Quest for the Well of Souls

Agitar

It was an unusual horse farm. True, it had much of the look of such places—rolling acres of lush, green grass, a large stable, and a ranch-style house. But there were no fences, no track, either. The saddles were strangely shaped to accommodate the instruments in them—wind-speed indicators, altimeters, and the like. Even the casual visitor to Agitar didn’t have to wait long or wonder why, if one of those horses came around. They were huge beasts in pretty lavenders and blues and greens and yellows and all the other colors of the rainbow. And they had wings.

Whigs, like those of a great swan lay folded in two parallel lines along the length of their great bodies. And, yes, they flew, for they were only externally equine; their internal construction included the ability to shift their center of gravity, hollow bones, and a host of other refinements. The creatures were more fragile than they looked, too, for they weighed less than half what anyone would guess.

The lord and master of this, the only major breeding farm for pegasi in all Agitar, had gone there to work over twenty years earlier as a trainer. Thousands of Agitar had learned to ride the beasts in the Wars, but only a special few possessed the affinity for them that made for good trainers. He was one.

His judgment, skill, and plain hard work had been rewarded. First he became Chief Trainer, then Master of Livestock, and now he was General Manager. The government owned the place, of course, but he lived in the big house and he was the boss.

He was also about 140 centimeters tall. Below the waist his body resembled the hindquarters of a goat—thick muscular calves draped in heavy, curly hair of deep blue became incredibly thin legs that terminated in small cloven hoofs. Like the pegasus, he had a great deal of control over his center of gravity and moved with the grace and ease of a ballet dancer always on point.

Above the waist he resembled a muscular human, skin still deep blue and very porous, whose triangular face sported a blue-black goatee flecked with gray. Between two small, pointed horns, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair sat atop a demon’s face.

He looked over the place with satisfaction. His name was Renard, an unusual name for an Agitar. Once he was librarian back on a Comworld called New Muscovy. Then he had been picked up by one Antor Trelig, who needed a classicist for his neo-Roman library on New Pompeii and addicted him to sponge. Renard was the one who’d helped Mavra Chang escape and who had originally crashed with her in among the giant cyclops of Teliagin. Mavra kept him alive until rescue, when Ortega ran him through the Well to cure his addiction. He came out an Agitar. The ship he’d crashed in had started the wars, and, before he knew what happened, he was drafted, put atop a pegasus, and sent off to fight—in alliance with none other than Antor Trelig.

Renard deserted, of course, and found Mavra. With two Lata they flew across the seas on his pegasus Doma. In Olborn he kept Mavra from being transformed completely into a mule, and eventually they all witnessed the destruction of the spaceship engines in Gedemondas.

Renard accompanied Mavra Chang into exile, but she drove him off. Even after all these years, he still worried about her. He occasionally received word of her from Ortega, although, because of his responsibilities he had never returned to see her. He felt guilty about that—and knew he should—but it just hadn’t happened.

Mavra had predicted the Agitar would welcome him back as a hero. Well, they hardly did that, but they had dropped the desertion charges because he was a new Entry and did, after all, owe Mavra Chang something. They’d been impressed with his odyssey on Doma, too, and his ability to walk the beast on mountain trails when flying was impossible.

And so the job and the new career. And, except for the lingering guilt about Mavra, so little and helpless and alone, he’d done just fine.

“Renard!” a female voice called to him from the office area. He turned and saw a junior clerk waving at him.

Female Agitar were upside-down males; they resembled a goat in the face and torso, and a more human type below. But that never bothered an Agitar, and it didn’t bother him, either. He’d had a lot of kids by a lot of them.

He ran briskly up to the office. “What is it, Guda?” he called good-naturedly. “Did they raise everybody’s pay?”

She shook her head. Like all Agitar females she was incapable of facial expression, but her eyes reflected something serious. She handed him a telegram just off the government wire. He read it, growing serious himself. He skipped the address and routing codes and read the message:

RENARD, MAVRA CHANG ATTACKED, PROBABLY KIDNAPPED. TRELIG SUSPECTED. SIGNS SHOW THEY MAY HAVE BOTCHED JOB. CAN YOU FLY SOUTH GLATHRIEL ASAP TO HELP SEARCH? CHECK AT ZONE GATES ALONG WAY FOR FURTHER INFORMATION. AM ALSO DISPATCHING VISTARU SAME LOCATION. GOOD LUCK. ORTEGA.

He was stunned. It was the last thing he expected. He hesitated a moment, thinking. Leaving the farm, perhaps for weeks—they weren’t going to like that back in the capital. But, then, it was for Mavra…

“Guda, honey, will you saddle Domaru with at least a two-week field pack? I’m going on a trip,” he said to her. “Tell Vili he’s in charge until I get back.”

He turned and trotted out, leaving Guda behind, her long mouth half-open.