“We must move quickly,” said Cadool. “Trust me; let me guide you.” He put one arm around Afsan’s shoulders and cupped Afsan’s nearest elbow with his other. They began to trot in unison, small moans escaping Afsan’s throat with every footfall.
A second explosion cut the air. Cadool glanced backwards. The top of another of the Ch’mar mountains was gone. The sky was filled with a hail of pebbles, some even falling this far away, here in the square.
Head over heels, cobblestones scraping skin, landing in a heap with Afsan…
“I’m sorry, Afsan!” Cadool shouted above the roar from the volcano, “I wasn’t watching as carefully as I should. Come; the Ch’mar peaks are erupting.” He grabbed Afsan’s arm, hoisted him to his feet. But Afsan’s pace was more cautious now, holding them both back. Cadool tried as best he could to keep them moving.
Through his pain and despite the exploding mountains, Afsan heard something. He lifted his muzzle. A sound was coming at them from the direction of the harbor.
Alternating loud and soft, bells and drums, bells and drums, the sound he’d grown sick of during his pilgrimage—the identification call of the Dasheter.
“Cadool,” said Afsan, some strength returning to his voice, “we must hurry to the harbor.”
The roar behind them continued. “What? Why?”
“I hear the Dasheter. We can escape by water.”
Cadool changed course immediately. “It’ll take us a while to get there.”
“I know we don’t have much time,” said Afsan. “I’ll try not to slow us down.”
Cadool’s firm hand propelled them on. “I was wondering what had become of Var-Keenir. He had pledged to be here for the march of the Lubalites. Trouble upon the waves must have delayed him.”
“He’s here now,” said Afsan. “Hurry!”
They ran through the streets of Capital City. Some Quintaglios seemed to be going the same way they were; others ran in different directions. Afsan heard the wails of children as they passed the creche.
At last he felt a cold wind on his face; the same steady wind that, thankfully, was blowing the smoke from the volcanoes away from the city. It meant they were out of the lee of the buildings, and must now be overlooking the harbor.
“It’s there, Afsan,” said Cadool. “I see the Dasheter.” They started down the long ramp to the docks. “The waves are higher than I’ve ever seen; Dasheter is rocking back and forth like—”
“Like a student bowing concession to everyone he passes,” said Afsan, finding the strength to click his teeth once. “I know that feeling well. Hurry!”
As they got closer to the docks, Afsan could hear the crashing of the waves, louder now than the roar of the volcanic explosions to the west.
“Careful,” shouted Cadool. “We’re about to step on the gangway.” There were several others on the adabaja planks, jostling to get aboard. This was no time for worrying about the niceties of territoriality.
Afsan felt spray on his face, and almost lost his balance as he stepped onto the little bridge of planks leading up to the ship, swaying, swaying—
Up ahead, Cadool saw a short, pudgy figure scurrying up the gangway.
Dybo.
The Emperor escaping. Cadool thought briefly about rushing forward and pushing him into the choppy water before he could make it to the ship’s foredeck.
And there, up on deck, old Var-Keenir helping the Emperor board!
Of course. Keenir had been cut off aboard the Dasheter for some sixty days. At the time he had left Capital City, The One hadn’t yet been blinded. All Keenir knew was that Dybo’s intervention had saved Afsan from being executed in the throne room by Yenalb—
Suddenly the ropes holding the gangway to the dock snapped. The planks swung across the open space, and Afsan and Cadool were dunked into the water.
“Climb!” Cadool shouted. Afsan’s mangled tail was still bleeding, and the waters around him were stained red from it. Guided by Cadool, Afsan grabbed hold of the first plank, his claws digging into the slippery wood, gaps having appeared between each board as they began to slip down the ropes. He hauled himself up, hand over hand. Cadool did the same. Up above on the deck, looking over the railing, Cadool could see Keenir and Dybo. Much to his surprise, both were leaning over the side, helping those still on the dangling gangway get over the railing and onto the ship. Afsan and he pulled higher and higher, the planks like thick rungs in a ladder. The Dasheter rocked. Cadool felt his knuckles smash as the gangway slapped against the ship’s hull.
Higher. Farther.
“I don’t… know… if I can… make it,” Afsan wheezed.
“It’s not far!” shouted Cadool. “Hang on!”
The ship swung back, the gangway dipping into a crashing wave. Cadool felt chill waters on his legs and tail.
Soon hands were all over Afsan, hauling him aboard. A moment later, the Emperor himself reached out to Cadool, helping to pull him onto the deck of the Dasheter.
Cadool turned and looked back. On the sandy black beach, many Quintaglios stood helpless. A few were trying to swim. Other boats were turning, heading out of the harbor into open waters.
Two other Quintaglios were hauled aboard with lifelines, but then Keenir ordered the ship to set sail. “We’ve got forty people on board now,” he said to Dybo in his gravelly voice. “Any more and we risk a territorial frenzy of our own.”
The Dasheter bucked under giant waves. The four sails, each depicting an image associated with the false prophet Larsk, snapped loudly in the wind.
In the background, silhouetted, Cadool could see the tumbled and broken adobe and marble buildings of Capital City, and behind them, a false red dawn as lava spewed forth from the Ch’mar volcanoes.
*36*
Pal-Cadool took stock of the situation. Afsan was sprawled on the Dasheter’s heaving deck, exhausted. Two members of the ship’s crew were bent over The One, wrapping his twitching tail in soft hide, cleaning his face and arms with precious pieces of cloth. Emperor Dybo had disappeared below deck. Captain Var-Keenir stood nearby. When Cadool had last seen Keenir, the sailor’s tail had been pale from recent regeneration. It was now the same dark green as the rest of the captain’s skin, his injury completely healed.
Keenir, wearing a red leather cap, nodded at Cadool. “You saved The One.”
Cadool shook his head. “No, Captain. He saved me.”
Keenir looked down at the prone form. “There’s somebody here who’ll want to see him.” He headed off down a ramp that led below deck, the timbers beneath him creaking under his bulk. Cadool gripped the railings and watched the continuing spectacle of the eruption, black clouds puffing into the sky. Like Afsan, he’d been summoned to Capital City as a young adult. But that had been so long ago, the Capital was the only place Cadool called home. His tail swished back and forth as he watched the city die.
He was startled by the sound of small peeps behind him. Turning, Cadool saw Captain Keenir, followed by a female who was slightly older than Afsan, and coming up the ramp behind her, one, two, three… eight egglings, half walking, half stumbling. Measuring from the tip of their snouts to the ends of their tails, none was longer than Cadool’s forearm. They made small sounds of wonder, completely oblivious to the spectacle unfolding on Land—in fact, Cadool realized, they couldn’t see it over the raised sides of the ship.