Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (40 page)

General Chinua considered these words at length. He looked the insolent little Japanese up and down, taking his measure. At last, he spoke.

“I do not speak for my lord, Timur the Terrible. You will have to await his pleasure.”

The Japanese dignitary inclined his head in a slight bow, murmuring, “I will accept your hospitality until your honorable Khan is ready to treat with me.”

General Chinua had to resist the overpowering urge to withdraw his sword and beat some of the arrogance out of the presumptive Japanese prince. He refrained from doing so with an effort.

“Come. I will show you Mongolian hospitality.”

Turning to his protective guard, Prince Satsu clipped out a brisk order to follow. His Marines fell in behind him.

“Lead the way, then,” he told Chinua.

AS the Mongol general escorted the new arrivals to a nearby house, the honor guard dutifully followed their prince.

General Chinua conveyed the Japanese dignitary to a respectable looking house, and invited him in. The Prince stepped inside, looking about warily.

Chinua raised his sword to block the protective guard, saying, “You are not permitted in this house of honor. You will be quartered elsewhere.”

Wishing to respect Mongolian hospitality, the Japanese soldiers did as they were instructed.

Prince Satsu smiled thinly, and told General Chinua, “I appreciate sensitivity to protocols of Imperial hospitality.”

Chinua smiled back with wolfish cunning, and said, “Await my lord within.” He closed the door behind the Prince.

Stepping back, Chinua escorted the green-clad guard to a lesser house, which might best be described as a benign hovel.

The Japanese Marines turned up their noses at the sight and smell of it, but etiquette forbade them from making complaint. They were well disciplined. So they entered the hall, and gave no resistance when waiting Mongols leapt up from the corners of the main room and relieved them of their heads with quick, expert swipes of their broad blades.

The dull thuds of their decapitated bodies falling to the floor sounded no more alarming than chairs being moved about. For the floor was covered by a thick carpet, which absorbed the clanging of liberated helmets bouncing off the floor.

Thus Prince Satsu sat patiently in his house of honor, awaiting the pleasure of Tamerlane, entirely unsuspecting of what lay in store for him.

Chapter LIX

THE AWAKENING

TIMUR THE LAME shivered in his sleep.

He lay stretched out in a bed that had belonged to a merchant who had fled the town. The sheets were silk, pillows stuffed with goose down. But the Khan knew nothing of this luxury.

His armor had been removed and his bizarre battle mask set on the taboret beside his misshapen head. His awful visage was exposed for anyone to see. The hideous pleats and rolls quivered and twitched. It was as if, after so many centuries of having been transfixed in ice, every nerve and muscle quivered with revived life.

General Chinua strode into the bedroom and observed his Khan’s convulsions. He drew a deep breath, and waited patiently.

An hour passed before the pale yellow eyes pried open. Timur sat up with difficulty. He favored his left arm, which had been crippled in battle generations ago. Maneuvering his quivering frame around, he set his good leg upon the hardwood floor to steady himself.

Eyes resting on his general, Timur’s age-rusted voice croaked out.

“What news?”

Chinua handed him a thermos jug of scalding hot tea, which Timur quaffed greedily. He drank the beverage constantly to fight off his ever-present chills.

“The Iron Horde has been broken and shattered,” reported Chinua. “Chinese warplanes tore it to shreds. Our arrows were nothing against them.”

“How many survive?”

“Less than fifty,” replied Chinua.

“With fifty Mongols, I can conquer any city in China. What of the bronze barbarian?”

“Doc Savage has vanished. But we have captured his men.”

Timur finished his tea in one greedy gulp. “All of them?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“As before, the bronze one will seek his men. Let us lay a trap for him.”

“What manner of trap?”

“One that will ensure victory over the brazen devil.”

Timur struggled to stand up. All of his limbs were still stiff from his long hibernation. He began buckling on his armor, which he did with difficulty, owing to his withered arm with its maimed fingers. It was then that General Chinua could see clearly that the Great Khan was but an old man who had seen many battles, and suffered many war injuries.

