Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (45 page)

The others expressed relief in various ways. All but Johnny Littlejohn. He was still consumed with guilt and self-recrimination.

Then everyone noticed the perforated box in Doc Savage’s massive hand.

“What’s in that?” wondered Long Tom.

“Cadwiller Olden,” replied the bronze man grimly.

“How the heck did they fit him in there?” asked Monk, blinking tiny eyes.

“By removing his arms and legs with a sword,” replied Doc.

It took several moments for this news to sink in.

FROM the miniature casket came the familiar hound-dog voice. It croaked out, “Fellows, we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’m all done fighting. Finished. I would sincerely appreciate it if you would drown me like a kitten.”

A trace of horror in his voice, Doc asked, “You wish to die?”

“Wouldn’t you?” countered the midget bitterly. “They hacked off my limbs one at a time. I would have bled to death, but they burned the stumps to cauterize them.”

No one said anything to that. The question had gotten them thinking.

Finally, Doc Savage said, “We will endeavor to do everything we can for you.”

Olden made an ugly sound. “That’s a laugh. Are you going to sew my arms and legs back on? They fed them to a pack of wild dogs. Showed me the raw bones afterward and laughed in my face.”

“I think I am going to be sick,” moaned Johnny. “None of this would have happened if not for my meddling.”

“Guilt,” said Cadwiller Olden, “fits you like your suit. Badly. I did this to myself. I spent my whole life scheming, and look what it got me. A rag doll has more going for it than me. Finished, that’s me.”

Sounds of booted feet moving up the street brought a halt to the discussion.

Doc Savage said, “This does not sound good.”

“What have we left for weapons?” wondered Ham.

Everyone looked to Doc Savage. He drove bronze hands into his pockets, and extracted an assortment of items. They looked at it.

“That’s just theatrical make-up stuff,” muttered Renny. “What’s left of what you used to make yourself look like that big Mongol.”

“This is a fine situation we find ourselves in,” complained Ham. “We are completely outnumbered and have no weapons whatsoever.”

Monk dug a thumb into his own barrel chest and said, “I ain’t outnumbered. It takes ten guys to outnumber me. And there’s six of us here. That means it would take sixty guys to a outnumber us all. There ain’t that many Mongols left.”

Making no noise, Doc Savage moved about the gloomy confines of the
godown.

He came back with a dusty crate which contained strings of firecrackers. They looked so old and faded it was doubtful that the gunpowder would ignite.

“Not enough to go around,” murmured Long Tom.

“And not so effective, even if they still work,” added Ham.

“They will sound like gunshots, if placed properly,” said Doc, as he filled the pockets of his Mongol
del
.

In the gloomy space, they listened as the Mongol search party ranged around the town, seeking the vanished Doc Savage.

As one detachment pounded close, Johnny Littlejohn slipped up to the casket in which Cadwiller Olden lay and lifted the teak lid.

“What are you doing?” asked Long Tom suspiciously.

“He likes to attract attention when he thinks he can get away with it.”

Johnny had a bit of handkerchief on him and he stuffed this wad into Cadwiller Olden’s mouth. The muffled sounds that followed were disturbing.

Finally, the Mongol patrol trooped on past, apparently not thinking to investigate the place where Doc Savage’s men had been consigned, evidently fooled by the closed door.

Doc went to the door, used his transformable monocular, and was able to ascertain that they were drifting down the street.

“If we split up,” he suggested, “we may be able to ambush them in the dark. In that way we can obtain useful weapons.”

“I’m all for it,” said Renny, flexing his well-skinned fists.

“Monk and Ham will handle that task,” Doc directed. “You and Long Tom station yourself at the Japanese transport. Prevent it from taking off, should any attempt be made. Keeping Tamerlane from falling into enemy hands is our top priority.”

“What about me?” asked Johnny anxiously.

Doc Savage addressed the much-battered archeologist.

“You have suffered worse than anyone. Remain here and guard Cadwiller Olden from harm.”

“But—”

“If we fail to accomplish our goals,” added Doc, “it will be up to you to finish the task we started.”

