Way of the Wolf Read online

  They weren't in the Deathlands anymore

  Sixty feet and maybe more below, an emerald green ocean lapped at the bottom of the terra firma they found themselves on. There was no indication of land mixed in with the accumulated snow and fresh layers of ice. Out ahead, scattered across the wide expanse of the sea, were hundreds of ice floes. Nearly all of them were smaller than the one they were encased in.

  Mildred stepped up beside Ryan to look out over the ocean. "We're in a damn ice cube floating in the middle of the goddamn ocean!"

  And that, Ryan figured, just about summed it up.

  Way of the Wolf

  #42 in the Deathlands series

  James Axler

  A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG • STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  First edition July 1998

  ISBN 0-373-62542-1

  WAY OF THE WOLF

  Copyright © 1998 by Worldwide Library.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Song of the Wolf

  Silent, sleek, savagely swift

  on the watchful hunt.

  Locking eyes with the chosen one

  to see who yields to the final call.

  While the stars wheel on their course

  we are at one with that primal force.

  O Pure Brothers, a sacrifice

  to the gods of survival.

  THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

  This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

  There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

  But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature's heart despite its ruination.

  Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

  Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville's own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

  J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan's close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

  Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn't have imagined.

  Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

  Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

  Dean Cawdor: Ryan's young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

  In a world where all was lost, they are humanity's last hope…

  Chapter One

  "What the hell are you doing out here?"

  Ryan Cawdor shifted casually in the long shadows of morning, a flexing of muscles that most people might have missed, bringing himself around to face the coming trouble squarely. But several of the men among the twenty-six coldhearts, who were gathered in front of Doc and him, took notice. Their hands dropped to their weapons.

  Ryan's own hand touched the butt of the SIG-Sauer P-226 holstered on his right hip. He was tense, knowing what he and his companions faced, and knowing they had a slim chance of walking through the coming fire unscathed. They were all on triple red: Krysty Wroth, J. B. Dix, Jak Lauren, Mildred Wyeth and Ryan's son, Dean, who hid in the forest beyond the clearing, watching over them.

  Of course, Ryan had made sure the odds were tilted in their favor as best he could. He was a brave man, a man who'd faced some of the worst Deathlands could offer and walked away a winner by simply surviving the encounter, but he was no greenie stupe when it came to trapping and being trapped. This day he was the trapper, but he'd had to step into the lion's den to get it done.

  The clearing under the tall trees held the promise of defensible positions, but only if Ryan and his companions didn't get cut down before they could make a move toward the enemy.

  Rough-hewn, and stamped by violent events as a true son of Deathlands often was, Ryan stood over six feet tall and went over two hundred pounds, all of it rolling muscle from living hard. His curly black hair framed a sun-bronzed face, but the dark color was picked up again in the weathered patch that covered his left eye. He carried the SIG-Sauer pistol in a worn, serviceable holster at his right hip, and held the Steyr bolt-action sniper rifle in his right hand. His finger rested inside the rifle's trigger guard, the safety off.

  "Why, my dear fellow," Doc said congenially, addressing the man who'd spoken to him and spreading his hands to indicate the small packages spread across the rough woolen blanket before him. "I came here to conduct a little free enterprise."

  "Trading?" the lead rider asked.

  "The very thing." Doc grinned, showing his unnaturally perfect white teeth.

  The gang members were mostly young, Ryan noted, but they had all the moves down. It wasn't anything military or a result of organized drills. They ranged the way a pack of natural predators moved against a possible enemy—or a potential victim.

  Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner gave them the impression of a victim, which was why Ryan had delegated him spokesman. Doc was nearly six feet three inches in his stocking feet, but built as gangly as a stork. Silvery white hair framed his face, blowing in the gentle wind that came at them from the east, making it brush his shoulders. He'd washed his clothes in a small stream the group had camped by overnight. The dress shirt hadn't come entirely white, and wouldn't without some strong detergent and bleach. Still, it looked presentable with the black string tie and the Victorian black frock coat that held a greenish hue and luster that time had ground into the garment. Black pants and cracked leather knee boots completed the look. The lion's-head walking stick—really a sword stick—was an affectation of Doc's, not a necessity.

  "Could of done your trading in town," the stranger said. He was a big man, broad across the shoulder and narrow at the hip, almost looking too large for the dappled gray mare beneath him. Like the other men, he wore chaps over denim jeans and a sheepskin coat with the sleeves roughly hacked off. A violet-and-white-striped bandanna circled his head. Blue tattoos of knives and naked women and impossible monsters marked his arms and face, making him one with
the rest of the group.

