05. Twilight at the Well of Souls - The Legacy of Nathan Brazil (36 page)

"What will happen when we ... go in?" Mavra asked him, eying the seemingly solid, impenetrable wall again.

"Well, at midnight the lights will go on for this section," he told her. "Then this section around the Avenue will fade and you'll be able to walk through to it inside. Once in there, neither you nor the Gedemondan will change, but I will. The thing was designed for Markovians, so it'll change me into one. They're pretty ugly and gruesome, worse than most anything you've seen to date. Don't let it bother you, though. It'll still be me in there. After that, we take a ride down into the control room area, I'll make some adjustments to the Well World system to activate it once again and key the Call, then we'll go down and see just how bad the damage is."

"The Call?" she repeated.

He nodded. "The Call. Halving the populations of each hex, preparing the gateways, and impelling those we need to do the things we have to have done when we need them done. You'll see. It's not as complicated as it sounds."

"And what about us?" she asked. "What happens to us?"

"You're going to be a Markovian, Mavra," he told her. "It's necessary for several reasons, not the least of which is that the Well is keyed to the Markovian brain and it really is necessary to be a Markovian to understand what it is and what it's doing. It'll also give you the complete picture of what
you
will tell me to do. That's the worst thing, Mavra. You're going to know exactly what the effect of that repair will be—if it can be fixed. We won't know that until we're inside."

He didn't mention the Gedemondan, of course. He had no idea what he was going to do with the creature, but he would have to be disposed of fairly quickly or he would just get in the way. Obviously, when all was said and done, he deserved some kind of reward, but what he wasn't quite sure yet. Certainly the possibility of a Gedemondan with access to the Well didn't seem that appetizing.

It was quite dark now, and Mavra, gesturing to the Gedemondan, said to both of them, "Look! You can see the stars from here."

The other two looked up, and, sure enough, in the wide gap between the end of the cliffs and the Equatorial Barrier the swirls and spectacular patterns of the Well World sky were clearly visible. It was the most impressive sky of any habitable planet Brazil had known, the great nebulae and massive collection of gasses filling the sky. The Gedemondan did not look long, though; in the well-known psychological quirk of many races and people who were born and lived near stunning beauty, they had simply taken the scene for granted.

Nobody had a watch or any way of telling time now; they would just have to settle back and wait that eternal wait for the light to come on.

Oh, hell, he decided. Might as well ask the Gedemondan straight out. "Communicator? What do you wish of all this? What shall I do for and with you?"

The Gedemondan didn't hesitate. "For myself, nothing, except to be returned to my people," he told the other. "For my people, I would wish that you examine why the experiment which succeeded here failed out there and make the necessary adjustments so that it at least has an even chance this next time."

Brazil nodded slowly. That sounded fair enough. He wondered about the creature, though, and whether or not it was entirely on the up-and-up. Quite often more than one race would wind up on a given planet once a pattern was established, occasionally by design because they might have something to contribute, occasionally by accident. The process just wasn't all that exact. The insectlike Ivrom, for example, had managed by accident or their own design to get a few breeders into Earth during the last time, and had become the basis for many of the legends of fairies, sprites, and other mischievous spirits. Some of the others, too; once Old Earth had had a colony of Umiau, what it called mermaids, on the theory that perhaps a second race could use the oceans as the main race used the land.

The Rhone—descendants of the original Dillian centaurs—had attained space flight at an early age. An exploratory group had crashed on Old Earth when the humans still thought it a flat land on the back of a giant turtle or somesuch, and they had managed to survive there, even be worshiped by some of the primitive humans as gods or godlike creatures. But they were too wise, too peaceful, for the rough primitivism of Earth; eventually they had been hunted down and finally wiped off the face of the planet. He himself had arranged to destroy their remains and wipe all but legend from the sordid history of what man did to the great centaurs, but when the Rhone, fallen back into bad times, first lost, then regained, space, and again probed the human areas, they had
known,
somehow, of the fate of those earlier explorers. Humans had appeared in their dreams, in their racial nightmares, long before lasting discovery, and it had kept them somewhat distant and apart from humanity even as they entered into a pragmatic partnership with it.

