Gold of the Gods Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  About the Author

  RESISTANCE

  MAXIMUM RIDE

  RANGER'S APPRENTICE

  TIM

  Barnaby Grimes

  GOLD OF THE GODS

  BEAR

  GRYLLS

  GOLD OF THE GODS

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ISBN 9781407042213

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  GOLD OF THE GODS

  A RED FOX BOOK

  ISBN: 9781407042213

  Version 1.0

  First published in Great Britain by Red Fox,

  an imprint of Random House Children's Books

  A Random House Group Company

  This edition published 2008

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Bear Grylls, 2008

  Written by Bear Grylls and Richard Madden

  The right of Bear Grylls to be identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  Set in 14.5/20pt A Garamond by

  Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.

  Red Fox Books are published by Random House Children's Books,

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is for Marmaduke,

  my precious youngest son, and another

  apple of Papa's eye! I hope you enjoy this

  and one day we'll live such an

  adventure together.

  At last the rain had almost stopped. The rhythmic drumming on the jungle canopy far above had faded to a distant murmur. Only the sullen drip, drip, drop of water splashing into muddy pools disturbed the silence as a single shaft of sunlight broke through into the rainforest below.

  Peering through the gloom, an inquisitive troop of howler monkeys clung to the lower branches of the trees. Their gaze followed the bright line of sunlight to where a bedraggled shape lay spread-eagled in a pool of light on the jungle floor. Every few minutes one let out a bloodcurdling bark and violently shook the branch on which it was sitting.

  But the monkeys were beginning to lose interest in this strange hairless ape that lay so deathly still beneath them. This was no longer fun. When they had first begun hurling sticks down from the trees above, the hairless ape had tried to defend itself against the barrage of missiles. Once it had even barked back at them in their own language. But now it lay as unmoving as a lump of earth, no longer of interest. The time had come to move on.

  As the noise of the monkeys slowly faded into the distance, a sigh that sounded almost human escaped from the inert form. Playing dead was not a survival strategy Beck Granger would normally use. Especially with a bumptious group of young howler monkeys. But with his body on the brink of exhaustion, he badly needed to look after what little energy he had left.

  And somewhere not far off, a far worse threat still lurked. There was only one lord in the jungles of Colombia's Sierra Nevada mountains and it was not human. As night began to fall, the mighty jaguar, king of the jungle cats, would be patrolling his territory once more.

  All day long the young teenager had felt his spirit stagger under the combined assault of rain and heat and hunger. Drawing on every ounce of strength he still possessed, and using every shred of knowledge gleaned in a childhood spent learning the ways of survival, he had pushed himself onwards. Against all the odds he was still alive, and somewhere out there was the goal he was searching for.

  In his fevered sleep he had come face to face with the Indian once more. He remembered the first time he had seen those gleaming eyes. How long ago it now seemed. The carnival. The twins. Don Gonzalo. That extraordinary night in the square. The start of the desperate quest to find the Lost City.

  And then he remembered. Around his neck hung a muddied amulet in the shape of a golden toad, its eyes glistening in the sunlight, its mouth wide open. Adrenalin surged through Beck's veins. He still had one final chance.

  Taking a long deep breath, he put the amulet to his lips.

  And blew.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Beck Granger strode onto the balcony of the five-star Hotel Casa Blanca and let out a low whistle. 'This,' he muttered under his breath, 'is unreal.' Cheered on by a boisterous crowd, an endless procession of carnival floats was flowing out of the narrow cobbled streets into the main square below.

  Effigies of men with extravagant moustaches wearing doublets and ruffs swayed unsteadily above the crowd, while every few minutes a roar of approval went up as a particularly spectacular float came into view. Cartagena's annual carnival was in full swing and the strains of salsa, congo, rumba and Caribbean steel bands floated up on the breeze.

  Behind Beck, in the ballroom from which he had just emerged, the scene could hardly have been more different. Elegantly dressed dignitaries chatted in small groups as waiters in starched whites passed silently between them. A four-piece string quartet was playing a jaunty waltz. Beck vaguely recognized the tune from his uncle's stodgy old classical music collection.

  'Cool!' he muttered for the umpteenth time that day. Colombia was certainly a different country. It was also a different world. His mind spun back to the previous week. No more drizzly mornings trudging into breakfast along the school avenue. No more Mr Braintree and double maths for a whole month. And Mrs Armington (Armour Plating, as the boys always called her) would have to make do with screaming at the pigeons in the school quadrangle now that the boys had broken up for the Easter holidays. Beck's grin almost hurt.

  'Beck! Hola! Amigo!'

  Beck shook himself out of his daydream. The identical faces of two teenagers beamed mischievously back at him. The words had emerged simultaneously from under two matching mops of brown curls, high cheekbones and arching eyebrows. If it hadn't been for the huge gold rings dangling from the ears of the face on the right, he would have sworn he was seeing double.

