Suddenly Rodlox feinted to the right, running now in a circle, around and around the blackdeath. The great carnivore couldn’t turn with the facility Rodlox could, and although it tried to bring its jaws to bear on him several times, Rodlox managed to keep out of its reach, running and running and running in circles, around and around, dizzyingly…
The blackdeath continued to circle, too stupid to know that if it simply stopped for a moment, Rodlox would come rushing around into its reach.
The strategy was brilliant—disorient the monster. And what a definitive win it would be! Not just surviving the culling of the blackdeath, but actually defeating the creature. Rodlox would secure his position firmly.
The blackdeath was weaving now, tottering back and forth as it rotated, dizziness taking hold. Rodlox’s strength and stamina were incredible, to keep up the game for so long. At last the great dark beast staggered and dropped to its knees. Rodlox seized the moment and launched himself onto the creature’s back, his toeclaws making red scratches in the ebony hide as he scrambled higher and higher, the bony ridges down the monster’s spine like tiny stairs in profile.
The blackdeath yelled. Rodlox positioned himself firmly between the beast’s shoulders and opened his mouth wide, preparing to chomp into its neck—
But then the blackdeath rose to its feet, higher and higher, Rodlox himself now temporarily disoriented—
And then it did something that no one had ever seen before—
It tipped forward, way, way forward, the upper tip of its muzzle pressing against the ground, then it pushed with its hind legs, its spine curving, and it rolled forward, somersaulting, head over heels, its shoulders taking the brunt of the roll, Rodlox expiring with a loud wet splat between the blackdeath’s shoulder blades and the hard ground of the playing field. The blackdeath completed the revolution, the stiff tail flexing around, and rose back to its feet, shrugging its giant shoulders, as if to dislodge Rodlox’s remains. But the bulk of them were stuck there, a flattened bloody mess. After a couple more futile shrugs, the blackdeath seemed to resign itself to carrying around the residue. Perhaps it would let wingfingers pick at its back later, cleaning away what was left of Rodlox.
Just Spenress and Dybo remained now. Spenress, watching, stunned by what she had just seen, made a mistake. A potentially fatal mistake. She backed into the angle of the diamond, trapped, with no way out. Easy pickings.
Too easy, apparently, for the blackdeath. It ignored her, turning its attention to Dybo. It started to stomp toward him. Dybo stood his ground. The blackdeath let out its characteristic roar, low, rumbling, reverberating deep in the chest, like thunder before a storm…
And Dybo did the same thing. The exact same thing. Roared just like the blackdeath, in an uncanny imitation of its territorial cry.
The creature stopped advancing and tilted its massive head to the left. After a moment, it roared again. Dybo replied in kind.
“Dybo’s turned his back on the blackdeath!” shouted Cadool, the excitement too much for him. “Afsan, he’ll be killed—”
“He’s facing the spectators?” asked Afsan.
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
“He’s—oh, my God, Afsan! Dybo’s—he’s—”
“Yes?”
“He’s chomping off his own left arm! He’s—he’s brought his jaws down on it—”
“Where? Exactly where is he biting it?”
“Between—God, that must hurt!—between his shoulder and his elbow. He’s biting right through the bone…he’s done it…his arm is falling to the ground in front of him.”
The air split as the blackdeath let out its thunderous call again. Dybo replied in kind, but whether in agony or imitation Cadool couldn’t say. “You hear him screaming?” he said to Afsan.
“Pain can be controlled by a strong enough mind,” said Afsan. “At least, for a short time.”
“I suppose, but—oh, God, he’s doing it again! God, how that must hurt! He’s chewing off his own right arm now! There it goes…that arm has fallen to the ground, too. The blood is soaking the soil. He’s just got two stumps now, coming off his shoulders. He looks—he looks—”
“Just like God,” said Afsan.
Cadool was staggered. “Yes! From the first sacred scroll! After She sacrificed Her arms to make the five original hunters and the five original mates! Just like God!”
