Ice Claw (12 page)

Sophie was unsure about Max. Her instincts warned her he was a boy who could bury secrets deep inside, and he definitely knew something about Zabala. When she had picked up the books she had seen the picture frame, the edge of dried blood on the glass shard, and the picture was missing. Max had taken it, she was sure of that. And what else had he taken? When she reached Zabala’s hut, she had seen the sun catch something underneath the knotted sweat rag around his neck. It looked like a pendant, but she couldn’t be sure. One thing she did feel certain about was that he hadn’t been wearing it that night in the café.

A dog barked; cows scattered a few meters, then settled.
An old Basque farmer looked up from where he dozed in the last rays of the day’s sun. By the time he focused his aging eyes he saw only a few fleeting seconds of a boy running fast, faster than any sane person would on those slopes; as if Inguma, the malevolent Lord of Nightmares, were chasing him. Kids today, they scoff if you tell them the legends, the old man thought, but if that Lord of Darkness came after you, there was no place to hide. That boy ran as if Inguma were biting his backside.

These valleys and mountains were closer to the Atlantic weather patterns, and the snow Max had seen approaching now shrouded the mountain peaks, but it fell as light rain as Sophie finally led Max to the narrow, twisting road in the valley. Tucked under a tree, behind a hedgerow, was a small car, barely visible on the deserted road. Neither had spoken since they started their helter-skelter run down the mountainside. Both still needed to get their breath back, but Max’s thoughts whirled. Did she live in Morocco, as she said? This looked like a local car. Had she lied? Had their meeting on the mountain really been by chance? Max was uncertain. Sophie had seemed to test him coming down the mountain—or had she just assumed he was fit enough to keep up? Max had to decide how to play it. He either went his own way or kept her in sight, and that meant keeping her with him, telling her just enough of a lie to avert any further suspicions she might have about him being in Zabala’s hut.

Was Zabala’s death associated with the animal smugglers? Max didn’t think so. Zabala died for another reason, something to do with the abbey. There seemed to be a connection between Sophie’s family and Zabala—did she know more about the reclusive monk than she had said?

She caught Max’s glance of uncertainty when he first saw the car. “It’s hired,” she said. She opened the car’s boot and threw her backpack in. Max did the same. She slammed closed the lid. For a moment they stood looking at each other, drizzle washing sweat from their faces. She gazed at the boy, who, impervious to the rain, stared at her.

“Where to?” she asked Max.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat. “Biarritz,” he answered.

They drove south of Biarritz’s airport, near the sweeping curve of road that skirted the runways, and which would lead a motorist down the coastal road and, within an hour’s drive, across the border into Spain.

Max remembered Bobby Morrell’s instructions and headed for the sound of the crashing waves. A major surfing destination, Biarritz had been “discovered” in the 1960s by a Californian filmmaker—surf this good had to be experienced—and since then it had become the surfing capital of Europe.

They drove past a modern and, by the look of it, very expensive low-rise block of flats. The road curved away into darkness. A high, grass-covered bank, topped with razor wire, hid the dark shape of an old building behind rusting iron gates. It was the end of the road.

“Kill your lights,” Max told her. They sat in darkness for a few moments. Max, uncertain he’d found the right place, didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions if he was wrong. “Stay here,” he said as he got out of the car.

It’s a château
, Bobby Morrell had told him. Well, it wasn’t as fancy a building as Max had imagined. It was unfussy, stark
and surrounded by this fortification. It was more like a state-built monolith. The moon cast a sallow glow across the landscape and then disappeared as clouds tumbled across it.

There were no grounds to speak of, as beyond the wild bushes and defensive wire the scenery was scooped out and shaped into a golf course. Distant low-level security lights from the clubhouse helped illuminate some of the undulating land. It seemed as though the château’s owners had sold off whatever they had owned and retreated behind the grassy embankments that surrounded the house. Max stood in the eerie shadows. An iron gate barred the way. The only sound was the surf crashing a few hundred meters away.

Max’s fingers traced the gate’s framework, hoping to find a bell. His hand brushed a thick chain and then found the padlock binding the gate closed. As he reached through, someone grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, banging his head against the bars. No time even to cry out! Something sharp pressed under his chin. A cloud shifted away from the moon; light glinted on a broad-bladed kitchen knife that now stung his skin. Blood trickled down his neck. He gagged. He was held fast, unable to move. A leathery face pressed against the bars, eyes narrowed in suspicion. An old woman, her twisted hair covering her features. Moonlight. Clouds. The image of a witch.

Her rasping voice hissed in his ear. “I told you, there’s nothing more! Nothing!”

Then, as if from heaven, lights flared. A figure ran, blurred by the powerful beams. Max could only see out of the corner of his eye; the woman still had him jammed into the railings. Then a familiar voice. Bobby Morrell.

“It’s OK! He’s my friend I told you about! Comtesse! Let him go!”

The grip loosened; the blade pulled back. Max pushed away from the gate and held a hand up to his eyes to ease the glare. Bobby reached the other side of the gate and stood next to a strong-looking woman. She was short and bony; thick, unkempt gray hair fell down to her shoulders. She wore what looked to be a kaftan, or a nightdress. Max couldn’t tell. In truth, he didn’t care. He looked at the dribble of blood on his fingers from the nick. The old woman turned on her heel and merged into the light.

Max felt Sophie at his shoulder. She glanced at the bloodied fingers. He shook his head. It was nothing.

Bobby opened the gate. “Sorry, pal. It’s Gran, she gets a bit confused at times.”

Max and Sophie stepped into the château’s courtyard, the chain rattled through the iron bars and the padlock snapped closed.

“Truth is,” Bobby said as he tested the chain, “she’s as crazy as a loon. Definitely one sandwich short of a picnic.”