  'Marco. Christina. Buenos días.'

  After just twenty-four hours in South America, Beck had already picked up a handful of useful Spanish phrases, but there
was no danger yet of being mistaken for a local. Luckily the twins' English was a little more advanced. They had only met for the first time the previous day, when the twins and their father had greeted Beck and his uncle at the airport. Even so, he already felt like one of the family.

  'I hope you're enjoying our little party, Señor Beck,' said Marco. 'That's such neat timing, you and your uncle coming to stay with us right now. Our carnival is the best – we Colombians know how to party. But come back inside – Dad is about to make his speech. Now we can find out what this is all about.'

  'And the reason you and your uncle are both here,' added Christina. 'Isn't it a bit odd he hasn't told you why?'

  'I've learned not to ask questions,' replied Beck wearily. 'Uncle Al tells me patience is a virtue. He likes to keep his projects secret during term time. So I don't get distracted from my school work. Or so he tells me.'

  Christina led the way back into the ballroom, where the string quartet had stopped playing and a hush had fallen over the expectant crowd. Snaking their way through the guests, they made their way across the huge room. Beck saw that his uncle was chatting animatedly to a small group of VIPs. Judging by the half-empty champagne glass in one hand and the fat Cuban cigar in the other, he was enjoying being the centre of attention.

  Now in his mid-sixties, Professor Sir Alan Granger was one of the world's most respected anthropologists. Over the years his studies of tribal peoples had become classic texts, compulsory reading for university students around the world. More recently his appearance on the judging panel of a TV reality show had made him a household name in the UK.

  But to Beck he would always just be plain Uncle Al. More at home examining bits of charred bone at the bottom of a pit or fragments of parchment under a microscope than hobnobbing with the rich and famous.

  Uncle Al had been Beck's guardian ever since that terrible day when the headmaster had sent for him and told him the dreadful news: Beck's parents were missing, presumed dead. Their light plane had crashed in the jungle, the wreckage spread for miles around. Their bodies had never been found and the reason for the plane crash never explained.

  Over the three years since the tragic death of his parents, Beck had grown very close to his Uncle Al and now thought of him like a second father. For months Beck had been inconsolable, but his Aunt Kathy and Uncle Al's never-say-die view of life – together with some terrific home cooking – had gradually revived his spirits.

  Like most of the Granger family, Uncle Al had been a wanderer all his life. His work frequently took him to remote wildernesses around the world for months at a time, but whenever this coincided with the school holidays, he always invited Beck along. And on more than one occasion he'd had reason to be thankful for the teenager's survival skills.

  Already, at the age of just thirteen, Beck knew more about the art of survival than most military experts learned in a lifetime. David Granger, Beck's father, had been the Special Operations Director of Green Force, the environmental direct action group, and the family had lived with remote tribes in many of the world's most extreme places, from Antarctica to the African bush.

  Just a few weeks before the end of term Beck had received an email sent by satellite phone from a remote location somewhere in the Amazon. Uncle Al had been invited by the Mayor of Cartagena to join him and his family for the Easter holidays in Colombia. A plane ticket had been booked and Beck was to fly out the day after term ended.

  Beck guessed the invitation meant more than just a holiday in the sun, but Uncle Al had chosen not to explain. After spending a rainy afternoon in the school library locating Colombia on a map of South America and then scouring the Internet, Beck had finally tracked down some more information about the mysterious Mayor of Cartagena.

  Mayor Rafael de Castillo, who he now knew better as the father of Marco and Christina, was the direct descendant of Don Gonzalo de Castillo, a famous conquistador. Gonzalo had sailed with Christopher Columbus on his voyages of discovery to the New World. He was famous as the founder of Cartagena, had become fabulously wealthy, and had died in mysterious circumstances after an expedition into the nearby Sierra Nevada mountains.

  By now Beck and the twins had at last managed to squeeze their way to within a couple of metres of the podium at one end of the Hotel Casa Blanca's magnificent ballroom. As they jostled for a better view of the speakers, there was a squeal of feedback and the amplified rumble of someone clearing their throat.

  'Señoras y señores,' boomed a disembodied voice.

  A polite round of applause followed the introduction of the mayor, and the twins' father stepped up to the microphone. A tall man with dark, well-groomed hair, Don Rafael reminded Beck of an old-fashioned Hollywood star from the black and white era. Don Rafael was clearly an experienced public speaker. Every now and then a smile would break out on the faces of the guests, followed by an eruption of laughter around the room.

  'He always tells that one,' Christina shouted into Beck's ear during one particularly loud outburst. 'Watch – he'll stroke his moustache now. He always does that when he's feeling pleased with himself.' Marco and Christina doubled up in a fit of giggles as Don Rafael duly obliged.

