Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (41 page)

Monk was discussing this prospect with his fellow prisoners.

“Last time I was in China,” he growled, “I heard talk of a coolie they called the dog-man.”

“Dog-man?” wondered Ham.

“Yeah. They put him in a cage exactly like this for five years. When they finally let him out, he went about on all fours like a dog with a broken back. He could never walk upright again.”

Long Tom said sourly, “Did you have to share that yarn?”

“It ain’t a yarn. The dog-man later went on to become a big-shot pirate down around Macao.”

Renny thumped, “How could he do that if they turned him into a human dog?”

Monk grunted, “I guess his bark was as bad as his bite.”

No one laughed at this grim jest. They were concerned about the numerous cuts that had been inflicted upon them as they were prodded into the cages. Had they not crawled in, they would have been sliced into ribbons, which was another form of torture with a dishonorable history in this part of China.

The four prisoners were so preoccupied with their predicament that they failed to notice Habeas Corpus peering around the corner of one slovenly hovel with beady eyes.

The porker gave a grunt of recognition, and seemed on the verge of hurling himself forward. But some instinct stayed him.

Backing up carefully, Habeas turned tail and raced away from the town square.

Not long after, Habeas found Doc Savage, who was waiting at the outskirts of town. The bronze man had sent the pig on ahead, knowing that his powerful snout would ferret out Monk and the others, were they present, without attracting suspicion.

Habeas cavorted as excitedly as a dog and pawed the ground with one sharp hoof.

“Did you find Monk?” asked Doc.

The pig grunted three times.

“Lead me to him,” Doc directed.

Turning tail, Habeas scampered off.

DOC SAVAGE crept stealthily through the gathering dusk, golden eyes alert. During the long trek beyond the mountains, he had picked up the tracks of what remained of the Iron Horde. They led to this spot, which had been the apparent destination of the mystery plane from Japan.

In entering the walled town, the bronze man had skirted the waiting Mitsubishi transport. But not before loitering long enough to overhear conversation among the plane’s armed guards.

The name Prince Satsu had been mentioned exactly three times. That was enough to inform the bronze man that Tokyo had sent an emissary to make terms with Tamerlane. It was a development that was most unwelcome. But Doc Savage had no time to waste upon the Japanese aircraft. Finding his men was of paramount importance to him.

Doc moved along the narrow twisting streets, taking care not to turn any corners without first using his monocular, which had been converted into a periscope. His ears were alert for the sound of voices. His acute sense of smell, normally helpful in navigating unfamiliar environs, was defeated by the malodorous conditions of the place.

Low murmuring in the Mongol tongue told him he neared the place where the Iron Horde remnants had gathered together.

Removing a small folding grappling hook and long silk line from his equipment vest, the bronze man gave it an expert toss, snagging an ornamental roof projection.

Doc climbed this line until he gained a sloping pagoda-style roof. Creeping along it, he moved from roof to roof until he found himself looking down upon the town square, which was not much more than a half-frozen patch of tamped-down earth.

He was just in time to see Tamerlane, arrayed in his full battle armor, step awkwardly out of the house, limping alongside General Chinua.

Tamerlane strode awkwardly up to inspect a quartet of square bamboo cages, through the bars of which Doc could perceive his men struggling to keep hoisted the heavy lead roofs that threatened to crush them.

Doc Savage’s trilling filtered out, low and concerned. He stifled it immediately. Crouching, the bronze man took silent inventory of the equipment left in his versatile gadget vest. Through the long series of battles, he had gone through many pockets and used up quite a bit of his store of gimmicks. But certain items remained.

His metallic features were grim as he finished his inventory. For one of the few times in his life, the bronze man almost regretted not packing a pistol in a shoulder holster. But he gave the thought no second consideration. For if he possessed such, Doc would have long before exhausted its ammunition drum, and no doubt revealed his position owing to the riveting-gun racket of the rapid-firers.

Doc still toted Ham Brooks’ sword cane. He had tucked the slim blade into his belt. It was not the best weapon under the circumstances, but it was better than nothing.

Retreating to the other roof where he had left his grappling hook, Doc clambered down the line, reaching ground again.

