this madness and resolve the situation. But, no, that way out had been shut. Brazil would try for the Well of Souls tonight, two or three days even by air from this point, and Mavra? Brazil was too confident of Sangh; he, Asam, knew the bastard better. Mavra would be slowly, ritually eaten alive, there was no doubt of that. She herself would see to that rather than be such a hostage, he felt certain; She would convince him that, to Brazil, she was no hostage at all.
Playing on him, too, was a far different feeling, one that his conscious mind would never admit. From the start he had rebelled at Mavra entering the Well with Brazil, just the two of them. Right now, he felt, she loved him, at least in a way. Brazil said she craved love, the father she had never had, and he was at least that to her and perhaps a good deal more. Left the way she was, he knew deep down that the two of them would spend the rest of their lives together on the Well World; good, full, rich lives. But with Brazil, inside the Well, there was that awful nagging fear that she would not come out a Dillian—if, in fact, she came out at all.
He considered Brazil and the cause for which all these creatures from so many hexes were fighting. Why were they fighting? Silly, deluded Entries that even Mavra admitted were products of a cult who believed in a false ending to this; Dillians, out at first for revenge, who had by now had their emotions sated and were trapped in the march; and ones like the Hakazit, who cared nothing for causes but fought because it was fun, a drive built into their massive, hideous genes.
And Brazil himself—some god! A bored, cynical little man who didn’t really care about anyone or anything, and who said himself he neither understood the Well’s operating principles nor would do anything but leave the universe to go its current stupid way or recreate it in the same image all over again. He was just a man, like so many other men except that one bit of knowledge made him the object of so much misguided devotion. Just a silly little man whose only attribute was that he had lived too damned long…
Even further back in Asam’s subconscious, where none would ever recognize it, lurked the feeling that Brazil was somehow his rival, that he might offer Mavra what she could not refuse.
He made up his mind for what he considered reasonable, realistic reasons. He made up his mind, then checked the dispensary for what he needed, made a few surreptitious inquiries on dosages and tolerances for Glathrielites, then prepared his means and methods of escape. Like Mavra’s kidnapers, he would need aid in the air, which was easy to arrange. He had quite a reputation here; he was the commander of the forces, and they simply wouldn’t question what he was doing. The Jorgasnovarians, in particular, had been talked into this by Marquoz and the Hakazit and weren’t Entries. They were alien, those flying, ten-drilous gumdrops, so much so that they would find it impossible to pick Brazil out of a group of naked Glathrielites. One looked just like another to them, and that was good enough.
Near dusk all was in readiness, and, as luck would have it, Brazil had retired to a small tent to get some sleep in expectation of being awake all night. It was going to be so easy it was unbelievable. He only hoped Sangh understood the time problem and would do nothing rash.
He entered Brazil’s tent and closed the flap behind him. The little man lay there, face up, mouth open, snoring slightly. So easy, so vulnerable… And yet, he hesitated. Love and honor conflicted, hate and the face of Gunit Sangh seemed to mock him.
His hands trembled as he took the small bottle and filled the syringe with two cc. of the clear fluid. There was no one else about; it would be dark in another hour and his own forces could move in, helped by some convenient guard shifts, night training exercises, and meal schedules he had arranged earlier in the day. It would work. Silently he approached the sleeping man, syringe raised.
He whirled, syringe still in hand, and Brazil snorted and popped awake, then froze as he saw the full tableau.
There were three of them—huge hairy white creatures so out of place in this atmosphere. Asam knew what they were in an instant; he had wanted to meet them almost all his life.
“What the hell?” Brazil wanted to know, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this about, Asam? And who and what are you three?”
“You—you are Gedemondans,” Asam croaked, his voice almost stilled by a combination of shock and shame at discovery.
Brazil looked gravely at the incriminating syringe still in Asam’s hand. “So you were going to sell me out,” he said sadly. “The great Colonel Asam.”
“Sangh… came to me. Here. In the middle of the camp. He can swim right through rock, no place is really safe from him,” the Dillian told them, his tone wooden, like a man in a dream. “He was prepared to eat her alive, Brazil.
“And you were going to trust a bastard like that to deliver her safe and sound,” the little man responded, shaking his head sadly. “I don’t know if we’ll ever learn. Asam, a very long time ago on my own people’s world a man like Gunit Sangh asked us to trust him. We did, and he swallowed nations whole, one after another, then summarily executed and tortured millions. It cost more millions of lives to finally defeat him—and still people turned around and did the same damned thing with other sons of bitches again and again. You of all people should know that Sangh would never keep his word. We discussed it earlier today. Honor is a foreign word to him—as it seems to be elastic to you. For jealousy you would betray all those who have already fought and died in her cause.”
“Jealousy? No, Brazil! Love, yes, but not jealousy!” the Colonel exclaimed heatedly.
“So you know yourself so little,” Brazil sighed. “All right, Asam. It’s done now.”
He nodded. “It’s done. I shall, of course, no longer be a burden to you. She is effectively dead now, and I don’t want to survive her.”
“O foolish man, she lives,” the Gedemondan told him.
“But for how long?” he came back.
“She was totally crippled by cruel surgery,” the white creature told them. “She would have been a helpless cripple forever, save by Dahir magic. You would have won a living corpse.”
The syringe dropped from his hand, and, for the first time in his life, Colonel Asam cried. The Gede- mondans stood there impassively, and Brazil sat quietly and waited, waited for him to cry himself out. Finally, after a couple of minutes, he just stood there, head down in shame, silently waiting for his judgment.
Finally Brazil said to the Gedemondans, “I notice you said she would have been a helpless cripple, not that she is.”
The Gedemondan nodded. “Two brothers and a sister saw the attack and managed to go along,” it told him. “It puzzled the creatures who carried her why she should be so heavy, but they did not see us.” There seemed a private amusement at that. “When they could, they contacted her—but it was too late to help her. Our powers are somewhat diminished outside of Gedemondas; we can not influence events nor see them as clearly, and, large as we are, we would have been no match for their force, particularly not in Dahir. The Dahir magic is strong, and beyond our control.”
He nodded. “I understand. But you did
“They attempted the only thing possible under the circumstances,” the Gedemondan told him. “There is a process called transference, for want of a better word. It is something we are aware of, although this was the first time to our knowledge that Gedemondans actually attempted it. It involves removing the essence of an individual, the soul, the intellect, whatever you wish to call it, and placing it in the body of an animal.”
“Yeah! Sure! I know that process!” Brazil exclaimed, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of it before. “The Murnies once used it on me when my body was destroyed.”
“It is so,” the Gedemondan agreed. “Those of Murithel are the only practitioners in the South, and then only on very rare occasions. Despite their odd and violent way of life and their unusual superstitions, a few of their wisest have come upon many of the same powers and secrets as we. It was, in fact, through accounts of their actions that we stumbled upon it.”
Brazil looked over at Asam. “You see, Colonel? She’s alive, she’s okay, and out of the hands of the enemy. All they’ve got is an empty husk.”
Asam managed a slight smile. “I’m glad for that,” he almost whispered.
“You haven’t lost her yet, Colonel,” Brazil tried to reassure him. “She’s in animal form right now, but inside the Well she can be whatever she wants to be. It’s
