The Obsidian Oracle

FIVE OLD FRIENDS

In the shallow trough between two dust swells lay the severed bow of a Balican schooner. It rested on its side, blanketed by a gray mantle of silt, its bowsprit rising into the air at a shallow angle. On the hull lay a man, fully exposed to the crimson sun and as still as the sea itself.

“There he is!” Agis cried.

The noble pointed toward the debris. Kester, standing with him and Nymos on the Shadow Viper’s quarterdeck, turned her heavy brow to the caravel’s port side. Her eyes quickly fell on the wreckage, for the day was a calm one, almost barren of wind and more stifling than a kiln.

“Yer sure that’s him?” the tarek asked.

Although the distance was too great to see the prone man’s features clearly, Agis nodded. “I haven’t seen any other survivors, and Fylo promised that he’d leave Tithian where I could find him.” The caravel began to slide down the dust swell’s slip face, and the noble added, “Bring us alongside.”

The tarek shook her head. “He looks dead.”

“Living or not, I’m taking him back to Tyr.”

“Not on the Shadow Viper,” said Kester. “Ye hired me to capture a live man, not a dead one. I’ll not have his spirit plaguing me ship.”

“Then I won’t pay you for the trip home,” the noble threatened.

“Ye will pay-or I’ll set ye off over there!” She pointed at a scrub-covered island less than a mile away.

Agis shook his head. “Our agreement was that you’d help me capture Tithian-and it doesn’t matter whether he’s alive or dead.”

Kester reached for a knife, but Nymos interposed himself between the tarek and the noble. “This is foolish,” said the sorcerer, his blind eyes focused on neither of them. “Why don’t we go and see what Tithian’s condition is? If he’s not drawing breath, then you can argue.”

“A prudent suggestion,” said Agis.

Kester scowled for a moment longer. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll bring us about.”

The tarek turned her attention to the main deck, where the ship’s canvas hung furled to the yardarms. Twenty crewmen toiled along each gunnel, thrusting wooden poles, each as tall as a giant, into the silt alongside the ship. After the long rods touched the shallow strait’s bottom, the haggard slaves marched sternward, pushing the caravel along at a mekillot’s pace. To keep everyone in step, the first man in each line chanted a deep-throated dirge, “Push-ho, push-ho, push-ho or die.”

As the two singers reached the quarterdeck, they changed the chant. “Stop ye, stop ye, time to rest, mate!”

Both lines of slaves halted and withdrew their poles from the dust. After everyone had stopped moving, the man at the front of each group cried, “Front now, front now, to work with ye!” This sent them all scurrying forward to plunge their poles into the dust and start over again.

When the Shadow Viper’s bow reached the bottom of the dust swell, Kester braced herself against the gunnel and yelled, “Hard to port, Perkin!”

The helmsman spun his wheel, and the slaves along the left gunnel withdrew their poles from the silt. The caravel pivoted so rapidly that Agis had to grab Nymos’s arm to prevent the reptile from tumbling overboard. Despite the sharp turn, the noble could see that the bow would plow into the next dust swell before the ship completed the maneuver.

Growling in anger, Kester leaped past her shipfloater and took a long whip off the rail. She jumped down onto the main deck and savagely lashed at the men on the port side. Each time the scourge’s tail popped, a slave howled in pain and a welt rose on his naked back.

“I said hard to port!” the tarek yelled.

The port-side slaves angled their poles forward and pushed, as though trying to move the ship backward. The Shadow Viper’s bow snapped around instantly, the bowsprit just missing the next dust swell. Kester continued to lash her crew members, cursing their slow response and making sure to open a cut on the back of every man in line.

Agis went down to Kester’s side and laid a restraining hand on her whip. “Don’t you think that’s enough?” he asked. “It’s bad enough to crew your ship with slaves, but they don’t deserve such abuse.”

Kester bared her fangs. “This is my ship,” she snarled. Her breath was rancid, for long journeys were difficult on the tarek’s system. Instead of live lizards or snakes, she ate salted and dried meats which were only slightly better for her than the moldering faro her human crew ate. Agis suspected that the tarek’s diet fouled more than her digestive system, for Kester’s temperament had been growing steadily worse since leaving Balic. “I’ll run her as I like.”

“Not while you’re under my hire,” Agis replied, taking the whip from the tarek’s big hand.

“These men were convicts before they became slaves,” said Nymos, speaking from the rail of the quarterdeck. His milky eyes were focused blankly in the air above Agis’s head. “They deserve what Kester gives them-and they owe their lives to her.”

“That’s right,” agreed Kester. “Everyone of ’em would have had his heart cut out in the arena if not for my purse.”

