CHAPTER 15

Trees whipped by and hooves tossed up water as the two horses hastened along the shallow brook. Indy leant forward and yanked the reins hard to the left; the handsome grey stallion turned from the flow and up a narrow incline in the cliffside.

Still moving at a gallop, Indy skilfully navigated his steed around rocks and trees as the ledge widened out into forest.

Indy glanced down into the ravine; Talia and Mutt were still tearing along the stream, two CEDADE motorcycles on their tail.

Weaving through the wide trunked trees, Indy ducked quickly to avoid being taken out by a low branch; he thanked God that, even in his seventh decade, his reflexes were holding up. The past couple of weeks had certainly given them a workout.

Then he heard the ominous whirr of Wolff's bike revving behind him; and the Major was gaining ground. Indy whipped the reins.

"H-ya! H-ya!"

He kept low, keeping his bodyweight from the saddle and moving with the rhythm of the stallion's quickening pace. The horse was going at full pelt through the uneven terrain, but Wolff was still closing in. Then the Major upped the ante.

The piercing rap of the bike's front mounted machine-gun discharging, the splinter of wood as trunks were studded with bullets—one slicing past Indy's right ear before coming to rest in a centuries-old cedar.

Indy steered his hardy mount into denser forest; the trees provided decent cover, but Indy knew he could only avoid the haphazard tangle of branches and the heavy drumming of machine-gun fire for so long.

Indy reached for his bullwhip, then retook the reins with both hands and pulled back, slowing the stallion as they circled around a wide, towering trunk. Indy was now facing back towards Wolff, but on the other side of thick brush. Indy kept his head low, whipped the reins and kicked firmly with his heels; the horse picked up speed once more.

Having lost sight of his target, Wolff halted the machine-gun fire. Then the German heard a sharp crack and caught sight of something leaping from the tangled branches to his left. He felt a sudden sting on the right side of his neck; moments later his throat was encoiled and tightly constricted, he was fighting to breathe.

Wolff brought both hands up and clawed desperately at his snare. He lost control of the bike, was wrenched from the saddle and before he could gather his senses was being scratched and sliced by broken branches and pummelled against loose stones as he was dragged along the forest floor.

Hooves pounded up ahead, churning dirt which pelted Wolff's face.

That damn yankee cowboy had lassoed him.

Wolff managed to get his fingers under the braided leather and loosen its grip. He pulled and the whip came free—but Wolff kept hold of his assailant's weapon. He dug his heels into the ground, trying to get a grip of something on the forest floor. After a few seconds his feet found a tree root; Wolff hooked them underneath and tightened his body, yanking the whip hard...

Indy let go of the whip, but it was too late, he was already being ripped from the saddle. The horse reared up and Indy was flung backwards, his shoulder cracking painfully against a gnarled old cedar.

Indy got to his feet and saw the grey blur of his stallion retreating into the forest.

Then the whip was thrust against his throat; Wolff stood behind him, firmly grasping the whip either side of Indy's neck and attempting to garrotte him with the thing. Damn, maybe buying that new bullwhip wasn't such a great idea after all.

Wolff was powerfully built, taller and a good decade younger than Indy, whose desperate attempts to wrestle free were in vain; the Major's arms were as immoveable as stone.

His windpipe completely flattened, Indy couldn't speak or breathe, he could feel his eyes bulging, his lips turning blue. Another few seconds and he was toast. His hands clawed desperately at his assailant, then reached out despairingly, scrabbling for anything at all he could use to rectify his predicament. But there was nothing.

"Americans, you have no dignity, refuse to acknowledge when it is time to give up the fight."

Indy could feel Wolff's spit spattering his left ear as the Major leant in close and continued.

"So, let me educate you, Doctor Jones. This is your time to give up."

Indy's eyes began to turn in on themselves.

"This is your time to die!"

Wolff gave a final short twist of the whip, to finish off his victim. Indy's outstretched right hand found a tree branch. In this final moment, where death seemed a certainty, he focussed his dwindling energy, twisted his wrist, and the branch snapped free. He jabbed it back—sharp end first—over his left shoulder; the makeshift spear sliced the flesh from Wolff's cheek and ripped through his ear.