  Ryan knew the purpose of the tattooing was to bind the group together. Once marked, there was nowhere the recipient could go without his history catching up to him. It tied him to the band forever.

  "I could have," Doc agreed, "but the forest is my theater, and here I owe no man." He looked pointedly beyond the speaker to the man at the center of the group. "I had been told that any business conducted within the ville had to pay a tariff to the sec chief."

  Ryan and his companions knew the "sec chief" from an earlier recce. They'd come out of a mat-trans unit in what used to be southern Kentucky early the previous day, worn and lathered from the events at the mall. The jump had been a hard one, and Doc had slept most of the preceding twenty-four hours recovering from the effects.

  Living off the land in the Berland Mountains region was easy pickings for the survivalist group. What wasn't so easy was finding ammo for their weapons. All of them were running low after the last bit of killing, and the redoubt they'd arrived in had contained no ammunition, but did yield many items they could trade for what they needed. Then Ryan had heard about Hazard, the nearest ville, from a hunter he'd met in the deep woods the previous evening, when he and Jak had been tracking mule deer.

  According to the hunter, the sec chiefs name was Liberty, and he ran Hazard's buffer zone, keeping the area clear of muties. The people put up with the band of coldhearts as long as no violence was directed at any of the citizens. Now Liberty sat in a horse-drawn buggy that had once been an old Ford convertible sedan from predark times. The front end had been cut out, leaving the steering intact. Two horses stood in traces before the vehicle.

  Lean, his face clean shaved but shadowed by tattoos, his hair cut short enough to show more tattoos on his scalp, the man sat impassively with his legs in the rear seat and his butt on the trunk. A Winchester lever-action rifle leaned against the seat at his side.

  A dwarf in silver-and-blue livery occupied a makeshift bench seat across the empty space where the engine had been. A wriggled scar pulled his mouth out of line as he gazed at Ryan. There weren't as many tattoos on the little man, but they were there just the same. The dwarf adjusted the traces.

  "So you're out here trying to avoid the tax," the rider stated.

  "Yes," Doc admitted. "Being a free man, I have no love for most barons. They are generally only tyrants with self-aggrandized titles."

  The coldhearts broke into sudden laughter, the noise startling their horses. The sounds of leather creaking and the stamping of restless hooves filled the small area under the canopy of branches.

  Ryan knew he was drawing more stares than Doc. The gang had already written off the old man as harmless. Him, they recognized as danger. But Ryan had counted on that. The riders didn't know about the big Le Mat blaster Doc had hidden behind a nearby tree.

  "If you're gonna do business in these parts," the rider said, "you're gonna pay a tax."

  "I thought the wares I am exhibiting might preclude any such taxation without representation," Doc replied.

  The rider looked uncertain, obviously not following all of the words the old man used. He peered over his shoulder, back at the Hazard ville sec chief. "What he's saying, Philox," Liberty said in a quiet baritone voice, "is that he thinks the stuff he's got is worth so much that he ain't gonna have to pay a tax 'cause we're gonna like it so much."

  Philox swiveled his head back to Doc. "Mister, I ain't seen nothing we couldn't live without. And if I did, I'd take it anyway."

  "Always happy to see a confirmed consumer." Doc nodded happily. He looked beyond Philox. "Mayhap I could have your name, sir, since it appears I am going to be conducting my business with you instead of your associate."

  Anger deepened Philox's coarse features. He put spurs to the mare and started forward.

  Doc stood his ground, both hands resting lightly on the lion's-head sword stick. "I warrant, young man, that you should remember what was said about respecting one's elders." The good-natured grin never left the old man's face.

  Philox grinned, and the expression was one of the purest expressions of evil Ryan had ever seen. "If I get a hankering, I'll beat you to death, gray hair." He urged his horse forward, straight into Doc.

  Instead of stepping aside, Doc reached out and seized the horse's reins. He yanked them roughly, twisting the bit in the animal's mouth and causing the horse to rear in pain and surprise.

  Philox bellowed and grabbed for his saddle pommel, but missed. He landed hard on the ground and came up roaring, pushing away from the rearing horse. The sec man pulled his pistol, fisting it in one beefy hand while he tried to hold on to the horse's reins with the other.

  For a moment Ryan thought he was going to have to chill the coldheart right then and there, and open the ball on the rest of it. Then Liberty's voice roared.

  "Philox, you pull up right now or I'll chill you myself!"

  The big man froze into place, shooting the sec chief a glare that told Ryan he was contemplating disobeying the order. Ryan closed his hand around the SIG-Sauer's butt.

