Jack Chalker - Twilight at the Well of Souls

They had been puffing hard when they reached the border, barely able to carry her as far as they did and proud that they had made it with such a burden, but now, in Dahir, they had been aided by the magic of the native priests, and the flying was easy. She seemed to have no weight at all now and they felt renewed strength.

The priests had been riding below them on their hakaks, unicornlike mounts, easily keeping pace and providing what they called the proper energy flow to the flyers. They could also handle a fair degree of trouble should some lucky searcher from the enemy discover them.

Two Dahir stood ready to receive the burden as they landed. They greeted the priests with upraised arms, then turned to the unconscious form now deposited in the area in front of the hukak stables. It was a clear night; the massive, swirling starfield was shining in full glory and seemed to reflect against their bright, shiny exoskeletons as the humanoid insects went to work, first righting her so she was standing on four feet, then assisting the others in dragging her into a large barn. She was still out cold and knew nothing of this.

“Shall we bind her?” the Dahir leader asked the nearest Dahbi. “It would not do for her to get free.”

“Bindings can be loosened, or worked free,” the white creature responded. “We can not take a chance on such a thing.”

“Do we kill her, then?” the gleaming creature wanted to know.

“No. We promised her alive in the exchange. We will have to make good on that promise.”

“A simple spell,” one of the priests suggested. “It would be absolutely effective—and we have to disguise her when we move her to the Gate tomorrow, anyway.”

“Disguise is up to you,” the Dahbi told the priests. “That should not be difficult here. But your spells are effective only here. They would be undone by the Gate.”

“And could be redone as soon as we were in Zone,” the priest pointed out. “Our magic is effective there, at least on a limited basis.”

“Too risky,” the Dahbi responded. “We can give her no avenue for escape. Also, our master, His Holiness Gunit Sangh, has directed a suitable remedy. Here,” the creature pointed, “at the base of the neck, are the primary nerve connections from the brain to the spinal chord. Severed, it will cut off control to the upper torso.” With that the creature used its right foreleg with its sharp, knifelike chitin and struck deeply, yet expertly. Some blood gushed out, but not a great deal, and they were on the wound with salve and bandages in a moment.

“And here, at the base of the upper torso, a connector for the other, larger half, almost a second although nonsentient brain directed from the first,” the Dahbi noted, and again the vicious blade struck and jerked once inside. It came out covered with dark-red blood, which was again seen to.

“The Dillian is now totally paralyzed,” the white creature told them, wiping off its blood-stained foreleg. “The effect is permanent, the damage beyond repair. Note how the arms and legs are frozen in position, a protective biological mechanism when there is nervous damage. They can die if not on their feet, so they freeze when the nerves are cut or damaged to avoid this. The autonomic functions are not affected; they are taken care of by a different set of nervous controls on the other side of the cartilage that routes and supports them. I was careful not to touch those areas.”

“They will not go for this,” the Dahir priest warned darkly. “They will not trade Brazil for this one in such a condition.”

The Dahbi chuckled. “Your magic could freeze her like a statue here. Could not your magic also make her walk?”

The head of the Dahir cocked itself slightly to one side as the priest considered it. “Why, yes, of course.”

“And then again in Zone?”

“Ah!” The priest brightened.

“You see? No chance for escape, for without your spells she is frozen helplessly. But the evidence will be otherwise. It will be so reported, the exchange will take place, and the woman will be returned to Dillia.”

“Magic has no worth in Dillia,” the priest pointed out. “She will arrive a helpless cripple.”

“Exactly,” responded the Dahbi. “Our bargain was to deliver her alive. Nothing else. We keep our word —to the letter.”

“It seems a bit cruel, though,” the Dahir commented, not sounding as if he was particularly upset by the idea.

“My master, His Holiness Gunit Sangh, has a claim against the one who loves her,” the Dahbi told him. “Killing him would be so very… final. And quick. Nor is he easy to kill. This will haunt him and harm him worse than any. His love a hopeless cripple for the rest of her life, and he a betrayer of his cause and his trust, branded so forever even into the histories and legends, and with no prize to show.”

The priest nodded admiringly. “It is incredible. Such a settlement of a debt of honor is beyond all save admiration.” He looked over at Mavra. “And how much control does she retain?”

“A statue, totally, as if made of stone, from the neck down,” the Dahbi assured him. She will be able to control only her eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. All else is forever frozen.”

“She can talk, then,” the priest noted. “Only if we let her,” responded the Dahbi.

She awoke before dawn and almost immediately realized what must have happened. Mad, upset, her pride hurt, she had stalked out of the meeting and wandered, eventually, down to the river where she had just walked along, occasionally kicking this or that or just looking at the stars.

They hadn’t even made much of concealment. She knew that creatures were in the trees ahead, could see an occasional shape shift or even hear occasional whispers. You just didn’t think about risk when surrounded by ten thousand of your own people.

They had used some sort of tranquilizer gun, the kind used on vicious wild animals when you had to get close to them or capture them but not kill. She had no idea what the stuff was, but it was certainly fast: she had heard the report, felt the sting, whirled and started to cry out, and then lost first her balance and then consciousness in what must have been, oh, no more than fifteen or twenty seconds.

She tried to move, to see what sort of bindings they had on her now and where and in what she might be, but found she could not. There was a sudden, eerie sense of deja vu about all this. Once before on this strange world she had been captured, paralyzed, and stored in a stable. At that time she had been a sacrifice to the Well by those who had worshiped the thing and had been turned into a malformed monster because of it.

There wasn’t much light in the place, although she heard the movements of what appeared to be other large animals, and the aftereffects of the drug, she guessed, were keeping her more or less muddy in the head.

She stood there, unable to do anything, afraid to say anything, for quite some time. Once someone had come, opened a door to one side, and peered in for a moment, but they were out of her peripheral vision and did not come in, but for a very long time now she had just had to stand there stiffly and try and fight through the malaise in her mind.

Now, though, she heard the rustling of something, like feed going through straw, coming close to her. She was surprised, for she would have bet that there were none but animals in the stable up to now. She waited, more curious than apprehensive, to see who it might be—and what. That they would kill her was unlikely; she knew a hostage when she saw one, even if it was her.

The creature stepped out of the shadows and walked almost up to her face. She brightened when she saw it, and the creature put up a shaggy rounded finger to its snout to signify silence.