“Long live the hunters!”
Afsan wished he could see them. It was all a mistake, of course, but it felt good—like basking in the sun after a satisfying meal—to be wanted by someone, anyone, after all he’d been through. He managed to find his voice and said, so softly that only the first row of onlookers could hear, “Thank you.”
“Talk to us!” shouted a female’s voice.
“Tell us how you unmasked the false prophet!” demanded a male.
Unmasked the false prophet? thought Afsan. “I merely saw things Larsk did not,” he said.
“Louder!” said Cadool. “They all want to hear.”
Afsan spoke up. “My training allowed me to see things that eluded Larsk.”
“They called you a demon!” came a voice from far away.
“But it was Larsk who was the demon,” shouted another. “It was he who lied in the daylight!”
Afsan felt his stomach churning. Such words… “No,” he said, now raising his hand in a call for silence. The crowd fell mute, and suddenly Afsan realized that it was he who was really in control here. “No, Larsk was simply confused.” Like all of you…
“The One is gracious,” shouted a voice.
“The One is wise,” cried another.
It came to Afsan that he would never again have the ear of so many. This, perhaps, was his one great chance to spread the word, to show the people the truth. For the first and maybe only time in his life, he was in command. It was a moment to be seized.
“You’ve heard my explanation of how the world works,” he said, his throat aching from unaccustomed shouting. “We are a moon that revolves around a planet which we call the Face of God, and that planet, like all the others, travels in a circular path around our sun.”
“Behold!” screamed a voice. “The lies of Larsk revealed!” The speaker sounded close to madness. The crowd was nearing a fever pitch.
“But hear, now, the most important message of all!” Afsan dared raise both hands, briefly letting go of the shovelmouth’s neck. “Our world is doomed!”
“Just as it was foretold!” shouted a drawn-out voice that sounded like Cadool’s.
Afsan heard a buzz move through the crowd. “We have some time yet,” he shouted. “Although the world’s fate is sealed, we have many kilodays before its end will come.”
“Kilodays to pray!” said another voice.
“No!” Afsan again balanced on the shovelmouth’s back, holding both hands aloft. “No! Kilodays to prepare! We must get off this world.”
The sounds from the crowd were of puzzlement now.
“Get off the world?”
“What does he mean?”
Afsan wished he could see them, wished he could read their faces. Was he getting through to any of them?
“I mean,” he said, “that although the world is ending, our race does not have to. We can leave this place, fly to somewhere else.”
“Fly?” The word echoed throughout the square in intonations ranging from puzzled to sarcastic.
“Yes, fly! In vessels—ships—like those in which we now ply the waters of this world.”
“We don’t know how to do that,” called a voice.
“And I don’t know, either,” said Afsan. “But we must find a method—we must! It will mean changing the way in which we conduct our lives. We must give ourselves over to science, we must learn all that we can. Wingfingers fly; insects fly. If they can do it, we can do it. It’s only a question of discovering their methods and adapting them to our needs. Science holds our answer; knowledge—real knowledge, verifiable knowledge, not superstition, not religious nonsense—will be our salvation.”
The crowd, at last, was silent, save for the grunts of the beasts.
“We must learn to work together, to cooperate.” He smelled their pheromones, knew they were confused. “Nature—or God—has given us a great challenge. We have trouble working side by side; our territorial instincts drive us apart. But we must overcome these instincts, be creatures of reason and sanity instead of prisoners of our biology.”
Afsan turned his head in small increments from left to right, as if looking at each individual face. He could hear the hiss of conversation growing, a comment here, a question there, a remark from the back, an interjection up front.
“But, Afsan,” came a voice, louder than the others, “we need our territories…”
Afsan held the shovelmouth’s neck firmly so as not to lose his balance as he tipped forward in a concessional bow. “Of course we do,” he said. “But once we leave this world, there will be room for us all. Our Land is but a tiny part of the vast universe. We’re going to the stars!”
Suddenly another voice cut across all the others, a voice amplified and reverberating through a speaking horn.
“This is Det-Yenalb, Master of the Faith. Disperse at once. I have assembled those loyal to the Emperor and they are prepared to move upon the square unless you leave now. I say again: This is Det-Yenalb—”
The fool! Afsan felt pheromones from the crowd wash over him like a wave. His own claws extended. The shovelmouth gave a little yelp as their points dug into its neck. He could hear bodies jostling as Quintaglios, already packed too tightly, turned to face the priest. The situation was explosive.
“What are you afraid of, Yenalb?” shouted Afsan.
“Disperse!”
“What are you afraid of?” echoed the crowd of hunters.
Yenalb’s voice reverberated back. “I fear for your souls.”
“And I fear for the survival of our people,” Afsan shouted. “Call off your supporters, Yenalb. Do you really want to send priests, academics, and ceremonial guards against the finest hunters in all of Land? Retreat, before it’s too late!”
“I say again,” said Yenalb. “Disperse. No punishment will be levied if you leave now.”
Cadool’s voice rose up, almost deafening Afsan. “Upon whose authority do you act, priest?”
Echoing, reverberating: “The authority of His Luminance Dy-Dybo, Emperor of the eight provinces and the Fifty Packs.”
“And how,” demanded Cadool, “did fat Dybo come upon his authority?”
“He is—” Yenalb halted, the final syllable repeating as it faded away. But the crowd knew what he had intended to say. He is the descendant of Larsk.
“Larsk is a false prophet,” yelled a female voice, “and Dybo’s authority is unearned.”
Shouts of agreement went up throughout the square.
“You will disperse!” said Yenalb.
“No,” said Afsan, his voice cutting through the uproar. “We will not. Order your people to withdraw.”
They waited for Yenalb’s response, but there was none.
“Once first blood is spilled, Yenalb, there will be no stopping an escalation.” Afsan’s voice was going, his throat raw. “You know that. Order the retreat.”
Yenalb’s voice echoed back, but it had a different tone. He must have turned around to address those who were loyal to the palace. “Advance!” shouted the priest. “Clear the square!”
For once, Afsan was glad he could not see.
*35*
Pal-Cadool looked up at Afsan, balanced atop the tube-crested shoveler. The One, still small and always scrawny, had eyelids closed over rent orbs. His voice, unaccustomed to addressing multitudes, had become strained.
Cadool then looked out across the square. The Lubalites filled most of the eastern side. Some were atop hornfaces, half hidden behind the great bony neck frills. Others were riding running beasts, both the green and the beige variety. Still others were on shovelmouths—hardly a fighting creature, but still a good mount. And a few hunters stood on the wide knobby carapaces of armorbacks, ornery plant-eaters mostly encased in bone.
But Cadool saw that the bulk of the five hundred hunters were on foot. They had been rapt with attention, drinking in the words of Sal-Afsan, The One.