“You haven’t got a weapon.”
“I’ll improvise.”
“Torch?”
“Costas and I left chemical lightsticks to mark the route.”
“Good luck.”
Jack grunted as Ben looped the rope under his arms. Costas checked his air and weight belt and then gripped Jack by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes. “Battle-luck,” he said.
“Battle-luck.” Jack pulled down his mask, sat on the edge of the hole and then swung himself out over the dark pool far below. Costas and Ben immediately began winching him down. Jack was focussed, his whole being intent on his objective. He hit the water with his regulator in his mouth and immediately began swimming underwater towards the tunnel, following the trail of lightsticks they had dropped just over an hour before. The tunnel seemed less oppressive now, and as he looked ahead he saw the extraordinary luminosity of the calcite walls where they were lit up by the lightsticks, fantastic formations of stalagmites and stalagtites that loomed out of either side like abstract ice sculptures.
Ten minutes after entering the water he saw the pool of light ahead that marked the final chamber. The light was different, more intense than the chemical illumination. He reached the edge of the chamber, the bubbles from his exhaust cascading along the ceiling above him, and cautiously surfaced in a small side chamber just high enough for his head to be out of the water. In the centre of the cavern he could see the bizarre calcium formations of the islet, about twenty metres in front of him. The light was coming from the opposite side of the islet and shone in a wide beam against the ceiling.
The bubbles from his regulator would be a giveaway. For a moment he cursed their decision to ditch the rebreathers in the underwater river. He would have to swim on the surface, hoping not to be spotted.
He took off his mask and clipped it to his jacket, then looked around for something to darken his face, something to absorb the glare if a torch was shone at him. He reached out gingerly and rubbed a flat surface just in front of him. He sniffed his hand, and crinkled his nose. Potassium nitrate. Bat droppings. He took another swipe off the rock and rubbed it all over his face, careful not to make a noise.
He inflated his stabiliser jacket, blowing air into the mouthpiece to avoid the noise of the low-pressure feed from his regulator, then pushed himself off and began to swim slowly towards the outcrop.
When he reached the midway point, he could feel the tug of the underwater river, far stronger now than it had been when he and Costas had decided to follow it. A light swung round and caught his face. He froze. It swung back again, and he resumed swimming. If he was discovered now, he would have no chance. He assumed Loki was armed. Everything depended on surprise.
As he reached the edge of the islet, he heard a voice on the other side, magnified and distorted in the chamber, but unmistakably male. A snarling, menacing tone. Jack slipped off his tank and fins and sidled along to a place he remembered from his earlier dive, where he and Costas had seen the first extraordinary clue. He reached down into the shallows. It came away easily, unencumbered by accretion, as well preserved in the fresh water as the one he had found in the ice. Then he rose from the water, dripping and black in his wetsuit, and pulled the object up with him.
A Varangian battle-axe.
Jack made his way swiftly up the knobbled contours of accretion, thankful he was wearing neoprene boots that gripped the surface well. He passed over the fossilised Viking shield wall, the arching shape of the ship’s stem, the haunting form of the fallen warrior. From the top he looked down on the other side of the islet. Loki was there, no more than ten metres away. He was standing with his back to Jack, straddling Maria, who was lying on her back staring defiantly up. Loki was holding a pistol in his left hand, a Browning Hi-Power. In the other hand he held a blade against Maria’s heart, a sword. It was the Varangian sword Jack and Costas had seen in the water beside the axe.
Jack felt a chill of horror. History had never really stopped in this place. He was witnessing something ingrained in the stone of the Yucatan, impossible to exorcise. A human sacrifice.
With lightning speed Jack swept down on Loki, swinging the axe hard, severing the man’s left arm in one mighty swipe. The pistol flew into the water still grasped in the hand, spinning and disappearing into the blackness. Loki staggered, shocked, then spun round to face Jack, his face a contortion of surprise and rage. The stump was gushing blood. He dropped the sword, staggered, lifted his remaining arm to the scar on his face, then staggered back again, picking up the sword. Suddenly he exploded into action, lunging at Jack in a terrifying blur of speed and flashing metal. Jack was nearly caught off guard, raising the axe only just in time. Steel impacted against steel, clashing, grinding, ringing, a sound not heard here for almost a thousand years. Jack’s body quivered as he parried the blows, but he stood his ground. It was only a matter of time before his opponent would falter. Loki was already too weak to stop his body from following through the swing of the sword, lurching, swivelling as he struggled to regain his balance. He stood back again, in a frenzy of pain, snivelling and panting, goading Jack with the point of the sword, staggering back farther towards the edge of the water.
Loki’s rage had cast the shadow of his own downfall. He could have remained on the surface with his father, let his mind rule, retained his lethal efficiency.
Jack weighed the haft in his hands, just as he had done once before, when another long-handled, single-bitted axe had saved their lives in the iceberg.
Battle-luck.
He reared up and took two strides forward. As he swung the axe he thought he saw runes flashing in front of him, runes where Halfdan’s name had been on the other axe, runes that began with the same Norse letter.
The battle-axe of a mighty king. Thunderbolt of the North.
The axe came slicing through the air and struck Loki on the side of the head, then spun off from Jack’s hands and cartwheeled into the water above the underground river. Loki’s head jerked back and then sprang forward, like a marionette. For a horrifying moment he seemed uninjured. Then the scar on his face parted, split wide open through his eye socket. Jack could see jawbones and teeth, grimacing horribly like the sculpted skulls at Chichen Itza. Then there was blood, thick, oozing drops that splattered on to the rock below.
Loki took one step forward, then slipped on the blood, falling heavily into the water with a crash, taking the sword with him. For a moment he was suspended in mid-water, one eye staring blindly towards Jack, still alive, clawing weakly for the surface. Then he dropped deeper and the current took him, dragging him down into the darkness, out of sight, sucked into the underworld.
Loki was gone.
Jack slid down beside Maria and they lay by the edge of the pool. He was shaking with adrenaline aftershock. She clung fiercely to him. The commotion in the water died away, and the only sound was dripping rainwater percolating through from above, the sound magnified in the cavern but soothingly rhythmic after the echoing clash of steel. As Jack’s shaking subsided, Maria stared into the crystalline water inches from her face. She reached in and pulled something out, a smooth chip of rock free of accretion. They could see marks on its surface, scratches. They both sat up. “It’s a runestone,” Maria whispered.
“Can you read it?”
“It’s crude, rushed,” Maria murmured. “Like the last entry in the diary of a doomed expedition.”