enough for him to find Fylo. The king did not know what part the big oaf had played in this ambush, but it could be no coincidence that the giant happened to be crossing the Strait of Baza at that moment.

On the main deck ahead, a half-dozen crews were laboring to ready their catapults. The skein cords creaked in eerie protest as powerful dwarven slaves pushed against long levers, struggling to wind the cup arms down and lock them into place. With each weapon stood a templar overseer, complicating the dwarves’ task by popping his whip over their bald heads and yelling for them to work faster.

Behind each catapult rested a stone vat, half filled with grainy powder, while the ship’s wizard, an old man with a bushy head of gray hair, stood at the far end of the deck. With him were two assistants, one pushing a cart-mounted tub of black sludge and the other carrying a long ladle.

Under the sorcerer’s direction, the first assistant stopped his cart, and the second poured a ladle of sludge into the vat of powder behind the first catapult. The wizard turned his palm toward the deck in preparation for casting a spell. The process took a little longer than usual, for few plants grew in the Sea of Silt, and most of the energy had to come from a distant island.

When the sorcerer finally had enough energy, he uttered his spell over the concoction. A fiery yellow flash shot into the air, licking the yardarms and setting the sails to smoking. A foul, mordant odor drifted back to the quarterdeck, and the mixture began to burn with an unnatural golden light.

As the wizard moved to the next vat, Tithian turned his attention to the sea near the ship. The giants were still screened by blowing dust, but he could see that the Balican fleet had already closed formation. Off the stern, the Wyvern had come up so close that a strong man could have leaped from its bowsprit onto the deck where Tithian stood. Its foredeck ballistae, with their tree-sized harpoons already nocked, were more clearly visible than those on the foredeck of his own ship.

The wizard kindled his fire in the last of the stone vats, then went to the foredeck to await battle among the ballistae. The catapult crews locked their firing arms into place and stood by with bone ladles in hand, ready to load their weapons as soon as the giants were visible. The rest of the sailors, except those needed to work the rigging, stood in the center of the main deck. Half carried long barbed lances, while the other half, serving as a fire corps, held sacks full of dust. The flapping sails and crackle of Balican fire were the only audible sounds.

“Captain Phaedras is firing his catapults.” There was a short pause, then Ictinis completed his report. “The Lirr Song has gone down.”

“So fast?” Tithian gasped.

Saanakal nodded, and the ship fell even more silent than before word had come of the Lirr Song’s fate. Tithian stepped over to the gunnel and peered into the featureless haze. “Tell me, Saanakal, how many giants will we take with us?”

“A handful,” the high templar admitted, his voice emotionless.

“And the fleet won’t survive?” Tithian asked.

“Not realistically,” Saanakal answered. “We have shallow silt all around, so we can’t maneuver away from our attackers-and no one has ever survived a battle with a hundred giants.”

From the haze ahead came the muffled thumps of several catapult arms striking their crossbeams. A half-dozen streaks of yellow light arced through the sky, bursting into fiery showers as they started to descend. By the time the spray reached the surface of the dust, it had coalesced into a single curtain of golden flame. Across the distance rumbled muted roars and bellows, more akin to the yowls of wild beasts than the cries of manlike beings.

“The Giant’s Bane is taking a charge.”

The shipfloater had barely finished his report before the mate called, “Boulders!”

Instantly, Saanakal yelled, “Catapults!”

Tithian spun around in time to see the silhouettes of a dozen giants wading toward the Silt Lion. He saw the heads of a dozen different beasts-birds, lions, wyverns, kanks, and more-resting on the shoulders of manlike giants, then a barrage of stones came flying out of the haze. Most dropped short of the ship, sending silvery plumes of dust shooting into the sky. Four of the boulders found their marks, sending a series of thunderous crashes resounding through the decks.

One stone shattered a foredeck ballista. As its tightly wound skeins sprang loose, the cords knocked half the weapon’s crew over the side. Two more boulders hit the main deck, opening kank-sized holes in the planking and dropping a handful of reinforcements into the hold below. The last smashed a vat of Balican fire. Five dwarven slaves screamed in pain as yellow flame splashed over their shoulders, and small puddles of burning, syrupy liquid formed on the deck.

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.

Tithian gave the king’s eye to a junior officer. “Which ship is that?”

“The King’s Lady,” he replied.

“Good,” he said, pointing at Fylo’s ugly face. “Do you see that giant?”

“The one whose head looks sort of human?”

“Yes. Keep us pointed toward him,” Tithian replied. Next, he turned to the shipfloater. “Tell the King’s Lady to hold her attacks. We’re coming alongside and may be able to save her from this bunch.”

For the next few moments, Tithian watched in grim silence as the Silt Lion bore down on its targets. The giants were approaching the King’s Lady cautiously, suspicious of the lack of resistance from the ship. Nevertheless, they were close enough to hoist their rams and charge at any moment.

“Captain Saba asks permission to defend his ship,” reported the shipfloater.

“No!” Tithian spat.

“But we’ll never get there in time,” objected the helmsman. “If they don’t resist-”

“The King’s Lady is sunk anyway!” snapped Tithian. “And I don’t want anyone killing my giant-not yet.”

Several of the ship’s officers exchanged skeptical glances, then one ventured to ask, “Why not?”

“He must be the one who set up this ambush, and I want to know why before I deal a very special punishment out to him,” the king answered. He looked back to Ictinis. “Tell Captain Saba this: when the giants hit his ship, he’ll be protected by the king of Tyr’s magic-but only if his counterattacks don’t interfere.”

The shipfloater sent the message.

