"Gatabor and I watched as part of the pyramid’s crown pushed up from under the ground, and you’ve all seen the one sloping side of the pyramid projecting out of the cliff face.
"The pyramid doesn’t come to a point at its apex. Rather, there’s a central shaft dropping straight down into the structure. The opening is square, about fourteen paces on a side. Gatabor and I only had time for a brief look down into the depths of the pyramid’s interior before the apex was lifted too high off the ground for us to be able to see within it. Things are moving around down at the bottom of the pyramid: things with wheels, things with metal jaws, things with long prows that coil to a point. Incredible as it may seem, we can only conclude that these things were somehow built or grown by the same orange dust that escaped from the ark."
Novato shuddered, recalling the wonder of it all.
"As I said, the apex of the pyramid is now too far off the ground to reach, but it’s easy to measure the angles of its sides. One can draw an imaginary line right through the remaining rocks of the cliff and it would join up perfectly with the part of the pyramid’s base now projecting out of the cliff face, across the strip of beach, and into the water. As you’ve all no doubt observed by now, a large part of the material of the cliff has been consumed, so the total pyramid is only partially buried in rock now.
"And what about the ark? It seems intact, although most of it is now buried within the pyramid. The door is still exposed, although there’s no cliff face left near it to get hold of, and the blue material provides no footholds of any kind. However, we could lean a very tall ladder against the side of the pyramid to gain access to the ark. I was hoping to put the crafters of Pack Derrilo to work constructing such a ladder, but the pyramid burst through the plain on which their old stone buildings existed. First the buildings fell apart, and then the stone material — which had been quarried out of the cliff face, after all — was absorbed into the structure. The Pack has moved on; the pyramid has scared off all the shovelmouth herds.
"You will have noticed that the sides of the pyramid aren’t completely solid. Rather, there seems to be a tunnel entrance in the middle of each face. I forbade anyone from entering these until construction stopped. However, it seems now that the pyramid is complete. It’s not getting any taller, although it may still be growing down and wider beneath ground level; there’s no way to tell. If it remains quiescent for another day, I’ll authorize the first teams to go inside. Any questions?"
"I have one," said Garios, lifting his long muzzle to look at her. "What do you make of that stuff projecting out of the top of the pyramid?"
"What stuff?" said Novato.
"Oh, you must have seen it. The stuff rising toward the sky. It’s been going up since this morning."
Without a word, Novato ran to where she could get a decent look at the vast, blue pyramid.
The third stage had begun.
A hunt! Simple, primal, soothing…
Afsan stalked his prey through tall grass. He couldn’t see exactly what it was he was pursuing — the grass hid it from view — but he could smell it and he could hear it. Afsan moved quickly through the grass, the sound of his passing hardly more than an undercurrent beneath the steady east-west wind.
At last his quarry moved into a clearing. It was a small shovelmouth — a juvenile, no doubt, not much larger than Afsan
himself — moving along on all fours, its pendulous gut waggling back and forth as it walked. The beast’s head was drawn out into a flat prow and atop its skull was an ornate three-pointed crest. Its pebbly skin was a mixture of light green and yellow.
Afsan crouched down in the grass, then leapt, his legs unfolding, his jaws swinging wide for the killing bite.
But the leap seemed to stretch out, and time itself appeared to slow down. Everything happened ponderously, as if the whole scene were taking place underwater. The juvenile shoveler swung its head around to look at Afsan and its prow opened wide to let out a thunderous yell.
And then the impossible happened. As the call spewed forth, both the upper and the lower halves of the shoveler’s prow split apart and grew longer and longer, great fleshy globs pulling away from them. The globs, light green and yellow, like the rest of the beast’s skin, soon resolved themselves into four tiny Quintaglio heads, black eyes round with terror. Meanwhile, the triple points of the head crest flared out into tiny greenish spheres that sprouted saw-toothed muzzles and obsidian eyes.
The shoveler’s thunderous cry split into a choir of seven Quintaglio screams as Afsan continued to sail through the air, now on the downward part of his parabolic leap. As the distance between himself and the shoveler closed, Afsan thought for an instant that he recognized the tiny faces, but then he hit, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. With a single darting movement of his neck, Afsan scooped out a tract of flesh from the shoveler’s shoulders and throat. The beast fell to the ground, dead. Afsan scrambled to his feet and rolled the creature’s head over so that he could clearly see it.
The tiny Quintaglio faces were gone. The prow was back to normal, and the crest had re-formed into its original triple-pointed configuration.
Afsan stood stupefied for a moment. A shadow passed over him. Above, a giant wingfinger was circling, its purple wings vast and amorphous, billowing up around its body, waiting for its chance at the carcass.
Afsan rolled the shoveler onto its side so that he could get at the belly. With a great bite, he opened the abdomen wide, blood spilling out like water from a sluice. He pushed his arms into the warm flesh, spreading open the chest to expose the tasty organs within.
Suddenly a second pair of arms appeared. He couldn’t see whom they belonged to; indeed, they seemed to be coming from his own chest, although for some reason his muzzle refused to tip down so that he could see the precise source. These intruding hands pulled at the shoveler’s flesh, too, their claws raking into the outer layer of yellow fat and the red meat beneath.
Afsan tried to pull the mysterious hands out of the body cavity, but soon another pair appeared, and then another and another, all trying to grasp a piece of the kill, greedily tearing out chunks of flesh. Afsan tried to slap them away, but they began to tear at his own arms, the claws scratching his skin, long blood trails running along his forearms all the way from wrist to elbow.
More arms appeared. They seized Afsan’s own upper arms, their sharp clawpoints digging into his skin. Afsan fought to free himself, but stringy tendons and bones — his own radius and ulna — were now glistening gray-white beneath his torn flesh.
Afsan brought his muzzle down and chomped through one of the foreign arms, then shook his head, flinging the thing aside. He heard a scream coming from somewhere, and the shadow of the purple wingfinger moved again and again across the scene. Afsan’s neck darted once more and another arm snapped off. Meanwhile, he fought with all his strength to twist free of the arms holding his own. Finally, after chomping through five, ten, twelve, fourteen phantom limbs, Afsan, his own arms reduced to articulated skeletons, dug into his meal, getting every last bit of meat for himself.
*10*
"Your name is Sal-Afsan, correct?" asked Mokleb.
"Of course," said Afsan, irritated.
"Tell me about that," Mokleb said.
"Tell you about what?"
"Your name. Tell me about your name."
Afsan shrugged. "It means ’meaty thighbone.’"
"Unusual name for a skinny person."
He sighed. "You’re not the first to have observed that. But what choice did I have? The name was given to me by the creche masters in Pack Carno. I had no say in the matter."
"Of course not. But what about your praenomen syllable?"
"Sal? Ah, now, that I did get to choose, of course. It’s in honor of my mentor, Tak-Saleed."
"Tell me about your relationship with Saleed."