“Saving a man doesn’t give you the right to brutalize him,” countered the noble, returning to the quarterdeck with the whip. “I won’t stand for it-not even from the captain of a ship.”

Kester followed him. As he returned the whip to its peg, she pointed at the flotsam ahead and asked, “I suppose what ye’ve planned for your friend isn’t brutal?”

The Shadow Viper was so close to the wreck that Agis could see Tithian lying on his face, his long braid of auburn hair coiled over one shoulder.

“I have nothing planned for Tithian, except to take him back to answer for his crimes,” replied the noble.

“And to find out what he and Andropinis are doing,” Nymos added. “Your aversion to brutality had better not keep you from loosening his tongue.”

“There are other ways to make Tithian speak,” replied Agis. “Besides, no amount of pain can make him tell the truth if he doesn’t want to.”

“Especially not if he’s dead,” added Kester. The tarek’s eyes were fixed to the starboard of the Shadow Viper’s bow, which was just passing alongside Tithian’s motionless body. She allowed her ship to creep forward a few more yards, then barked, “Dead stop!”

The crewmen lifted their poles, then angled the long shafts forward and plunged them back into the dust. The caravel lurched to a stop, its quarterdeck just aft of the derelict. The starboard slaves peered down on the wreck in weary silence, studying Tithian’s inert form.

Kester jumped off the quarterdeck and grabbed a long plank. She pushed it through a slot in the bottom of the gunnel, guiding it toward the wrecked bow. Motioning Agis to the plank, she said, “Ye be careful. Just because the silt’s shallow and the hull rests on the bottom doesn’t mean she won’t shift. If ye fall in, there’ll be nothing we can do to save ye.”

“What about tying a rope around my waist?” Agis asked, climbing over the gunnel.

“I told ye once, I’ll not have any corpses on me ship,” Kester replied testily. “By the time we dragged ye back, yer lungs would be full of silt.”

“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.

As the king passed, Agis noticed the shadow of a mocking smile upon his lips. “Don’t even think of trying to betray me,” said the noble, lifting his chin toward Kester. “I’m paying that tarek well, and there’s not so much as a king’s bit in your satchel.”

Tithian paused to look back, an expression of feigned indignity on his face. “Am I really so predictable?”

“Be quiet and get on with yer crawling!” called Kester. “That derelict’ll soon be under the silt.”

Tithian finished crossing to the Shadow Viper, where Kester seized him and unceremoniously pulled him over the rail. Once the king stood safely on deck, the noble wasted no time crawling onto the gangway. He had gone no more than two yards when a deep rumble sounded from within the bow.

On the Shadow Viper’s deck, Tithian closed his eyes in concentration.

Agis had just enough time to curse the king before the gangway trembled violently. A terrible cacophony of creaks and groans sounded from the wreck, then the derelict’s bowsprit rose skyward and its aft end sank, sending a great plume of dust into the sky. The plank slipped and fell free, then Agis felt himself following it into the gray sea. He tried to scream, but managed no more than a strangled gasp as the mordant taste of silt filled his mouth.

Agis snapped to a stop less than a yard above the gray sea, his legs dangling in silt and his nose burning with hot loess. It almost felt as though someone had caught him with a safety line, though he knew that could not be. Nymos and Kester began calling his name, then the noble felt himself slowly rising through the gray cloud. The only explanation he could think of was that the blind sorcerer had used a spell to catch him.

As Agis rose through the roiling cloud of dust, he prepared a mental attack, determined to prevent Tithian from launching another assault on him. By the time he finished, the Shadow Viper’s hull was visible through the haze. He could barely make out the forms of the tarek captain and the others standing at the edge of the deck. Tithian was staring at him with a look of intense concentration, while Kester was grasping the gunnel and peering at him through the dust. Nymos stood at the tarek’s hip, his ear slit cocked toward Agis.

“Stop him!” the noble croaked, pointing at Tithian. He could barely choke the words out through all the silt clogging his throat.

Neither the tarek nor the wizard moved toward the king, so Agis drew his sword. As soon as he came near enough to the ship, he reached for the gunnel and pulled himself onto the deck. Kester intercepted him at the rail, blocking his way and grabbing his sword arm.

“It was Tithian that saved ye, so ye won’t be killin’ him on my ship,” said the tarek. “It’d bring an angry wind upon us.”

Scowling, Agis pulled his arm free and stepped around the tarek to see that Tithian had sunk to his knees. He was gasping for breath, while a pair of slaves supported his arms to keep him from collapsing altogether. His face looked even more haggard than when Agis had found him.