Wild dogs—of which many foraged in the deserted streets—eyed him with hunger on their starved faces. Doc pegged several stones in their direction, scattering them.

Working his way closer to the town square, the bronze man remained wary. It was during this reconnoiter that he discovered the Mongol going through a collection of swords in what appeared to be a blacksmith shop.

The Mongol was a burly fellow, with sloping shoulders, and he seemed to be seeking a particular blade. Each time he selected one, the fellow ran his calloused thumb against the edge. Then he examined the ball of his thumb. Whenever he did this, he frowned heavily. For the edges failed to break the thick skin.

Finally, he found a
tulwar
—a heavy scimitar of a thing which suited him. For when he ran his thumb against it, the blade left a distinct line of crimson. Sucking at it briefly, the Mongol toted the broad weapon out of the shop.

Doc Savage faded into an alley, crowding Habeas behind him. For the bronze man recognized the sword as the proper type with which to behead a prisoner.

The only question in his mind was—whose head was about to be removed?

Chapter LXII

BETRAYAL

THE DOOR WAS fastened from the outside, Johnny Littlejohn discovered.

Setting down the casket which contained the compressed form of the midget, Cadwiller Olden, the bony archaeologist attempted to peer through the chinks in the portal to ascertain what type of fastening held it closed.

It appeared to be a simple hook-and-eyelet arrangement. Johnny scrounged around the interior of his prison until he found a flat piece of metal strapping. Maneuvering this, he slipped it into a crevice, and repeatedly worked the crude blade upward in a jerky motion.

He had no expectation of sawing through the metal fastener, but by maneuvering the strapping, he discovered that it was held firmly in place.

Peering out again with one eager eye, Johnny endeavored to see which way the fastener ran. He studied it for a time in the fading light.

Satisfied, Johnny gave the strapping a sharp, upward slice. The hook jumped out of the eyelet, and the door swung loose on tin hinges.

Repressing a grin of triumph, Johnny again tucked the box under his arm, and slipped out into the street.

From the outside, he could plainly see that he had been housed in what the Chinese call a
godown
—a simple storage house for goods and other bric-a-brac. Johnny crept along the rough sides of the
godown,
watching for signs of movement. He could hear voices, people moving about. The voices spoke Mongolian. Not Chinese. That told him that he had to be extraordinarily cautious.

The lanky geologist crept along, creeping between hovels that passed for houses. Wild dogs slunk in and out of alleyways, eyeing him hungrily, but with disappointment etched in their eager eyes. There was not much meat attached to Johnny’s bones.

Since he had no idea where he was, nor in which direction safety lay, Johnny made his cautious way in the opposite direction of the Mongolian speakers.

After a time, Johnny found a house whose door stood ajar. He considered entering. The sound of booted feet came stamping in his direction. Johnny hugged the side of the house. Tucked under his elbow, Cadwiller Olden spoke up from his toy coffin.

“What’s happening?”

“Mongols approaching,” hissed Johnny.

Hearing that, Cadwiller Olden did a wholly unexpected thing. He plunged into a fit of screeching.

The words were in rough Mongolian. He cried, “Here! We’re here! Over here!”

“What are you doing!” Johnny blurted out.

“Ensuring your execution,” returned the midget blandly. “And mine.”

Having no choice in the matter anymore, Johnny blundered through the half open door, and clapped it shut behind him. He found the floor under his feet tacky, and the odor in his pinched nostrils carried a metallic tang. Johnny knew what the odor was. Blood. There was a lot of it. And it made the floor stickily unpleasant to step on.

The light inside was dim, owing to crude shutters being shut. But the humped shadows on the floor were unmistakable. Human bodies. And other things—smaller, rounder objects.

Johnny toed one, and the thing rolled heavily.

Emitting a sharp squawk, the startled archaeologist leapt backward. He knew what the round object was. A bodiless head.

Peering about in the interior gloom, Johnny saw that the detached head formerly belonged to a Japanese Marine. Thanks to tight chin straps, he still wore his green helmet emblazoned with an anchor symbol. Going about the room, he discovered this to be true of every separated cranium.