Wolff released the whip and recoiled with an anguished cry.

Indy fell onto his knees and greedily gulped back great lungfuls of air.

He saw the Major recovering from the blow and reaching for his Luger, so Indy scrambled to his feet and charged at the bastard, thrusting the snapped branch into the Major's gut.

Wolff fell backwards to the ground, the bloody stake protruding from his stomach. He raised his head and aimed his gun shakily at Indy. But a bullet from Indy's Webley found the Major's temple. Wolff's lifeless head hit the ground with a dull thud.

Mutt held Talia tightly; his ex-girlfriend completely at home in the saddle, confidently steering the horse at full gallop through the tangle of trees lining the bank of the stream.

Mutt thought he'd gotten to know Talia pretty well in the month or so they were dating, but her horsemanship had never come up. His hands rested firmly just above her hips, her hair brushed gently against his cheek; if it wasn't for the two machine-gun toting assholes on their tail, this could be chalked up as a pretty successful reunion.

"Keep hold of me!" Talia called back; Mutt happily obliged. The horse leapt gracefully over a fallen trunk, then Talia guided their mount right, kicking along the edge of the brook.

Still the motorcycles gained ground. One of the riders barked to the other in Spanish and seconds later the pair began discharging the motorcycles' front mounted guns.

Bullets whipped past. Mutt and Talia kept as snug to the horse as they could, and Talia expertly rode back from the stream into the shadow of the forest. The motorcycles followed, but struggled to manoeuvre quite so deftly around the trees and began to lose ground.

"Good work!" Mutt complimented.

"Save it... I'm not sure we can outrun them for long!" Talia whipped the reins.

"Wo-ah!" She glanced back to Mutt. "We need a plan... and fast!"

The scrub thickened and the only traversable path through the forest led them back out into open stream.

One of the motorcycles pulled alongside them. The bike's front-mounted gun unable to manoeuvre round, so the rider reached for his pistol.

Mutt leant in close to Talia. "Keep to the stream, I'll catch you up!"

Before Talia could respond Mutt had lifted himself up and dived from the horse onto the motorcyclist. The pair splashed into the stream. Mutt scrambled to his feet, the soldier was dazed, but still had hold of the gun. Mutt launched at him and landed one blow, and then another in the guy's face; the soldier staggered then fell backwards into the rushing water.

Mutt remembered the sword tucked through his belt. He grabbed the handle—the chill once again took his breath away. In the same instant the second motorcycle whipped past, still in pursuit of Talia. Mutt was knocked from his feet, his back cracking hard into the rocky bed of the stream.

The soldier was now stood again, he aimed his pistol at Mutt's face and spoke with a Spanish accent.

"American scum."

He squeezed the trigger. A shot was fired.

Mutt was sure he must've been hit. But he felt nothing, no impact, no pain. He was still alive. He was still breathing.

How was this possible? The soldier looked equally perplexed.

Then Mutt looked to his hands.

The sword.

He was grasping it in both hands, the blade held just inches in front of his face. He had no recollection of positioning it there, no memory of sliding it from his belt. The metal gleamed with an ethereal golden light. Had this thing deflected the bullet?

An answer came quickly.

The soldier fired again; the blade shifted almost imperceptibly—and with lightening speed and pinpoint accuracy—deflecting a second bullet. Mutt was just about aware it was he who was moving the sword, yet it was as if he was conjoined somehow with the weapon, its blade an extension—and a magnification—of his own senses. The feeling was intoxicating.

In frustration the soldier fired again, and again. Each bullet repelled with the subtlest movement of Mutt's wrist. The blade danced almost effortlessly—this was too easy—until one of the bullets rebounded 180º and landed square in the soldier's forehead. The guy fell flat on his back; water rushing over his face turned red as it mingled with blood oozing from his temple.

Mutt looked in awe at the sword. He could get used to this thing.