A moment later, Tithian and his officers watched as Fylo and his giants crashed into the King’s Lady. Unhampered by any resistance from the ship, their charge hit with such force that it ripped the foredeck off the rest of the ship. The ballistae discharged harmlessly and the vats of Balican fire toppled, instantly creating an inferno on the decks. Trailing long tails of flame, sailors and dwarves leaped over the sides, their agonized screams falling silent as they disappeared into the dust.

A burly man stepped toward Tithian, his silt-scarf hanging loosely around his neck. His jaw was set, and his puffy cheeks were pale with the horror of what he had just witnessed. “You said you’d save them!” he gasped.

“Come now,” Tithian replied. As he spoke, he turned his palm to the deck, using his body to shield it from view as he drew the energy for a spell. “You heard me say that the King’s Lady was lost. You knew I was lying to Captain Saba when I said I would protect him.”

“When I tossed Navarch Saanakal overboard, it seems I traded a coward for a liar,” growled the first mate, stepping toward Tithian. “You said we were going to kill giants-not protect yours!”

“This fleet has already killed more giants under me than it would have under Saanakal!”

With that, he collected a pinch of dust from the gunnel and threw it into the air. He spoke his incantation, then the mate, officers, and the helmsman all dropped to the deck, their eyes closed tight behind their dust-shields. Without a steady hand on the helm, the ship veered toward the burning King’s Lady. As the bowsprit of Tithian’s schooner touched the blazing wreck, the ship’s wizard leaped off the bow. He flew a hundred yards in the direction of the island chain before a giant swatted him down.

The jib sail of the Silt Lion burst into flames, and smoke began to roll over the main deck. Sailors and catapult slaves alike cried out in alarm and looked up to see what was wrong, then the whole ship shuddered as the bow crashed into the side of the King’s Lady.

“Time to go,” Tithian said.

The king drew the energy for another spell and used his magic to levitate himself. Taking care to stay away from any giant that could bat him down, he drifted out over the stern. Behind him, the Silt Lion’s vats of Balican fire began to ignite, sending column after column of golden flame shooting into the pearly sky. Within moments, the schooner’s wreck could not be distinguished from that of the King’s Lady.

Tithian quickly identified Fylo’s distinctive form at the other end of the conflagration. The giant stood near the detached bow of the King’s Lady, the one piece of the ship that was not in flames, laughing in childish delight as he used a yardarm to knock the last few survivors off the upended hull.

Tithian drifted forward through the smoke and haze. At the same time, the king took the precaution of withdrawing a small glass rod from his satchel, but he did not fully prepare the spell that would turn it into a lightning bolt. Until he learned how Fylo had come to be a part of this ambush, and what had happened to Agis, he had no intention of killing the giant.

Tithian stopped just out of Fylo’s reach. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, yelling to make himself heard across the distance.

The giant stepped away from the wreck, raising his yardarm to swing at the king. “Traitor!”

Tithian dodged back. The huge club sank into the silt with a muffled whump, raising a curtain of pearly dust.

“Why are you attacking your friend?” the king asked, resisting the urge to cast his spell.

Fylo narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance to his target, then shrugged and turned back to the bow of the King’s Lady. “Tithian liar, not friend,” he said, using his yardarm to push a dwarf into the silt. “Agis real friend.”

“What does Agis have to do with this?” Tithian asked. He felt both relieved and angry, for the giant’s comment implied that he had released the noble and not killed him. “You promised to guard him!”

“Make promise before Agis show real Tithian to Fylo,” said the giant. “Then we go to Balic, and Agis tell Fylo about fleet going to Lybdos. He say, ‘Warn giants. Maybe they let Fylo live with them.’ ” The half-breed brought his pole down on a templar, crushing the man like a beetle. “Him right. Now Fylo can live on Lybdos-with beasthead friends.”

Tithian could not contain himself. “What makes you think anyone could tolerate a hideous moron like you?”

His eyes bugging out in anger, Fylo threw his yardarm at Tithian. The king tried to dodge, but the pole glanced off his shoulder, sending a terrible ache shooting down his arm and knocking the glass rod from his hand. He plummeted toward the sea, barely regaining control of his body in time to prevent himself from plunging into the dust. Fylo was on him instantly, grasping Tithian tightly in his massive fingers and preventing the king from reaching into his satchel for another spell component.

“Agis like Fylo!” the giant snarled. “Beastheads like Fylo!”

Tithian shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But Agis is just using you. So are the beastheads. When all this is done, they’ll send you away. Fylo will be alone, just like before.”

“No!” Despite the retort, the giant looked crestfallen.

“Yes,” Tithian insisted. “I’m the only one who could like you. Everyone else thinks you’re ugly.”

Fylo shook his head. “Tithian liar! Tithian do terrible things to his friends in Kled.”

“Did Agis tell you that?” Tithian asked, continuing his ploy. “I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. He’s been jealous of me ever since I became king. But what really hurts, Fylo, is knowing you believe him.”

The giant looked surprised. “It does?”

Tithian nodded. “More than you can know,” he said. “One has so few friends when he’s a king. I thought that you and I …” He let the sentence trail off, then lowered his eyes.

“Fylo think so too-once,” said the giant. He returned to the bow of the King’s Lady, then plucked the last templar off the upturned hull and tossed the unfortunate fellow to the wind.

“What are you doing?” Tithian asked, alarmed.

“Agis warn Fylo you try another trick,” the giant answered, squeezing the king so tightly that he could not draw breath. “Agis say leave you here.”

“You can’t betray me!”

“Fylo get even before he go to live on Lybdos,” the giant chortled. “Good-bye, friend.”

He flicked the king’s head with his huge index finger, and Tithian felt himself settling into a gray haze.