And he put one hand above the other. One foot above the next. Vertically upwards he went, infinity at his back, gusts of some nameless wind tugging at his clothes. Distant thunderous roars could have been the volcano’s song, but it could have been other things too. Indescribable horrors, so ghastly they would never see the light of day. Dreadful beasts, slithering through rock and mud and muck, piping out ghastly tunes that invoked blood-red visions of madness.
Drake crawled, almost crying, over the last rocky step and onto a level surface. Rough stone scraped his scrabbling hands. With a last wrenching effort, he raised his head and saw everyone else sprawled out around him, but beyond them he saw Torsten Dahl — the mad Swede — literally creeping forward on his belly towards a niche larger than anything they had seen so far.
The Mad Swede. But, God, the guy was good.
The niche was suspended on one side but attached to the heart of the mountain on the other.
“Thank God,” Dahl said weakly. “It’s Odin. We’ve found the Tomb of Odin.”
Then he collapsed in exhaustion.
THIRTY-EIGHT
A cry shot through his torpor.
No, a scream. A bloodcurdling wail that spoke of pure horror. Drake opened his eyes but the rock surface was too close to focus on. He spat into the ground, groaned.
And found himself thinking: how far would a man fall into infinity before he died?
The Germans were here. One of their brethren had just fallen off the staircase.
Drake struggled upright, every muscle screaming, but adrenalin started to fire his blood and clear his thoughts. He inched towards Ben. His friend was lying prone near one of the platform’s edges. Drake dragged him towards Odin’s niche. A brief glance back told him the Germans hadn’t arrived yet, but his ears told him they were minutes away.
He heard the sound of Abel Frey’s cursing. The clunk of safety gear. Milo shouting bloody murder at one of the soldiers.
A chance to show your mettle, he thought, recollecting one of Wells’ chosen sayings on their SAS training days.
He dragged Ben around, propping him with his back against Odin’s sizeable sarcophagus. The boy’s eyelids were fluttering. Kennedy stumbled over: “You get ready for them. I’ll sort him out.” She slapped his cheek lightly.
Drake lingered, meeting her eyes for one second. “Later.”
The first of the Germans came over the top. A soldier who promptly collapsed in exhaustion, followed immediately by a second. Drake hesitated to do what he knew should be done, but Torsten Dahl shot past him, exhibiting no such qualms. Wells and Marsters were shuffling forward too.
A third enemy combatant crawled over the top, this one a great shambling hulk of a man. Milo. Blood, sweat and real tears made a grotesque mask of his already alarming face. But he was tough and quick enough to heave himself over the top, roll, and raise a tiny handgun.
One shot exploded from the barrel. Drake and his colleagues instinctively ducked, but the shot flew wide.
The shrieking voice of Abel Frey shattered the stillness that followed the discharge of the bullet. “No guns, dumbkopf. Nar! Nar! Listen to me!”
Milo screwed his face up and sent a nasty smile towards Drake. “Fuckin’ Kraut assholes. Hey buddy?”
The gun was swallowed by a fat fist and replaced by a serrated blade. Drake recognised it as a Special Forces knife. He side-stepped towards the big man, giving Dahl the opportunity to kick one of the fallen soldiers off into space.
The second solder was labouring to his knees. Marsters sliced him a new smile then threw the limp body to the side. By now three more soldiers had gained level ground, and then Alicia sprang up from below to land in a cat-crouch, knives in each hand. It was the most drained Drake had ever seen her, and she still looked like she could take on the Ninja elite.
“No… guns?” Dahl managed to say between forced breaths. “You finally… believe the Armageddon theory, Frey?”
The big German designer now hauled himself over the edge. “Don’t be a fool, solider-boy,” he panted. “I just don’t want to mark that coffin. My collection has room for excellence only.”
“Which you see as a reflection of yourself, I assume,” said Dahl stalling whilst his team got their breath back.
There was a pause, a moment of dread tension where each opponent assessed his immediate target. Drake backed away from Milo, moving unwittingly towards Odin’s tomb where Ben and the Professor still sat side by side, guarded only by Kennedy. He was waiting for one more…
… hoping…
And then a shattered groan came from the staircase, a faint plea for help. Frey glanced down. “You are weak!” he spat at someone. “If it weren’t for the Shield I would…”
Frey motioned at Alicia. “Help her.” The warrior woman grunted haughtily, then extended a hand over the side. With one tug she hauled Hayden over the top. The American CIA agent was spent from the long climb, but even more so from carrying the heavy weight that the Germans had strapped to her back.
The Shield of Odin, wrapped in canvas.
Parnevik’s voice rang out. “He brought the Shield! The principal Piece! But why?”
“Because it’s the principal Piece, you idiot.” Frey fired at him. “There wouldn’t be a principal Piece if it didn’t have some other purpose.” The fashion designer shook his head in disdain and turned to Alicia. “Finish these pathetic cretins. I have Odin to appease and a party to get back to.”
Alicia laughed maniacally. “My turn!” She cried out, a more deadly River Tam, and threw her safety gear into the middle of the rocky dais. Amidst the distraction she leapt for Wells, showing no surprise at his presence. Drake focused on his own fight, lunging towards Milo to surprise him, side-stepping a deft swipe from the blade, then jabbing in with a hard elbow to Milo’s jaw.
Bone cracked. Drake danced away, swaying and staying light on his feet. This would be his strategy then, hit and run, striking with the hardest points of his body, aiming to break bone and cartilage. He was faster than Milo, but not as strong, so if the giant caught up with him….
Thunder echoed through the mountain, the growl and crash of rising magma and shifting stone.
Milo was wincing in agony. Drake led with a double side-kick, two taps — the sort of thing you might see Van Damme deftly execute on the TV — absolutely useless for real life street-fighting. Milo knew that, and batted the attack aside with a snarl. But Drake knew that too, and when Milo launched his bulk forward Drake threw another solid elbow strike full into his opponent’s face, devastating his nose and eye-socket, knocking him solidly to the floor.
Milo hit the ground like a felled rhino. Once down against an opponent of Drake’s calibre there was no way back. Drake stamped on his wrist and knee, breaking both major bones, then his balls for good measure, and then scooped up the discarded army knife.
Surveyed the scene.
Marsters, the SAS soldier, had made short work of two Germans and was now struggling with the third. To kill three men in a few minutes was a tall order for anyone, even an SAS soldier, and Marsters was carrying a minor injury. Wells was dancing with Alicia along the rim of the platform, more running than dancing actually, but keeping her busy. His strategy was sound. At close quarters she’d gut him in a second.