All understood the import of the bronze man’s words. He was giving the bony archeologist the job of carrying on if they fell in battle. This quelled Johnny’s excited protestations.

Doc eased the door open, and one by one they slipped out and drifted off in separate directions.

Doc Savage took to the rooftops, bounding along from building to building. He was seeking the Khan of Iron, Tamerlane. So great was his haste that he did not divest himself of the make-up and skirted costume of the giant Mongol who had been promoted to personal bodyguard for Tamerlane the Terrible.

Whether this made him more or less of a target for violence and sudden death was debatable.

Chapter LXX

THE HEADSTRONG ONE

EACH OF DOC SAVAGE’S men was a specialist in his own field. Every one of them was also unique in other ways. They were not ordinary men. Far from it.

Probably no man alive possessed fists the equal of Renny Renwick, the engineer. Monk Mayfair certainly had no double outside of a zoo, or even the jungles of Africa. If there was a man more quick-witted and well-dressed than Ham Brooks, he would have been difficult to discover.

In addition to being a renowned archaeologist and geologist, Johnny Littlejohn possessed the string-and-bone physique of a marathon runner. His endurance was phenomenal.

Johnny showed his wiry capabilities now.

He raced through the narrow and crooked streets of the deserted town, making better time than some Olympic sprinters. Over the last several days, Johnny had been beaten several times, knocked unconscious at least twice, and otherwise abused. Crimson seeped from various lacerations. One empurpled eye was fully shut.

Yet despite these injuries, which certainly would have crippled a less hardy individual, the fleet-footed archaeologist charged in the direction of the town square.

Tucked under one arm, he carried the small casket containing Cadwiller Olden. His bronze chief had charged him with guarding the helpless little man. That instruction Johnny fully intended to honor. But that one alone.

Determination rode Johnny’s gaunt features. He was bound and determined to settle accounts with the man he had helped restore to animation, the scourge of humanity known to history as Tamerlane. For this intensely personal reason, he was disobeying the direct orders of Doc Savage—something otherwise unthinkable.

First, the stubborn archeologist would have to run the gauntlet of Mongol swordsmen.

Two popped up after Johnny turned a sharp corner, and nearly tangled his long legs over a clutch of chickens. The chickens set up a squawking. This commotion naturally attracted attention. That was when the Mongols showed their blandly interested faces.

They wielded the wicked curved swords of their breed. Johnny had only his fists. Balling them, he lifted the bony members high. He squared off. The knuckles were scarred and bloody. Several had split open, revealing gleaming bone.

Screaming imprecations, the Mongols came at the reedy archaeologist from two directions.

The intestinal fortitude of the gangling former university professor was unquestioned. Johnny Littlejohn would march through Hades, Purgatory and even worse places if it furthered the pursuit of justice.

The sight of the two Mongols and their exceedingly sharp swords caused him to rethink his battle plan.

Stooping painfully, Johnny found a couple of stones, commenced applying them to the situation. He had played a little baseball as a youth, and the skill he had acquired then had not departed.

The lank geologist beaned one Mongol—the one who loomed closest to him. This worthy was driven backward, and landed flat on his back. Breath was expelled forcibly from the ruffian’s lungs. His sword escaped his fingers.

Seeing his opportunity, Johnny pounced for the skittering blade, took it up in both hands, and proceeded to beat back the second Mongol.

His long arms swinging, Johnny smashed, ducked and parried his way to victory.

The burly Mongol must have assumed that an easy victory lay at hand. He all but laughed at the sight of the wasted-looking American coming at him, appearing so frail and emaciated that he needed both hands to lift his sword.

In actuality, Johnny made short work of his opponent. Relentlessly, he drove him backward until the grunting swordsman lay sprawled on the ground, knocked flat and senseless by a driving blade that could not be withstood.

“Take that, you flagitious, widdiful knave,” Johnny puffed.

Lungs laboring, he charged on, a sword in each hand. These slowed him down not at all. He had left behind the coffin containing Cadwiller Olden, safely hidden in a house.

PREDICTABLY, Monk and Ham teamed up. Over the long years of their association, they acted like mortal enemies. But in reality, they were the closest of friends. They just had peculiar ways of showing it.

