Jack Chalker - Midnight at the Well of Souls

He shook his head slowly. “Not a bluff, no. But I’m very old, Wuju—older than anyone could imagine. So old that I couldn’t live with my own memories. I blocked them out, and, until arriving here on the Well World, I was mercifully, blissfully ignorant. No mind in history can function long with this much storage input. The shock of the fight and transformation in Murithel brought the past back, but there’s so much! It’s next to impossible to sort it all out, get a handle on it all. But these memories still give me the edge—I know things the rest of you don’t. I’m not necessarily smarter or wiser than you, but I do have all that experience, all that accumulated knowledge of thousands of lifetimes. That gives me the advantage.”

“But they all think you’re going to work the Well for them,” she pointed out. “Everything you’ve said indicates that you know how.”

“That’s why Serge kept us alive,” he explained. “That’s why we’ve been coddled and prodded. I have no doubt that the little voice box on top my antlers has an extra circuit monitored by Serge. He’s probably listening right now. I don’t care anymore. That’s why he could help us, know where we were and what happened to us. That’s why we’re going to meet him; that’s how all this was prepared in advance. Just in case he can’t use me, he’ll use Skander, or Varnett—he thinks.”

“I can see why he’d be concerned with you three,” she replied, “but why the rest of us? Why me, for example?”

If Brazil could have smiled, he would have. “You don’t know Serge—the old Serge. I’d been so lulled by that talk about a wife and kids I’d forgotten how little this world changes the real you, deep down. Hain—well, Hain is useful to keep Skander in check as well as for transportation. I don’t know who else is along, but be sure they’re there only because Serge has some use for them or he hasn’t been able to figure out how to dispose of them properly.”

“But why me?” she repeated.

“They must have some tame nasties on the Comworlds,” he replied sardonically. “You’re a hostage, Wuju. You’re his handle on me.”

She looked uncertain. “Nathan? What if it really came down to that? Would you do what he asked for me?”

“It won’t come to that,” he assured her. “Believe me, it won’t. Varnett has already figured out why, although he’s forgotten in his youthful excitement.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I will lead them all to the Well—Skander can do that anyway, so could Varnett. I intend to show them everything they want. But they will learn that this treasure hunt is full of thorns when they discover what the price really is. I’ll bet you that, once in the control room of their dreams, they will think the price is too high.”

She shook her head in wonder. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“You will,” he replied cryptically, “at midnight at the Well of Souls.”

The trip was uncomfortable and bumpy. They traveled on a huge wooden sled with runners. Pulling them swiftly were eight huge beasts they could not fully see—sandsharks, the Ghlmonese called them. Only huge gray backs and huge, razor-sharp fins were visible as they pulled their heavy load and were kept in check by a Ghlmonese driver with reins for each of the huge creatures.

The sandsharks were giant mammals who lived in the sand as fish lived in water. They breathed air—a single huge nostril opened whenever their great backs broke the surface—and moved at eight to ten kilometers per hour.

By the end of the day the travelers were all sore and bruised, but more than halfway there. They spread rugs out on the sand, and ate food heated by the fiery breath of their driver. There was no problem sleeping that evening, despite the hot air, blowing wind, and strange surroundings.

The next day was a repeat of the first. They passed several other sleds carrying Ghlmonese, and occasionally saw individuals riding in huge saddles on the backs of sandsharks. Once in a while they would see a cluster of what appeared to be huge chimneys with crews keeping the openings from being blocked by sand. Far below, they knew, there were towns, perhaps large cities.

Finally, near dusk of the second day, structures appeared ahead of them, growing rapidly larger as they approached. These proved to be a network of towers and spires made of small rocks, reaching fifty or more meters in the air, like the tops of some medieval fortress.

They slowed, and came to a halt near two towers with a wide gate between. A number of Ghlmonese stood around; others were busy going to or from unknown places.

An officious-looking dinosaur, in ornate red livery, came up to them. “You are the alien party from Orgondo?” he asked gruffly.

“They are,” their driver replied. “All yours and welcome. I have to see to my sharks. They’ve had a tough journey.”

“Which of you is Mr. Brazil?” the official inquired.

“I am,” Brazil replied.

The official looked surprised, since Brazil was, after all, still a giant stag, but he recovered quickly. “Come with me, then. The rest of you will be taken to temporary quarters.” He motioned to some other Ghlmonese, also in the red livery, and they came up to escort the party. Although the smallest of the humans was a head taller than any of the guards, no one felt like arguing.

“Go with them,” Brazil instructed his group. “There’ll be no problems. I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

They had no choice, and walked to the tower nearest them. Brazil turned to the official. “What now?” he asked.

“Ambassador Ortega and the other alien party are camped out near the base of The Avenue,” the official replied. “I am to take you to them.”

“Lead on,” Brazil urged, unconcern in his voice.

The Avenue proved to be a broad trench, thirty or more meters across, that was just beyond the towers and spires. It was also more than fifteen meters below ground level, but, despite only the most rudimentary stone buffers, the sand didn’t seem to blow into the obviously artificial culvert, but over and past it.

Broad stone stairs led down to the flat, almost shiny surface below. Brazil had some trouble negotiating the stairs, but finally made it. The buildings of Oodlikm seemed to line The Avenue on both sides, like medieval castles used to be built into the sides of steep river valleys back on Old Earth. There were many stairways and hundreds of doors, windows, and even ports for defense along both sides of The Avenue wall. As for the valley itself, its level, jewellike surface seemed to stretch to the ocean on Brazil’s right, and off to the horizon on his left.

Brazil’s hooves clacked on the shiny surface. He towered over countless stalls selling all sorts of things and over the crowds which gaped at him and made way as he passed. He and his escort walked toward the ocean, past the last shops, and finally to what was obviously a more official, less commercial section, across which had been hastily erected a barricade with a heavy wooden gate and armed guards.

The official approached the gate, showed a pass he produced from his coat pocket. After the guards inspected his pass carefully, the gates opened and they passed through. Inside were more guards—huge numbers, in fact. In the center of The Avenue were an Akkafian, a Czillian, a Umiau in what looked like a square bathtub, and—something else.

Brazil studied The Diviner and The Rel, and the last pieces fit into place. The role of the Northerner had been unclear to him from the start, and he knew nothing of the creature’s hex, physically or culturally. He was certain that the thing was at the heart of much of the mischief that had been worked, though.