Her tone said more than her words. Without even realizing it, she had fallen for him, and the thought that he might vanish forever from her life was too horrible to contemplate. This unspoken revelation filled him with apprehension. He didn't want to leave her behind, didn't want to face the prospect of death or capture alone. More than anything, he wanted her to get away safely. But there was the Fleece….
The Golden Fleece. That was what it was really all about. Men and women would continue to fall in and out of love for the rest of eternity. Once in a millennium such a love might actually shape the course of history, but more often than not, even the greatest lovers faded into obscurity. Not so with power. Power, used or abused, left a mark for generations. Just as it was impossible for mankind to unremember the atomic bomb, so too the Fleece and whatever diabolical machination Grimes and his allies had planned for it, would surely haunt the planet for the rest of its existence. He alone was in a position to prevent that — to stand between that relic of uncertain power and the forces of evil. Nothing else really mattered.
Peter Kerns knew where it was, of that Kismet was certain. He could not allow Grimes to recapture the old man or his daughter.
"If I don't make it back by midnight tonight, I want you both to head two miles north of the city. Wait on the shore for an hour. Lyse — a friend of mine — will rendezvous there and get you back home. As for you, sir, I want you to promise to tell my friend the truth."
Kerns looked back at him with a stupefied expression, but Kismet wasn't buying. "I mean it. Grimes must not be allowed to get it. I think you know that."
The old engineer tried to maintain his poker face, but finally relented, sagging as if the acknowledgment left him drained. Irene was not so quick to accept his decision. "Nick, stop talking like this. We've got to stick together."
"No. That's just it. We've got to split up. I have to slow those soldiers down, or misdirect them somehow." He saw emotion welling up in her eyes, but willfully ignored it. Instead, he rose and crawled out onto the back of the left-hand horse.
It took him less than a minute to loose the steed from the yoke that held it in thrall. Although it continued to trot apace with the other animal, it no longer contributed its power to pulling the sleigh.
Kismet quickly realized how awkward it would be to ride the creature. Its back was virtually twice as broad as any horse he had ever ridden; his legs were spread painfully apart as he straddled its bare torso. He was confident with most horses and had ridden camels and even an elephant, but rarely faster than a brisk walk. There was simply no way to ride the draft horse in the conventional manner. He was unable to exert any pressure with his inner thighs, so instead he leaned forward against its neck, gripped either side of its bridle with his hands and shouted into its ear: "Giddyap!"
Instantly, the great steed pulled away from its shackled cousin. Kismet ran the horse out ahead of the sleigh, and then tugged its bridle to swing it around. As the sleigh drew close, his gaze met Irene's.
"Nick."
He could see it in her eyes; the declaration that she had not quite been able put into words. "Don't say it. You'll only make this harder."
She shook her head, blinking back the tears. "Just be careful."
He knew those weren't the words that were poised on her lips, but was grateful that she had held back. With a nod, he coaxed his mount back up the trail, letting the thump of hoof-beats refocus his attention. After a few moments, he looked back, but the sleigh had already diminished to a dark speck in the snowfield. When he returned his gaze forward, half a score of white-clothed skiers had appeared directly ahead of him, and suddenly there was no more time for emotional turmoil.
Grimacing, he urged his mount onward, racing toward the pack like a runaway boulder down a mountainside. Hugging the horse's neck with one arm, he drew the Gurkha knife and raised it in the air over his head. A moment later, he was plowing through the midst of the loose formation. The knife slashed down repeatedly, causing confusion and not a few superficial wounds. Half of the group, in their haste to get out of the way, went down, crashing into each other or veering off course into the mire of the powder valley. The few left standing after his passage snowplowed to a halt and turned to face him.
Kismet also came about for another pass. One skier raised a pole to block the downward stroke of the blade, only to have it shorn clean in two. A kick from Kismet sent him flailing. A soldier on Kismet's left stood his ground, raising his rifle, but before he could fix his sight picture, Kismet twisted his body in order to launch a vicious slashing attack. The knife quivered in his grip as it struck flesh and smashed through the man's collarbone and stuck there.
He urged his mount ahead with another shouted vocalization. The horse charged ahead and the soldier was dragged along, in shock and unable to resist. Kismet kept his hold on the hilt of the kukri, twisting it until the blade slipped free and the wounded man fell away.
Behind him, the commandos hastened to close ranks and get back on their skis. It was time, Kismet decided, to lure the hunters away from his friends. The trail ahead was marked by the very obvious passage of the sleigh — deep parallel lines cut by the steel rails and enormous craters stomped by the massive hooves of the draft horses. Kismet sheathed the knife and urged the horse forward, all too aware that his back was now a target.
He followed the path of the sleigh for several hundred yards, passing the point where he had separated from Irene and her father. He stayed on that course a while longer, occasionally looking back to check on the pursuit and was dismayed to see that more troops had arrived to supplement the ranks of the fallen.
Riding full out across the flats, the horse was superior in speed to the skiers. Kismet held back however, at all times keeping himself in view of the German troopers. He didn't want them splitting up to follow the sleigh; beyond that, he wasn't really sure what he hoped to accomplish.
The treetops alongside him exploded in a spray of noise and ice. The skiers were shooting after him in a wasteful and futile attempt to slow him down. Because they were in a flat snowfield, the soldiers could not advance and fire at the same time, giving him a chance to widen the gap if he successfully dodged their fusillade. Kismet urged the horse forward, angling right and ducking behind a snowdrift that was twice as high as the horse's head.
The grade of the terrain abruptly began to fall away beneath him. The snow was much softer and deeper here, slowing the draft horse, bogging it down as each step sunk knee-deep. The landscape ahead was clear — a sloping plain with only a few treetops barely visible. The Germans would have the advantage here. They would be able to utilize the slope for locomotion while focusing their attention and their weapons on him. The distant treetops would be his only cover. With renewed urgency, he began coaxing speed from the horse.
At a point midway down the hill, he risked a rearward glance. The commandos were rounding the corner, poling and stepping vigorously to close the gap. Though unable to get a head count, Kismet had the sickening feeling that at least a few of the elite soldiers had veered off in pursuit of Irene and Peter Kerns. The narrow cross-country skis buoyed the commandos atop the powder, and in a matter of moments, his lead was erased. Three of their number blazed a trail down the hillside, compressing the grainy snow deep beneath the curved tips. The tracks they left behind provided an effortless path for their comrades to utilize.
The trees Kismet sought for cover remained frustratingly distant. Only the tops were visible, as if the entire system of trunks and branches had been buried beneath deep snow. The slope remained consistent though and Kismet was plagued by the vague notion that he was failing to see something obvious.