But it was the massive symbol engraved into the wall behind the altar that caught Drake’s attention. Three triangles, overlaying one another. Some mineral within the carvings caught the artificial light and gleamed like sequins on a black dress.
No time to lose. He waded across the stream, sucking in air when the freezing water rose to his thighs. As he approached the altar, he saw an object resting on its surface. A short, pointed artefact, not astonishing or impressive. Actually mundane…
… the Spear of Odin.
The object that had pierced the side of a God.
A surge of excitement and apprehension passed through him. This was the event that made it all real. Up to now it had been a bunch of maybes, just clever speculation. But beyond this moment it was frighteningly real.
Horrifyingly real. They were facing a countdown to the end of the world.
ELEVEN
Drake didn’t stand on ceremony. He grabbed the Spear and headed back the way he’d come. Through the freezing stream, down the crumbling stairs. He switched the flashlight off half-way, and slowed as utter darkness enveloped him.
Faint beams of light swept the entrance below.
He kept going. It wasn’t over yet. He’d long since learned that, more often than not, the man who thought overlong in combat was the man who never made it home.
He stopped dead on the last step, then crept into the passageway’s deeper darkness. The Germans were close now, almost at the end of the ledge, but their flashlights would only pick him out as another shadow at this range. He skipped across the passage, hugged the wall, and started for the slope that led to the base of the Viking ships.
A man’s voice snapped: “See that! Look sharp, Stevie Wonder!” The voice surprised him, carrying the deep twang of the American South.
Dammit. The eagle-eyed bastard had seen him — or at least a moving shadow — something he wouldn’t have thought possible in this gloom. He ran faster. A shot rang out, striking rock close to where he’d just been.
A shadowy figure leaned out over the ledge — probably the American. “There’s a path down there among the ships. Get your dicks movin’ ‘fore I stick ‘em down your lazy throats.”
Damn. The Yank had seen the hidden path.
Harsh, arrogant, superior. One of the Germans said: “Fuck you, Milo,” and then squeaked as he was manhandled bodily down the slope.
Drake thanked his lucky stars. He was on the man in a second, smashing his vocal chords and twisting his neck with an audible crack before anyone else could follow.
Drake raised the German’s gun — a Heckler and Koch MG4 — and fired a few rounds. One man’s head exploded.
Ah, yes, he thought. Still better at shooting a gun than a camera.
“Canadians!” was the concurring series of hisses.
Drake smiled at the furious whispers. Let them think that.
Without any more dalliance he sprinted along the path as fast as he dared. Ben and Kennedy were ahead, and needed his protection. He’d sworn to get them out of this alive, and he wouldn’t let them down.
At his back, the Germans were proceeding down the slope with caution. He fired off a few rounds to keep them busy, and started counting ships.
Four, six, eleven.
The pathway grew precarious, but finally levelled out. At one point it thinned so drastically that anyone over fifteen stone would probably break a rib squeezing between timbers, but it widened again as he counted the sixteenth ship.
The vessels loomed above him, ancient, intimidating, smelling of old bark and mould. A fleeting movement caught his attention and he glanced left to see a figure that could only be this new guy Milo sprinting back along the narrow ledge which most humans could barely walk along. Drake didn’t even have time to fire — the American was moving so fast.
Damn! Why’d he have to be so good? The only other person Drake knew — apart from himself — who could perform such a feat was Alicia Myles.
Landed myself in the middle of an approaching Gladiator competition here…
He leapt forward, past the ships now, using his momentum to bounce from step to step, almost free-running from random mounds to deep clefts, and angle-jumping off the sandy walls. Even using the ships’ flexible timbers to gain momentum between jumps.
“Wait!”
The disembodied voice floated from ahead. He paused, seeing Kennedy’s vague shape, relieved to hear that American drawl. “Follow me,” he cried, knowing he couldn’t let Milo beat him to the end of the passage. They could be pinned down for hours.
He broke past the final ship at a break-neck run, Ben and Kennedy lagging in his wake, just as Milo leapt off the ledge and cut past the front of the very same ship. Drake tackled him around the waist, making sure he landed heavily on his sternum.
He wasted a second flinging the gun towards Kennedy.
Whilst the gun was still in mid-flight, Milo scissor-kicked and twisted loose, flipped over onto his hands, and was up abruptly facing him.
He snarled: “Matt Drake, the one and only. Been lookin’ forward to this, pal.”
He struck with elbows and fists. Drake caught multiple blows on his arms, wincing as he backed up. This guy knew him, but who the hell was he? An old faceless enemy? A shadow-ghost from a dark SAS past? Milo was in close and happy to stay there. Drake’s peripheral vision noted the knife at the American’s waistband, just waiting for a distraction.
He caught a vicious kick on his own instep.
Behind him he could hear the first clumsy movements of the advancing German force. They were just a few ships back.
Ben and Kennedy watched in amazement. Kennedy had the machine-gun raised.
Drake feinted one way, then twisted the other, spinning away from Milo’s vicious leg-breaker. Kennedy fired her shot, kicking up dirt an inch from Milo’s foot.
Drake grinned as he moved away, made as if to pet a dog. “Stay,” he said mockingly. “There’s a good boy.”
Kennedy fired another warning shot. Drake turned and ran past them, caught Ben’s arm, and pulled as the young man turned automatically towards the crumbling staircase.
“No!” Drake shouted. “They’ll pick us off one by one.”
Ben looked aghast. “Where else?”
Drake shrugged disarmingly. “Where’d you think?”
He headed straight for the World Tree.
TWELVE
And up they went. Drake had gambled that the World Tree was so old and strong that its limbs would be plentiful and sturdy. Once you accepted you were climbing a tree that was literally upside down, the physics hardly mattered at all.
“Just like being a boy again,” Drake egged Ben on, urging him faster without causing panic. “Shouldn’t be a problem for you, Blakey. You okay, Kennedy?”
The New Yorker climbed last, keeping the gun trained below her. Luckily, the World Tree’s extensive symmetry of branches and leaves concealed their progress.
“I’ve climbed a few stalks in my time,” she said light-heartedly.
Ben laughed. Good sign. Drake thanked Kennedy silently, starting to feel even better about having her along.
Damn, he thought. He’d almost added: on this mission. Back to the old vernacular in less than a week.
Drake climbed from branch to branch, ever upward, sitting or standing astride one branch whilst reaching for the next. The progress was quick, which meant their upper-body strength lasted longer than expected. Even so, about halfway up Drake noticed Ben was flagging.