As for the Gedemondans, there were legends, both on the Rhone home world and on Old Earth, of huge humanoid, secretive creatures that lurked in the highest mountains and the most isolated wilderness, somehow avoiding technological man through his whole history except for brief glimpses, legends, half-believed tales. Were some of these, the Yeti, the Sasquatch, and others like them, truly the evolved descendants of some Gedemondans who had somehow gotten shifted to the wrong place? He couldn't help but wonder.

Time dragged for them, on the Avenue, at the Equator. More than once any of the three of them had the feeling that more than seven hours
must
have passed, that somehow they had either missed it, or this entryway wasn't working, or there was some other problem.

The waiting, Mavra decided, was the worst thing of all.

Suddenly the Gedemondan said, "I sense presences near us." He sounded worried.

Brazil and Mavra looked around, back into the darkness, but could see and hear nothing unusual In both their minds was the fear that, now, at the last moment, the armed force would catch up to them, that Serge Ortega and his group had been unable to hold the Borgo Pass long enough.

The Gedemondan read  their  apprehension.  "No. Just three. They appear to be to our right. It is very odd. They seem to be inside the solid rock wall, coming toward us fairly fast."

Mavra's head jerked up. "It's the Dahbi!" she warned. "They can do that."

"That's twice I've underestimated that bastard," Brazil grumbled. "While Serge's people hold his army, Sangh goes around them in a way only he can. The force at the pass told him what he needed to know— we were here and on our way. At least he can't take any weapons on that route."

"He doesn't need them," she shot back. "Those forelegs are like swords and the mandibles are like a vise. And we don't have any weapons, either." She looked around. "Or anywhere to go."

"Except in," he sighed. "But we can't count on that."

The Gedemondan turned and stared at a rock wall not fifteen meters from where they stood. Slowly there was a brightening of the rock in three places. They watched in horrified fascination as three ghostly creatures oozed out of the solid rock, seemed to solidfy, and stood there, a huge one in front, two slightly smaller in back, like ghastly sheets with two black ovals cut in them for eyes.

Brazil stared at them, fascinated. So those are Dahbi, he thought to himself. He remembered them now, vaguely. More legends and ancestral memory. And the big one in the middle had to be—

"Nathan Brazil, I am Gunit Sangh," said the leader. "I have come to take you back."

Brazil started to move forward to make connection with the Gedemondan so he could reply, but the Gedemondan ignored him and walked to only a few meters from the Dahbi leader.

"You've lost, Sangh," said the Gedemondan in almost perfect imitation of Brazil's accent and mannerisms. "Even if we went back with you now, our own forces are behind yours at the pass.
You
may go through walls, but you can't take me that way."

"I won't have to," Sangh replied confidently. "We shall go back with you as hostage and we shall walk right through that pass to my own forces, which, by that time, will have it secured. Then
we
need only hold it until the balance of my forces moves up to collect us. Your pitiful force in between can't hope to do much more. After all, look at how well your own small force has held the pass against us so far."

Both Mavra's and Brazil's heads came up at this. They had still been holding the pass!

"I stand here in front of the Well," the Gedemondan responded threateningly. "You know the rules, Sangh. I cannot be killed, and I do not wish to be taken."

"I weary of this," Gunit Sangh sighed irritably. "Take him!"

The two smaller Daahbi unfolded, showing their full, grim insectival forms. The effect was startling, particularly on Brazil, who had never seen it before.

The two moved on the Gedemondan, who stood firmly facing them. Sticky forelegs dripping some gruesome liquid reached out for the great white creature, and all along the legs flashed the natural sabers of the Dahbi. The foreleg of the one to the Gedemondan's left touched the creature, who reached over and grabbed it, unexpectedly, in his left hand. There was a brilliant flash of blue-white fire that seemed to envelop the Dahbi, a supernova that flared into momentary monumental brightness, then was gone.

Taking advantage of the stunned shock of the other, the Gedemondan already was turning, his right hand reaching out and taking hold of the other's foreleg before it could withdraw. Again the flare, again, when it suddenly faded, there was no sign of the Dahbi.

Gunit Sangh hadn't lived this long or gotten this far without guts and quick thinking. In a display of courage that rivaled his ferocity, his own foreleg lashed out and took the Gedemondan's head off with one swing.