There were murmurs throughout the stands, as other spectators realized the resemblance. An Emperor who was as a God! How could they have doubted him?
It was well past noon now. Dybo had maneuvered carefully. He’d positioned himself to the west of the blackdeath, the sun behind him. He turned his body in a three-quarters view, and tipped low from the waist, the short stubs of his arms dangling in front of his torso. He bowed low, lower still, his tail lifting from the ground, matching the posture of the blackdeath. Dybo roared again, precisely mimicking the blackdeath’s sound. The blackdeath roared in return, but then the incredible, the miraculous, happened. The blackdeath took a step backward, moving away from Dybo.
Dybo roared once more, stepping forward. He dipped from the waist, bobbing, up and down, up and down, a territorial challenge, a gesture shared by both Quintaglio and blackdeath, a gesture unmistakable to the spectators and to the great ebony monster. Dybo was challenging the blackdeath…and the blackdeath was retreating.
“I don’t understand,” said Cadool.
“He may look like God to us,” said Afsan, “but silhouetted against the sun behind him, with his arms only tiny stumps, and assuming the proper posture, to his mighty opponent he looks like a blackdeath—like a juvenile blackdeath.”
The blackdeath roared halfheartedly at Dybo, but continued to retreat, step by step, pace by pace, back farther and farther toward the spectator stands, toward the door through which the challengers had come…
“But why, Afsan? Why is it retreating?”
“A blackdeath is no different from other animals, Cadool, or from us, for that matter. A mature male is often challenged by young bucks. The male endures such challenges—they’re a rite of passage for the juveniles, a growth experience. Among animals, true territorial battles are only ever fought between approximately equally matched opponents. A male that size would never actually fight a juvenile as apparently young as Dybo.”
The blackdeath continued to fall back. About halfway across the field, it turned around and, slumped forward, head down, it simply walked across the rest of the arena’s short axis, in full retreat from Dy-Dybo.
Spenress, the only other survivor, was clearly amazed—and clearly delighted that it appeared to be over. She bowed in territorial concession to Dybo.
The crowd was stunned for a moment, then a voice, thinned by distance and the constant east-west breeze, went up: “Long live Emperor Dybo!”
Afsan remembered the day, half his life ago, when he and Dybo came ashore after their long pilgrimage voyage. They had encountered a hunting party from Pack Gelbo. Kaden, leader of the party, had told them that Dybo was now the Emperor. Then, as now, the shout was soon going up from every throat: “Long live Emperor Dybo!”
Dybo, fully back in command, ordered the gate opened, and imperial guards hastened to comply. The air was split by a ratcheting sound as the wooden barrier jerked aside. It was an athlete’s gate, small for the blackdeath, but the retreating beast shouldered its way through, spying the daylight at the end of the tunnel. The creature was let go; it had performed with honor and great skill. Once outside the stadium, it seemed as eager to leave Capital City as the citizens were to have it gone, heading back toward the foothills of the Ch’mar volcanoes.
Cadool cupped Afsan’s elbow and the two made their way to find Dybo. By the time they arrived on the playing field, Dybo’s physician, who had been waiting nearby as planned, was already attending to him, cleaning his arm stumps so that the limbs would regenerate properly, without infection or deformity. Dybo, leaning back on his tail for support—it was importa
nt that the Emperor be seen to walk from the arena—seemed dazed or in shock, but when he saw Afsan and Cadool approaching, he apparently recognized them and tipped his head in greeting.
“He sees us,” said Cadool.
Afsan bowed concession toward Dybo and waited quietly for the doctor to finish his work, all the time glowing with pride in his friend.
Chapter 45
Capital City, twenty days later
“Afsan!”
Afsan was lying on his boulder at Rockscape, snoozing. Gork was pacing quietly back and forth.
“Afsan!” Dybo shouted again, running through the field to the ancient arrangement of boulders, the stubs of his arms ending in bright yellow rings—the first signs of new growth.