The gorge floor steepened, the water followed the meandering curve of the imposing cliffs; Talia whipped the reins as her horse continued to slice through the quickening flow, weaving around rocks and boulders scattered along the stream.

Another onslaught of bullets from the pursuing motorcycle; one grazed the horse's right thigh and the mare cried out and reared up, sending Talia flying from the saddle and splashing ass-first into the cascading water.

The motorcycle skidded to a stop alongside the stream, further startling the horse, who fled.

The grinning CEDADE soldier climbed from the bike and slid a large hunting dagger from a pocket in the leg of his fatigues. The stocky German had a swastika tattooed across his right eye; but this kid had never seen war, he was in his mid twenties, around the same age as Talia's brother, Sammy.

Talia's mind zipped back to that day, twenty years earlier. The day Miss Hanley had took her aside and said that her brother had been found. The brother she'd thought for sure was dead. Talia remembered running from the school, convinced God must've been listening to her daddy's prayers. Then she arrived at the hospital. Saw the boy they said was Sammy. This tiny skeleton, bruised and bloody, barely able to breathe on his own. She learned what those boys had done to him. Children younger than her. Children her daddy told her to forgive. Children she had forgiven.

The Nazi paced into the stream and strode towards Talia. She frantically scrabbled back through the shallow water.

The soldier spat at her and held up his dagger.

"You know how many animals I have slaughtered with this?" He ran his finger along the blade. "Today, I slay another!"

He kicked Talia in the stomach, she crumpled and he grabbed her by her hair, yanked her up onto her knees. He stamped on her left hand—Talia cried out as he twisted his foot, razor sharp shale slicing into her fingers. The knife hovered before her face. She looked up, wanting to meet the bastard's eyes. She saw only blind, unthinking hatred. His eyes wide, pupils dilated, saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth; adrenalin surging as he psyched himself up for the kill.

Talia's eyes narrowed.

She breathed deeply.

Then she jabbed the Nazi son-of-a-bitch in the groin; he doubled over, removing his foot from her bloody hand. Talia pushed herself up in one quick, graceful movement and delivered a powerful side kick to the guy's chest, he staggered backwards. Talia landed a quick jab to his head with her left hand, then her right, before a roundhouse kick finally sent the bastard flying—he hit the bank of the stream with a bone cracking thud, dropping the dagger. Talia placed her left foot onto his right hand, he screamed in agony as she squished his fingers into the jagged rock. Then her right knee landed hard in his balls, her full weight bearing down on him. She scooped up the dagger and held it to his throat. Her heart racing, her hand shaking. She wanted to end this monster. He deserved to die. It would be so easy, just a flick of her wrist and it would be done. But Talia could feel her father's hand resting on her shoulder, could feel his blood in her veins, his heart beating in tandem with her own. She felt a weight lifting from her.

Through pain the Nazi smiled mockingly, spitting blood as he spoke.

"You don't have the courage. A savage who is unable to kill!"

Talia jabbed the tip of the knife into his neck.

"You don't know courage!"

She removed the blade, then swiped her fist across the Nazi's head, knocking him out cold.

Talia calmly stood, dropped the dagger.

Another motorcycle blazed around the curve of the ravine. Talia's heart leapt into her mouth, but just for a beat, then she saw Mutt in the saddle. He skidded to a stop beside her, looked to Talia, then to the unconscious Nazi, then up to Talia again.

"You OK?"

Talia nodded.

Mutt smiled. "Y'know, as dates go, I've had worse."

Talia snorted. "In your dreams, greaser!"

A deep monstrous rumble. The Beast exploded into view, thundering along the gorge in a cloud of rock dust. The truck was gathering pace as it barrelled along the downward slope of the ravine floor.

"Oh shit!"

Talia leapt onto the bike behind Mutt. "What are you waiting for?"

Mutt revved the engine and they sped off, the behemoth surging after them.

Major Meški barked at the driver to go faster. The gorge was widening; they had a clear shot at their prey and the Beast was building momentum as it careened downstream.

