Nearly two thousand cubic yards of snow and ice had been displaced by the avalanche. The movement had scraped away a layer of accumulation to a depth of nearly six feet, revealing a glistening ice pack that remembered none of the crimson stains left by Kismet's counterattack. It was as if the slide had erased the violence done upon the mountain. In the chaos below, where shifting snow had all but filled the ravine, there was no indication that any living thing had survived. The snow had broken away in great fractures, piled up in thick sheets, like the walls of a collapsed house of cards, and buried everything. It was inconceivable that any man, even having survived the impact of the avalanche, would be able to free himself from the crushing snow.
Remarkably however, mere minutes after the turmoil had ceased, restoring quiet to the mountainside, something began to move beneath the frozen covering. Massive pieces of ice rose and slid away near the edge of the ravine, as something larger fought its way to the surface. Snorts and grunts of exertion heralded the rebirth of a survivor from the dark, icy womb. A regal head broke through the frozen scree, followed by a pair of equine forelegs.
The draft horse, with power that dwarfed the reserves of the strongest man, and hooves capable of digging into the hardest ice, wrestled itself free from a prison of cold nearly a fathom deep. Had the covering been any greater, perhaps even the animal's prodigious strength would have been insufficient to save it, and therefore, though the horse could not comprehend such things, it owed its survival, more than anything, to simple luck. After a few more minutes of thrashing and pulling, the great beast slipped free of the ice and stood on all fours upon the surface.
Yet it remained anchored to the snow; the long reins attached to its bridle were still buried deep in the avalanche. Planting its hooves firmly, the animal struggled against the final impediment to its freedom. The muscular legs, capable of drawing a heavy plow or pulling large trees from the forest, strained and pulsated with each backward step, and once more the ice yielded to its might.
It was not the leather straps that prevented the animal from getting loose, but rather something larger; the motionless figure of a man. With a final heave the horse pulled the body from the grip of the snow and was free at last. The man remained prone upon the surface of the snow. The beast tried to move away from him, but succeeded only in dragging the man along behind. Its reins were wrapped around his waist and tied in a hasty knot. The animal relented, choosing instead to satisfy its instinctive curiosity. Lowering its head, it began prodding at the man, exhaling hot steam onto an ice-encrusted face.
From the depths of a great darkness, like the frozen grave from which he had been liberated, Nick Kismet struggled to the surface of consciousness. He could not feel any of his extremities, nor could he make sense out of the lights and sounds flooding into his brain. The breath of the horse, a strange sour vapor, evoked nothing, even when he was able to bring into focus the bestial muzzle, with its gaping nostrils and liquid eyes.
His cognitive abilities gradually returned, commencing with a sense of grim satisfaction. He had survived. Slowly, his memories began to fall into a logical chain, allowing him to reconstruct everything leading up to the slide. At the same time, he began to regain the use of his body. The first message his nerves sent him was brief and to the point: cold! Snow had penetrated his clothing and was leeching away his body heat. It was a wonder that hypothermia and frostbite had not already claimed him. He knew that he had to get moving right away if he wanted to live.
Concentrating on a single effort, he swung his hand up and grasped the horse's bridle. Immediately the animal pulled away, but Kismet kept his grip. The result was that he was lifted erect. He quickly flung his arms around the animal's neck, clinging to it because he couldn't trust his legs to hold him up. His recovery culminated when he hauled his cold, tired body onto the back of the draft animal, and gathered its reins into his hands.
Although the horse was damp from melted snow, its warmth penetrated Kismet, stirring him to do what he knew must be done. Irene and her father were still out there, still fleeing from Grimes and the commandos. He had to go to find them.
At his urging, the horse scaled the remaining few steps onto the newly uncovered ice field. It then negotiated the slippery ascent, roughly thirty feet of hard ice, and plowed into the deeper snow above the fracture line.
At some point in the ascent, Kismet became aware of the rifle, clogged with snow, but still containing half a magazine of ammunition, dangling from a web strap slung over his shoulder. His kukri was also still with him, shoved into the sheath at his belt.
He had a vague memory of the preparations he had taken, just before diving onto the loose reins of the horse. As the great sheets of ice had begun to tumble down, he had spied the horse, already attempting to dance its way over the crashing wave of snow. Inspired, he had lashed himself to the beast in the final moments before it was overwhelmed. Nevertheless, those few seconds where the draft animal had evaded the slide had placed both it and Kismet, near the surface, making possible their eventual liberation.
He ceased reflecting on the past, and focused on the immediate situation. He brushed the snow from the assault weapon, checking its barrel and internal mechanisms, and popped out the magazine. Ice crystals that had accumulated around the 7.62-millimeter cartridges and a sheen of verglas now laminated the inner working of the assault rifle. When the hot metal had been immersed in snow, melted ice had seeped into every cavity and then frozen again. There was a good chance the gun would misfire or even blow up in his face if he attempted to use it.
He contemplated throwing it away, but decided it might still have value as, if nothing else, an instrument for intimidation. Besides, escaping from the mountain wouldn't necessarily mean the end of his battle with Grimes. In fact, with the information he expected to get from Peter Kerns, a future confrontation with his nemesis and the soldiers the portly traitor commanded was almost a certainty. Twenty rounds from the AK might not count for much, but it was a difference he could ill-afford to dismiss.
Once above the line of the fracture, Kismet easily distinguished the pattern of hoof prints and ski trails that had brought them all to that fateful last stand. From there he needed only to backtrack. He urged the horse to a trot then coaxed it to a full gallop across the snowfield.
As his body grew warmer, he began receiving urgent messages from every quarter thereof. He envisioned himself now as a living mass of bruises, and the pounding motion of the horse's gait did nothing to assuage his discomfort. Just as quickly, he realized that his mount had been buried in the slide as well, and was likely in just as much pain. Without being conscious of it, he reached out and stroked the mane of his savior.
It took only a short time for Kismet to reach the place where he had separated from his friends, and what he saw hit like a physical blow. The signs were all too easy to read. The sleigh pulled by the remaining horse had gone off in the path of the vehicles that had ascended earlier in the night. Four deep ruts, interspersed with numerous small holes, followed the same path. Kismet quickly surmised that at least two pairs of skiers had pursued the sleigh. Because they had traveled in only two columns, it was conceivable that many more soldiers had gone after the sleigh. Kismet turned his mount and charged off after them.
A few hundred yards down the road, he spied evidence of the Kerns' countermeasures against their pursuers. A large depression in the snow showed that one of the commandos had crashed after striking a piece of debris. Apparently, the soldier had picked himself up and rejoined the pursuit.