The noble sheathed his sword and stepped to the king’s side. “What’s your plan?” he demanded. “Why did you save me?”

“You could have let me die on the wreck,” Tithian whispered, peering up at Agis. “Now we’re even.”

The noble shook his head. “You’re not the kind who repays his debts.”

Tithian accepted the frank appraisal with an impassive face. “There are exceptions, you know.”

“Not likely,” Agis snapped. “You wouldn’t have saved me unless it served your purposes. Are you going to tell me what they are?”

“I have,” the king replied.

“As you wish, then,” the noble said. He grabbed a piece of giant hair rope off a stanchion cleat, then stepped behind Tithian and began tying his hands. “In the name of the Council of Advisors, I charge you with the high crime of slave-taking. You’re to accompany me back to Tyr, where you’ll answer for your misconduct before the Court of Free Citizens.”

Tithian jerked his hands free and struggled to his feet. “What’s this?” he demanded. He glanced at Kester and Nymos to make sure they were listening, then asked, “Has your jealousy grown so much that now you can appease it only by fabricating council charges against me?”

“Save your breath. Your act won’t fool anyone here.”

“Kled was an accident,” Tithian said. “My raiders weren’t supposed to attack it.”

“Then why did they do it?” Agis asked.

Tithian stared at the noble for a long time, then asked, “You mean you haven’t figured it out?”

“Tell me.”

“Borys,” replied the king. “They were collecting prisoners to fill the Dragon’s levy. Why do you think he hasn’t shown up since Sadira returned from the Pristine Tower?”

A knot formed in Agis’s stomach. It might have been anger or pity, or even guilt-he didn’t know which. “Thank you for being so frank,” he said. “I’m sure the Court will want to know that you’ve been buying Tyr’s peace with innocent lives.”

Tithian broke into a fit of laughter. “I fear your wits have left you, my friend!” he chortled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you really think a Court of Free Citizens will condemn me for sparing them the wrath of the Dragon?”

“Yes,” he answered. “You’ve broken Tyr’s most sacred law.”

Tithian grasped Agis’s arm as if they were friends. “Then you’re a fool,” he laughed. “If you give a man the choice between his family’s safety and someone else’s pain, the stranger will die every time. Your court will declare me a hero, not a criminal.”

“This is a matter of law,” Agis replied confidently. “It’s the foundation of the Free City, and I’ll personally make sure that our court understands the gravity of your crime.”

“And will you present a new plan to spare our citizens Borys’s ravages?” Tithian inquired. “Perhaps you’ve found the Dark Lens? Are you ready to kill the Dragon?”

Agis bit his lip, angered more than he liked to admit by the king’s mocking tone. Together with his friends Rikus and Sadira, he had spent much of the last five years searching for the lens. They still had no idea where it was.

“However we protect Tyr, it won’t involve slave-taking,” Agis replied.

Tithian sneered. “Then I’ll be glad to stand before your Court of Fearful Citizens,” he scoffed. “When they understand the alternative, I think they’ll find your law a petty thing.”

“I think they’ll understand that a king who would do such a thing would also betray his own people,” Agis said, moving once more to bind Tithian’s hands. “Your subjects are not so foolish as you think.”

“Nor are they so brave as you believe,” the king replied. Again, he moved away to prevent himself from being tied. “But before we begin our journey home, perhaps you should know why I’ve come all this way.”

“That would spare you a considerable amount of pain,” interrupted Nymos. He stepped forward, his forked tongue flickering in suspense.

Agis pushed the little sorcerer away. “He won’t tell the truth,” said the noble. “He’s just trying to turn me from my purpose.”

“Not at all,” said the king, meeting the noble’s gaze. “In fact, I think you’ll find what I have to say very interesting.”

“I doubt that.”

“Then you’ve lost interest in the Dark Lens?”

“Of course not,” snapped Agis. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’ve found it,” the king replied. “In fact, I’m on my way to recover it right now.”

“What’s the Dark Lens?” demanded Nymos.

“The Dark Lens is an ancient artifact, Nymos,” Agis explained. “The sorcerer-kings used it more than a thousand years ago to create the Dragon-and without it, we can’t destroy him now.” The noble returned his gaze to Tithian. “But I think the king is lying about knowing where it is. My friends and I have been searching for it for years. If we couldn’t find it, I see no reason to believe he did.”

“You mustn’t be jealous, Agis,” Tithian said with a smirk. “Over these past years, I’ve developed talents that aren’t available to you.”

“Then where is it?” Agis demanded.

