CHAPTER 2
The gangly German soldier had never used a whip before, and it showed. He repeatedly unfurled it, tossed it up at the dragonhead, and watched it land back down at his feet. He was trying to get it to loop through the beast's lower jaw, but he couldn't get the aim right. In the end, a squat, grizzled Inuk—one of Ziegler's fists-for-hire from the south of the island—was ordered to climb onto the dragonhead from the deck of the ship and thread the whip through by hand.
Indy would have laughed at their efforts, had he not been on the verge of passing out from the pain; his arms were wrenched so tightly behind his back he was sure they'd spring from their sockets any second. He'd already taken several swipes to the side of his head from the butt of a Mauser, as well as three blows to the chest—he was certain he'd heard a rib crack—before he'd crumpled to the floor. It was at that point he'd decided it was in his best interest to hand over the sun compass. Ziegler had immediately passed the amulet to a wiry, elderly German who disappeared studying it closely with his magnifying spectacles; the guy had clearly been brought along for reasons other than his brawn. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the Inuk currently restraining Indy. This was the guy who Indy feared had shattered his rib cage, a monolith of muscle with a deep scar across his face leading to a puckered socket where Indy presumed his left eye used to be.
Ziegler returned ogling the compass and barked instructions for the man-mountain to loosen his grip. Indy could breathe again—but for how long?
Ziegler's men were a mix of disgraced German soldiers and grizzled Inuits, keen to exploit the influx of European money washing up on the island. On the deck of the longship the Greenlanders hacked away at the ice with axes, while the Germans blasted the frost with flamethrowers, desperate to free every treasure lost to the frozen tidal wave.
Ziegler turned his attention to the German soldier and the stocky little Inuk who had been attaching Indy's whip to the dragonhead. They'd looped it through the dragon's mouth and created a noose at the whip end. Ziegler then looked to Indy.
"Abandoned by his guide, ravaged by the bitter arctic chill and driven to madness by the unrelenting glare of the sun, the young archaeology professor sought a... permanent, tragic solace from his predicament." Wilhelm Ziegler smiled, his wickedness wasn't without creativity. The former German general oozed charisma and was in impressive shape for a man advancing through middle age. He had the agile, graceful physique of a former dancer, and eyes that could flick from seductive to deadly in a heartbeat. He continued, his English impeccable "I daresay the academic community will be sympathetic to your suicide—indeed, they will question what other options you had."
"Go to hell." Indy sneered. "My guide's gone to raise the alarm—there'll be forty, fifty British soldiers here within the hour, you're not gonna get away with this!"
Ziegler didn't pay heed to Indy's bluff and continued as if the archaeologist hadn't spoken. He studied the amulet.
"Of course, your demise fits seamlessly into the legend of the compass."
Indy struggled violently, but yelped in pain as the giant gripping his wrists effortlessly yanked his arms back and dragged him over to the hanging whip. The gangly soldier hooked the noose around Indy's neck and pulled it tight, the braided leather sliced into his gullet like chicken wire. Indy now regretted packing his twenty foot bullwhip, if he'd brought his ten footer this impromptu execution wouldn't be possible.
"Sadly, given the circumstances, I'm sure you understand that I'll be unable to convey any final messages you may want passing on. But I am an attentive listener." Ziegler grinned.
Indy couldn't respond, even if he'd wanted too, his cheeks reddening as he wriggled furiously to free himself.
The stumpy Inuk sat astride the dragonhead and readied to pull the other end of the whip; this would yank Indy into the air by his neck. Indy had watched as the Inuk had then been instructed to secure the whip to the dragonhead by looping it through the mouth a few more times. Once Indy was dead, they were to place one of the buckets from the longship on its side by his feet. Ziegler's soldiers would then photograph the corpse, marking their dire discovery of a regrettable suicide.
Indy kicked back at the ogre who restrained him; the hulking Inuk momentarily let go of Indy before grabbing him by his elbows and holding him still, ready for the hanging to begin.
But this gave Indy the chance he needed. In the seconds leading up to being captured Indy had slid what remained of his knife blade up his sweater sleeve. Ziegler's men had taken Indy's revolver and his whip, but they hadn't thought to check him for any concealed weapons. Now that his hands were free, Indy gently shook the knife down his sleeve, there wasn't much of the snapped blade left, but he flicked it out.
"Abschied, Professor Jones." Ziegler turned to the Inuk atop the dragonhead and barked. "Ziehen!" The Inuk pulled on the whip and Indy was winched off the ground; at the same moment Indy thrust back the knife—the cracked blade landed hard in his captor's neck and the behemoth stumbled backwards, releasing his grip on Indy. Indy grabbed the noose with his freed hands and swung back his legs, kicking the wounded Inuk in the face. Indy then pulled at the whip, loosening the noose; he slipped free, fell to his feet and tugged hard on the whip, dragging the smaller Inuk screaming from the dragonhead.
