Exiles at the Well of Souls wos-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  The little mules were something else. They looked somehow sad, pathetic, and wrong. Their hind legs were taller by perhaps twenty percent than their forelegs; they were a little over a meter high, and they had long necks curving upward so they looked ahead instead of down. Their long ears were large in proportion to their heads, and they had no tails. They were covered in a soft, uniform gray fur.

  They were being badly pushed and mercilessly whipped; they were certainly too small and too few for the weight they were being asked to pull, but they managed it, their short, trotting-horse gait getting the wagon there, helped somewhat by the smoothness of the road.

  Finally, they turned in at a magnificent estate—a truly grand-looking palace whose horseshoe-shaped driveway was lit by torches; more torches flanked the doors, and there were rifle-armed guards dressed in the same way as those on the coach. The coach pulled to a halt and the Olbornians jumped off efficiently. A door facing the estate was opened, and two more of the creatures emerged, then turned and carefully removed a large black object from the coach.

  It was Mavra Chang, and she looked stiff as a board.

  “Is she dead?” Hosuru worried.

  Vistaru shook her head. “No, they’re being too careful for that. Drugged, probably.”

  “Now what?” the other Lata asked.

  Vistaru thought a moment. “First, go back, tell Renard what happened, where we are—describe the place. Then help him find some place to sit down for a while. I’ll keep watch here, try to find where in this palace they’ve put her. Tomorrow, when Renard’s at his peak, we’ll come get her no matter what.”

  * * *

  Mavra Chang regained consciousness slowly, and it took some time for her to get her bearings. She looked around, finding she couldn’t move her head, only her eyes. She couldn’t move anything.

  She was standing up, propped slightly against a wall. She thought that her hands and feet were securely tied, but she couldn’t be sure.

  The place was a stable. It stank of animal excrement and rotted straw, and on the walls were odd-shaped harnesses.

  She strained to look around, but whatever they had drugged her with held her securely. She did see one of the animals, though, briefly. A queer-looking thing. No, that wasn’t right, everything on this cockeyed world was queer-looking, she told herself. But because the creature looked so much like draft animals that she’d known back in the human worlds, “queer-looking” was the only way to describe it.

  They looked for all the world like miniature mules. Black nose, big, squared-off snout, but with jackass-type ears that seemed too large for that head. A very long neck, almost too long, attached to a small body supported at an angle, the slender front legs shorter than the rear ones, which had the characteristic large upper calf and almost incredibly thin lower.

  And sad, large brown eyes.

  They also bore scars; some from whips, some from other unknown sources.

  Three Olbornians entered the room, two in the black-and-gold livery, the third wearing some sort of crown and a long gold chain from which was suspended a hexagonal pendant. His own livery was scarlet, with baggy golden trousers. Somebody important. He was also old—he walked slowly, and there were tinges of gray in his black fur.

  He walked into the doorway, almost running into the little minimule. He snarled and swatted it cruelly, claws extended. The thing gave no sound, but there was obvious pain and Mavra could see a set of bleeding scratches. It jumped and moved away.

  These were a cruel, callous people.

  The old one looked at her. “So, spy! Awake, eh? Good!” He turned to the others. “See to it. We’d best be off. Her companions may try some sort of rescue, so we have to move fast.”

  Mavra felt relief at these words; the other three had escaped! And, somehow, they would get her out of there, she felt sure. She was necessary to them.

  She felt like a puppet with lead wires in it so it could be bent in any shape and would stay there. They put her on top of one of the little mules, in a basic saddle. The big man led it down a back path from the rear of the house, into a dark grove of trees. The two guards held her firmly on, but she was powerless to do anything anyway.

  Overhead, Vistaru almost missed the departure. There was just a glimpse of the woman and her three catlike captors going out the back and heading into the woods. She followed and tried to guess ahead.

