Chalker, Jack L. – Well of Souls 05 – Twilight at the Well of Souls

Ortega whipped out a map and examined it care­fully. “Maybe this is all coming clear now. Since they knew that we’d know they had to make for an Avenue, they also knew that, once they started to move in a given direction, there would be only a small number of Avenues open to them. So you take the big forces and push north, generally heading toward Yaxa-Harbigor, with a Brazil double in full view. This nails down our main forces against their main force. More, there will be the temptation to bring Commander Khutir’s forces from the west now guarding the Ellerbanta-Verion Avenue over to engage the main force in battle, a decisive battle, in which Sangh’s forces and Khutir’s forces will have the entire main enemy army, Brazil apparently included, sandwiched between them. What does this do? Leaves the Ellerbanta-Verion Avenue essentially undefended and Brazil, landing by ship, just walks up eight hundred kilometers and he’s right on the mark.” His tone grew more excited now. “Yes! Of course! And that explains the Awbri force under this Yua sitting tight. If Khutir catches on and stays where he is, her army can do the main fighting, engaging him while Brazil slips through. Or, of course, it can support and protect Brazil if the cat gets out of the bag too early. And, if their plan worked, it could instead be the reserves behind the main force. It’s per­fect! A work of sheer genius! It’s almost insidious!”

“You seem to admire it,” the Dahbi noted, puzzled.

He nodded. “I do. A massive piece of misdirection. A magician’s sleight-of-hand with standing armies. You appreciate it the more because you look at this mess and you say to yourself, well, we’re fighting army versus army, when actually it isn’t that way at all. This isn’t a war. This whole thing is to get one man into one particular place at one particular time, nothing more. It’s good.”

“All this presupposes that they somehow do have a duplicate of Brazil, and that the real Brazil is on that ship,” the Dahbi pointed out. “And that remains to be seen.”

“He’s there,” Ortega said emphatically. “If not on that ship, well, on another ship similar to it. We’ll send an alert to all hexes in those areas to be on the lookout. Brazil’s disguises are limited in the open country and in alien surroundings. He might have sneaked through without getting noticed before, but not with everybody looking for him.'”

“And Khutir’s army, then?”

“Should stay where they’re at if they know what’s good for ’em,” Ortega told him. “And notify Gunit Sangh of the new situation.”

“It will be done,” the Dahbi assured him. “But I’m not at all certain how His Holiness will take this.”

Yongrem, at the Betared-Clopta Border

THE SMALL LAUNCH CAME ASHORE ON THE WAVES.

A small storm out to sea had whipped them up and they pounded the surf, making a safe landing some­what tricky. The coast was rocky here, and a misstep could mean being smashed against those rocks.

It was just before dawn; light enough to see what you were doing but not yet the hour when curious folk might wander down this way. Not that many would, right in here at the border. The Betareds and the Cloptans had little love for one another, the reasons going so far into the past that neither could really give them anymore, but, like all such feuds, the lack of rational cause only intensified the feelings.

Never in his memory had Brazil seen so clear-cut a contrast where hexes met. To his left Betared shiv­ered in the grip of icy cold, the trees were festooned with icicles, and the snow drifted around them into wavelike mounds. As if seeing two pictures placed side by side, to his right was lush, green warmth, a fairyland of gum trees, palms, and other tropical growths. The border itself seemed here a physical thing, shimmering at the juncture with the other, and a torrent of water poured down a well-eroded path through the rocks to the sea as warm air met cold. Only from a third hex would such a sight be visible; the waves of Yongrem beat with equal force on both coasts.

There was a tiny thermal barrier between the hexes, not to keep anyone from crossing through but to pro­vide a small bit of insulation between such different places. Even so, cloud patterns formed along both sides and stretched out from the border in both direc­tions. It made the region just at the border dark and fog-shrouded, which was just what they wanted.

His four bodyguards awaited him when the skillful crew managed to get the launch, on the fourth attempt, through the reefs and up onto what served for a beach just on the warmer Cloptan side. He jumped out quickly, waved to the crew, who got quickly back into the water for the even more perilous trip back, and walked up to them.

