Ice Claw

clambered hundreds of meters up the side of the mountain, he saw Sharkface’s 4?4 pass beneath him and disappear from view. He told himself he’d made the correct decision by stealing the boat. Sharkface must have been held up by traffic.

Max scanned the uninviting rocks. There were several fissures in the almost sheer face of the north wall. This coldest and darkest side, encrusted with snow and ice, offered no easy climb, but Max spotted a cleft that would allow him to edge towards one of the chimneylike funnels. Of all the ridges and crevasses only one did not have snow or ice on its rim. Warm air was coming up from somewhere. It had to be an opening. That was Max’s way in. Don’t go where your mind hasn’t been first. Max studied the route, visualized where to climb, identifying footholds and fist-jams.

It took almost an hour to free-climb across the treacherous face of the mountain. As he edged higher he saw the distant sun devoured by jawlike peaks. To the north a rumble of thunder heralded the beginning of a storm. It was at least eighty or ninety kilometers away, but Max knew that if it advanced rapidly this was the last place he wanted to be. A crevasse on a mountainside was a favorite place for lightning strikes.

Max squeezed down into the chimney, his headlamp casting its light a few meters beneath his feet. The sharp rock split about ten meters below. Bracing his back and legs, he edged downwards. From the void to the left, too narrow to clamber through, was the unmistakable smell of animals-like a zoo-pungent and rich. There were no sounds, but it was this rising air that had warmed the chimney. The tunnel below his feet on the right was wider and he might be able to squeeze down, but he could see the dull reflection of ice. An ice crevasse is impossible to descend without the right equipment. What was the choice? Climb back out? No. He’d get down the ice chute somehow.

Max wedged his legs against a sliver of rock, unslung his backpack and searched for a small plastic container, no bigger than a matchbox, that was tucked in a Velcro pocket. Sharp edges of rock caught his knees, sweat ran into his eyes, and if he slipped from this tenuous foothold he would plunge into the narrow pipe of rock and shatter his legs. Shock, pain and loss of blood would mean he’d be dead in less than an hour. The claustrophobic chimney started to get to him. He hated small spaces at the best of times, but imagination can make matters worse. No! The rock walls were not moving closer! He steadied himself, taking comfort from the headlamp’s glow.

His fear back under control, Max scrunched down again and lifted one foot clear of the slippery rock. His off- road trainers had good grip but not enough for that ice chute-however, they did have four small sockets in each sole to screw spikes into for additional grip. He blew on his fingertips. He dared not drop any of those slender spikes. After a couple of minutes he completed the task. Now he had some grip for the ice wall. Max pulled off his headlamp, eased it over his left foot, tightened the strap, so the lamp angled downwards but was clear of the spikes, and took his first tentative step into the unknown.

Having convinced himself that the mountain had caves or excavated chambers inside, Max thought it logical to believe that the wild animals were on one side and there was a separate chamber on the other. Logic doesn’t always work like that, but he had no choice. Besides, it made him feel better to believe it.

Legs straining, back pressing as hard as possible against the wall, his backpack allowing at least some traction, he lowered himself into the dangerous ice. As his left foot found purchase on the wall the light shone downwards. Max could see what lay beneath him. A curve in the chimney was coming up. He prayed that it didn’t turn into a sheer drop, because if it did he had no chance.

The angle steepened. There was a faint blue tinge of light creeping up the shaft that was not from the lamp strapped to his foot. Tendons and muscles stretched as he tried to slow his downward slide. The spikes were ripped from the soles of his trainers; he was going to hit something soon. But what? He pulled his knees together, bent his legs slightly, got his arms up around his head, elbows tucked in, and took a deep breath. He plummeted down.

An eerie blue glow flashed across his vision as the chute spat him out. Where the mouth of the chimney ended, a frozen undulating wave of ice curved down from the rock face into a huge hall. He was ten meters up from the floor, but the rolling curve caught him like a theme park ride, breaking his fall.

Max skittered across the gleaming black stone floor and thumped into a wall of ice. Somewhere in the background rushing water broke the silence. He got to his feet. The dull glow was emanating from very soft lights, but the blue tinge came from the ice that surrounded him. It was like being inside a glacier. But as soon as his eyes adjusted he felt a sudden panic rise in his chest. It was below freezing, his breath plumed, but it was not the sudden shock of cold that made him fearful. Dozens of eyes stared at him.

Eyes of the dead.

26

Tishenko had listened to Sharkface’s description of the attack in the Parc la Grange.

The death of his girl killer caused no feelings of regret. Survival depended on an individual’s skills and determination. Luck was a fickle companion.

Sharkface told him of the assault and how the tough-looking men had arrived with Max Gordon and had run over Peaches. It had not been possible to capture the English boy, but Sharkface did have what Tishenko prized most-the pendant. All Sharkface had ever wanted was to be accepted by Tishenko as a vucari-a wolf man, one of the chosen few.

Tishenko instructed the boy to get food; he would reward him later. He brought the stone closer. It yielded nothing to his gaze. It seemed so ordinary. His people would examine it under microscopes so powerful they could look into the eyes of microbes!

At last. The secret Zabala had hidden within the stone-the information he had died to protect. Fate had now cast the pendant into Tishenko’s hands at such a vital moment. The monk had spent more than twenty years tracking the stars, seeking out the Truth-that explosive moment when heavenly powers flung down a shattering fireball of creation. Zabala knew! And had tried to warn an unsuspecting world. But the scientists had ignored him. Ridiculed him. Tishenko had not. Zabala’s friend had betrayed him; told Tishenko that at last the mystic monk had found the proof of the catastrophe that had eluded him for so long. A fragment of knowledge that Tishenko yearned for. A final nudge from the gods that would confirm everything he planned tomorrow, when the lightning would be controlled. Tishenko had the power. His mother must have known when she named him. Fedir-a gift from God.

The storm was approaching. Tomorrow it was expected to be at its most violent. That he had secured the monk’s pendant only hours before he was to leave the Citadel and take himself into the desolation enforced his belief that the great mystery of the universe guided him.

Not only would he challenge the storm, he would embrace his destiny. Out of the devastation and fire he would create life. Lux Ferre-the bringer of light.

Max crouched like an animal ready to run, his mind racing to take in what he saw. He was in an ice cave. Specks of frost clung to the walls and roof, so everything shimmered as if some magic spell were being cast. But the creatures’ eyes that stared back at him were unmoving. No light, no glimmer, just the vacant stare of death.

It was a natural history museum of frozen animals, teeth bared, in natural poses. A muscled silverback mountain gorilla glared; a black rhino stood full square, proud, curved horn majestic. A leopard lunged upwards at a very rare Tibetan antelope, startled but, like the others, frozen. Two lions fought, the huge male, his mane dusted with frost, poised over the female, which was twisted in a snarling defensive position. Max could almost sense the African dust rising from their scuffling paws. Orangutan, lynx, all stood as if caught by flash photography. A leatherback turtle, bigger than any Max had seen before, was suspended in an ice block, as if swimming through the ocean. There were animals Max had seen only in photographs, such as a rare snow leopard, its softly mottled coat blending into the snowbank that had been created around it.

He moved slowly among the creatures, in silent wonderment at being so close to the great beasts of the world. Then he realized that this was a very specific collection. They were mostly predators. From the big cats to wolves, hunting dogs to jackals. The jackal gazed down at Max with wise eyes, touching his memory of a jackal’s guidance when he was in Africa. A Bengal tiger, not as big as Aladfar but huge nonetheless, crouched, eyes glaring, claws gripping the ground.