  About two thousand meters down, the woods parted for a clearing where there was a large stone structure seemingly carved out of the small hillside. Two other guards were there, having just lit torches on either side of a hexagonal entranceway. Not a Zone Gate, she decided. That stuff had been built by somebody here.

  She strained to think what the place reminded her of, and, all at once, she had it. An ancient temple. An altar. Sacrifice?

  She sped directly back to Renard and Hosuru. There was no time to lose.

  * * *

  They lifted her off when they came to the hexagonal opening and carried her gently inside. There was a chamber there, an enlargement of a natural cave of limestone or something similar. Torches had been lit along the fairly broad passageway, which opened quickly into the main chamber.

  It was a temple, no question about it. There was an area for supplicants to stand, a rail, and then tables set on either side of a large yellow stone that seemed to be protruding out of the natural rock in back. It was multifaceted; millions of them, from all evidence, reflecting the torchlight as if it had a strange, eerie life of its own. Mounted on the both walls, in solid gold, were outlines of the hexagon symbol.

  The high priest, for by now it was evident what he was, preceded them, lighting small candles in ceremonial holders, six per holder. Then he went behind the rail. Satisfied all was in readiness, he nodded to the guards to bring her forward. They did, placing her facing the strange yellow stone.

  “Undress it,” the priest snapped, and the guards removed her black cloth shirt, black pants, and boots. It was suddenly chilly.

  She was nude.

  The guards tossed the clothing in a heap outside the altar rail. She longed to be able to use some of the things in those boots or the belt, or even to try the nail venom on them. But she was held motionless by something she could not control.

  The priest moved toward her, motioning for them to turn her a little bit toward him. His yellow cat’s eyes glowed weirdly in the torchlight.

  “Spy,” he said, his voice crisp, businesslike, and without a trace of mercy or compassion in it, “you have been judged guilty by the High Priestly Council of the Blessed Well,” he intoned, bowing his head slightly when pronouncing the last two words. He made a horizontal motion with his right hand, and she felt control return to her head. She moistened her lips, but knew she could talk.

  “I didn’t even have a trial and you know it!” she protested hoarsely. “I haven’t had a chance to say anything!”

  “I did not say you were tried,” the priest pointed out, “only that you were judged. There are no mitigating factors. Heathen knock on our door to the north, worse heathen wantonly and horribly kill tens of thousands of the Chosen of the Well to the south. Now, you come. You are not of the Olborn, certainly. Nor are you here by invitation or permission of the High Priestly Council of the Blessed Well.” Again the slight nod. “A spy you are, and so I ask you, is there any way for you to conclusively prove your innocence?”

  What a loaded question! she thought. Prove you didn’t smile. Prove you didn’t kill your mother whom the court never knew or heard of. “You know no one can prove they aren’t something,” she retorted.

  He nodded. “Of course. But there is a final arbiter of justice.”

  “You’re going to kill me,” she said more than asked.

  The priest looked genuinely shocked. Mavra wondered why she’d always liked cats in the past.

  “Of course we do not kill, except in self-defense. All life is from the Blessed Well, and cannot be taken lightly. As you took no other life, unlike your co
mpanions, we could not take yours.”

  Both parts of that observation cheered her a little. Alive meant hope, and the news that the others had sent some of these religious fanatics to an early grave was just as satisfying.

  “The Well, in Its infinite wisdom and mercy,” the priest explained, as if in a liturgy, “established among the Olbornians a more equitable means of final judgment—final, absolute, and conclusive. The stone that is before you is one of six, located near the six corners of Olborn. It is proof of the favored status of the Olbornians with the Blessed Well. Its power comes from the Well Itself. What it does has never been undone.”

  This tack started unnerving her again. She thought of Renard, changed into a different creature. What the hell did this thing do?