The headless body spouted blood from the severed neck, which dyed the beautiful white fur, and it lurched forward as if with a will of its own as Sangh, moving with a speed that seemed impossible, retreated back out of the way of the decapitated thing.

The Gedemondan's arms reached out and it took one or two steps forward, then shuddered and toppled to the ground, where it twitched for a few moments, then lay still. Abruptly the stored energy in the body flared up, another brilliant nova, and then it was over. There was nothing left, nothing but the blood and the severed head, staring glassily from the Avenue floor.

Gunit Sangh was shaken, obviously, and a number of different ideas came rapidly through his mind at one and the same time. It was Brazil, but it was now dead, and Brazil couldn't die so it couldn't have been Brazil but if it wasn't, then who
was
Brazil . . . ?

He looked again at the Equatorial Barrier. Just two of the flying horses like the Agitar flew. What . . . ? And why two?

It struck him almost like a physical blow. Mavra Chang's catatonia, Brazil's comatose body, all the powers and magicians' tricks they had pulled.

And then Gunit Sangh laughed, laughed so loud it echoed up and down the canyon. Finally, he looked at the two flying horses and said, "Well, well. The
real
Nathan Brazil, I presume. And who's this with you? Not a genuine flying horse, I wouldn't think. No, could it be that I've also found the mysteriously missing Mavra Chang? Ah! A start of recognition! Yes, yes, indeed it is." And he laughed again. "I've won!" he cried. "All the way to the wire and I've won!"

Behind the two of them a light clicked on.

Sangh saw it and roared with sudden rage. He moved on them, and, almost reflexively, they edged back into the Equatorial Barrier; edged into it and passed through it, inside the Well of Souls before they even realized what happened.

"Not yet!" screamed Gunit Sangh. "Oh, no! Not yet!" and he started for the still-lighted barrier.

Suddenly there was the sound of hoofprints, like a horse charging up the canyon towards the Barrier. Sangh, started, stopped momentarily and turned his massive head to see what it was. He froze.

Glowing slightly like some ghostly, supernatural thing, a Dillian was bearing down on him, a Dillian holding a large, ornate sword in his right hand.

Sangh lashed out with his deadly forelegs but the sword penetrated, slicing through the giant Dahbi like a knife through butter. Sangh screamed in pain and fell, where it started to change, grow more opaque, as it sought its only natural avenue of escape.

The huge centaur laughed horribly, waved its sword, and instead of the weapon there was now a bucket in his hand, a bucket that sloshed with liquid. Sangh's head went up and he screamed, "No!" and then the contents were poured onto the Dahbi, half-sinking in the rock. Where the water struck, the form solidified once more into the brilliant off-white, and the Dahbi leader gave a choking gasp and fell victim to a vicious kick from the forelegs of the centaur that literally severed the Dahbi's body in two at the point where it was half in the rock, half out. It quivered a moment, then went still.

Without a pause, the centaur laughed in triumph and threw the bucket against the far wall, where it hit with a clanging sound, then dropped to the floor of the Avenue. With that, the apparition whirled and galloped back off down the chasm, back into the darkness, and was quickly gone.

Inside the Equatorial Barrier, Mavra stared back at the scene she had just witnessed.

"Speak now, if you wish," came Brazil's voice behind her, definitely his yet somehow oddly changed and magnified. "I can hear your directed thoughts."

"That—that was Asam!" she breathed. "But he's dead! He was killed in the battle. . . . They said . . ." She turned to face Brazil and stopped, gazing in horrid fascination. Brazil was no longer there.

In his place was a great, pulpy mass two and a half meters tall, looking like nothing so much as a great human heart palpitating with almost hypnotic regularity, a combination of blotched pink-and-purple tissue, with countless veins and arteries visible throughout its barren skin both reddish and blue in color. At the irregular top was a ring of cilia, colored an off-white, waving about—thousands of them, like tiny snakes, each about fifty centimeters long. From the midsection of the pulpy, undulating mass came six evenly spaced tentacles, each broad and powerful-looking, covered with thousands of tiny suckers. The tentacles were a sickly blue, the suckers a grainy yellow in color. An ichor seemed to ooze from pores in the central mass, thick and foul-smelling, which did not drip but, rather, formed an irregular filmy coating over the whole body with the excess reabsorbed by the skin.