the tops to keep out the cold.
“Nothing like a warm welcome,” J.B. muttered as they approached the frozen ville. “And this here is nothing like a warm welcome.”
This close to the strange ville, the companions could see ladders running up the sheer ice wall, placed helter-skelter along the glistening facade.
A voice called from behind Ryan, J.B. and Doc, ordering them to halt. They did as they were told, bringing the cart to a stop and resting their weary arms against the crossbar of the yoke with a sense of relief. Ryan turned to his side, eyeing Doc and the sec man, who waited just a few feet behind him.
“How you holding up, Doc?” Ryan asked, keeping his voice very low.
“This is tiring work,” Doc admitted, flashing his oddly perfect teeth to his one-eyed colleague. “But we press on, do we not?” He sounded out of breath.
Ryan stared past Doc, taking stock of his captors and their weapons. They were a well-armed bunch, dressed for the freezing weather and clearly used to working as a team. They spoke among themselves, employing a mix of Russian and English just as Nyarla had. Ryan tried to piece together what had happened. He guessed that Nyarla had been their captive, probably working in some menial capacity—by her dress he would guess she could be a gaudy slut. But she had been brought along with the hunting party when they had gone questing for food, probably as live bait just like the naked bastard who had been nailed to the ground where Ryan had located Ricky just prior to the ambush. Using live humans for bait in a dead environment like this meant one less mouth to feed when they butchered whatever it was they caught, Ryan realized.
But Nyarla had said something else as well. She had called the hunters “frozen men” and had said that they had come from Yego Kraski Sada, the fields where time stands still.
Ryan puzzled over that as he, J.B. and Doc were unlatched from the yoke under the wary surveillance of armed guards. His other companions, along with Nyarla and the three ill-dressed prisoners, were led off toward the glacier. He watched as Krysty, Mildred and Nyarla were led up one ladder, encouraged by the jeers and whistles of two of the patrolling guards who had come to watch. They were splitting off the women, he realized, which inevitably meant trouble.
“Hey, eyes front,” one of the fur-wrapped men growled as Ryan watched Krysty disappear into one of the high caves, her red hair receding from view in the darkness. “Hey,” the sec man called again. “I’m talking to you, prick. What, are you deaf as well as half-blind?”
Ryan glared at the man, fixing him with his lone blue eye, his mouth a slash of barely restrained fury. “Where are you taking my friends?” he demanded.
“None of your business,” the fur-wrapped man replied, leveling his Kalashnikov in unspoken warning. “You wait here.”
Behind the man, fur-wrapped locals were hauling the carcass of the great wolf from the back of the primitive wag, dragging the creature across the hard-packed soil with the assistance of several of the more burly hunting party. Beside them, two women were dragging the body of one of the hunters’ fallen colleagues across the icy terrain, pulling him by his splayed feet and leaving a bloody smear on the icy ground. Neither woman appeared to be particularly emotional and Ryan watched for a moment, wondering what they would do with the body. Were they going to bury him or was there some other ritual that these brutal ice dwellers would perform on their dead? Ryan wasn’t surprised to see them begin stripping the corpse’s clothes away. Nothing was wasted in the Deathlands, and warm clothes in any environment, especially one as cold as this, would be recycled over and over.
“Not exactly the meek sort, are they?” J.B. observed as he stood beside Ryan, watching the women remove the corpse’s clothing and personal effects.
“We’d best be careful,” Ryan said quietly.
“Nothing like a warm welcome,” J.B. muttered as they approached the frozen ville. “And this here is nothing like a warm welcome.”
This close to the strange ville, the companions could see ladders running up the sheer ice wall, placed helter-skelter along the glistening facade.
A voice called from behind Ryan, J.B. and Doc, ordering them to halt. They did as they were told, bringing the cart to a stop and resting their weary arms against the crossbar of the yoke with a sense of relief. Ryan turned to his side, eyeing Doc and the sec man, who waited just a few feet behind him.
“How you holding up, Doc?” Ryan asked, keeping his voice very low.
“This is tiring work,” Doc admitted, flashing his oddly perfect teeth to his one-eyed colleague. “But we press on, do we not?” He sounded out of breath.
Ryan stared past Doc, taking stock of his captors and their weapons. They were a well-armed bunch, dressed for the freezing weather and clearly used to working as a team. They spoke among themselves, employing a mix of Russian and English just as Nyarla had. Ryan tried to piece together what had happened. He guessed that Nyarla had been their captive, probably working in some menial capacity—by her dress he would guess she could be a gaudy slut. But she had been brought along with the hunting party when they had gone questing for food, probably as live bait just like the naked bastard who had been nailed to the ground where Ryan had located Ricky just prior to the ambush. Using live humans for bait in a dead environment like this meant one less mouth to feed when they butchered whatever it was they caught, Ryan realized.
But Nyarla had said something else as well. She had called the hunters “frozen men” and had said that they had come from Yego Kraski Sada, the fields where time stands still.
Ryan puzzled over that as he, J.B. and Doc were unlatched from the yoke under the wary surveillance of armed guards. His other companions, along with Nyarla and the three ill-dressed prisoners, were led off toward the glacier. He watched as Krysty, Mildred and Nyarla were led up one ladder, encouraged by the jeers and whistles of two of the patrolling guards who had come to watch. They were splitting off the women, he realized, which inevitably meant trouble.
“Hey, eyes front,” one of the fur-wrapped men growled as Ryan watched Krysty disappear into one of the high caves, her red hair receding from view in the darkness. “Hey,” the sec man called again. “I’m talking to you, prick. What, are you deaf as well as half-blind?”
Ryan glared at the man, fixing him with his lone blue eye, his mouth a slash of barely restrained fury. “Where are you taking my friends?” he demanded.
“None of your business,” the fur-wrapped man replied, leveling his Kalashnikov in unspoken warning. “You wait here.”
Behind the man, fur-wrapped locals were hauling the carcass of the great wolf from the back of the primitive wag, dragging the creature across the hard-packed soil with the assistance of several of the more burly hunting party. Beside them, two women were dragging the body of one of the hunters’ fallen colleagues across the icy terrain, pulling him by his splayed feet and leaving a bloody smear on the icy ground. Neither woman appeared to be particularly emotional and Ryan watched for a moment, wondering what they would do with the body. Were they going to bury him or was there some other ritual that these brutal ice dwellers would perform on their dead? Ryan wasn’t surprised to see them begin stripping the corpse’s clothes away. Nothing was wasted in the Deathlands, and warm clothes in any environment, especially one as cold as this, would be recycled over and over.
“Not exactly the meek sort, are they?” J.B. observed as he stood beside Ryan, watching the women remove the corpse’s clothing and personal effects.
“We’d best be careful,” Ryan said quietly.
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