Finally, Timur placed the heavy iron mask over his terrible countenance, and donned the helmet with its leather side skirts and high horsetail plume.

“Great Khan,” said Chinua, “a Japanese prince has come, seeking audience with you.”

“What did you do with this Japanese prince?”

“I placed him in a house where he awaits you. After I separated him from his honor guard.”

“How large a guard?”

“Six heads strong.”

Behind the iron battle mask, canine yellow eyes narrowed.

“I cleaved in twain the honor guard at their necks,” explained Chinua.

“You saved me the trouble,” murmured Timur.

Chinua smiled like an eager wolf.

Together, they stepped out into the afternoon sun and Timur Khan plunged into an explanation of what disposition he wanted made of Doc Savage’s warriors. The aged warrior walked stiffly, favoring his limping right leg. His bad arm dangled aimlessly, as if broken. An armored glove concealed his missing digits.

As he listened, General Chinua’s eyes grew bright and his wolfish smile increased noticeably.

“It will be done at once, my lord,” he promised.

Chapter LX

ESCAPE

JOHNNY LITTLEJOHN LAY supine on the earthen floor for a very long time, his eyes squeezed shut. Grimly, he attempted to shut them even more tightly, but nothing he could do could erase the image burned into his brain: the sight of Cadwiller Olden squeezed into a narrow casket far too small for even his diminutive body.

After a while, the midget’s deep hound-dog voice came again.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” croaked out Johnny.

“Listen, we have to get out of here. They’ll kill us for sure.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They are Mongols. That is what they do. They’re only holding you until that damn Doc Savage shows up, so they can lop off his head. They got his other men stashed somewhere. The only reason you’re not with them is that you were unconscious.”

“I fail to comprehend.”

“The others are probably being tortured, and it would spoil all their fun if you weren’t awake. These demons love their sport.”

Johnny blinked. “Does Doc know that we are here?”

“How would I know?” retorted Olden in a petulant tone.

“Precisely where is our present location?”

“I don’t know the name. It’s a town Tamerlane’s army happened upon. When he rolled in, it was practically deserted. The peasants saw that he was coming and took to the hills.”

“Doc will find us,” said the wordy geologist firmly.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Olden complained. “You are in shape to be rescued. But not me. Oh, how I wish I had never laid eyes on this wretched corner of the globe. I had such ambitions.”

“Ambitions for evil,” Johnny flung back.

“I could have ruled the world, if I got enough breaks.” Olden’s voice choked back a sob. “My mother is going to be so disappointed.”

Johnny opened his eyes, blinked twice. “Mother?”

“She encouraged me to make my first million in oil.”

Johnny remembered the rumors that Cadwiller Olden got his start in the Oklahoma oil fields. He had never particularly believed them.

“You should have stayed in that business,” he remarked.

“Never mind.”

The room fell silent once more. Johnny resumed struggling with his bindings. The rawhide continue to shrink. Despite outward appearances, the bony human skeleton was far stronger than he looked. He attempted to exert pressure on his bindings. But they only dug more cruelly into his flesh. The rawhide noose around his throat continued to constrict. It became difficult to breathe.

“If only I could get my teeth into these lashings,” Johnny complained.

“Why can’t you?”

Johnny explained his predicament in small words in order to conserve his oxygen.

“My teeth still work,” Olden pointed out. “That’s about all that’s left that does. Maybe I could bite through them.”

Johnny hesitated. He was not eager to again lift the lid of the teak box. Or disclose the horror that lay nestled within. But the relentless tightening of the rawhide noose forced him to shove his reservations into the back of his horrified mind.

SITTING up, Johnny worked his way back to the teak coffin, again employing the tip of his nose to lift the lid. This time he gave his shaggy head a quick toss, which caused the lid to fly fully open and bang down.

Averting his gaze, Johnny inserted his lashed hands into the receptacle. Very quickly he could feel strong teeth nibble and gnaw at the rawhide. It felt like a rat going to work.

“This stuff is tough,” Olden complained.

“Can you manage it?” pressed Johnny.