Ziegler reached for his Luger, but Indy cracked the whip, slicing the German across his face and sending him reeling in pain.
The gangly soldier then lunged for Indy, but Indy floored him with a bone crunching blow to the nose.
Other soldiers were now alerted by the commotion, several drew their weapons and opened fire at Indy. He dashed across the snow, avoiding the hail of bullets. A burly soldier with a flamethrower unleashed a jet of fire which scorched the ice and caught the back of Indy's jacket. Indy dived for cover behind one of the Germans' snowmobiles—the vehicle instantly engulfed by the weapon's blazing stream. Ziegler snapped at the soldier to kill the American but to avoid their transportation.
Indy rolled in the snow, extinguishing his scorched jacket. The soldier approached the burning snowmobile while changing the gas cylinder on his flamethrower—each cylinder held only five or six seconds of deadly firepower.
Indy seized the moment and charged head first at the soldier—the wind was knocked from the German and the two men landed hard on an ice slope. They hurtled downward, head first, trading blows and tussling for control of the weapon. Indy winced in pain as he received a jab to his already tender ribs, but recovered quickly and elbowed the German hard in the neck. They wrestled scrappily, picking up speed as they tobogganed this way and that, unsure of their destination.
Indy glanced back up the slope and saw a machine gun-wielding-soldier pursuing them on a ferocious, gas spluttering motorcycle-sled contraption—a prototype skidoo—that rocketed across the ice.
Meanwhile, his adversary got his finger to the trigger of the flamethrower and inched the igniter head up to Indy's chin—as the soldier squeezed the trigger, Indy forced the igniter head back toward his assailant—a short burst of fire blasted up from the weapon, lashing the German's face—the soldier let out a torturous, deathly shriek as the rank odour of burning hair and melting flesh filled Indy's nostrils, the intense heat from the momentary inferno scorching the archaeologist's cheek.
Still flying backwards down the ice sheet, Indy wrenched the flamethrower from the dead soldier's grasp and pointed it back up the slope. The soldier on the skidoo raised his machine gun but Indy unleashed the flamethrower first and the soldier was consumed by fire before he could pull the trigger.
Indy soared headfirst from the ice, his fall cushioned by a generous bank of snow; the singed corpse landing in a crumpled heap beside him. Moments later the skidoo flew from the ice—Indy ducked as it hurtled just inches over his head and landed nose first in the snow, its driver slumped over the handlebars, still aflame.
Indy could hear Ziegler hollering orders and moments later an engine roared to life. Indy got to his feet as a snow adapted military truck with monstrous tank treads surged down the slope, straight toward him; billowing smoke and churning up the ice. On the back of the truck a soldier clipped ammo to his machine gun.
Indy dashed to the skidoo and kicked the lifeless, smouldering soldier from his seat. Indy's chest and shoulder hurt like hell as he hauled the vehicle from the snow bank. Then, the truck's gunner opened fire. Indy dived for cover as bullets punctured the snow, narrowly missing him and the skidoo.
Keeping his head low, Indy grabbed the deceased drivers' machine gun and climbed onto the skidoo; it was still idling, so Indy twisted the throttle hard and zipped off across the snow, the truck right on his tail.
The skidoo soared along a narrow ice shelf—to Indy's left the intimidating north face of the glacier rose skyward, to his right a fifty foot drop to the frigid arctic waters. Indy kept the skidoo snug to the jagged curve of the glacier, keeping just out of sight of the truck and the onslaught of bullets raining down from the soldier's machine gun.
Indy spied an opportunity. He slammed the skidoo hard left, cutting into a tiny cove in the ice. He then turned hard right and the vehicle skidded three-sixty—now facing back out of the cove. Indy killed the throttle and waited a couple of heartbeats. The truck barrelled past, completely missing Indy's hiding place. Indy revved the engine and the skidoo shot out of the cove after the truck. Now he was in pursuit.
Indy lifted up the machine gun, it was an MP-18, heavy but compact and just about useable with one hand. Up ahead he saw the gunner on the truck; the soldier was still looking forward, peering out over the truck's cab, scanning for his quarry. The skidoo spluttered and this snared the soldier's attention—he spun, terror washed across his face as he registered Indy and the barrel of the MP-18. Machine-gun fire ripped through the soldier and propelled him backwards over the cab of the truck, he slid down the windshield; the horrified driver swerved as his comrade smacked onto the hood and then tumbled under the snow treads. A vivid red smear marked out the truck's path in the snow.
Indy readied the gun and pulled along the driver's side of the truck. The driver glimpsed him in the wing mirror and swerved, slamming into the skidoo; Indy was shunted hard and the machine gun flew from his grasp. The truck veered toward the ice face, threatening to squish the skidoo and its driver; Indy released the throttle, the skidoo slowed rapidly and the truck stormed ahead. Indy swerved away from the glacier wall—just a split second before impact—and was behind the truck once more. Indy then twisted the throttle forward, speeding alongside the passenger side of the truck; to Indy's right a dizzying drop to the ocean.