Tithian wagged his finger at the noble. “I won’t say,” he replied. “But I’ll tell you how I found it. That will protect my secret and convince you that I’m telling the truth.”

“I’m listening,” Agis replied.

Although he maintained a calm outward appearance, the noble’s heart was pounding fiercely. The Dark Lens was the key not only to safeguarding Tyr, but to revitalizing the rest of Athas as well. The lens would complement the two things that his friends already possessed: Rikus’s magic sword, the Scourge of Rkard, and the powerful magic with which Sadira had been imbued in the Pristine Tower. With all three elements together, they would finally have the power to put an end to the Dragon’s rampages.

After allowing Agis to remain in suspense for a moment, Tithian said, “I found the lens by not looking for it.”

“What nonsense is that?” demanded Kester.

“The lens was stolen from the Pristine Tower by two dwarves-dwarves who had vowed to kill Borys,” the king explained. “When they died without destroying him-”

“They violated their focus,” interrupted Agis, referring to the peculiar aspect of the dwarven personality that compelled them to dedicate their lives to an all-consuming purpose.

Tithian nodded. “When they died without fulfilling their purpose, they became undead spirits,” he said. “I used my magic to locate their banshees, and that’s how I know where to find the Dark Lens.”

“And you offered to share this Dark Lens with Andropinis. That’s why he loaned his fleet to you,” surmised Nymos. The sorcerer stepped to Agis’s side and laid a hand on the noble’s hip, then pointed in Tithian’s direction. “I say we tie him to a boulder and dump him over the side.”

“That won’t be necessary, Nymos,” said Tithian, regarding the reptile with a wary expression. “You’re correct in all your assumptions, except one. I have no intention of keeping my word to Andropinis. I want the lens so I can kill the Dragon-for the good of Tyr.”

“Forgive me if I doubt your motivations,” said Agis.

“Good,” said Nymos. “Let’s throw him overboard and go after the lens ourselves.”

“We can’t kill him,” said Agis. “I need him alive when he stands before the Court of Free Citizens.”

“You can’t intend to take me back now!” Tithian exclaimed. “This is the Dark Lens! It’ll make us as powerful as sorcerer-kings!”

“I’m not abandoning the lens,” said Agis. “You know it’s too important for me to do that.”

“Good,” said Tithian, a smug smile on his face. “Then we’ll work together-for the good of Tyr.”

Agis shook his head. “You’ll be spending this journey in Kester’s brig-and returning to Tyr in shackles.”

“We’ll do this thing together, or not at all,” said Tithian. “Otherwise, I won’t tell you where to find it.”

“What happened to your concern for Tyr’s welfare?” Agis asked.

“That’s what I’m thinking of now,” the king replied.

“You’re lying,” Agis replied. “Besides, I know where to look-the isle of Lybdos.”

Tithian’s eyes opened wide. “You fool!” he hissed. “You can’t succeed without me!”

“We can, and we will,” Agis replied, smiling. “I’m sure you’ll find the brig comfortable.”

The noble grabbed Tithian by the shoulders and turned him toward the center of the deck, where Kester’s slaves had gathered to watch the exchange. “I’ll try not to make the rest of your journey too unpleasant,” he said, looping his rope around the king’s wrists.

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Tithian replied, his voice rather distant.

Agis looked up to see the slaves staring at the king in rapt fascination. At first, he did not realize what was happening, for the noble had never seen such expressions come over so many faces at once. “What are you doing?” he demanded, cinching the knot tight around Tithian’s hands.

“Perhaps you should explain that to me,” the king replied. “I thought you disapproved of slavery, my friend?”

“I do,” Agis replied. “But this is Kester’s ship-”

“Perhaps you and I should free these men,” the king replied, keeping his gaze fixed on the crowd. “After all, slavery is illegal in Tyr, and are we not Tyrians?”

“There’ll be no freein’ of slaves on my ship,” Kester growled.

The crew ignored her and, in trancelike unison, cried, “Hurray for Tyr!”

“Yes, hurray for Tyr!” Tithian shouted. “Help me, and you’ll all become heroes. You’ll live in great palaces and eat the fruit of the faro instead of the needle!”

With a stuporous cheer, the slaves surged forward to free Tithian. Kester leaped to meet them, yelling, “Back to yer poles!” She grabbed the first man in the mob and snapped his neck with a quick twist of her wrists. “I’ll snap the heads off all ye mutineers!”

As the tarek reached for her next victim, Agis drew his sword and cried, “Stop! It’s not their fault!”

The noble brought the pommel of his weapon down on the back of Tithian’s skull, adding another dent to the battered circlet. There was a resounding thud, then the king’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the deck at Agis’s feet.