The blind advisor woke up and lifted his head from the rock. Gork, moving with a side-to-side motion, waddled out to meet Dybo, its forked tongue slipping in and out of its mouth. Dybo bent to pet the lizard, then sighed when he realized he didn’t have anything to pet it with. Gork didn’t seem to mind. It nuzzled Dybo’s legs.
Afsan pushed himself off his rock and stood, leaning back on his tail. “What is it?”
“They’ve found Maliden.”
Afsan threw back his muzzle in a yawn, still not completely awake. “Who?”
“The imperial bloodpriest! The one who was there at my hatching! They’ve found him. He was brought here under guard from northernmost Chu’toolar.”
“Have you spoken to him yet?”
“No,” said Dybo. “I wanted you to be with me.”
Afsan groped for the harness that Gork wore, and he and Dybo headed back to Capital City, the warm afternoon sun beating down on them from the mauve sky.
“Maliden is badly hurt,” said Dybo as they walked back. “He, ah, resisted arrest.”
“And your agents were overly zealous?”
“It came close to being a territorial challenge, I’m afraid. His injuries are severe for one as old as he. They say he won’t live long.”
“It must have been a hard ride for him, severely injured, all the way back from Chu’toolar.”
Dybo nodded. “Hard indeed.”
There was no specific place for holding prisoners, since so rarely was someone accused of a crime. They entered the new palace office building, Dybo leading the way, Gork helping Afsan to avoid obstacles. Afsan looked somewhat pained as it became apparent they were heading down a ramp into the basement.
“What’s wrong?” said Dybo.
“Nothing.”
“Your muzzle shows blue, friend.”
“It’s—I’m sorry, I’m just remembering my own time held prisoner in a basement, charged with heresy. My apologies; I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
Dybo said nothing. There was nothing to say. They continued down the ramp and rounded out onto the stone floor, their toeclaws and Cork’s making little scraping sounds as they continued along.
Two imperial guards stood outside a wooden door. Dybo dismissed them—there were too many people in this confined space as it was. He, Afsan, and Gork entered the musty room, and Dybo quickly moved to the far side, maximizing the space between them. The room contained a couple of wooden crates; it was obviously simply a storage area. Looking old and haggard, flopped on his belly in the center of the floor, was Maliden, the imperial bloodpriest.
“Maliden,” said Dybo.
The oldster lifted his muzzle slightly. “Your Luminance,” he said. “And Afsan. Hahat dan.”
“You have no territorial permission to give,” said Dybo. “You are a prisoner.”
Maliden’s voice was a wheeze. “I committed no crime.”
Afsan’s tail swished. “Yes, you did.”
Maliden looked at Afsan, then grunted as though the mere effort of lifting his muzzle again had caused him great pain. “You’re wrong, Afsan.”
“Wrong?” Afsan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Do you deny that you tampered with the selection of the Emperor-to-be?”
Maliden wheezed softly. “I have done nothing that was criminal,” he said at last.
“You’re evading the question,” said Afsan. “Tell me—”
Maliden’s breath sounded like paper tearing. “I will say nothing in front of Dybo.”
“I am Emperor,” Dybo said. “You are accountable to me.”
Maliden shook his head, then moaned. That, too, had hurt. “I don’t doubt your authority, Dybo. Indeed, I honor you for it. But I will be dead soon—within the daytenth, I’d warrant. Leave me, and I’ll make my final statement to Afsan. Stay, and I’ll say no more.” He paused, catching his ragged breath. “You can’t force me to speak. Any physical coercion would finish me off right now, I’m sure.” A long, protracted wheeze, then: “Leave, Dybo. Please.”
Dybo looked at Afsan, who, of course, did not look back. At last, his tone ripe with frustration, the Emperor said, “Very well.” He stomped from the room. Without arms there was no way for Dybo to slam the door, but he glared at it as if that were his wish.
Afsan pushed down gently on Cork’s head, and the lizard flopped onto its belly, limbs sprawled out at its side. He then let go of the harness and moved nearer to Maliden, crouching down.
“Now,” said Afsan quietly, “tell me about your crimes.”
