Far-Seer

Cadool stopped for a moment. “No, I suppose you aren’t. But this will be worth it, I promise.” Afsan felt a hand cup his elbow. “Come along!”

Physical contact with others was something that Afsan was getting used to. His claws extended when surprised by a touch, but he managed to get them retracted within a few beats.

Afsan’s gait was slow—he had to be able to feel the stones ahead of him with his stick—but with Cadool propelling him they made good time. Afsan ticked off the landmarks in his mind. The putrid smell meant they were approaching the town axis, down which the main drainage ditch ran. Soon they were close enough to hear the gurgling of the water. Next, the hubbub of the main market. The silence of the holy quarter. The smell of woodsmoke coming from the heating fires in the creche, a sure sign that they were indeed near the town’s center.

And, at last, the sounds of the central square itself. A constant background of wingfinger pips: Afsan could picture the creatures perched all over the statues of Larsk and his descendants, preening their white hairy coverings, stretching leathery wings, occasionally swooping into flight to pluck an insect from the air, or to fetch a gobbet of meat tossed by a Quintaglio seated on one of the public stools that ringed the square. Normal vehicles were prohibited here, so that carriage clacking over the stones must have been passing through on palace business. Indeed, it must belong to a highly placed official, for Afsan could hear the distinctive squeak of a pivoting front axle—a newfangled luxury, found only on the most elaborate carriages. The carriage was pulled by at least two shovelmouths, judging by the methane stench and the click of broad, flat toeclaws.

Suddenly Afsan lifted his head—an instinctive gesture, an attempt to look up. The thundering call of a shovelmouth had split the air, but not from nearby, not the small ones that had just passed. No, it came from out in the direction of the Ch’mar volcanoes, away from the harbor—a bellow, a reverberating wail.

Soon the ground shook slightly. Giant footfalls. A herd of something was moving down the streets of the city. No, no, not a herd—the slamming feet were all of different weights, different strides. A collection of animals? And Quintaglios, hundreds of Quintaglios, running alongside, their voices growing as whatever procession this was approached the square.

There were more calls from shovelmouths, as well as the low roars made by hornfaces and the greeble-greeble of armorbacks.

Afsan felt his claws unsheathe, his tail swish nervously. “What’s happening?”

Cadool’s hand squeezed Afsan’s elbow as he continued to steer him through the square. “Something that should have happened some time ago, my friend. You are about to be vindicated.”

Afsan stopped and turned his unseeing face on Cadool. “What?”

“They’re coming, Afsan. From across Land, your people are coming.”

“My people?”

“The Lubalites. The hunters. You are The One.”

“The one what?”

“The One. The One spoken of by Lubal as she was dying, gored by a hornface. ‘A hunter will come greater than myself, and this hunter will be a male—yes, a male—and he shall lead you on the greatest hunt of all.’ ”

“I know Lubal said that, but—”

“But nothing. You fit the description.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am.”

“Cadool, I’m just an astrologer.”

“No. You are much more.”

The procession was growing nearer. Afsan could feel the ground shake beneath him. The shovelmouth cries were deafening.

“Here they come,” said Cadool.

“What’s happening?”

“It’s a stirring sight, Afsan. You should be proud. At the far end of the square, through the Arch of Dasan, perhaps five hundred Lubalites are entering. Young and old, male and female. Some are walking, others are riding on the backs of runners and hornfaces and shovelmouths and armorbacks.”

“My God…

“And they’re heading this way, every one of them. Some of them I know: hunt leader Jal-Tetex, of course, and Dar-Regbo, and the songwriter Ho-Baban. And I believe that is Pahs-Drawo, from your home Pack of Carno—”

“Drawo is here?”

“Yes, him, and hundreds of others.”

Afsan felt stones near his feet bounce as the vast procession crossed the square. Their pheromones hit him like a wall. Afsan’s claws extended in reflex. The hunt was on…

“Afsan, it’s glorious,” said Cadool, his voice full of wonder. “Banners are snapping in the breeze, red for Lubal, blue for Belbar, green for Katoon, yellow for Hoog, and purple for Mekt. It’s like a rainbow. And those who own copies have the Book of Rites held high in their right hands, in plain view. No more secret worship! The time has come.”

“For what?” For the first time in days, Afsan felt panic because he could not see. “Cadool, the time has come for what?”

“For the religion of the hunt to rise again!” Cadool’s words were almost drowned out by the approaching din. “Afsan, they’re here, they’re hailing you. Five hundred left hands are raised in the salute of Lubal—”

“The what?”