Far-Seer

Afsan took a few steps sideways, distancing himself from Dybo. That way, Gampar couldn’t rush them both simultaneously—he’d have to choose his target. Afsan leaned back on his tail and watched the crewmember.

Gampar’s movements were slow, deliberate. He tilted his head toward Dybo, then toward Afsan. His eyes seemed glazed over. His body continued to bob.

“Take it easy, Gampar,” said Afsan, his voice soft, the gentle hiss an adult uses when talking to an eggling. “Take it easy.”

Gampar’s arms dangled at the side of his horizontally held torso, claws extended, fingers dancing.

“Yes,” said Dybo, trying to match Afsan’s tone, but a tremulous note encroaching. “Remain calm.”

Afsan looked over at Dybo. Was that fear he had heard? He hoped so, but the prince was swinging forward from his hips, too, his round body held now at an angle halfway between horizontal and vertical. He had moved his unsheathed claws into view.

Afsan’s mind echoed with the words of Len-Lends, Dybo’s mother, the Empress, who had ticked off each part of the sentence with another extended claw: “I will allow him to go with you, but you will be responsible for his safe return.”

Dybo was reacting instinctively to the challenge from Gampar. If they fought, there was no doubt that the crewmember—a good eight kilodays older than Dybo, and correspondingly taller, although probably no more massive— would kill the prince.

Afsan tried again. “Just relax, Gampar,” he said. “We’re all friends here.”

For a few heartbeats, they held their positions and Afsan thought his words were calming Gampar. But then Gampar bent his knees, crouched low, opened his jaws to expose sharp teeth, and sprang at Dybo. Afsan reacted as quickly as he could, leaping into the air himself.

It was all a blur, Gampar hit Dybo, knocking him down. Afsan heard the breath go out of the prince with an “oomph.”

Gampar’s jaws snapped, trying to dig into Dybo’s throat, but succeeding only in taking a hunk of fatty meat the size of a fist out of Dybo’s shoulder.

Afsan’s leap, with which he had meant to intercept Gampar, had been miscalculated. He landed with a sound of reverberating wood on the deck just in front of the ball of limbs that represented the fighting Dybo and Gampar. Afsan spun around, his tail whooshing through the air, and jumped on Gampar’s back.

The crewmember hissed. Afsan felt his own instinctive urges coming to the fore, felt his intellect ebbing, knew that he must end this soon before it degenerated into a brawl to the death, blood washing the decks of the Dasheter.

Over the crashing of the waves, the snapping of the sails, Afsan heard the thunder of feet as the five Quintaglios who had been up at the bow rushed now to the scene of the fight. A quick glance showed that Biltog, the lookout, was clambering like a giant green spider down the rope webbing that led to his perch.

Gampar’s jaws slammed shut again. Dybo had managed to bring an arm up, and his assailant bit into it, several teeth popping out upon hitting bone. The smell of the blood, driven into Afsan’s face by the steady breeze, was getting to him, bringing him to a boil.

Ticking on the deck. Without looking up, Afsan knew it was Keenir approaching. He did not care, did not think about anything except the fight—

No.

By God Herself, no! Think clearly. His vision was blurred. Intellect can win out over instinct. Afsan fought not to lose himself in the frenzy. Dybo’s jaws were snapping now, trying to take a piece out of Gampar. Afsan raked his claws across the side of Gampar’s face, digging into the soft flesh of his muzzle, the fibrous construction of the salt gland. Gampar flinched, screamed, turned his head toward Afsan. That was the moment, the chance: Afsan brought his jaws together in a terrible, wonderful, shearing bite, rending through the sack of Gampar’s dewlap and slicing through the underside of his neck. The crewmember’s body twitched a few times, and Afsan felt hot wind billowing out of Gampar’s lungs through the great rent in his neck, his final breath escaping.

Blood was everywhere. Afsan felt his own neck pulling back, readying for another strike, readying now to attack Prince Dybo—

“Afsan, no!”

A voice as deep as the bottom of a cave, as rough as rocks clacking together.

“No!”

Blind rage. The urge to kill—

“No!” shouted Keenir again.

Afsan’s vision cleared. He saw, at last, his friend, bloodied and hurt. Afsan forced his jaw closed, rolled off the corpse of Gampar, and, heart pounding, breath ragged, lay on his side on the deck, staring into the rapidly setting sun.

*22*

“Land ho!”

The shout went up from one of the other pilgrims, doing her turn in the lookout’s bucket, high atop the forward mast.