Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 4 - Obsidian Oracle (30 page)

“Come out, spy!” yelled Mag'r, pulling an enormous dagger from its sheath. “Don't make me
search for you, or your death will be twice as painful!”

Agis remained motionless and silent in his little alcove, content to take his chances. It
would not be long, he suspected, before the Poison Pack charged to his rescue.

Sure enough, the noble soon heard the clatter of stumbling giants coming from the
rubble-strewn gateyard of Castle Feral. The sound was followed by the raucous battle cry
of the Poison Pack, an angry wail so full of hissing and chirping that it sounded almost
ghostly.

Forgetting about Agis, Mag'r raised his sword and charged into the courtyard. The rest of
the joorsh followed, but the Poison Pack began to pour out of the castle onto the apron.
Peals of thunder rolled over the peninsula as the two groups of warriors met, their
weapons clashing like bolts of lightning. Angry yells and savage snarls filled the air.
Dripping fangs sank into unprotected flesh, while bare hands smashed arachnid skulls and
snapped serpentine necks. Soon giants from both tribes were crashing to the ground, their
blood running in dark rivers and gathering in steaming lakes.

For a few awestruck moments, Agis watched the battle without moving. Then, once he judged
that the giants were too preoccupied with each other to bother with him, he slipped from
his hiding place and crept along the wall. Just a few feet away danced the legs of
fighting giants, their blows echoing off each other like clashing mountains. Once, Agis
was nearly crushed when a Saram toppled over in front of him, and another time he was
bowled over when a Joorsh tooth, still slick with the giant's saliva, crashed down on his
shoulder.

Eventually, the noble reached the hole where the castle gate had once stood. The place was
even more littered with bodies and rubble, if that were possible, than the rest of the
apron. The gateyard was an impassable jumble, except that a valley of crushed stone and
flesh marked where the granite ball had rolled through.

In the center of this valley, Agis saw Bawan Nal and Sachem Mag'r, the only living beings
in the gate-yard, battling furiously. Nal fought with his back to the trench-path,
thrusting first with a lance he carried in one hand, then slashing madly with the crude
bone sword he held in the other. His owlish eyes blazed with a murderous light, and his
hooked beak hung half-open, ready to clamp down on any appendage that came too near it.

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 canyon like 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
surprisingly 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
bearing 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 mid-swing 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!”

Continuing to whisper the word “perfect” over and over, the king went to the narrowest end
of the lens and placed his satchel on the ground. Putting one foot just inside the mouth,
he grabbed the other side and pulled. Slowly the orifice began to widen, the sack's
magical cloth stretching to many times its original size. As the aperture grew large
enough to walk into, Tithian felt a cool breeze and saw a whirling gray murk inside.

When the king had stretched the sack as far as his arms would allow, he placed the
satchel's mouth over the narrow end of the lens and pulled. As the Oracle slowly passed
inside, the opening expanded almost to the point of tearing, but the body of the satchel
did not bulge or swell at all. To all appearances, it looked and felt as empty as it ever
had.

Eventually, Tithian pulled the sack up to the point where the lens touched the floor.
Stretching his arms wide, he reached around the back of the Oracle and grabbed both sides
of the bag. He pressed his chest and face against the glass and rocked the huge stone,
each time pulling the satchel a little farther along. Soon, only the end remained outsider.

His chest heaving from his exertions and his face burning where it had been in contact
with the hot glass, Tithian sat down on the floor and braced his feet against the lens.
With a feeble groan, he pushed against the stone, at the same time pulling on his magic
sack. Aching knots of pain formed in his thighs and forearms, but the lens did not move.
His newly aged muscles were not up to the task.

Cursing his weakness, Tithian dosed his eyes and opened a pathway to his spiritual nexus,
preparing to use the Way. To his surprise, he did not feel the familiar surge of energy
rising from deep within himself. Instead, his feet seemed to meld with the lens, and the
heat of its surface ceased to burn his soles. A torrent of energy rushed from the Oracle
up through his legs. The stream flowed into his abdomen, where he had expected to feel the
warm tingle of his own energies, and formed a smoldering knot that seemed ready to burst
into flames.

The king felt more excited than afraid. That the energy had come to him through the
obsidian sphere only confirmed what he had guessed earlier: it had to be the Dark Lens.

Putting his growing delight out of his mind, Tithian pictured the most powerful gladiator
he had ever owned. An image of Rikus slowly emerged inside his mind: a rugged face,
pointed ears set close to a bald pate, and a hairless body that seemed nothing but knotted
sinew and thick bone.

Once he had the picture securely locked in his thoughts, the king substituted his own face
for Rikus's. The expressive black eyes were replaced by beady brown ones, the heavy-boned
features became thin and haggard, and a long tail of graying hair dangled from what had
once been a bald head. The resulting image, an old man's gaunt face sitting upon a mul's
powerful shoulders, seemed ludicrous even to the king.

Tithian opened himself to the fire in his stomach, calling on it to empower the image he
had created. The energy rushed into his sinews, charging them with new life and vitality.
In his bones and joints he felt a suppleness that he had not experienced in decades. The
king flexed his muscles, rejoicing in his body's newfound vigor-then screamed.

A burst of agony shot through Tithian's arms. The muscles began to swell, taking on the
dimensions and shape of those he had pictured on Rikus's body. The change did not occur
solely inside his head, nor was it illusory, as he would normally expect from using the
Way. The power of the lens was actually transforming him.

Tithian watched in astonishment as the rest of his body changed into that of a mul. After
his arms came his shoulders and neck, then his chest, back, and stomach. Each
transformation brought a fresh surge of pain, but it barely registered on his stunned
mind. The king was too busy contemplating the significance of what was happening to dwell
on his discomfort.