Then he will linger fifty years
more, wise and grey and wrinkled and strange and full of memories of a
time no man can possibly remember.
Long years had passed since the leader's place had been questioned. The
aristocracy of strength is drawn on quite inflexible lines. It would
have been simply absurd for an elephant of the Dwasala or Mierga grades
to covet the leadership. They had grown old without making the attempt.
Only the great Kumiria, the grand dukes in the aristocracy, had ever
made the trial at all. And besides, the bull was a better fighter after
thirty years of leadership than on the day he had gained the honour.
The herd stood like heroic figures in stone for a long moment--until
Muztagh had replied to the challenge. He was so surprised that he
couldn't make any sound at all at first. He had expected to do the
challenging himself. The fact that the leader had done it shook his
self-confidence to some slight degree. Evidently the old leader still
felt able to handle any young and arrogant bulls that desired his place.
Then the herd began to shift. The cows drew back with their calves, the
bulls surged forward, and slowly they made a hollow ring, not greatly
different from the pugilistic ring known to fight-fans. The calves began
to squeal, but their mothers silenced them. Very slowly and grandly,
with infinite dignity, Muztagh stamped into the circle. His tusks
gleamed. His eyes glowed red. And those appraising old bulls in the ring
knew that such an elephant had not been born since the time of their
grandfathers.
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