  Liberty pulled up the Winchester and levered a round into the breech with a metallic ratchet. "I said pull up, you stupe bastard!" The rifle barrel pointed straight at Philox.

  "This what it's gonna come to, Liberty?" Philox demanded. "We start protecting some bastard ville, tying ourselves down like nurse-mommas, then we're gonna start taking guff from a near-deader?"

  Liberty kept the rifle pointed. "We're gonna do what I say we're gonna do. That ain't gonna change. Ever. You don't like how I call the shots, you're free to pull up stakes and ride on."

  Ryan's respect for Liberty rose. The one-eyed man had ridden as lieutenant for the Trader in years gone by. Keeping the crew of War Wag One in line had been demanding, and a weak man or one hesitant to chill someone who spoke out against him wouldn't have lasted a tick of a chron.

  Philox's displeasure with the harsh words from his commander showed in the dark blood that filled his face. He shoved his pistol back into his holster and gathered his horse's reins. He mounted and rode to the back of the band. They parted and let him through. As he passed, another man pulled out of the crowd and rode with Philox.

  "What about you, One-Eye?" Liberty demanded. "You got a name?"

  "Is it important?" Ryan asked. "Man you're going to be dealing with is standing there in front of you."

  Several of the gang turned to look at their leader. Liberty kept the rifle draped across his thighs. His thin smile remained in place. "Like to know who I'm dealing with."

  "This is Doc Tanner," Ryan said, nodding at Doc. "He's the man you're dealing with."

  Liberty turned his attention to Doc. "Who's your friend, Doc?"

  "My boon companion," he replied easily. "A man I'd travel the river with, no matter where it took me or how treacherous it became."

  "He got a name?"

  "Indeed he does. There are some who call him Noman."

  "Noman?" someone repeated. "What the fuck kinda name is that?"

  "A proud one, sir, with a long lineage. In histories past, even long before skydark set in and swept the old world away with nuclear winter and cataclysmic contortions of the earth, Noman was renowned as a giant-killer."

  "A giant-killer?" a gang member asked. "Seen some bastard big muties, but none I'd rightly call a giant."

  "In those days," Doc said in a voice measured for drama, "giants roamed the earth."

  "He's talking about The Odyssey," the dwarf said. He craned his head and looked back over his shoulder at Liberty. "It's from an old book that was ancient like he said. Man in there was named Odysseus. Had a big war, then he was trying to get home, only he kept having these adventures that kept getting in the way. Odysseus used the name Noman to kill a giant without the other giants knowing he was there."

  "Ah," Doc said in obvious delight, gazing at the little man. "Someone who knows literature."

  "I was a teacher," the dwarf stated with a trace of pride.

  "You've fallen
on hard times, my friend," Doc said sympathetically.

  "He's alive," Liberty replied in a harsh voice, "and he's got a job. A lot of men can't say that. Ain't that right, Albert?"

  The dwarf gave a short nod, clearly not happy about his present situation.

  Ryan's attention centered on Philox. At the end of the band, a third man fell in beside him. Ryan reached up and touched the corner of his eye patch, as if he were scratching a small itch. The prearranged signal would alert Jak Lauren and send the albino teen into motion. Evidently Liberty had done some thinking about his overconfidence in riding up to face the two lone men in the forest.

  "Now, let's talk about what you got," Liberty said, "and what you want for it."

  Doc grabbed the lapels of his frock coat, the sword stick casually tucked up under his left arm. He put on a smile and an appearance of merriment. Ryan had long ago decided Doc was a born huckster. With the love of words and all the tangled histories that threaded through Doc's mind, J.B. was certain the man could talk a cannibalistic stickie nine days from its last lunch out of its next meal. Sometimes mat-trans jumps left the old man's brain addled for days, but the effects of the previous day's jump had already left his system.

  The line of men moved around, coming naturally into a half moon in front of the woolen blanket. The move also developed a scrimmage line of sorts.

  Ryan noted with satisfaction that the men lined up much in the positions that he'd planned for. He maintained his ground.

  Albert, the dwarf, shook out his traces and clucked the horses to pull the wag in closer to inspect Doc's wares. The wooden wheels rolled smoothly over the ground. Liberty maintained his seat in the back of the convertible, the long blaster resting easily across his knees. He pinned Ryan with his gaze. "What about you, One-Eye? You gonna take a look, too?"

  "I've already seen it," Ryan replied.

  "I guess it must have took you twice as long as most people."

  Ryan remained silent.

  "I get the feeling you don't exactly trust me," the man said.