With most of CEDADE and the German professor dead, Meški could claim the prize for the sole glory of Persia and its people. He could see the sword glistening, hanging from the American's belt. He'd heard only whispers of its supposed properties, but knew their destination held the key to unlocking its secrets and its power; a power that could overthrow his country's puppet government and restore the land of Cyrus to its former glory.

Meški strode from the driver's cabin and scanned the carnage on the rear deck of the truck. Strong hearted Persians lay dead amid the rubble. The American pigs would pay dearly for this outrage.

He climbed the ladder to the gun turret, carefully pushed aside the dust covered corpse of a fallen brother, and positioned himself at the tank-gun seat. The gun's chamber could hold half a dozen shells and their were four remaining, more than enough to take out the insects trying to flee the Beast's path.

Meški peered into the gun-sight. The terrain was far from smooth and his view was compromised a little by the judder of the truck as it fought its way over innumerable obstacles. But the gun wasn't a precise weapon, anything within a few yards of his quarry would separate limbs from torso. He shunted the artillery, roughly lining up the cross hairs with the fleeing motorcycle.

His positioned his finger on the trigger and pulled; in the same instant the truck jolted as it drove over a particularly high boulder, and the shell exploded in the cliff-face above the motorcycle.

The Americans were showered in rock, but still the bike sped on, wending this way and that, trying to evade further fire. But their path was growing steeper still, the Beast was accelerating ever faster, now merely a dozen yards behind them. One wrong move and they would be pulverised beneath its immense wheels.

Meški yelled abuse at the driver, then repositioned the gun. He had the young Americans clearly in sight. There would be no escape this time.

Once again the Major's finger felt the cold metal of the trigger and began to squeeze.

There was a sudden growl over his left shoulder; Meški instinctively turned and—in the split second before impact—saw a motorcycle flying from the cliffside path straight towards him. The spinning rubber of the front tyre hammered into the Major's face, knocking him from the tank-gun seat. The full weight of the motorcycle slammed him against the roof of the driver's cabin before the bike—and its rider—tumbled down onto the rear deck of the truck.

Indy was surprised he'd survived the jump at all, let alone got away relatively unscathed. His priority had been taking out the giant at the tank-gun and giving the kids a fighting chance of escape. In this he'd only been partially successful. As Indy wriggled out from beneath the smoking motorcycle, he watched the Persian Major get to his feet. This man mountain was only half Indy's age and, apparently, it would take more than a motorcycle to the head to finish off the bastard.

Meški brushed the back of his arm across the gash on his forehead, wiping the blood from his eyes. He then jumped down onto the rear deck of the truck. Indy scrabbled backwards as the Major approached, rolling up his sleeves. Indy reached for his Webley, but Meški kicked it from his hand. The seven-foot goliath then grabbed Indy by the collar and hoisted him into the air.

"Not bad. You are tough. For an old man."

Meški raised his huge fist and landed a hammer-like blow to his opponent's head; Indy felt his jaw jolt from its socket as he flew across the deck and crashed into a pile of rubble. His ears ringing, Indy took hold of his jaw and painfully cracked it back into place. The Persian's shadow fell across him. Indy's free hand rested on a rock the size of a watermelon. Meški grabbed the back of Indy's collar and wrenched him up onto his feet; Indy swung around and swiped the rock across the Major's face. The jagged stone ripped the skin from Meški's left cheek, but the human statue barely flinched. Indy swung the rock back, slicing it into the other side of the Major's face, but still the giant remained standing.

Meški landed his iron fist in his assailant's gut. Indy doubled over, and the Major grabbed him by the neck and hurled him toward the front of the truck.

Glass shattered as Indy rebounded off the window at the rear of the driver's cabin. The driver glanced over his shoulder at the battle unfolding behind him, then returned his attention to the pair on the motorcycle—the Beast was now almost upon them. The bike hovered at the front bumper; the Beast shunted the motorcycle once, then a second time. The motorcycle swayed, but the rider kept control of the vehicle and—as the Beast rumbled over some larger bounders—the bike managed to pull ahead a couple of yards.