Johnny did not understand why, but he hunkered down on the floor, hoping the Mongols would rush blindly by.

OUTSIDE, Cadwiller Olden continued his mad screeching. Johnny had dropped him unceremoniously.

A contingent of Mongols blundered across the perforated box and an excited conversation ensued. The gist of it was that the Mongols were demanding to know how Cadwiller Olden had escaped the
godown.
The malevolent midget told them.

“That damn human string-bean broke us free. I can tell you where he is.”

“Where?” demanded one ruffian.

“First, promise me one thing,” asked Olden.

“What is that, small worm?”

“After you find him, lop off my head. You’d be doing me a big favor.”

“Why do you wish your own death?”

“I thought I was so smart,” Olden said hoarsely. “But I was too clever for my own good.”

Outside, the amused Mongols fell to laughing.

While they were engulfed in cruel hilarity, Johnny decided to make a break for it. He plunged out of the door unexpectedly, and threw himself at the nearest Mongol.

The nomad, taken entirely by surprise, dropped his jaw and attempted to lift his broad sword. He was quicker manipulating the former than the latter.

Johnny’s swollen fist—a flesh-covered knob—slammed into the point of the man’s loose jaw, dropping him in his tracks.

There were two other Mongols; they sprang to their comrade’s defense.

Johnny showed then that he was not purely a creature of the classroom. Looking somewhat like a thing that had been put together out of odd broomsticks and baling wire, he flung himself upon the other two before their steely swords could come into play.

The three combatants formed a knot of furiously flailing arms and legs. Blows were exchanged. Eyes blackened. Bruises earned. Johnny had a well-padded skull, thanks to his long, scholarly hair, and used this to butt his opponents at every opportunity.

One Mongol staggered back stunned, while the other stood stupefied before hammering blows that felt and sounded like a jackhammer at work.

It looked for several minutes as if the bony geologist was going to best his burly opponents.

Unfortunately for Johnny, reinforcements arrived and someone swung a flat blade, with the result that the back of Johnny’s head received a staggering blow.

Johnny fell, sprawling in the dirt, his ludicrously long limbs splayed this way and that like a spindly puppet whose strings had been severed.

Off to one side, Cadwiller Olden spoke up from his confining casket.

“I’ll take that beheading now, please.”

Pulling themselves together, the Mongols threw back their heads and roared out laughter. It was a cruel and mocking sound, which offered no hope for mercy of any kind.

Chapter LXIII

PREPARATION

CROUCHING IN A filthy alley, Doc Savage heard the nearby commotion, and watched as the Mongol swordsmith suddenly reversed himself, exchanging his formidable scimitar for a smaller
kilij
sabre. With that in hand, he went tearing out to join whatever fracas had ensued.

Other Mongols came pounding past, waving their wicked blades. One, Doc Savage saw, was wearing an expensive platinum watch. Recognizing this ornament, the bronze man slipped out of concealment and rushed after the straggler, overhauling him.

This worthy was running so rapidly he failed to see or hear the giant bronze man slip up behind and seize him by the neck. Doc slammed the man to the ground and, employing both hands, seized his throat, choking off all outcry.

The Mongol was a fighter, and he struggled to tear loose of Doc Savage, who had overpowered him easily.

Squeezing off all ability to cry out with one irresistible hand, Doc employed the other to locate sensitive spinal nerves at the base of the man’s skull. Metallic fingers expertly manipulated this nerve center until the Mongol subsided. His eyes remained open, and from the stark light deep within, it appeared that he could still see. Yet his entire body and limbs had stiffened into a kind of rigor normally associated with that of a cold corpse.

Doc dragged the helpless man into an alley, stripping his wrist of the platinum watch. This he carried back to the blacksmith shop, where he located the great scimitar-like headsman’s sword.

Popping open the watch, Doc disclosed the reservoir of brown compound that was the anesthetic Ham Brooks employed to coat his sword cane. There was a plentiful supply.

Removing Ham’s sword from his belt, Doc maneuvered the tip until it was sticky with the substance resembling brown molasses.