Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 4 - Obsidian Oracle (15 page)

The giant's hand descended like a kes'trekel on a sun-bloated corpse. He grabbed his
tankard and flipped it over, spilling five gallons of golden mead over Tithian's head, and
placed the vessel over the king's shoulders.

“No magic!” he boomed.

Inside the mug, the muffled voice echoed painfully in Tithian's ears.

“Too late!” Tithian hissed.

The Tyrian brought his hands up and plucked a stray thread from the hem of his cassock,
then wrapped this around the tip of his index finger. Pointing the digit at the giant, he
uttered a spell and pulled the thread down past his first knuckle.

Again, the giant's voice reverberated through the tankard, this time screaming in surprise
as his crown slipped down around his throat and began to constrict. Cries of alarm erupted
all around, and the table began to shake as giants to both sides leaped to their feet.
Tithian smiled to himself and twisted the ends of the thread, tightening the loop until
his finger began to throb from having the blood cut off.

Tithian felt the tankard being lifted from his head. “Is this your idea of help?” Agis
demanded, tossing the vessel aside. “You'll get us killed!”

“Do I strike you as someone with so little regard for his own life?” Tithian replied.

“You strike me as a maniac,” sneered Nymos. The little jozhal teetered at the noble's
side, holding himself upright by clinging to Agis's belt with a three-fingered hand. “Now
cancel your magic, before-”

“Too late for that!” said Kester, pulling Nymos and Agis away by their arms. "Stand aside,
unless ye want to get mashed with him!''

Tithian looked up to see several giants stretching their arms toward him, their palms
stretched out to smash him flat.

“Stop!” Tithian yelled. “If I die, so does your chief!”

Tithian pointed toward the basalt throne. The ruler's crown had all but disappeared into
the folds of his corpulent neck, and the giant's filthy nails were scratching great rifts
into his flesh as he tried to work a fingertip beneath the constricting boughs.

“You're lying!” growled one of the giants, a lanky fellow with red beard and hair. “How
can you kill our sachem if you're dead?”

“Magic,” Tithian replied, raising the finger with the thread looped around it. “If I die,
this string will tighten until it cuts the tip of my finger off. Your sachem's crown will
do the same thing, except that it will cut off his head instead of his fingertip.”

Several giants lowered their heads and eyed the digit raised toward them. Their breaths
washed over Tithian like a stale-smelling wind, but they made no' move to attack.

The king smiled. “That's better,” he said. “Now-”

He was interrupted by a rumbling voice from the far end of the table. “Let Sachem Mag'r
go, or I'll sweep your friends off the Table of Chiefs.”

Tithian glanced over his shoulder to see that a giant had laid his massive arm across the
width of the table, and was ready to sweep Kester's cowering slave crew over the edge into
the Sea of Silt.

“I don't care what you do with them,” the king said, looking back to Mag'r. The sachem's
face color had deepened from red to purple, and his eyes were bulging from his head.
“They're no friends of mine.”

“But they're me crew!” Kester growled, stepping toward the king. “I need 'em to sail the
Shadow Viper.”

“Crews can be replaced,”

“Not out here,” observed Nymos, standing several paces away. “If this is your idea of
saving us, you're a fool.”

“The crew is a liability,” Tithian retorted. “If we let the giants think they're important
to us, Mag'r will use them against us.”

“I won't allow you to sacrifice them,” Agis warned. “They're living beings, just like any
citizen of Tyr.”

The noble's hand dropped to his side, where his sword still hung in its scabbard. The
giants, no more concerned with human-sized blades than a mul gladiator would have been
with a child's wooden dagger, had not even bothered to take their weapons away.

“You've always placed too high a value on other people's lives, Agis,” Tithian said,
loosening the string on his finger. “But if that's what you want.”

As the circlet loosened, Mag'r slipped a finger behind the boughs and ripped the crown off
his neck.

He flung the broken garland into the mountainside, then grabbed his throat, wheezing and
hacking. With each cough, he sprayed gusts of gale force wind down the canyon.

At the other end of the table, the giant withdrew the arm with which he had threatened to
sweep Kester's crew away, drawing a relieved murmur from the slaves. Sparing them no more
than a glance, Tithian drew a live firefly from his satchel and crushed it over the blade
of his dagger, then quickly summoned the energy to cast another spell.

By the time he finished, Mag'r's face had returned to its normal color, and the giant had
recovered his breath. The sachem looked down at Tithian. “I'll pluck your arms and legs
off-one each day!” he growled, his eyes flashing yellow in his anger. “You'll wish you had
died fast, like your friends!”

The giant reached out, and the king tossed his dagger into the air, at the same time
uttering his incantation. The knife intercepted Mag'r's hand, burying itself in a finger
and causing the sachem to jerk his hand back to his chest. A greenish yellow glow rushed
outward from the wound, drawing a rumble of astonished comments from all along the Table
of Chiefs.

Mag'r tried to pluck the dagger from his finger, but Tithian flicked his wrist and the
blade withdrew itself. It hovered in the air a few feet from the sachem, ready to strike
again.

“My dagger is like the sunwasp,” Tithian lied. He kept his gaze fixed on Mag'r, who was
staring at his glowing finger in stunned silence. “The first bite causes no true harm, but
the second makes you sick for weeks.” He paused to let Mag'r consider the words, then
added, “And the third-well, let us hope it doesn't come to that.”

Mag'r moved his finger to the side, holding it far away from his body. “Who are you?” he
demanded. “Why do you come to Mytilene?”

Before Tithian could answer, the titan to Mag'r's left growled, “Them beasthead spies!” He
was what passed for a venerated elder among the giants, with ribbons of gray hair tangled
in his snarled braids, heavy folds of skin hanging over his milky eyes, and a few
ivory-colored nubs where he'd once had teeth. On his head was an amorphous tattoo that
might have been a lizard, an eagle, or even a snake. The giant swept his wrinkled hand
over the captives. “Them come to Mytilene to spy on our army.”

