After he did, he stared up at her. With his mask pushed to the top of his head, his eyes shone brightly, enough for her to read his fear and relief. “Thanks.”
“Just get going before I change my mind.”
He set off, demonstrating the proper method. He kept his legs wide, taking each step with care, making sure his crampons had a good grip. He held the ax low in both hands, ready to jam it into the ice if he slipped.
She followed, matching him step for step.
It was tedious, but they made slow progress. Effort and tension had her sweating inside her dry suit.
“I think I see a glow ahead,” Nuka said.
She straightened and tried to peek past the kid—and promptly lost her footing. Caught off guard, she crashed into the main current, which immediately caught her body and shoved her forward. She hit Nuka and knocked his legs out from under him.
Tangled together, their ice axes were useless.
The current sped them a short run, then spilled them down a painful cascade into a wider chamber. Once in the larger space, the stream spread and lost some of its force. It split ahead, dividing around a jagged berg of blue ice.
Nuka grabbed her around the waist and hauled her to the left to avoid hitting the obstruction. He then used their combined momentum to roll them out of the river and onto a frozen bank of rock.
She patted the solid ground.
Rock . . .
They must have reached the glacier’s bottom. Maria sat up, gasping, the wind knocked out of her. Across the dark chamber, the shadowy husk of a ship smoldered in the gloom.
We made it.
Her relief was short-lived.
A shout rose from the ship, full of panic.
“RUN! GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE!”
1:33 P.M.
A moment ago, Mac had thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He thought he’d seen ghost lights flickering by the meltwater cascade flowing into the chamber. Then he heard an eerie echo of voices. The Inuit believed some glaciers were haunted, and after learning their Tuurngaq—their demons—were fiery and real, he did not discount the possibility of ghosts.
Then a pair of figures, as solid as the ice and rock, came sliding and tumbling into view. From the dhow’s deck, he saw them roll out of the stream and onto the shoreline.
But he wasn’t the only one to note their trespass.
Below the ship’s rail, the shadowy bull had been pacing alongside the hull. As the two newcomers crashed into the cave, flames huffed from its nostrils, flaring brightly in the gloom. Its bronze head pivoted in their direction. Heavy legs pounded as it headed toward the commotion.
Mac did his best to warn them—not that it did much good.
A call answered him. “Dr. MacNab? Mac? Is that you?”
Mac recognized that nasal-crack of puberty. He turned to John, who stood straighter, also recognizing the voice.
Mac cupped his mouth and shouted. “Nuka! There’s a dangerous creature down there. Drawn by sound. Maybe light, too. So douse your lamps. Stay quiet.”
To try to lure the beast back here, Mac pounded his foot on the ancient planks. The bull responded and slowed its pace.
Until Nuka called again. “We have ropes over here! A way to climb out!”
Mac groaned inwardly.
What don’t kids today know about staying quiet?
Again the bull headed toward the cascading water. Mac hammered the planks harder, but the beast ignored the sound this time. Perhaps it was intelligent enough to know there were easier, more accessible targets out there.
He needed a new plan—one that was probably foolhardy.
“Nuka!” Mac yelled. “Just shut the hell up. Retreat into the tunnel. We’ll try to get to you.”
He then turned to John.
“Looks like it’s time to take the bull by the horns.”
1:35 P.M.
Clutching her ice ax in both hands, Maria stayed low and backed upstream along the waterway. Its babbling made it difficult to hear. Her eyes searched the dark shoreline, which was a maze of broken ice and glacier-carved rock.
Nuka followed her.
What could be living down here? Had a polar bear been trapped with the men?
From the terror in the man’s voice, she knew it had to be something else, something far worse than a polar bear.
But what?
They finally reached the moulin’s tunnel again. She crouched to enter when a gun blasted hollowly over by the smoking shipwreck.
She jumped. So did Nuka.
Closer at hand, maybe ten yards away, the smoky darkness bloomed with fire. For the briefest instant, she caught a glimpse of something bulky, plated in armor. But a broken cliff of ice blocked most of her view—then the lurking monstrosity retreated, trailing flames, and headed back toward the ship.
Nuka turned to her, his expression shocked.
Whatever it was, it had been almost on top of them.
She retreated deeper into the tunnel, drawing Nuka with her.
Another gun blast rocked through the chamber.
She prayed the others knew what they were doing.
For all our sakes.
1:37 P.M.
Back inside the ship, Mac stood waist-deep in icy water and stared across the dark hold as John reloaded. Both men hid behind tall shards of the giant shattered pots. Mac turned his attention to the smoldering ruins of the dhow’s stern, searching for their nemesis.
C’mon, you bastard, where are you?
After failing to lure the bull with his pounding, Mac knew they needed to pull out their big gun. The first shotgun blast should have been impossible to ignore. Still, he had held his breath, fearing it wouldn’t work. Then he’d heard the heavy tread of its approach back to the ship. He signaled John, who emptied his second barrel through the roof.
The two blasts in the closed space left his ears ringing. What if it didn’t take the bait? He turned to John, ready to nod for another blast—then a roar drew his attention to the stern.
The bull rounded the back of the ship and waded into the hold, impossibly trailing flames in the water. Its overlapping bronze plates shifted as it shouldered toward them. Its head swiveled, threatening with its curved horns. Flames huffed from its wide nostrils. Its jaw gaped, revealing rows upon rows of razor-edged plates.
Dear god . . .
Mac’s blood turned to ice. Even hidden, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He wanted to push farther into the shelter, but he was paralyzed with fear, immobilized by the horror.
John must have noted his panic and whistled to him.
The bull jerked toward his Inuit friend, drawn by the noise.
No, no, no . . .
Mac finally acted, returning to his plan. He flicked on his flashlight and threw it toward the open door of the captain’s cabin. The light cartwheeled through the air and into the tiny chamber. It hit the far wall and clattered loudly, spinning on the desktop.
The bull roared, casting out flumes of fire from its throat. It charged toward the cabin, either lured by the sound, or maybe it could see. The beast did have a set of black-diamond eyes, lit by an inner fire, but they could be merely decorative.
Either way, the bull lowered its horns and barreled through the water, leaving a fiery wake in its path, along with the stench of burning oil. It leaped headlong into the cabin and smashed into the desk, splintering it to ruin, then struck the curved prow hard enough to jolt the entire ship.
Mac and John were already moving. John shifted to the center of the hold, while Mac headed to the cabin. Once in position, John fired both barrels into the back of the bull. The solid-shot shells pounded into its rump with resounding clangs but only dented its surface.