Two were Punretts, not uncommonly seen neighbors of Clopta, who looked at first glance like giant eight-balls from a mammoth billiard table perched on two huge ribbed, fowllike legs with heads that seemed to be long, flat scissor-shaped bills and little else. The eyes, on two short stalks, actually grew out of the bill near its base and were almost invisible. Just under the bills, hanging down as if part of some garment, were eight flat, droopy segments like leaves of some impos­sible plant. Brazil realized that these were tentacles.

Two more were Quilst, hardly inconspicuous here despite their own hex’s border with both Clopta and Betared. They were almost two and a half meters tall, standing upright on flat-bottomed thick round legs like the trunks of very large trees. Their massive arms looked the same, but ended in fat, massive humanoid hands whose most unusual feature was that the fingers all ended in flat stumps completely covered with a fingernail-like layer. On almost no necks, their immense heads looked to be all mouth, for a giant, rounded snout, with tiny little piglike eyes set back in the head and flanked by two equally small ears that twitched constantly. Incongruously, both wore gunbelts, and the pistols strapped to their sides were of sufficient size to blow holes in small mountains.

The fifth was an Awbrian, looking very uncom­fortable on the ground, and very frail when contrasted against the rest of the party.

“Captain Brazil,” the Awbrian said nervously. “We are glad to see you. I am Foma of Awbri, and these two Punretts are Squom and Dutrik, the two Quilst Maganong and Sungongong.”

He gave each a nod. “All of you are natives?”

“All natives,” she confirmed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to do a lot of the talking, since neither race communicates in the normal fashion, but they can understand us because of our translators—and they can talk to the Betared and Cloptans, if need be.'”

“Good enough for me,” he told her. “I have a heavy coat here, but I’d prefer to stay on this side of the line if possible. Warm weather attracts me more. Guess I’m getting soft from being too little in the open.”

“We understand,” Foma replied. “It suits us as well. We have an aircar over here which should get us up to the Quilst border in a hurry. From then on we’re on foot.”

He sighed. “Okay. Suits me. What’s the situation right now?”

They walked over to some bushes where a large plat­form with canopy and control stick seemed to hover a few centimeters off the ground. In fact it was floating, for all intents and purposes, since it was supported by thousands of tiny “legs” of invisible energy keeping it aloft like a hovercraft. Although not designed for human comforts, it was, he reflected, more advanced than most local transport he had seen in the Com. They all fit, which was something in and of itself.

“The women of Awbri, freed from oppression after so very long, are massed in your favor,” she told him. “We have been joined by some others of many races, all originally from your own land, who are massed with our forces near the border with Agon. You understand that most of Awbri can not be trav­ersed on the ground.”

He didn’t, really, but nodded anyway.

“There is also an alarm out for you in this area,” she told him.

He was startled. “Huh? How’d that happen? Has my, ah, counterpart with the others already made an escape?”

“Nothing like that,” she assured him. “It seems that someone in our own forces either stumbled on the truth and talked too much or that the council has hedged its bets and decided to take no chances.”

He sighed. “That damned steamer. I knew it. Coun­cil, my ass—this is Ortega’s doing. He’s the only one with the kind of mind to figure it out in advance.” He was talking more to himself than to the others. Turning to her, he said, “Well, nothing to do but make the best of it. Khutir’s forces are still guarding the Avenue?” She nodded. “They have made no move as yet, and seem massed mostly in Quilst. That has gained us some friends, like Manganong and Sugongong, here. Al­though Quilst is officially with the council, the army has not been kind to it and there has been more than a little trouble.”

He could understand that. An army of several dozen races, with different physical requirements, would be hell to put up in your back yard and hell for even a tough old bastard like Khutir to control.

“We believe you should ride the border, so to speak,” she said. “Up to Lieveru, then into Ellerbanta, where the mountains make it impossible for any army or force to cover all access to the Avenue.”