  “The Well, in Its infinite wisdom,” continued the priest, “saw that Its Chosen People were in a harsh land, rich but without beasts of burden to help Its Chosen People till the good soil, pull its burdens, turn its water wheels. Thus we have the Sacred Stones. When a transgressor, whether alien or Olbornian, is accused, he is brought before one of the High Priests of the Blessed Well, and thence in his company to the Sacred Stone. Should you be innocent, then nothing will happen to you. You will be free to go on your way, unmolested, protected by the Seal of the Blessed Well. But, should you be guilty, it will mete out the most wonderful of justices.” He paused. “You saw the detik upon which you were carried here?”

  She thought a moment. The little mules with the big ears and sad eyes. “Yes,” she replied, curious and apprehensive. Where the hell were the Lata and Renard?

  “They are sexless, joyless. Totally placid, they are incapable of harming anything, and are forced to obey our commands. Should you be guilty, you will turn to a detik, a beast of the fields, condemned to serve the Olbornians in silent labor the rest of your life.”

  She was appalled, unbelieving. “You mean the mules—all of them—were once people?”

  The priest nodded. “It is so.” He turned to the guards. “Hold her arms tight,” he cautioned. Then he turned back to Mavra. She felt strong hands holding her arms just behind the wrist. The priest waved his arms again, and she felt movement return to her whole body.

  “Touch her hands to the Sacred Stone!” the priest commanded, his voice echoing through the damp cavern. The two powerful arms ignored her twisting and pushed her unwilling hands to the faceted yellow orb.

  Something like a strong, burning electric shock went through her arms to her shoulders. The effect was so strong and so painful that she screamed and actually pulled away from the wretched thing despite the strength of her two captors.

  “That was Mavra!” Vistaru yelled. “Come on! Hurry!” she called to Hosuru and Renard, who rushed ahead. Neither cared any more if there was a whole army ahead; they were going in now.

  Inside the chamber, the priest seemed to smile and intoned, “Again!” This time the terrible shock and pain went from her hips to her toes, and, strangely, wound up in her ears. Again she screamed and fought to pull away.

  “Again!” the priest commanded, but at that moment the onrushing Lata and Agitar charged, Renard yelling bloodcurdling screams that echoed terrifyingly off the cavern walls.

  The priest turned, looking stunned and surprised. Like most fanatics, the concept that anybody would invade his holiest of places had simply never occurred to him, and he couldn’t handle it. He stood there petrified. Not the two guards. They dropped Mavra and whirled. They had no pistols, which was fortunate, but they bore ceremonial steel swords, which they drew.

  Keeping all their attention on the guards and priest, Renard and Vistaru both yelled, “Run, Mavra! Get out of here! We’ll handle this!”

  The first guard took advantage of this distraction to advance on Renard, sword poised, saberlike, in front of him.

  Renard smiled grimly, and moved his tast out in a similar manner, as if preparing to duel. The guard looked at the thin, snaky copper-clad whip and chuckled. He moved with his sword, and Renard brought the tast up, touching the sword.

  Sparks flew, and the guard screamed and dropped to the floor of the cavern, the point where his hand gripped the hilt actually smoking slightly.

  Vistaru, who still had some venom left, swooped at the other one, suddenly turning on her internal light to catch the foe off-guard. He was too good for that, and he stabbed in with his sword.

  And missed.

  She did an aerial backflip and plunged her stinger into his stomach, then pushed off him. The guard yowled, then seemed to stiffen, as he dropped to the floor, limp, lying eyes wide-open and unseeing.

  Mavra felt the guards release their grip on her and felt the cold stone as they dropped her. Her whole body was tingling and her mind wouldn’t clear, but she had enough sense to hear Renard’s shout to run, and take that advice. A naked, stunned Mavra Chang wasn’t going to be much good in a fight.

  She was dizzy, and couldn’t seem to get up, so she took off on all fours. Her head seemed heavy; she couldn’t lift it, but she could see enough to head for the exit and did so, almost knocking over the guard just now meeting his end from Renard’s tast. She wanted to crawl fast, but she couldn’t lift her head up far enough; a nerve in the back of it was killing her, and her hair was hanging down in front, further obscuring her vision. But she made the steps and scampered out, passing the now-dead guards slumped under their still burning torches. Out ahead, she could see, was blackness, and that was where she wanted to be.

