Far-Seer

Many of the riding beasts were bucking, and it was only a matter of time before a stampede would begin. Some of the Quintaglios were already hurrying to get out of the square, even though it was probably better to be here in an open space rather than near any buildings.

For an instant, Cadool thought the spikefrill was bucking, trying to throw him from its back, but he realized in horror that the whole square was lifting, heaving, like a slumbering monster shuddering into wakefulness.

The One! thought Cadool. What about The One?

Several of the hornfaces near him turned and charged out of the square, their round feet crushing whatever happened to be beneath them. But Cadool was a butcher; he knew the ancient art of guiding animals.

Standing erect on the beast’s back, he grabbed firmly onto an upward-angled spike on either side of the frill.

Spikefrills, like all hornfaces, had ball joints connecting their massive heads to their bodies. Using the long spikes like the prongs on a captain’s wheel aboard a ship, Cadool steered the mighty beast.

The spikefrill moved, Cadool and his mount acting as one, sailing through the sea of Quintaglios, riding high and fast and firm through the rippling waves of the landquake—

“Out of my way!” shouted Cadool above the screams of the crowd, but most Quintaglios and animals were too deep in panic to heed his words. The spikefrill cruised forward, toward the east side of the square.

Cadool glanced back. In the distance, fools were trying to exit through the Arch of the First Emperor. He watched as the arch’s keystone rattled its way up and out, and then came crashing down. The rest of the arch stood as if suspended for half a beat, and then the huge cut stones fell. Splats replaced screams in mid-note. Dust rose in a great gray cloud.

His mount sailed on, Cadool’s hands firm on the animal’s spikes. Standing upright atop the beast’s massive shoulders, he could see clear across the square. But where was the face he sought? Where?

Three Quintaglios were in the way, apparently dazed. Cadool dug the single claws on the back of each of his feet into the spikefrill’s hide, driving it on. Two of the Quintaglios managed to stagger out of the way; the spikefrill, in a surprisingly gentle gesture, nudged the third out of its path with a sideways motion of its pointed beak.

Afsan’s shovelmouth was nowhere to be seen. Had The One gotten away safely?

But no. At last Cadool spotted Afsan, on his side, lying in the dirt. He was surrounded by a ring of hunters, muzzles out, teeth bared, forming a living shield around The One, even in the panic of the landquake not willing to leave him. His tail was a bloody pulp, apparently having been trampled by some beast in a panic to escape before the hunters had been able to protect him.

The ground heaved again, and Afsan looked briefly like he was convulsing. If only that were true, thought Cadool, at least it would mean he was still alive. There was blood on his face and a huge bruise on the side of his chest.

Cadool pushed against the spikes, commanding his mount to tip its head. Grabbing a spike halfway down the frill, he swung himself to the ground and hurried over to Afsan.

The hunter closest to Cadool bowed concession and got out of his way, opening up the protective ring. Cadool rushed in, stones still rippling beneath him. He placed his palm above the end of Afsan’s muzzle to see if he was still breathing. He was. Cadool mumbled four syllables of Lubalite prayer, then spoke Afsan’s name aloud.

No response. Cadool tried again.

Finally, faintly, confused: “Who?”

“It’s me. Pal-Cadool.”

“Cadool…?”

“Yes. Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.” Afsan’s voice was hissy, faint. “It’s a landquake, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Cadool. “The fight is over, at least for now. The loyalists are running for safety.” Most of the hunters had run off, too, but Cadool was glad that Afsan hadn’t been able to see that shameful sight. “You must try to stand.”

Afsan raised his muzzle from the ground. A small groan escaped his throat. “My chest hurts.”

“I’m going to touch you; let me help.”

Cadool’s hand went under Afsan’s left arm. He saw that Afsan was too dazed or too weak to have his claws respond to the intrusion. He rolled the ex-astrologer slightly, then gently brought his other hand under Afsan’s other arm. The ground rattled again, and Cadool simply held Afsan until it subsided. The screams of the Quintaglios were fading; many were dead or dying, many more had retreated far from the edges of the square. Cadool dared look up. The new statue of Dybo’s mother, the late Empress Len-Lends, was directly behind them, rocking back and forth on its pedestal.

“Get up. You must get up.” Cadool helped Afsan to his feet.