“And you let her out?” Max said.

“Only when there’s a full moon.”

Max noticed that Bobby didn’t smile when he said that.

Max shuddered. It felt as though he were being ushered into a prison.

Or a lunatic asylum.

The kill, when it came, would be swift, silent and merciful. The victim would feel a searing, numbing pain from his neck, down through his chest, into his heart and lungs; splintering ribs, puncturing vital organs. The cold shaft piercing his body from the sky would stifle any cry of pain.

The hunter’s name was Fedir Tishenko—Fedir meaning “a gift from God.” His Slavic mother, Olha, had cherished him; she had desired a child for many years and God had finally blessed her. She worshipped her son as much as she feared his father, Evgan. Fedir would soon learn to share her fear. His father was a warlord. Barbaric, cruel and powerful, he ruled clans across three Slavic countries. Despite national boundaries, there existed stronger tribal loyalties, forged in blood. This was a society closed to anyone who had not taken the same oath.

Fedir was raised to be his father’s son, a life of violence
unfolding rapidly. Evgan groomed him for succession by teaching him endurance, the fighting skills of a warrior, the cunning of a predator and the ability to withstand pain. Fear, he had told him, must always lie in the other man’s heart. A man born to rule must scythe dissent as the wind gods destroy the wheatfields. Appease the gods, worship the ruler—or die. Evgan and his men reveled in their reputation for causing havoc.

Ancient folklore told of men from the northern Neuri tribe who could transform themselves into wolves. These dread legends were kept alive by peasants and villagers during their festivals, when men known as
vucari
, or “wolf men,” hid their faces behind wolf masks.

And the threat of the real
vucari
was the power behind Evgan and his clansmen.

The gods and spirits of the mountains were one thing Fedir’s parents agreed on. His mother nurtured Fedir’s respect for ancient ways. Steeped in mythology, the Slavs worshipped pagan gods, and one day a terrifying event confirmed all her beliefs. It was the day men came to fear the son more than the father.

When Fedir was twelve years old, he returned home from the village school to find his mother lying beaten on the floor. A storm raged outside, one of the worst in living memory. Fedir confined the chaos within himself until his mother was comforted. Then, stepping back into the malevolent tempest, he set out to kill his father. Evgan had always expected that one day his son would challenge his authority and leadership—but not this soon. He watched the boy climb the steep hill towards him, saw the strength in his legs and the power of his
shoulders. He could almost smell the stench of hatred from his son. It made no difference though, he was just a boy. Time for another beating.

Fedir charged his father. The man cuffed him aside; Fedir went down, blood trickling from his nose. But the power to avenge his mother for the constant fear and pain his father had inflicted upon them surged him back into the fight. He landed a blow, catching the man off guard, and then another. His father laughed and struck him again.

The clansmen jeered. This pup of a boy tackling an old fighter like his father! Why, they’d seen their leader kill men with his bare hands, men three, no, four times the boy’s strength. Alcohol fueled their chanting. The boy just wouldn’t stay down. He was battered, the rain-lashed wind washing his wounds. Fedir spat blood-clotted phlegm. But still his hatred drove him on.

With sudden sleight of hand he pulled a knife from a man’s belt.

The men hushed. A knife fight. The boy’s father knew this was a skill the boy had learned well, taught by the master. Himself.

If he did not end it now the boy would come at him every day of his life. Even he had to sleep. It had to be finished. He unsheathed his own knife.

“I shall take you from this life, boy! I gave it! I shall take it! Last chance!” his father shouted above the howling wind.

A thunderclap smashed down the hillside. The shock wave pulled at his father’s clothing; the men ducked as if a mighty hand had knocked them down. But Fedir did not
flinch. He lunged. His father twisted, blocked the attack, smashed the blade from the boy’s hand with a savage, bone-breaking strike.

The men heard it. The snap. But the boy did not cry out as he sank to his knees. Pain sucked the strength out of him, rushing like water from a burst dam. He looked up into the swirling sky. Dust, leaves and debris danced in a whirling mockery of his failure. He felt his father grab a handful of his hair. The knife ready to strike, as if for a sacrifice.

Time froze. The men were transfixed. The knife swooped down. The boy screamed.

“Perun!
Save me!”

The clansmen swore for the rest of their lives that the moment the boy cried out to the god of lightning, thunder tore through the blackened clouds, wrenched them apart and threw a spear of lightning down into their leader.

The explosion flattened them all. The sky fire scorched the earth and the thunderclap deafened them. The charred remains of Evgan lay twisted in the blackened hole where the bolt had struck. The corpse smoldered, unrecognizable. A few meters away Fedir’s blast-thrown body was scorched from head to toe.

But he was alive.

It took two years for the herbs and medicines to restore his strength. His mother took control of the clans, honored by the men for bearing an indestructible son. And the boy’s legend, like his strength, grew stronger every day. What did not change was his scarred body. The lightning had burned off his scalp and withered his skin like a reptile’s, crinkled
with a scalelike texture. His mother had ordered that a wolf be slain and skinned. Its skull cap, still moist with blood, was pulled onto her son’s face to try to heal the raw skin.

When it came time to remove the wolf’s pelt, part of the membrane had grafted onto one side of Fedir’s face, giving it a partial covering of fur.

Fedir wore his disfigurement like a badge of honor. If anyone averted their eyes in repulsion, they learned the harsh reality of his cold, unyielding will.

Death was a given if Fedir Tishenko was displeased.

From the age of sixteen he began a reign that changed the face of Eastern Europe. No one stood in his way. His single-minded determination destroyed enemies and rewarded friends. An empire was built—Perun Industries. The company logo, a white on black, disruptive, scattered pattern, did not symbolize anything obvious to a casual onlooker, but to those who knew, it was chain lightning—in honor of his savior, the lightning god.