  The crowd fell silent once more as the serious expression on the mayor's face indicated that he was reaching the climax of his speech. With a theatrical flourish of his arm, he gestured towards a huge oil painting hanging in an ornate gilt frame on the oakpanelled wall behind him. The subject of the portrait, a man roughly the same age as Don Rafael himself, was wearing doublet and hose and looking out from the battlements of a harbour wall. His right hand gestured towards a fleet of warships under full sail, their pennants fluttering in the breeze.

  In a flash Beck realized who the subject of the portrait must be. As the twins' father struck up the same regal pose, the great conquistador Gonzalo de Castillo, founder of Cartagena, rose from beyond the grave. Once more the ballroom burst into spontaneous applause.

  'Spot the family resemblance?' shouted Marco above the noise. 'I'd recognize that nose anywhere. Luckily Dad hasn't passed it on to us.'

  'I hope he hasn't invited all these people here to tell them he fancies himself as a conquistador,' added Christina. 'That would be really embarrassing.'

  As the applause died down once more, Beck recognized the words 'famoso antropólogo inglés'. All eyes turned towards Uncle Al, who acknowledged his host and the crowd with a polite bow. Beneath the trademark eccentricity that the TV audience had found so endearing – a 'bumbling favourite uncle in a panama hat', as one critic had described him – was one of the sharpest brains of his generation.

  Don Rafael was speaking quickly now and the silence of the audience and the expectant look on the faces around him reflected his enthusiasm. But it was only when the mayor uttered the words 'El Dorado' that Beck realized something out of the ordinary was in the air. The look on the twins' faces said it all as their mouths fell open in amazement. The mayor continued to address the gathering, his voice growing in excitement.

  'My father thinks he knows where to find the Lost City,' whispered Marco, hardly able to breathe. 'It was found in the jungle by a small group of conquistadors under Gonzalo and then lost again for centuries. No one has ever known where to look. Until now.'

  'And your uncle is here to help us find it,' added Christina. 'The expedition has been kept secret until now, but all the arrangements have been made and it will be ready to leave next week.'

  'Welcome to Colombia, amigo!'

  CHAPTER TWO

  A huge smile lit up Uncle Al's face as Beck and the twins tripped over themselves in their hurry to climb the steps onto the podium when the speeches had finished. Mayor Rafael was surrounded by an enthusiastic group of VIP guests, but Uncle Al could hardly wait to speak to the three excited teenagers.

  'Keeping it all a secret from you was my toughest assignment so far, Beck, young man,' he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. 'But my good friend Mayor Rafael insisted. They do things differently here. Walls
have ears. Mum's the word and all that. Get my drift?' He tapped the side of his nose and raised an eyebrow at his nephew.

  Out of the corner of his eye Beck could see the twins staring at Uncle Al as if he had been speaking in Ancient Arabic.

  'I hope you're taking us with you to find this Lost City, Uncle Al,' said Beck when at last he could get a word in edgeways. 'Sounds a lot more exciting than our last trip.' He and Uncle Al had set off into the wilderness together on what should have been a routine expedition to study the remains of the ancient Nubians of Sudan.

  'Especially when it's the city that's lost rather than us,' he added archly.

  'OK, OK, enough said, young man,' Uncle Al said hastily, winking at the twins. 'Can't win 'em all. Lost the plot. Lost us too. Mea culpa. Dorkus maximus, et cetera.'

  'I hope these two young rascals are looking after you well, Beck,' said a booming voice with a thick Spanish accent. Mayor Rafael had extricated himself from the crowd of VIPs and was striding across the stage to join them. He towered over the twins as he proudly put an arm around each of them.

  'They were just about to tell me about your ancestor Don Gonzalo and the Lost City, sir,' said Beck, still a little overawed by the larger-than-life figure of Don Rafael. The mayor was dressed in his official uniform, sporting a bright purple sash and a hat that looked like it had last been worn by one of Gonzalo's conquistadors.

  'Dad thinks he's Gonzalo, don't you, Dad?' said Marco.

  'That's why he became mayor,' said Christina, smiling wickedly at her father. 'Just so he could dress up in funny clothes.' She paused and gave her father a nudge in his stomach.

  'But Beck wants to know whether we can join the expedition to find the Lost City, don't you, Beck?' she went on, nodding frantically in Beck's direction.

  'Well, no . . . I mean . . . well, actually, yes, sir,' stumbled Beck.

  Just then a loud gong sounded, drowning out the mayor's reply. At the same time an officious-looking man in dark glasses and a peaked cap covered in gold braid appeared by the mayor's shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Beck noticed a long scar down one side of the man's face; his forehead was beaded with drops of sweat.