Jack Chalker - Twilight at the Well of Souls

“But he’s going to get word real quick that the main force is moving on the Avenue from his flank. I’m betting he’ll set up the best defense line he can over the broad front and try and hold until Sangh can come up behind your army. He has to block both forces with his army, remember, and that’s putting him on the extreme defensive, outnumbered and outgunned.”

“While, in the meantime, you’ll fly right over his head,” Marquoz chuckled. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

“And not as easy as it sounds,” Brazil cautioned. “You might yet have to bail us out of enemy hands, but it’s the best try we have. If either force can cut through Khutir’s lines, well and good. Get to the Avenue, pick the best position, and fight a rearguard action if necessary.”

“How… how will we know when you’ve made it?” Gypsy wanted to know.

Brazil chuckled. “Well, the few Gedemondans ought to be able to tell you, but there will be an easier way, particularly if it’s dark.”

“Huh?”

“If Mavra tells me to, I’ll pull the plug,” he told them. “And the stars will go out.”

Gypsy gulped nervously.

Mavra Chang had had very little chance to say anything in all that was now going on, but she had little choice, either, she reflected ruefully. Still, anything beat living out your life as a cow, certainly, and now events had forced her to the Well of Souls whether she wanted to go or not. She would rather have died than be paralyzed her whole life as a Dillian, rather have been a cow than dead, rather a flying horse, of all things, than a cow, and rather anything else but a domesticated animal. That meant going to the Well with Brazil and being there when he worked his magic.

She wasn’t really sure, now, how she felt about Brazil, but the news of Asam’s betrayal of the cause, dropped in matter-of-fact conversation between Marquoz and Brazil, had almost crushed her. She couldn’t understand or imagine such a thing, and to be contemplated in her name and on her behalf made her feel slightly dirty. Another illusion crashed, another something good turning suddenly foul and flawed, hideous. She wondered somehow if she didn’t carry some sort of curse with her, something that corrupted or destroyed all those to whom she felt close.

The transfer had been like the last; the animal had been brought up next to her and one Gedemondan had placed its pads on her head, a second on the head of the pegasus, and the third one hand on the head of each of its fellows. Then she had fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was more difficult for her this time, mostly because the brain of the pegasus seemed more complex, more aware than that of the cow’s. Its own initial shock and fear she overcame not by ruthless mental pressure as she had the cow’s, but more of a gentle reassurance, an offer, somehow, of partnership. After some early resistance and the resurgence of some of the fear confusion brought, the great winged horse seemed to settle down, accept the idea. Once it accepted her, there seemed a moment of dizziness, of double thought and double vision which settled into comfortable accommodation. She was the creature, and the creature was she, yet there was no extinction, no pushing back.

Brazil, too, had this far different experience and it surprised him even more than she. In a sense, his beast won a greater victory, since he was more concerned with what it could do for him than in becoming the pegasus for any length of time.

Yet another surprise was the vision the winged horses had. They saw in brilliant color, far sharper and better resolved than either person had known, and there was additionally an almost incredible sense of depth. With a simple voluntary action, both found they could focus with incredible clarity on an object roughly four or so meters in front of them all the way to infinity. Only close objects were hard to see; the eyes were set a bit too far back along the snout for that sort of resolution, although by closing one eye, a fair two-dimensional picture could be perceived.

In the distance the army was already on the move. The noise could be heard here, to the south, and they could already see in the predawn light large numbers of flying creatures standing guard as the force moved and probing ahead into the northwest.

Prola made some adjustments on Brazil, who, having just gotten over the shock of the transfer and still settling into the new body, was now trying to adjust to the fact that he was a vivid pastel pink while Mavra was light blue. Agitarian pegasuses came in all colors. Although a blow to Brazil’s experimental spirit, both winged horses were neutered females.

“Ready for your flight test?” the Agitar asked nervously. He hadn’t really had much experience on the beasts and had depended on the horses’s good training to do most of the work. Now, with Brazil in there, both were green.

Himself more than a little nervous, Brazil tried not to let it creep over into that part of the body that was still the pegasus. He had flown everything man had ever invented that would fly, and he loved it—but he had never tried it on his own before. He felt the weight on his back now, then the shock of the rider mounting and seating himself in the specially designed saddle, taking the reins, and digging slightly in the sides.

“All right,” Prola told him hoarsely. “Let’s trot out to the clearing and see if all this is for nothing.”

He tried to relax and let the horse do all the work, but managed only partly to succeed. Closing his eyes wouldn’t help a bit, but if he could not, then it was hard to relax and let reflex and alien genes take over. He found the wind more obtrusive than he ever remembered it; the creatures obviously could feel the slightest gusts and turbulences and sense what to do about them. He trotted out and around until he stood, facing the wind. Almost before he could think, he felt the gentle prod of the rider, heard the call “Hie!” and he was off, galloping across the plain. He felt the great wings unfold, stretch, adjust themselves to catch the wind, realizing suddenly that much of what was going on organically was similar to his own experiences as an airplane pilot.

And, amazingly, he could see the wind! Very opaque, of course, and not obscuring other vision, but there was a different quality to the air moving at different rates that presented clear boundaries to him.

He felt himself lifting up and suppressed his discomfort; the legs continued to kick for a short while, then folded up like some sort of landing gear, into cavities invisible on the ground, which minimized drag and wind resistance. Once up, it was both heady and easy. There was an almost intoxicating feeling to it, to soar and move with the winds and even against them, to whirl and move around freely, without a machine of any sort between him and the elements.

The Agitar gave a few soft kicks and nudges indicating that it was time to go back down. He didn’t want to do it, to relinquish this incredible feeling of freedom, but the sun was almost above the horizon now and time was running short.

He had more unease as the ground rushed up at him. The legs came out and were used somewhat as air brakes, but it was mostly the incredibly maneuverable wings that allowed him to slow to a sufficient speed for the landing. The legs pumped in a fast gallop now, and, suddenly, first the forelegs and then the hind legs touched and the wings turned almost sideways, bringing him to an easy stop. Though the heady feeling continued for a while, he was amazed to discover that he had never even breathed hard.

Then it was Mavra’s turn, and she showed some of the same hesitation and nervousness that he had felt. He could sense some of the wrong things in her stride and position and prayed that she would relax and have no more problems than he.