in the shadow of a pyramid-shaped peak, beyond a brown-and-red-striped gorge. There were drawings and the beginnings of a tunnel map. Unfortunately, the colonel was lost in the mountains, presumably a victim of an avalanche, and never fully documented the extent of his find. Still, his fleeting references were enough to conclude that the legend may perhaps be fact.
The final piece of evidence came to light entirely by chance. A farmer in West Sussex was opening an old well when he discovered that several stones used to shore up its sides were engraved. Mathews learned that Yourstone purchased the stones and realized the inscriptions were 6th century in origin. They talked of a land where the ground erupted with fire, and ice soothed the flames. A faraway place where warriors dwelled, one in particular of great lineage and importance. There was no name mentioned, but the reference to a land of fire and ice seemed further confirmation that the trail for Arthur’s grave ended in Iceland.
“Yourstone was searching out there,” Goulding said as they glanced through the windows at a sky stained salmon from a morning sun. “Sir Thomas confirmed that to me.”
“But he never learned the location?”
“I don’t know. Mathews never told me.”
Deep fjords scarred the jagged southeast coastline, which gave way to tussocks of soaking-wet tundra. Sheep tracks were evident through boulder fields. Patches of birch and aspen dotted an otherwise barren landscape. A river flowed north, more a long narrow lake for much of its length, the calm water glittering blue from a glacial tinge.
The pilot kept the chopper trim in the cold air.
Malone said, “I’ve read some of the Icelandic legends. They talk about gnomes, elves, and dwarves that live in the mountains. Easy to see how a legend about a haunted cave would have survived.” He stared down at craters that dotted the barren surface. “This place is like the moon with water.”
“There’s a saying. If you’re lost in the Icelandic forest, just stand up.”
A column of vapor rose in the distance.
“Geysers,” Goulding said. “Lots of volcanic activity here. Land of Fire and Ice, remember? What a lovely contradiction.”
Off to the west glaciers dominated, one having withdrawn its icy paw and left a black gravel plain veined with verdant moss. And somewhere out there was a pyramid-shaped peak near a brown-and-red-striped gorge. Unfortunately, from the looks of things there were a lot of pyramid-shaped peaks. All of the slopes were tall and jagged.
The chopper banked right and lost altitude to escape an approaching patch of dense clouds. They cleared a short peak and Malone saw a village ahead, its buildings of wood, dry stone, turf walls, and corrugated iron roofs. Sheep roamed its perimeter. A group of reindeer clambered up a nearby slope. The pilot angled his approach away from both flocks. Goulding had learned of this locale from the World War II journal.
“This is the closest settlement to the area you mentioned,” the pilot said through their headsets. “I’m going to land.”
He settled the chopper onto a grassy field and they climbed out into the frigid air, quickly zipping their coats. It was a five-minute walk to the village. A paved road bisected the town neatly in half. There was a variety of stores, one a rock shop that displayed semiprecious stones in its front window, another a general store full of merchandise. A wooden church stood at the end of the long street. A woman wrapped in a wool coat was strolling down the street away from the church. She approached the general store and inserted a key into the lock.
He led Goulding over and did the introductions, learning that the store was hers.
“I heard the helicopter a few minutes ago,” the woman said in clear English, brushing brown, gray-streaked hair away from her eyes. She was middle-aged with a face round and red as a beet.
“This is going to sound a little strange,” he said, “but in the mountains, are there any peaks nearby shaped like a pyramid?”
“Many.”
“Here’s another stupid question. How about brown-and-red-striped gorges?”
She smiled. “Too many to even count.”
He told her about the legend of the haunted cave.
“Are you treasure hunters?” the woman asked.
“Not at all,” Malone said.
“The others said the same thing, and I thought they were lying, too.” Her declaration carried contempt.
He wanted to know, “What others?”
“The men up in the mountains.” She pointed to the west toward snowcapped peaks. “They said they were rock hounds. Looking for jasper and obsidian.”
“How long have they been there?” he asked.
“About