The giant to Mag'r's right peered down at the trio and said, “They're spies all right.” He
was much larger than the others at the table, with a hooked nose as big as a kank saddle
and a black shawl draped over one eye. “What do we do with them, Chief Nuta?” he asked,
looking back up. “Smash their arms and legs?”

Mag'r slammed his fist down on the table so hard that Agis and Kester were knocked off
their feet. “No, Patch!” he thundered, his worried eyes fixed on Tithian's floating
dagger. “We won't torture or kill them. I have a better idea.”

The giants fell silent and looked to their sachem, waiting for him to explain. When Mag'r
said nothing and began to appear uncomfortable, Chief Nuta narrowed his eyes and asked,
“What idea?”

Deciding the time had come to do the giant a good turn, Tithian said, “As I'm sure Sachem
Mag'r realizes, we are not beasthead spies.”

Mag'r smiled and nodded. “That's right,” he said, sneering at Nuta. “They're Balkan spies.”

An excited murmur rolled through the canyon, and Mag'r smiled triumphantly.

“So what now?” demanded Patch. “Do we skin the spies alive, then level Balic?”

“No!” boomed Nuta. He slammed his great hands down on the edge of the table, sending a
terrific shock wave through Tithian's feet. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned over
to press his face closer to Patch's. “Balic don't have our Oracle. It's the beast-heads
who want to keep our Oracle from coming back to us.” Nuta gestured at Tithian and his
companions, then said, “We kill them spies, then we attack Lybdos.”

Patch recoiled from the older giant's sudden anger, then recovered his wits and scowled at
Nuta. Slamming his own hands down on the slate surface, he rose and also leaned over the
table, pressing his face to Nuta's. For the first time since being placed on the table
that morning, Tithian and his friends were shaded from the harsh rays of the crimson sun-
though, judging by the angry expressions on the monumental faces overhead, they were in
the shadow of a storm.

“The Balicans aren't supposed to take sides,” growled Patch, his one good eye burning with
anger. From his peevish tone, it seemed to Tithian that Patch was more interested in
arguing with Nuta than presenting his own point of view. “We'll cut the feet and hands off
these spies, then attack Balic.” A wicked smile crossed his lips, and he looked down the
table at the other chiefs gathered there. “We'll sack Balic and steal all the good stuff
there,” he said, drawing a chorus of agreement from the other giants.

“No!” Nuta snarled.

Tithian glimpsed an enormous fist rising from Nuta's side. Only after crouching safely out
of the way did he think to warn his companions, and by then he was too late. Chief Nuta's
fist brushed past Agis and Kester, sending them sprawling, and caught Patch squarely under
the jaw. The younger giant's teeth clapped together with the crack of a firing catapult,
and his chin snapped back. He tottered on the brink of falling backward, then his head
slumped forward. Boulder-sized teeth and bucketfuls of blood spilled from his mouth to
shower down on the king and his companions.

“Look out!” Tithian yelled.

He grabbed Nymos by the arm and threw himself toward Mag'r's end of the table, glimpsing
Agis and Kester as they rolled in the opposite direction. Patch's immense head slammed
into the table with a deafening crash. Tithian and the jozhal were bounced several feet
into the air, and when they came down the slate was still reverberating.

“You saved me!” Nymos gasped, his tone more surprised than thankful. “Why?”

“Because I had nothing to gain by letting you die,” the king answered curtly. He returned
to his feet, adding, “Besides, it serves my purposes to keep you alive. I can't reach
Lybdos alone any more than Agis can.”

Without further comment, Tithian turned around and saw Patch's unconscious form sprawled
across the table. The shawl across his bad eye had shifted down to cover the good one, and
the only thing visible beneath the giant's hairy brow was the scarred pit where his
missing eye had once been. His cracked lips gaped open more than a foot, revealing a
mouthful of broken teeth and allowing frothy blood to stream down the side of his mouth.

“Agis?” Tithian called. “Are you all right?”

Kester peered over the giant's back. “He isn't over there?”

Tithian studied the area on his side of the unconscious giant, looking for an arm or leg
sticking out from beneath the immense torso. Already, the searing tabletop was heating
Patch's blood, filling the air with a thick, coppery smell. In the red pond-lay mice,
varls, and other stunned vermin thrown off the titan's body by the impact of the fall.
Nowhere did the king see a sign of his friend.

“I can hear someone groaning, over there,” said Nymos. He was holding a small,
spiral-shaped shell to his earslit and pointing in the direction of Patch's head.

Kester disappeared from sight, then the giant's head began to rock back and forth as she
tried to raise it. From the strained sound of her grunts and groans, Tithian did not think
she would ever lift it high enough, even with his help.

Looking up at Nuta, Tithian ordered, “Lift Patch's head so we can recover our friend.”

Nuta sneered at him. “Nuta squish you,” the giant scoffed, reaching out to make good on
his threat.

Tithian dived away, somersaulting twice and coming up next to Patch's motionless forearm.
He pulled a glass rod from his satchel, preparing to cast a spell, but was stopped by the
feel of a human hand on his shoulder.

“That won't be necessary,” said Agis's winded voice. “And I don't see how you're going to
keep your promise to save us by angering the giants.”

The king looked over his shoulder to see the noble standing in the crook of the giant's
elbow. He was covered with blood, but other than that he was apparently none the worse for
wear. “You're uninjured?”

“Thanks to Kester,” the noble replied. “She raised Patch's head high enough for me to
crawl free. Any longer, and I would've suffocated.”

From the other side of the giant, Kester cried, “Watch yerselves!”

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!”