“Crimes?” Maliden clicked his teeth, ever so softly. “Ah, Afsan, you are as they said. You believe there’s a fundamental conflict between you who are scholars and we who are priests.” Maliden’s wheezing punctuated his speech. “But it’s not true, Afsan. We both want the same thing for the people—we want them to prosper and be happy and well.”
Afsan shook his head. “You wanted control, you wanted to be able to steer society in the direction you wished it to go.”
With a grunt, Maliden forced his muzzle off the ground again. “No,” he said at last. “You’re wrong. Look at Dybo! A finer leader we’ve never had. He’s strong enough to exert his authority when it’s required, but calm enough to let others bring forth good ideas. You yourself, Afsan, with your goal of getting us off this world. Would Len-Lends have listened to you? No, of course not. She was too forceful, too determined to defend her own territory, to lead according to her vision, no matter what.”
“So you chose someone who would be more malleable, someone whose views you could shape.”
“We chose someone who might be more moderate, Afsan. Only that. I’ve been told about what happened here in the streets while I was gone. Violence, death, blood spilling everywhere. It’s a never-ending cycle. You, Afsan, even you, killed then.”
“To dispatch one in dagamant is not killing.”
“Semantics. Polite beliefs that let us live with ourselves afterward. Don’t talk to me about such things. In my time, I have swallowed whole more than a thousand Quintaglio children. I shudder to say I even came to like the taste of meat so young, so tender. We use euphemisms to describe it, and pretend that we’re not killers, but we are, to the very core, killers not only of animals for food but of our own kind. Murderers.”
“I don’t understand,” said Afsan.
Maliden’s breathing was becoming more ragged, as if the effort of speaking so much was robbing him of his last remaining strength. “You mean you don’t want to understand. The newsriders are all abuzz with Toroca’s theory of evolution, of the survival of the fittest, and how that process changes species. Toroca thinks this is a new idea. He’s wrong. My order has understood it since ancient times, understood it because we practiced it. We were the agent of selection. Every generation, we made sure only the strongest survived. And that did change us, changed us as a race. With each passing generation, we became more territorial, not less. We grew increasingly violent. Yes, we became hardier, too, but at a terrible cost. We’re crippled as a people, unable to work together. It became apparent during the reign of Dybo’s mother that it was only a matter of time before we were driven to war. To war, Afsan! To killing and killing and killing until there was no one left to kill.”
“A Quin
taglio does not kill other Quintaglios,” said Afsan.
Maliden coughed. “So teach the scrolls. And yet we are killers. What happened here was echoed throughout Land: dagamant, the streets flowing with blood. We are poised at the edge of a cliff, Afsan—on the verge of a massive, worldwide territorial frenzy that will go on and on and on.” He paused, catching his breath. “Aggression reigns over us; it’s the trait we’ve bred for. And Lends was too aggressive a leader.” He paused again. “You met her; do you not agree?”
Afsan thought back to the first and only time he had met Len-Lends. He had gone to seek permission to have young prince Dybo accompany him on the rites of passage, both the ritual first hunt and the pilgrimage. Alone in Lends’s ruling room, she had held up her left hand, the three metal bracelets of her office clinking together as she did so. “I will allow him to go with you, but”—she unsheathed her first claw—“you will”—and then her second—“be”—the third—“responsible”—the fourth—“for his”—the fifth—“safe return.”
She had let the light in the room glint off her polished claws for several heartbeats as she flexed her fingers. A threat. A threat of physical violence; the very leader of all the people deliberately striking fear into the heart of a child.
“Yes,” said Afsan at last. “She was aggressive.”
Maliden took in breath, a long, shuddery sound. “When she laid her first clutch, the clutch from which the new Emperor would be drawn, I saw a chance to try to change that. I selected the strongest male—it was indeed Rodlox—and sent him far away. The others, in descending order of strength, were sent to the remaining provinces. And Dybo, smallest and weakest of them all, did indeed remain here.”
“But why did you do this with the imperial children? Why not with the general population?”
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