and sliding in the brown ooze, unable to find purchase…
…at last righting himself, lunging forward.
But it was too late.
Pain shot up his spine. Lastoon looked back. Right behind him was Garsub, something big in his mouth.
The end of Lastoon’s tail.
Sheared off in one massive bite.
Lastoon tried to run on, but he felt nauseous, and his stride was thrown off by the change in balance.
The others were fast approaching.
Garsub lunged forward again, and again Lastoon found himself sliding headfirst across the mud. The hunt leader was upon him. Lastoon rolled his eyes to look up at her. Garsub’s left arm came swiping down, claws extended. Lastoon felt a sharp pain in his side and then an incredible cold. He struggled to roll her off and in the process saw that his intestines were spilling out onto the mud.
The others reached him now, great jaws lined with sharp curved teeth snapping shut on his arm, his leg, his tail, his rump. Lastoon watched in a final, almost detached, moment as Cartark’s gullet extended, gulping a hunk out of Lastoon.
Blood was everywhere, and then, soon, there was darkness.
As his life ebbed from him, flowing into the muddy water, Lastoon thought his last thought.
At least I had the decency to swallow the children whole.
*12*
Rockscape
Huffing and puffing, Dybo made his way up the sloping path to Afsan’s rock. Normally the Emperor didn’t like coming out here: the trip made his dewlap waggle in an effort to dissipate heat. But today he welcomed it, for his meeting with Afsan required absolute privacy. No one could approach within a hundred paces without being heard or seen.
There was Afsan, up ahead, straddling the granite boulder, his tail hanging over the back. Snoozing quietly beside the rock was Afsan’s pet lizard, Cork, its lithe body curved into a crescent shape. Afsan was sometimes accompanied by Cadool, or a scribe, or someone who could read to him from books, or by students who had come to ask him about the moons and planets and the Face of God. But today he was alone, just sitting on his rock.
Thinking.
That Afsan thought great thoughts Dybo already knew, though the idea of just staring out into space and thinking for daytenths on end was something he could not fathom. But, of course, that wasn’t right, either. Afsan was not staring out into space. Rather, he was in perpetual darkness, seeing only those images his mind provided. It had been sixteen kilodays since Afsan’s blinding, and, although Det-Yenalb, the one who had actually pierced Afsan’s eyes with an obsidian dagger, was long dead, Dybo still felt guilt each time he saw his friend, each time he realized yet again that his friend could not see him.
Did Afsan still think in pictures? Still remember the things he’d seen when he’d had eyes? Still cherish, say, the sight of a flower or a marble sculpture? Dybo tried briefly to remember what, for instance, the tapestries that hung in his own ruling room looked like. Colorful, of course, and ornate. But the details? Dybo couldn’t conjure them up. Would Afsan’s memories of vision be like that, only even more attenuated, having faded over time?
And yet, it was apparent that Afsan’s mind was as sharp as ever, indeed possibly even more keen than it had been when he was sighted. Perhaps the lack of distractions enabled him to more fully concentrate, to give over his thought processes to whatever problem he sought to solve. It staggered Dybo, his friend’s intellect, and sometimes it frightened him a bit. But he also knew that Afsan’s counsel was the sagest and most logical and purest of heart of any that he might receive.
Dybo saw Afsan’s head snap up. “Who’s approaching?” Afsan said into the air.
Dybo sang out, “It’s me, Dybo.” He was still many paces from Afsan, but, once the gap had narrowed, he said, “I cast a shadow in your presence, Afsan. May I enter your territory?”
Afsan made a concessional bow without getting up from his
…at last righting himself, lunging forward.
But it was too late.
Pain shot up his spine. Lastoon looked back. Right behind him was Garsub, something big in his mouth.
The end of Lastoon’s tail.
Sheared off in one massive bite.
Lastoon tried to run on, but he felt nauseous, and his stride was thrown off by the change in balance.
The others were fast approaching.
Garsub lunged forward again, and again Lastoon found himself sliding headfirst across the mud. The hunt leader was upon him. Lastoon rolled his eyes to look up at her. Garsub’s left arm came swiping down, claws extended. Lastoon felt a sharp pain in his side and then an incredible cold. He struggled to roll her off and in the process saw that his intestines were spilling out onto the mud.
The others reached him now, great jaws lined with sharp curved teeth snapping shut on his arm, his leg, his tail, his rump. Lastoon watched in a final, almost detached, moment as Cartark’s gullet extended, gulping a hunk out of Lastoon.
Blood was everywhere, and then, soon, there was darkness.
As his life ebbed from him, flowing into the muddy water, Lastoon thought his last thought.
At least I had the decency to swallow the children whole.
*12*
Rockscape
Huffing and puffing, Dybo made his way up the sloping path to Afsan’s rock. Normally the Emperor didn’t like coming out here: the trip made his dewlap waggle in an effort to dissipate heat. But today he welcomed it, for his meeting with Afsan required absolute privacy. No one could approach within a hundred paces without being heard or seen.
There was Afsan, up ahead, straddling the granite boulder, his tail hanging over the back. Snoozing quietly beside the rock was Afsan’s pet lizard, Cork, its lithe body curved into a crescent shape. Afsan was sometimes accompanied by Cadool, or a scribe, or someone who could read to him from books, or by students who had come to ask him about the moons and planets and the Face of God. But today he was alone, just sitting on his rock.
Thinking.
That Afsan thought great thoughts Dybo already knew, though the idea of just staring out into space and thinking for daytenths on end was something he could not fathom. But, of course, that wasn’t right, either. Afsan was not staring out into space. Rather, he was in perpetual darkness, seeing only those images his mind provided. It had been sixteen kilodays since Afsan’s blinding, and, although Det-Yenalb, the one who had actually pierced Afsan’s eyes with an obsidian dagger, was long dead, Dybo still felt guilt each time he saw his friend, each time he realized yet again that his friend could not see him.
Did Afsan still think in pictures? Still remember the things he’d seen when he’d had eyes? Still cherish, say, the sight of a flower or a marble sculpture? Dybo tried briefly to remember what, for instance, the tapestries that hung in his own ruling room looked like. Colorful, of course, and ornate. But the details? Dybo couldn’t conjure them up. Would Afsan’s memories of vision be like that, only even more attenuated, having faded over time?
And yet, it was apparent that Afsan’s mind was as sharp as ever, indeed possibly even more keen than it had been when he was sighted. Perhaps the lack of distractions enabled him to more fully concentrate, to give over his thought processes to whatever problem he sought to solve. It staggered Dybo, his friend’s intellect, and sometimes it frightened him a bit. But he also knew that Afsan’s counsel was the sagest and most logical and purest of heart of any that he might receive.
Dybo saw Afsan’s head snap up. “Who’s approaching?” Afsan said into the air.
Dybo sang out, “It’s me, Dybo.” He was still many paces from Afsan, but, once the gap had narrowed, he said, “I cast a shadow in your presence, Afsan. May I enter your territory?”
Afsan made a concessional bow without getting up from his
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