The driver cursed the American, then glanced up, beyond the motorcycle; the ravine opened out into forest and the driver's eyes widened at the sight of the stream falling away, a waterfall cascading over a sudden precipice. Their path continued, but only after a gaping chasm, some fifty feet wide.

In the rear of the truck, Indy grabbed a shovel and swung it at Meški. The Major blocked the weapon with a length of thick chain, which he tangled around the shovel and attempted to wrench from Indy's grasp.

The driver watched as the motorcyclist deftly accelerated along a slanted rock at the cusp of the chasm; the rock served as a ramp and the bike soared from the precipice, confidently clearing the void. The Beast had gathered too much momentum to stop in time, and the driver had no option but to slam his foot on the gas and try to repeat the motorcycle's trick.

Meški now had the shovel, Indy turned to avoid the Major's swing, but the shovel cracked into his back with such force the blade flew free and Indy collapsed agonisingly to the deck. As Indy attempted to crawl away, Meški tossed what remained of the shovel and whipped the chain at his foe, entangling Indy's leg in the heavy metal links. The Persian giant began to drag the beleaguered archaeologist toward him.

In the same instant the Beast shot from the precipice.

Meški was flown from his feet.

For the briefest moment the monstrous vehicle appeared to glide through the air. Its front tyres connected with the cliff edge at the far side of the chasm, but the Beast was too heavy to clear the gap and the rear of the vehicle dropped.

Still holding onto the chain, Meški tumbled down the truck as the rear deck fell through 90º. Indy's foot remained tangled in the chain and so he got yanked downward with the Major.

The front wheels of the truck rolled back from the precipice, but the truck's front axle caught on an outcrop of rock. The back of the truck slammed into the cliff face in a cloud of rock and dust; the Beast now hanging vertically over a two hundred foot drop.

Meški and Indy tumbled from the dangling vehicle, but the chain connecting them got snagged in one of the rear machine gun turrets, leaving Indy hanging upside down; below him a dizzying drop to cascading rapids—and to the side of him the Major's booted foot. Indy shifted his body, swinging to the side and avoiding Meški's first effort to kick him loose. But then he swung back, and the Major's second attempt connected powerfully with his ribcage. Indy cried out in pain, but the chain remained entwined around his leg, the cold metal slicing into his flesh and cutting off the blood circulation to his right foot.

Meški began to climb up his side of the chain. All the Major had to do was get to the gun turret, untangle the chain, and Indy would be on a one way trip to the jagged rocks below.

Indy reached up and tried to pull his leg free, but he couldn't hold the position for long, and any movement of the chain only caused it to bite into him even tighter. It was hopeless.

A heartbeat later and the driver tumbled past him, screaming. Indy watched as the poor guy was mangled on the rocks and then gobbled up by the ferocious river. A little glimpse of the fate that lay in wait.

Indy looked up; the length of chain between his foot and the gun turret was around ten feet long. But the back of the truck was only about six feet above him. A closed ramp ran along the rear of the truck, and the ramp-release latch was directly above Indy. If he could get a hold of that ramp he could pull himself up onto the truck, once the slack had gone out of the chain it would be easier—and safer—to untangle.

He mustered all his strength and reached up; Indy grabbed the chain, above his foot. Hand over hand he dragged himself upright.

The Beast juddered, the outcrop was starting to give way.

Time was running out.

Indy could see Meški was already back on the truck.

The Major stood on the secured ramp and looked down at Indy.

"Farewell old man."

Meški reached up and began to untangle the chain from the gun turret. Indy pulled himself up, inch by agonising inch. He reached for the ramp latch...

The chain came free. But Indy managed to grab a hold of the latch just in time; he twisted it, the ramp fell open and the floor disappeared from beneath the Major's feet. Meški fell, screaming as he plunged to an excruciating death.

Indy, dangling from the swinging ramp, watched as the Major's blood mixed with the churning river water. Indy shook his leg and the now-loose chain fell free.

