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The Empire of T'ang Lang

By Alan Dean Foster




It was not the sun that woke Tang Lang. Concealed as he had been for the night, the sun
would be well into the heavens before he rose. It was the growing warmth of the air, passing
maternally across his body, the heat in the soil, the pitch-change in the world. In a hundred
ways, he smelled Day.

Which was as well. Sunrise was not the best time to move a-hunting. The night-men were
long asleep, the day-folk not yet stirring.

In truth the sun had been skyward for some time. Nearby, two of the city-builders were
inspecting the shell of a small armored Crawler. The Crawler had given out recently.
Probably it had failed to return to its resting place in time and was caught by the night. Not
fragile, it still had not coped with the extreme change in temperature by daybreak, young as
it appeared to be.

It would have been a pretty prize for the city-dwellers. But they saw T'ang Lang awake. They
were not cowards, no: not the city-builders. But they were wise. They turned and ran, leaving
the ruined Crawler for whoever might chance on it. Wise ones took no chances with T'ang
Lang. He was not famed for his pleasant humor.

He, of course, had no interest in the dead thing. A being of his temperament disdained such
carrion. He would kill for himself.

It was true that the city-dwellers thrivedтАФin their own fashion. Their superefficient towns and
cities exploited the possibilities of the environment better than anyone. But it seemed a
pitiable way to live. All city-builders were enslaved by their own system, their precious
regimen. T'ang Lang had never tried one of their well-fortified centers. He could do so if he
wished, of course. But such was not the way of his folk, as it was not their way to build cities.

He yawned, if such it could be described. Jerkily, he climbed to his feet. It had been rather a
wet night. He could feel the dampness in his joints. Carefully he washed his face, cleaned
his eyes, then preened himself, making sure his sensors were clear of grime and dirt. As
befitted his talents, T'ang Lang was a fastidious killer.

He did this without bothering to glance behind, unconcerned. T'ang Lang did not feel much
need to guard his rear. There were none in his realm who would try him unless terribly,
terribly desperate. Only the Great Sky People troubled him. They could drop down almost
silently, without warning. An unsporting way to fight. But most of the sky-folk he feared not at
all.

The Rite of Clean Knives followed. Each stiletto had to be kept honed and spotless. It was
important to make a clean penetration the first time. T'ang Lang took great pride in his skill.
True, even he missed now and then. But not often. And when he struck home, his victim
always died. He rinsed his mouth and cleared some mud from his feet. It had been a damp