Cape Wrath Read Online Free PDF Page B

about this briefly, before they’d knocked off, but neither Clive nor the Professor had chosen to elaborate, saying simply that it had been just a passing thought and was “nothing important”. The student’s knowledge of Norse mythology didn’t extend half as far as either of theirs, but, oddly, he felt certain they weren’t being entirely honest in this.
    Skadi’s Viper? … He’d definitely heard that phrase somewhere before. And, as Clive had hinted, in some significant arcane respect.
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    On every side of him the grey seas rose like Himalayan mountainsides, booming and awesome. He tilted sideways and thought he might go overboard, but somehow his feet remained planted firmly. An oak-like strength ran through him: he knew no fear; scarcely felt the cold, though the skies above were brittle with winter’s breath, though the rigging-ropes thrumming in the strong salt wind were slick and hard with frost, though the great raven sail Land-Waster bellied and banged overhead.
    Onward, the ornate prow rose and fell as it crested the swells. Through the breaking surf, a long green shore emerged, bleak and misted with the dawn. Beyond it stood the blue humps of mountains, their snowy heads lost in clots of cloud – though, as Alsvidh rose on his pillar of flame and glared through the cracks of the ice, torrents of hot crimson light spilled down the flowing screes, and the Jotuns beat their hammers on the walls of their deep Earth prison, and now Alan felt that immense surging in his veins.
    Oh, how he wanted to tear it: to tear that land, to tear it up by its rock-roots, to bend and twist and turn it, to burst out its blood and entrails, its priests and nuns, its saints and relics, its simpering, cowardly kings, who hid behind their sacred swords and gilded thrones, their hearth-men and their adder pits. To tear and tear, to rip and smash and pummel until the thick silver fleece on the backs of his hands was drenched and matted with gore, ’til the black blades of his clenching claws glittered like dragon-fire …
    Alan awoke with a start.
    For a moment he was befuddled and dazed, blinking hard in the deep blue light inside his tent. Then he turned over and yawned. As usual, the Fibrefill sleeping bag had kept him comfortably warm, while the foam mat, though always difficult at first, had gradually absorbed his weight and protected him from any dampness or ground-chill. Alan glanced at his watch. It read five o’clock, which was very early by his normal standards, but even though he’d not managed to get to sleep until around one that morning, he opted to rise. It was impossible not to, with the energy of the expedition, and the excitement of the find still pulsing through him.
    Outside, the camp lay in blissful summer morning slumber. Below the line of the trees, the early sun gleamed on the bog-pools, while above, it broke through the dense pine canopy in misty, milky shafts. To Alan’s surprise, Craig and David were already up and about. Craig, clad for climbing in his sweater, his cleated boots, his longest, thickest socks, a pair of woollen trousers and a red and white Llanelli bob-cap, was kneeling outside his own tent, enthusiastically stuffing goods into his day-sack; among other things, some rolled-up waterproofs, his camera, and a block of Kendal Mint Cake. He was proverbially bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. David, on the other hand, was pale with early-morning nausea, and, again showing his inexperience, standing around clad only in denims and sneakers, neither of which were suitable for this austere landscape.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re still going after that sea-eagle?” said Alan, strolling over. “Not after yesterday?”
    Craig nodded and grinned. “You got it, bud. The Prof wants us up and at it by nine. Didn’t see she could complain about me getting a little R and R before breakfast.”
    Alan was genuinely amazed.