Fire raged behind the truck driver's eyes. He swerved hard to the right, straight towards Indy—determined to force the cocky American to his death. But the skidoo was lighter, more agile; Indy accelerated hard and the skidoo sped ahead, out of the truck's path. The driver couldn't recover in time and the truck skidded from his control; it flew from the ice shelf and was lost to the icy waters far below.
Indy had no time to relax; behind him half a dozen other trucks and skidoos swept along the ice shelf—Ziegler was relentless in his pursuit and Indy wondered what lurid plans the German had for his eventual demise.
The ice shelf grew narrower, a twenty foot wide ledge of snow jutting from the glacier wall out over the dark, arctic depths. Indy could feel the shelf creaking beneath him. This wasn't good. But it gave him an idea.
He glanced back. Ziegler's team were gaining on him. He wasn't going to be able to outrun them forever. He'd lost the machine gun and didn't have any more knives up his sleeve. If they caught him, he was dead.
Indy reached back along the side of the skidoo, his fingers searching. Then he found it; the fuel cap. Indy unscrewed it. Next he reached for his shoulder; Indy bit his lip as he unwound the bloody, makeshift bandage. He twisted the rag, dipped one end into the fuel inlet, removed it, then jammed the other end of the rag into the hole.
Indy eased the throttle and spun the skidoo around so that he was facing Ziegler's approaching army, now just a few hundred yards away. Indy dug in his pocket and retrieved a cigarette lighter—his lucky charm. He revved the engine full throttle and drove straight toward the enemy. Indy flicked the lighter next to the fuel soaked rag—it instantly caught and Indy threw himself from the speeding skidoo. Momentum carried the skidoo forward as Indy scrambled to his feet and sprinted in the opposite direction.
Bewildered glances flashed between Ziegler's men as the driverless vehicle limped towards them. An observant Inuk cried out as he noticed the flames licking at the side of the skidoo, but it was too late.
The skidoo exploded and took out the nearest of Ziegler's trucks—the vehicle's nose flipped skywards, the truck somersaulted and crunched down hard on its roof. But the blast had far more grievous consequences for the German's expedition.
A fracture in the snow zigzagged out from the blast site; moments later, the entire shelf gave way. Thousands of tonnes of ice and snow collapsed into the ocean with a thunderous, otherworldly groan, drowning out the terrified screams as Ziegler's contingent plummeted to their doom.
Indy's legs pumped as fast as they could, the world tumbling away at his heels. Colossal building-sized boulders of snow collided and exploded as they crashed into the sea. The enormity of the destruction pulled at Indy, the chaos swallowing him whole as he was engulfed in a great billowing white cloud of snow, kicked up by the avalanche.
Indy was pelted with shards of ice as he ran blindly through the mayhem. He tripped, his face landed hard on the ice, but the pain barely registered—adrenalin surging through him with unrelenting ferocity.
Before Indy could scramble to his feet the ground beneath them crumbled—he dropped as the precipice on which he lay collapsed. Indy managed to jab his fingers into stable, unshifting snow and hung precariously over the violently churning sea as it hungrily devoured great slabs of snow and ice. He desperately attempted to haul himself up, but he knew death was imminent; the ice to which he clung would fall away and he would plummet into the tumultuous maelstrom below. Indy braced himself for the key events of his life to flash before his eyes; he was only twenty seven, but still, it might take a while.
But the ice held. The chaos subsided, and Indy saw that he was dangling from the exact point where the ill-fated ice shelf had run into an expansive snow plain.
Indy dragged himself up onto solid ground. He lay on his back, caught his breath. Greedy gulps of frozen air seared his throat. Indy liked the sensation. It reminded him he was alive.
Qailertetang's good mood was over. The mother of all blizzards lashed Indy as he inched his way through knee high snow. He knew he had to keep moving. He didn't know which direction he was headed, he just knew that if he stopped he wouldn't start again.
So he battled on.
Time lost all meaning. He had no idea if he'd been battered by this snowstorm for minutes, hours, or even days.
He'd never felt exhaustion like this. The only parts of his body that didn't ache were the parts that were in excruciating pain or were numb with frostbite.
The world was whitewashed—weather, land, sky, the past and the present were all as one.
He saw his mother; distant, lost. He saw his father's admonishing glare. He saw Marion; her blue eyes wide and alluring, he felt the warmth of her skin against his. He saw Ziegler's menacing grin and the sun compass hanging from Freydis's neck; the gold gleamed and the jewels sparkled against the warrior's pale breasts. He felt her hair brush his cheek as she leaned in close and whispered.
"Liflatinn lifa." The dead live.
Dreams and reality swirled together. He heard the pack dogs barking, Kallik's familiar yap. He saw a dark figure approaching through the white haze. What was real? What was fantasy? He was hit with a wave of nausea, his head spinning.
Indy staggered forward and collapsed.
Panuk caught him and carried him back to the sled.