Quest for the Well of Souls

They savored the sights and smells for some time, but Mavra did so with mixed emotions. The sea represented a curious contradiction. There was freedom, salvation, and escape—and a nearly insuperable barrier to such things. Beyond were the water hexes. This was probably Zanti, which led to Twosh. That was too far from their goal. Beyond it was Yimsk, which led to Mucrol, next to Gedemondas, but also next to the spider hex of Shamozan, which was in league with Ortega. To the north was Alestol, with its deadly gas-shooting plants. They still had hundreds of kilometers of swamp to get to Mucrol, and at least one hex side to Gedemondas. Yet somehow their goal seemed so very close, just beyond her reach.

Joshi seemed to catch her thoughts. “Now what?” he signaled.

Now what, indeed, she asked herself. They couldn’t swim. If her memory served her, as it always had, those lights meant that they were just north of the chief Wuckl seaport, the very place where they were to meet the Toorine Trader once again if all went according to plan.

But how long had it been? What day, week, month was it? And, even if they were still in time, how could they board without attracting attention, and then convince the crew of their true identities?

Well, there’d be garbage there, and a place to sleep.

They started south along the beach, and as they did she could almost hear the voice of the Gedemondan coming in on mystic breezes and roaring seas.

You will descend into Hell, it whispered. Only then, when hope is gone, will you be raised up…

Hope was only gone when you were dead or might as well be, she thought. Two pigs would tell that to the Gedemondans in their ice-covered volcanic caverns, and throw it in their smugly all-knowing faces.

Near the Ecundo-Wuckl Border

He had searched for weeks, knowing that they had to be there. The Trader’s course, speed, and location assured him that Mavra could not have been dropped off anywhere but in Ecundo.

Renard cruised low over Ecundo, searching as he had for more than two weeks. He knew her well enough to guess her plan; he’d seen the bundas. He had also seen more than one vicious Ecundan roundup, the first of which had made him violently ill. There would be no defense against those great, fast scorpions and their deadly stingers and chopping blades if Mavra and Joshi were caught. He himself had discovered how nasty the Ecundans were when he’d sent Domaru down and tried to question some of them.

They had attacked, snarling curses and epithets at him, and he was forced for the first time in many years to use the great power of the Agitar in combat. The little satyrs were masters of electricity; they were immune to its effects and could store charges of thousands of volts in their bodies, discharging selectively at a distance using long, copper-clad steel rods called tasts. They always maintained quite a charge; it was required for proper health and was built up when their wooly blue fur generated static electricity as they walked.

The Twosh on the Trader had been right; the Ecundo in that crew had been nice people compared to their brethren back home.

What kept Renard going was his confidence in that strange woman he’d not seen in over twenty years. She wouldn’t change; her successful flight and demonstrated resourcefulness proved it. He wondered how they had managed to keep her down so long.

A glance at a map had convinced him that she would have only one goal: Gedemondas, a fixation of hers. He’d been in that cold hex with her and watched as the engine module was toppled by the echoes of the observers who crowded the valley; he had watched the unit break through the lava crust and melt. But none who had been there could remember seeing the mysterious Gedemondans themselves; only Mavra insisted that they not only saw them but were their guests, and that the strange snow creatures had somehow doctored or hypnoed all the minds but hers.

Sometimes in his dreams, Renard seemed to see them, and occasionally it worried him that she might have been right—she’d always been right before. An Agitar psychiatrist using the most sophisticated mind-retrieval techniques had been unable to expose any blocked memories, though, and had finally convinced Renard that he, not Mavra, was right, and that his dreams were reflections of her delusions heightened by his respect for her.

Still, Gedemondas was the only destination that made sense in light of her route; she never panicked, never gave up, and never did things aimlessly.

The only land connection between Ecundo and Wuckl was a 355-kilometer border lined with an effective electrified fence. He’d started at the southeast end and traveled by land and air along the border, looking for any signs that might indicate passage. Few Wuckl lived near the border itself; he didn’t blame them, considering the nasty dispositions and brutal table manners of their neighbors.

Then, just a little more than halfway up, Renard noticed that a fairly large area had been landscaped as a park or wildlife refuge, and there was a small complex back in the woods. Just before that stood a relay house, which managed the current and monitors for the next kilometer of fence. He’d stopped at many and talked to the strange creatures who serviced them, all to no avail.

Suddenly he caught sight of a Wuckl emerging from the relay house; it had been about twenty houses since he’d found one manned, so he descended for another talk.

Like all the others, this Wuekl’s bill opened all four ways and its head bobbed back and forth in amazement as the great flying horse flew in low and landed.

Quickly Renard jumped from the saddle onto his two thin goat legs and walked over to Wuckl, which towered over him.

“Good day and service,” he called to it in the manner he had learned was common to Wuckl. The language of Wuckl contained no gender, although the people had three.

The Wuckl stared curiously. “Good day to you as well,” it replied, a little uncertainly. It glanced at Domaru, a little awed.

“I have traveled long and far in search of one who looks like this,” Renard told it, pulling out a photograph of Mavra Chang that had been supplied by Ortega.

The Wuckl took it, looked at it, suddenly becoming very agitated. Renard understood that it was excited and upset, even though it appeared to be undergoing convulsions.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, concerned. “Have you seen her?”

“T—two such,” Toug stammered. “About a ten-six day ago. I picked them up from when they hit the fence.”

Renard was both excited and nervous. “They—they weren’t killed, were they?”

The Wuekl’s head made a circle, which meant no. “I took them to the gamekeeper.” It seemed uncertain. “You mean they were—were not—not—animals?”

Renard was suddenly filled with foreboding. “No—people. Like you and me. Just a different form.”

“Oh, my!” Toug managed an almost whispered exclamation. “You better come with me to the gamekeeper pretty damn quick.”

Renard took Domaru’s reins and followed the anxious creature, not certain what the Wuckl’s distress was all about, but feeling that whatever it was, it was bad.

Toug’s reaction was as nothing compared to that of the gamekeeper, who, after it had heard the whole story, realized just what it had done.

“I didn’t touch the brains,” it told him, somewhat relieved. “If there was no permanent damage from the shock, then the conditioning would wear off in a few days—it’s mostly to establish an animal routine or to change old habit patterns.”

“Can it be reversed?” Renard asked, worried.

The gamekeeper thought about it. “More or less, yes. A thorough set of photographs or some good sketches, and, yes, I suppose so. Not exactly, though. I suppose it would be up to them.”

Renard accepted that, and sympathized with the gamekeeper. It was a big world, and a complex one, and Wuckl was very isolated. The veterinarian still seemed beside itself with guilt. “I’m so sorry,” it kept telling him. “I