“Give me another minute.”

The little man in the toy casket chewed and ripped with the ferocity of a ferret. It took many minutes, during which Olden would pause to spit out bits of rawhide he had chewed loose. The windings loosened and, before long, Johnny was able to pop his lashings apart by main strength, completing the job.

Once his hands were free, they began tingling with the pins and needles sensation that accompanies the return of blood flow after a long hiatus. Johnny could not feel his painfully thin fingers.

“What’s keeping you?” demanded Cadwiller Olden.

“Sanguinary superstasis,” responded Johnny.

“What did you say?”

“Loss of circulation.”

The long-worded archaeologist sat helplessly, enduring the anguish of returning sensation. Eventually, he could move his fleshless digits and with these he attacked the noose around his throat, digging in and attempting to free himself. It was not easily accomplished.

Johnny crawled around until he found nail heads sticking out the side of a rude wall. Yanking one free, he methodically scored the rawhide over and over, weakening it until he could part it with finger strength alone.

The ability to breathe freely lent him added strength, and the skeletal archaeologist went to work on the lashings around his ankles.

They came undone much more quickly. Johnny awkwardly levered himself up until he stood standing on his own two legs, although he could barely feel his blood-starved feet. He took two halting steps, then fell over. This helpless feeling forced him to wait until he could navigate safely. It took ten agonizing minutes.

With great care, Johnny advanced on the teakwood coffin and once more his horrified gaze fell upon helpless Cadwiller Olden.

The midget glared back, as if angry with the entire world. Johnny clapped the lid shut and tucked the narrow container under one angular elbow.

“What are you doing?” Olden demanded hotly.

“Escaping,” returned Johnny, slipping for a door whose lighted outlines were very indistinct.

“Do me a favor, if you get free?” Cadwiller Olden asked plaintively.

“Never!” Johnny retorted vehemently. Then he caught himself. “What manner of favor?” he asked, puzzled.

“If you come to a lake or pond, just toss me in.”

Johnny blinked. “But you would drown for certain!”

Cadwiller Olden murmured without feeling, “I’m looking forward to it.”

Chapter LXI

TORTURE CAGES

AS THE SUN set ponderously on the walled village of Fragrant Flower, a pig wandered into town.

Few noticed this pig, who was stringy and not very delectable to look at. There were wild pigs throughout the town, almost all of which were plumper and more desirable for eating than this scrawny specimen.

The pig wandered around aimlessly, rooting through refuse, sniffing here and there at intervals. The porker might have been searching for something to eat. Someone willing to ascribe intelligence and cunning to the meandering shoat might have guessed that it was searching after the fashion of a hunting bloodhound. Whatever the case, it continued its perambulations through the exceedingly narrow streets of town, for Chinese hamlets are constructed along very close-packed plots.

Eventually, the pig’s sniffing and snuffling brought him to the center of town. He arrived in time to witness a sight.

Bamboo contrivances resembling enormous square birdcages were being hoisted onto rough scaffolding. Trapped in these wicker-and-bamboo boxes crouched four of Doc Savage’s men. Monk, Ham, Renny and Long Tom. They were hunkered down on the floor of each cage. Resting on their bent backs were great lead slabs. These flat weights served as roofs, but were unsupported, only held in place by greased columns that served as tracks, up and down which the suspended roofs could slide. The tracks allowed Monk and the others to shift about under the obdurate roofs. But that was the limit of their ability to move, for the awful weights continually pressed down upon them.

It was a particularly fiendish form of Chinese torture. As long as they squatted in place, keeping their backs arched and the oppressive slabs raised, they would not be crushed. The confining cages prevented them from throwing the weighted roofs off their painfully bent bodies. There was no room to stretch out and lie down. Had they endeavored to do so, pressure would surely suffocate them.

In times past, Chinese coolies were reduced to pitiful cripples by exactly such punishment. Some had been reduced to a state close to that of an animal, because their backbones were permanently bowed.

This surely was the cruel fate that awaited Doc Savage’s men, if they were not released from the cages eventually.