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.
FOURTEEN
THE OBSIDIAN ORACLE
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 outside.
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 closed 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.