  She crawled into the bushes before she stopped, chest heaving, and tried to clear her head. She looked back at the entrance, but she couldn’t get her head up quite far enough, or hold it even far enough to see out of the tops of her eyes without that nerve pinching and hurting.

  With the return of her wind came a clearer head. She was still on all fours. Why, she began to wonder. It was dark, but Obie had given her night vision, and she put her head chin against chest, essentially upside down, and looked back at herself. Her hair fell straight down.

  Her thin, lithe body was unchanged, her two small breasts hanging down and tugging slightly as a result of being dead weight.

  My arms!she suddenly thought in panic. What did they do?

  She also felt two long bending sensations with her head that way.

  She no longer had arms. She now had forelegs—thin and with a knee joint that bent only one way, locking the other way. It led down to a perfectly formed, fairly thick hoof of some whitish-gray substance like fingernails. There was no hair; the legs were still the same flesh color as the rest of her, the skin still looked human. But they were the legs of the little mule.

  Looking farther back, she saw what she expected to see, and sighed. Now she understood why she couldn’t get off all fours, and why she couldn’t seem to get her head up properly. The forelegs were a good twenty percent shorter than the hind legs. In the mule, the long neck compensated; a human head and neck wasn’t designed to go that far.

  Renard and the two Lata came out of the cave. She heard them more than saw them, and, after a moment’s hesitation, called to them. They were there in a flash.

  “Mavra, you ought to have seen that old boy’s face when—” Renard started cheerfully, when she walked out of the brush into the torchlight. They all three gasped, mouths agape. For the first time they could see and know what the Olbornians had done to Mavra Chang.

  First, take the arms and legs off a woman’s torso. Then turn it face down, the hips about a meter high, the shoulders about eighty centimeters. Now put a perfectly proportioned pair of mule’s hind legs on the hips, so that the base of the body kind of melds into it. Now put two mule’s legs on the shoulders, long enough to reach the ground but shorter because of the angle of the body. But don’t add an animal’s hair or skin—keep it all human, perfectly matched to the torso, except for hard, naillike hooves on all four feet, and, as a final touch, remove the human ears from her head and replace them with large, almost meter-long jackass ears, still out of the same human skin mate
rial. Then continue the woman’s hair down across the back a bit into a thicker mane of the same color hair, extending along the spine to about where the breasts hung down on the underside. And, since the torso hasn’t been otherwise altered, remember to put Mavra’s horse’s tail growing out of the waist at the base of the spinal column, above the hips, actually starting slightly in front of the hind legs, and drape it crudely over the rectum.

  The others felt tears of pity rise within them. “Oh, my god!” was all Renard could say, and he felt bad about it as soon as it was out.

  She shifted slightly, then turned her head to one side, almost far enough to look directly at him. Her hair hung down well below her face, crazily. Her voice was the same; even, level, and rich, but her eyes, when she turned her head to one side to look at them, said something else was inside her.

  “I know,” she told them. “I figured it out. Those little mules they have—they make them with that stone in there, from people. I touched it twice, then got away when you arrived. Tell me—is anything else changed?”

  Choking back tears, Renard sat beside her and gently described her to herself, including the ears and misplaced tail.

  The odd thing was, they all thought, she looked strange and exotic, to Renard almost erotic, a curious and not unattractive little creature that engendered affection with the pity. But it was still an impractical, misdesigned creature, a one-of-a-kind on a world with 1560 races.

  “Maybe I should go back in and complete the process,” she suggested, hoping the hoarseness and thickness in her speech would not betray how she really felt.

  “I wouldn’t,” Vistaru said softly, sympathetically. Mavra was already beginning to hate that tone. “You saw how they treated those mules? The thing does something to the mind, too. You’d be an animal, as good as dead.”