He nodded uneasily, knowing the odds of getting nearly that far. Not, of course, that he intended to do so anyway—but these must not know that. He wished, though, that the others had already made their own break and were out and heading for the home stretch. Everything depended at this point on the continued befuddlement of the council and the traditional think­ing of its leadership. If, in fact, Ortega had guessed the plan and managed to convince the others of it, that could upset the timetable. Things could be very dan­gerous very quickly.

They raced through Clopta at almost a hundred kilometers per hour and were at the Quilst border in just a little under three hours. As far as he could tell they had not been spotted or even seen by anyone. So far so good—but now came the hard part.

Even now those Awbrian forces that had sat still to this point would be on the move, heading straight for the Ellerbanta-Verion Avenue—but they were a long ways away. It should draw Khutir south to counter it, past them and to the east of them, while Sangh’s forces would be cut off, forced to stand and guard the Yaxa-Harbigor Avenue from what to all intents and purposes was the real Brazil. It was so close, so close now. . . . Everything had worked so well. Another day, two at best, and things would be well in hand. Another two days . . .

Quilst proved cooler than Clopta, but far less humid, and seemed to be a good compromise. They walked now, still near the border with frozen Betared, but pro­gress was considerably slowed.

For its coolness, Quilst seemed a swampy place, thick with trees and weeds and abounding with enor­mous mudholes. It certainly didn’t look that livable, yet the enormous creatures that were part of his body­guard came from here.

He was thankful for the presence of the natives; they knew their way around and would keep him from get­ting into trouble with some unpleasant flora and fauna of which he might be ignorant, as well as keeping him away from population. The two Punretts were less help, but he knew they could swell up to four times their size and in a fight were not merely nasty but tended to eat almost anything that couldn’t eat them. You couldn’t always pick the best allies in these kinds of situations, you just picked the best you could get.

Out for several hours, they had seen no sign of any­body. That worried him a little; it was too easy. They were walking around one of those large mudholes when suddenly the thing simply erupted. Twenty or more Quilst heads popped up, snorting, then the rest, as if on some kind of elevator platforms.

Manganong and Sugongong snorted angrily, nostrils flaring, and pulled their pistols before suddenly real­izing that, in this nontech hex, they were no better than small and fragile clubs.

The two Punretts squawked loudly and swelled up, like balloons attached to a helium nozzle. Crossbows were cocked in the hands of the ambush party, and as the two strange birds swelled, a couple were loosed in their direction.

Suddenly the two circular birds shot into the air, causing the bolts to miss underneath them, and both came down on the heads of the two closest attackers, vicious clawed feet digging into the huge heads and and drawing blood and grunts of pain.

A voice came out of the trees, as the others ducked for cover, loudly yelling, “Nathan Brazil! You and your cohorts will remain where you are! You are under arrest by order of the council.”

The two Quilst in the patrol roared at this; the Punretts, if they stayed where they were, would soon kill the huge creatures.

Brazil, who had run for the cover of nearby trees with Foma, turned to her anxiously. He could see that, under the threat of the bows, the two Quilst had al­ready surrendered and were standing meekly, arms up, while the Punretts had loosed their grip and hopped to solid ground. No use in committing suicide.

“Foma!” he hissed. “Get out of here! Tell Yua what’s happened. Tell her to draw off that damned army if she has to beat them over the head!”

She looked uncertain. “But they’ll get you.”

“No they won’t,” he assured her. “Not me. You tell her to move it. I’ll get to her as quickly as possible!”

She stared at him. “I … I don’t understand.”

“Just move out!” he commanded. She slunk off into the woods.

“Nathan Brazil! Come out or we shall shoot your friends forthwith. You cannot escape!” that voice continued. “Betared patrols have been monitoring you for hours. Come out and save lives!”

He sighed, got up, and walked out into the clearing, clearly surprising both his former ineffective body­guards, who eyed his presence with some relief, and the Quilst still standing guard.

“Okay, okay,” he called out. “Let’s get this over with. No sense in prolonging the agony, damn it!”