He started the perilous climb up the hanging truck. Every move he made caused the truck to creak, weakening its already feeble grip to the cliff face. Indy carefully pulled himself onto the rear gun turret; the outcrop gave way, the truck let out a groan and slid a few feet before catching on another slender jut of rock. Indy was tossed free from the gun turret but managed to grab hold of the machine gun barrel and drag himself back up. He could hear the ominous clatter of stone crumbling away and falling down the truck.

He had only seconds before this thing dropped, and there was still half a dozen or so yards of the Beast left for him to climb up.

He wasn't going to make it.

Gripping the gun-turret with one hand, he retrieved his whip and cracked it at a tree root protruding from the cliff edge, up near the precipice. After three tries the tip of the whip found the root.

The jut of rock snapped—Indy swung free as the Beast plummeted to its doom. The roar of metal mashing against stone echoed up the chasm.

Indy summoned every last thread of energy and hoisted himself up the whip. An arm reached over the cliff side and Indy eagerly took it.

Mutt dragged his exhausted father to safety. Indy collapsed onto his back. He closed his eyes, savouring the warmth of the dappled sunlight as it stroked his face. There wasn't a part of his body that didn't ache, but it didn't matter, he didn't care.

It was over. Cavendish was dead. His son was safe.

"What, you're just gonna lie there?" Mutt sounded agitated.

"It's over kiddo. Let your old man get some rest." Indy smiled, his eyes still closed.

"Over? It's not over!" In fact, Mutt sounded really pissed off.

Indy opened his eyes, he saw that his son was holding the sword.

Talia stepped forward. "Mutt, take it easy..." She grabbed his arm but Mutt shook her free.

"No!" Mutt held up the sword. "I've seen this thing in action!"

Indy pulled himself up. "Just wait a second and listen to me—"

"No! You listen to me! Those assholes... those assholes who killed mom! They said that if we take this sword to some... some palace it can... bring people back, right?"

Indy rolled his eyes and sighed. "Kid, it's just a fairy story."

"No... I've seen what this thing can do... it's some freaky shit. And if there's even a chance we can use it to save mom, then we've got to try. We've just got to!"

Indy stepped toward Mutt and held out his hand in consolation.

"Son, your mom is gone. I'm sorry, but nothing's gonna bring her back."

Mutt backed away from Indy, shaking his head in disbelief. "You won't even try, will you?" A wave of realisation washed over him. "It's your fault. All of this. It's your fault she's dead! And now you're too chicken shit to face up to it!"

Indy could feel his eyes moistening. His cheeks flushed with anger, and perhaps just a hint of remorse.

"That's not true!"

"Sure it is," Mutt continued. "I've heard the stories, your whole life has been one disaster after another..."

Talia tried to interject. "Mutt please..."

But Mutt was on a roll. "You don't know what he's like... he screws everything up and never sticks around to take responsibility for any of it. And now, because of his... his stubbornness, his... arrogance... she's dead!" He turned to his father and spat out the words. "You're a coward, Indiana!"

Indy's blood boiled, he'd heard enough. "Quit making a fool of yourself, you're a fine one to talk! Taking off every five minutes without so much as a word. You broke your mother's heart every single time." He snickered. "You're just a spoilt little kid."

Mutt dropped the sword, puffed out his chest and squared up to his father. "Say that again, old man?"

Indy stepped forward. "I said—"

Talia pushed between the pair. "Will the two of you just cool it! Please!"

She shoved the men apart and looked to Indy.

"You're probably right. Irkalla is likely just a fairy story. But if there's a chance—even just a tiny chance—that it's not. Well, then surely we owe it to ourselves, to archaeology." Talia glanced to Mutt and then back to Indy "We owe it to Marion, to find out the truth."

Indy shook his head dismissively, but he knew the girl was right. Damn, she was always right.

He looked out from their elevated position to the distant, jagged outline of Mount Dena's twin peaks. Leading up to the mountain a dense cedar forest carpeted the landscape in every direction.

The Forest of the Gods.