Monk led the way, with Ham guarding his back. The hairy chemist picked up loose cobbles along the way, holding one in each hairy paw, creeping forward with his small ears alert.

Hearing footsteps pounding in their direction, Monk pushed Ham into a malodorous alley, and crouched impatiently.

The tip of a Mongol sabre showed first, gleaming in the afternoon sun, followed by the man wielding it.

Leaping out of the alley, Monk brought the two stones together with a resounding thud that caused the bright blade to drop from numbed fingers.

For the unfortunate Mongol happened to be caught, not by accident, between the colliding cobbles.

Sweeping up the
kilij
, Monk tossed it to Ham. The elegant attorney, hardly presentable now, tested the blade by flaying empty air with it.

“Watch where you point that thing!” growled Monk.

Ham listened to the hiss and flutter of the blade cutting through air. A satisfied expression lit his patrician features.

“One side, you miserable mistake!” he snapped. “Let a true swordsman lead the way.”

Monk gathered up the two stones, which were now very red and sticky.

“You stick them, and I’ll brain ’em,” he muttered.

They rushed off to carry out their violent intentions.

Chapter LXXI

EVACUATION

SEATED ON HIS throne, Timur Khan, Scourge of Humanity, listened to the sporadic sounds of violence. He sipped piping hot tea from a ceramic cup to fight off the morrow-deep chill that never seemed to leave his quaking limbs.

“My Iron Horde is defeating the bronze barbarian’s mercenaries.”

Prince Satsu wrung his plump hands nervously, and complained, “How can you tell who is winning?”

“Mongols fight to the death. If fighting persists, that means some live.”

The confident assertion sounded dubious, so Satsu turned to his Japanese Marines.

“Be prepared to depart on a moment’s notice.”

The stiff-featured soldiers dipped their helmeted heads obediently.

It was a nervous time. The Japanese dignitary wanted more than anything to evacuate this Chinese pesthole. It was only the stubbornness of Tamerlane that prevented this.

Listening hard, the ancient warrior cackled with each ringing report of combat. Prince Satsu started to wonder if Timur was not unsound of mind. He had been told by his advisors that the man had been excavated from ice after five centuries. This appeared to have affected his brain, as well as cold-plagued, perpetually shivering body.

Pacing, clutching his scabbard so it did not bang against his striped dress trousers, the Prince fretted silently. He could almost feel a gritty brick wall at his back, and remorseless Chinese bullets slamming into his unprotected chest. This would be his lamentable fate if he were to fall into enemy hands.

Came a long lull in the fighting.

Timur the Lame stood up, metallic head rotating about. He seem to sniff the air like a canny old dog.

“They are victorious,” he croaked out. “My Mongols have conquered the brazen devil. They will soon drag his corpse before me. Then we will depart.”

Prince Satsu raked the narrow streets with anxious eyes, peering into the town square. Minutes crawled past. Sweat started to creep from the large pores of his tea-hued face. But there was no sign of returning Mongols, or their prisoners.

The waiting became tense. Standing in his fur-trimmed felt boots, Tamerlane commenced shaking as if it were suddenly cold. This was a return of the palsy that had plagued him since he was brought forth from his icy tomb.

Behind his ogreish mask, yellowish teeth chattered like castanets.

Muttering half under his breath, Timur complained, “Where are my loyal Mongols?”

No reply in any form resulted.

The nervous moments dragged on, and all eyes remained fixed on every approach path.

Unexpectedly, a high-pitched voice sounded almost above their heads.

“You misshapen abnormality!” the voice called out in understandable Mongolian. “You low cur! You cold cadaver that should have remained interred!”

They looked up and about, seeking the source of the hectoring.

Prince Satsu was the first to discover that tormentor.

It was the famous archaeologist, William Harper Littlejohn, more familiarly known as Johnny. The stork-like American stood on a roof, a Mongolian sabre held in each lean hand.

Without warning, he leapt from his perch and, with both curved blades, lunged for Tamerlane.

“You wish to defeat me, Long-bones,” Timur barked. “Have at it!”

The Iron Khan swept out his sword, and there commenced a strange battle.