From the trees swooped a great butterfly shape, orange wings barely fluttering as it landed on eight tentaclelike feet. Its black skull’s head, with two eyes like great red pads, eyed him with the quizzical curiosity of a zookeeper looking over a specimen. Somehow, in this moment, he could only think that he was the object of some sort of racial revenge on every butterfly collector that ever lived.

“I am Jammer,” said the Yaxa. “I arrest you in the name of the council. You will accompany me as my prisoner to the nearest Zone Gate. It is useless to resist.”

Its segmented body rose in front, and its two fore­legs became useful as mittenlike hands. They reached back into a pack, pulling out first a small medical-type bottle and then a syringe designed for its clawlike hands. Brazil sighed. He’d hoped to keep the stall going by just accompanying them to the gate—but they were going to take no chances. This he could not allow.

Crossbows were all on him now as the Yaxa ap­proached, needle in hand, until it stood only a meter in front of him, looking down at him.

“So you are Nathan Brazil,” it sneered.

He started to chuckle. The chuckle became a laugh, the laugh a roar, until tears almost ran down his face. Before the eyes of the startled Yaxa and Quilst the body shimmered, changed before their eyes. It be­came taller, different-featured; the skin tone darkened, the entire body build changed. Even the clothes were not the same.

Laughing almost maniacally, the new figure pointed to the Yaxa. “Gotcha!” he managed. And then he did the even more impossible. Gypsy vanished instantly, leaving only the echo of his laughter.

Lamotien

THE BLACKNESS OF THE ZONE GATE WAS DISTURBED as a shimmering shape took form within it and stepped out. It looked like a small white ape, barely a meter high, but it wasn’t.

It was twenty-seven Lamotiens in a small colony.

The creatures on the whole were less than twenty centimeters long, shapeless masses of goo that could control their bodies so thoroughly that they could adapt to almost any environment, grow hair to length and color in an instant, take whatever features or form were necessary. They could also combine, as this one did, into a single larger organism that operated as one, with a common mind. In this way they could dupli­cate almost any visible organism.

The Lamotien creature didn’t give a nod to anyone in the Zone Gate area but scampered quickly off. The Gate, which opened out of a hillside, was flanked by a large number of buildings, each of which was a part of the governmental structure of the hex. Designed for Lamotien, they looked like a haphazard arrangement of building blocks, each no more than a cubic meter, many with tiny windows through which shone the yellow glow of electric lighting.

Gunit Sangh and his headquarters company couldn’t fit in any of the buildings, so a large number of tents had been set up in the government square facing the hex. It was not primitive, however; they had elec­tric lights, heating, all the comforts of a high-tech hex.

The simian colony scampered into Sangh’s head­quarters tent, where the huge Dahbi was relaxing— meditating, he called it—hanging batlike from the ceiling support beam. The Lamotien weren’t fazed.

Looking up, the creature said, “Commander Sangh! Bad news!” It waited, as there was no reply from the white thing nor any sign of movement. “Commander! A man who looks like Nathan Brazil was apprehended by a combined patrol in Quilst not two hours ago—and it was some sort of ghost or demon creature, not Brazil at all.”

The Dahbi seemed to take no notice for a moment more, then, slowly, some movement seemed to ripple through it. Eerily, it flexed slightly and then raised its head, looking down with a horrible visage on the still comparatively tiny creature.

“What is this?” Sangh demanded to know. “What’s all this about a ghost or demon?”

“It’s true, sir!” the Lamotien responded excitedly. “It seems that, acting on the hunch of your command in Zone, a watch was put out all along the western approaches and they captured someone who looked like Brazil. In fact, the people with the creature were also convinced it was Brazil. They verified it under drug interrogation. But when the Yaxa commander of the patrol approached, it laughed terribly, the report says, then changed into someone else entirely and van­ished before their eyes!”

Sangh was interested now. “Changed into someone else, you say. Not something else, such as you could do?”

The Lamotien looked confused for a moment, more at the nature of the question than anything else. Finally it said, “Well, yes, that’s what the report said. The Yaxa flew itself and two of the prisoners to the Quilst Zone Gate and got to Zone.”

“But it changed into another Glathrielian form, not any other?” Sangh persisted.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *