by James Axler
While Jak was succumbing to the continued onslaught, J.B. attempted to put up as much of a fight as possible. On drawing the Tekna, he had also taken the precaution of wrapping part of his coat around his free arm. The skirt of the long, man-made fiber jacket was already ripped from previous adventuring, so to slice it cleanly away was the work of a second. Gripped and wrapped around his free wrist and forearm, it would act as kind of shield against attack. The thickness would stop any real damage from blades, although it would do little to cushion any hard blows from blunt objects. It was, however, better than nothing. Indeed, it soon proved its worth when the Inuit closed on the group and the Armorer was able to stop several jabs from Inuit hunting knives while, at the same time, striking back with jabbing blows of his own from the Tekna.
The problem was that he could do little more than adopt defensive measures. Their strength lay in staying together. Jak’s sudden isolation only proved this. Yet if they did this, they were static in the center of the ville. It was a seemingly insurmountable problem, and one to which he could give no thought while wave upon wave of Inuit crashed upon him, drowning him in pummeling fists, sharp and sly knife thrusts, and a wall of flesh and fur that seemed as though, on sheer weight alone, it would drive him to the ground.
Still he fought on, not knowing how to give in, even if common sense had told him to accept his fate. He scored through hide and fur, felt flesh snag and tear, smelled blood and fear as he continued to fight. But the fists began to wear him down, the feet caught at his knees, the kicks making his calves and knee joints sore and jittery, threatening to give way at the next assault. There was no respite, and every time he felt he may be making some progress, there was a fresh wave of Inuit flowing over him. They didn’t care how badly any of them were hurt; they only cared that they take him down without chilling him or causing him serious physical harm. Their stoic persistence would, inevitably, outlast his own through sheer strength of numbers.
The wrapping around his free arm was heavy with soaked-in blood, both his own and that of his opponents; his knife hand was slippery, slick with that same blood. One last kick behind his knee connected well enough for his joint to give way and he was down.
Ryan was roaring with sheer frustration and fury, yelling so that his lungs were filled with the scent of blood and the stench of sulfur as he lashed out with his free hand, the scarred and brawny fist and forearm a club that was seemingly oblivious to the cuts inflicted, the blood streaming down it as it cut through the air, scattering Inuit tribesmen. With his other hand, he used the panga to cut through the air, the blade cutting into anything that got in the way of its momentum. He sliced into arms, faces and torsos, no longer seeing anything but the red mist in front of his eye, tugging the blade free of anything in which it was stuck.
But still they kept coming. Nothing could stop the onslaught of Inuit. Slowly they wore him down, the fists and feet, the sly knives, all taking their toll. In some ways, the one-eyed warrior was easier to fight than any of the others. His anger had blinded him to anything except his own bloodlust, and they were able to avoid his blows and his swinging blade with a greater ease than was possible with any of the others, who had a more considered approach to the current combat. Ryan was exhausting himself, and making of himself an easier target for the Inuit tactics, slowly chipping away at his strength, bringing him down by degrees. Slowly, but inexorably.
For Mildred and Krysty, capitulation came much more quickly and at a greater price. Once they had discharged their weapons, before there was a chance to reload, they were under a hail of bodies, fists and feet, knives prodding at them, probing and cutting, blood endlessly flowing in small rivulets from nicks and tears that accumulated in such a way that the blood loss began to tell. Smaller and lighter than Ryan, but not armed with blades like the slight forms of J.B. and Jak, they were by far the most vulnerable targets after Doc. And the ville dwellers took full advantage of this. They were relentless in their attack, swarming over the two women, not giving them even the room to form blows against their foe. Battered by fists that came from nowhere, feet that hacked at their shins and knees to take them off balance and put them down on the cold earth, there was little they could do to fight back in any manner that could be construed as constructive.
Mildred had wondered why they had been left with their weapons when they were directed back toward the settlement, and more particularly after McIndoe had revealed his party to them. Surely it would have made sense to disarm them, even if at the risk of a firefight on the lower slopes? More particularly, it would have prevented the chilling of some of the Inuit in this fight… But then she realized that it didn’t matter. If things were for the greater good, then the Inuit would have just kept coming, relentlessly, regardless of any defense that the companions could form. A few chilled men and women were nothing next to the ritual that they felt sure would save their ville from sterility. A small price for the greater good. It was a way of looking at things that hadn’t occurred to her before this moment. An alien perspective on events. And even now it only occurred to her in that brief moment before consciousness was lost.
Krysty fought on a little longer. The unremitting attack took a great toll on her, and in part she wanted to call on the Gaia power that she could use in emergencies to give her greater strength. Yet was this the right time? To harness that force would leave her so drained. The chances of laying waste to the entire tribe and saving her friends was remote. All she would do would be to write off a few more of the Inuit and then find herself devoid of energy at a crucial moment. Best to go down fighting now and save that force for if and when it could do some real damage. They were needed alive and whole for a ritual. Perhaps that would be the time to call upon Mother Earth.
Although she kept fighting, the rain of blows and the sly jabbing of the knives were taking their toll. She grew weary, light-headed, and eventually slipped to the floor, the feet and fists pummeling her even when she could no longer feel them.
SHE WAS THE FIRST to regain consciousness, aware at first of little more than the unpleasant sensation of being probed. Fingers searched her body, pulling apart the scabbed cuts, pressuring bruised areas to determine the damage that may lay beneath. Her genitals were probed with an infinite delicacy, yet there was nothing sexual about the examination. It was impersonal, brisk, perfunctory. She was being checked for damage. She tried to move her feet, bring her legs closer together; she tried to reach down and cover herself, offer some kind of protection. It was at those moments that she realized her hands and feet had been secured, and that she was lying prone, vulnerable to any attack that may be made upon her person.
She also became aware of the temperature. One part of her was icy cold, the other flushed and hot.
Forcing her eyes open, taking a few moments to focus and assimilate what she saw, Krysty was astounded. She could still turn her head one hundred and eighty degrees, feeling the hard wood beneath her skull, painful as she moved. Part of her vision at each end of the turn was obscured by her own arms as they lay, pinned above her head. There was, however, enough in her field of vision to explain what she could feel.
She was on her back, under the canvas tarpaulin, tied to one of the painted tables. The extreme heat she could feel on one side was provided by a blazing fire that had been laid just beyond the reach of the tarpaulin, to prevent it catching from the flames that licked the cold air, smoke spiraling upward on the conflicting currents of air. There were four of these that had been fired since she had lost consciousness, one on each corner of the space delineated by the canvas covering. The nearest heated one side of her body, the other side froze in the cold air that still blew through the center of the ville. She was so cold simply because she was naked. If her shivering skin hadn’t told her that, then the sight of her blue-tinged, pimpled flesh at the extremities of her vision would have informed her of the fact.
She wasn’t alone. Each of the six tables they had seen in the center of the ville was occupied by
one of the companions, each in a similar state of nakedness, each secured in the same manner. The others appeared to still be in a state of unconsciousness, and they were being left alone. She looked down the length of her body. Thompson and the bizarrely attired man who had followed him from his hut were bending over her lower body, their attention focused on their task. The old man standing on the opposite side of the table to Thompson was conducting the examination. He had finished with her genitals and was now examining her thighs, working down toward her knees.
Thompson looked up and around, his eye catching hers.
“You’re awake. That’s good. Just checking to see if you’re all in one piece. Can’t have you harmed…yet.”
Without another word, he returned his attention to the task being completed by the old man, who had by now reached as far as her ankles and feet. She felt his touch skim across the soles of her feet, the pressure light yet firm, making her twitch and try to pull her feet away from him. He ignored her and looked at Thompson, nodding and grunting.
The Inuit chief seemed pleased, and he returned the nod before the two men moved across to the next table, where Jak lay secured.
Krysty tried to ignore the cold that pierced and numbed one side of her body, working its way into the core of her being before hitting the wall of heat that penetrated from the other side, scorched by the fire. She followed their progress as they began to conduct a similar examination on the albino teen, their touch making him stir from his unconsciousness and thrash wildly as he tried to loosen himself. The two men stepped back and waited for him to exhaust himself before calmly resuming with their examination.
Looking around as much as she could, Krysty was astounded to see that the fringes of the clearing, where not blocked by the fires, were filled with the Inuit, who stood calmly and silently, watching the progress of the examination.
Jak finished with, the two men continued on, turning next to Ryan. What was it that Thompson had said? Something about being all in one piece…for now. Krysty’s mind was still fogged by the torpor of her recent blackout, but she worked to clear it, to try to focus on what was occurring. They were to be sacrificed in some kind of ritual and, for it to be effective, they had to be whole. The small cuts and bruises they had suffered were nothing: everyday contusions. The check was obviously to see if any major damage had occurred or if they were lacking in any way from encounters in the past.
So were they to be sacrificed immediately? She doubted it. They had been stripped for the examination, but they hadn’t been prepared in any other way. The fact that the tables on which they were secured had been painted with so many symbols, and that the old man was dressed as though for a ceremony, suggested to her that there was a high level of ritual involved. A perfunctory examination and then a quick chill wouldn’t fit with the rest of the picture.
The Inuit chief and the old man were now checking Doc. The old man was mumbling incoherently, shouting and mouthing formless words as he rose up out of the sea of unconscious, the anguished tone of his voice enough to cut through Krysty’s sensibilities and make her cringe at the pain contained within. Yet, despite the vocal protestations, he succumbed easily to their probing fingers, and subsided into a kind of sleep once they had finished, moving on to Mildred.
Krysty moved her head and tried to alter the position of her arm so that she could see what they did to Mildred. It was of little use, as her biceps blocked a view of their examination of the woman. But there was no escaping the curses that rained from Mildred’s lips as she came around to find their fingers invading her body. Curses that didn’t subside as they moved back into Krysty’s line of vision, finishing their task with an examination of J.B. She could see the Armorer go rigid as he regained consciousness at their probing, his back arching off the table and every sinew and muscle standing out on his wiry body. There was nothing he could do to stop them, and he stoically stayed silent, but his attitude was betrayed by the mute screams of his body.
Finally, Thompson and the old man had completed their task. Every one of the companions had been examined, and they were now conscious.
“Glad you’re all awake,” Thompson said simply, moving among them. “Makes it easier to tell you all what’s going to happen. We’ve just been checking you over to see that you’re right for sacrifice. You have to be whole—the Almighty demands that, and if we sent you to him when you were damaged in some way, then he’d get real mad and bring it all down on us. Which is the last thing we want from him.
“Wish you hadn’t been so damn stupid and put up a fight. Could have saved yourselves a lot of pain and hardship if you’d let us take you without any problems. Face it, there was no way you were ever going to get out of here in one piece, so you may as well have taken the easy route.
“Now, to be a good sacrifice, you have to be in good condition. The Lord wants you whole, and he wants you healthy. It’s that energy that means so much to him. So we’re going to feed you up for a couple of days, get you ready for the rituals that precede the sacrifice. Paying homage to the Almighty, that’s what it is. And you need to be good and ready for it. So you eat what’s coming around now, and then you’ll eat some more later, build up that strength.”
From outside the area covered by canvas, Inuit men and women moved forward with platters that contained strips of cooked meat, garnished and covered with a glaze that contained herbs. A sweet smell wafted across the space, carried by the wind currents, and despite themselves and their situation, the six captives found their mouths watering. As they lay back on the tables, unable to move more than a couple of inches, the platters were held in front of them and their carriers lifted strips of meat from off the plates, holding them above the mouths of the captives, gently lowering them in and allowing the companions to nibble at the sweet meat. Their mouths filled with an infusion that was like roasted pork glazed with honey, smothered in basil and thyme, with something else that was indefinable but encouraged—compelled—them to eat more as it was offered. The meat was warm, but had obviously been prepared for some time. Despite this, there was a heat in the glaze that warmed their throats as it slipped down.
They continued to eat until the meat was gone, each platter now containing nothing more than the sticky remnants of the glaze that had covered the meat. Each of them now felt relaxed, warmed through, and perhaps distant from the events that were going on around them. They were aware of little except for the fact that their desire to break their bonds had subsided and that they were no longer feeling the extremes of heat and cold from the fires and the atmosphere.
Thompson waited until the Inuit had withdrawn with the platters, then stepped forward into the middle of the tarpaulined area once again, accompanied by the strangely dressed old man. Krysty caught sight of them as they passed her—she couldn’t be bothered to strain her neck to try to get a good look at them as they stood in the center—and of a sudden it struck her that the old man was dressed halfway between a priest from old religions predark and a shaman from the much older traditions that had been carried on after the nukecaust, and which she had heard spoken of in Harmony when she was young. If that was the case…
She groaned, almost inaudibly, realizing why the meat had been so sweet, why it had demanded of them the compulsion to eat more. If the old man was an Inuit medicine man, and they were to be a sacrifice, then the meat had been laced with herbs that would drug them, make them compliant and susceptible to whatever was suggested. It would take from them the desire to escape and make of them little more than puppets. In short, put them right where the Inuit wanted them.
As this realization hit her, Thompson began to speak—to the Inuit, rather than to their captives.
“People, they have eaten of the flesh and they have taken the herbs that will make them do as we desire. They will be taken from here to huts where they will regain their strength for the rituals leading to their sacrifice. They will have no wish to run, and will realize that they are to be part of the greater good. We will l
et them rest for at least one day before assessing whether or not they are ready to begin. Before they are taken from here, Reverend McPhee will bless us all, particularly those who will give their lives for us, as decreed by the Almighty.”
The old man moved between the tables, anointing the prone companions with oils that smelled as sweet as the meat. They received three dabs of oil: one on the forehead, one on the chest, one on the genitals. Each dab of oil seemed to sink into them like lead, warming through the area on which it landed. It felt sticky, viscous and warm against the skin, and seemed to make perfect sense of the words that he spoke.
“Great Father in the heavens, for whom thine is the power and the glory, we commend unto you these souls that will soon depart to join you on the celestial trail. We beseech that you grant them speed in their passing and that you accept their lives in the spirit in which they are offered—as a sign to you that you are the leader of our people and that we wish to ask of you that you save us from extinction. We have always followed your teachings, and all we ask is that subsequent generations be offered the chance to also pay homage to you.”
Krysty, by now trying desperately to cling to the knowledge that she had been drugged in the hope that it would help her fight against the effects, marveled at his words. Anointing them with oil and seemingly making up his address as he spoke, his words were a bizarre mix of the mundane, something taken from old religious texts. But it was as nothing compared to his next action.
Lifting her head as much as she could to get a better view of what was occurring, Krysty was astounded to see the old man begin to whirl and dance to a rhythm only he could hear. As he did so, he began to chant words and syllables that were in a language she didn’t understand. He moved slowly because of his age, yet at the same time there was an undeniable grace to his ritual dance. The words continued as long as he moved, until he suddenly stopped, lifting his head and his arms toward the heavens in supplication, finishing his ceremony in English.