Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (46 page)

Timur fought one-handed, while the American drove in with his matched sabres.

Anger is a powerful thing, and the bony archaeologist was evidently consumed with it. His battered face was red. He flailed about like a maddened scarecrow that had been brought to life by some witch’s frustrated fury.

Ondor, Tamerlane’s giant man-mountain of a bodyguard, stepped in to intercept the gawky attacker.

Johnny shifted slightly, hardly breaking stride, and beat back the man’s questing sword.

By all rights, the thin geologist should have been chopped up into so much human kindling. Instead, he pivoted, and spinning about in place, became a whirling dervish of flashing steel.

The big Mongol never got a chance to fight back. Johnny employed the flat of one blade and the dull back of another to beat Ondor about the head, until the stunned giant staggered back, reeling out of sight.

After that, all attention focused upon the main battle.

Tamerlane stood his ground, confident in his lamellar armor of iron plates over red leather.

Johnny flashed at him, and Timur, employing his good arm, smashed away the first blow. It was in that moment that the raw power of the ancient warlord became evident for all to see.

The spindly archaeologist had a firm grip on his blades. Yet for all that, one went flying out of his fist.

Momentarily stunned, Johnny switched the other blade into his right hand. Then, the duel proceeded in earnest.

It was as much a battle of wills as it was of steel. Johnny was driven by human passions, and these impelled him now. He rained curses on the masked Mongolian.

“You superannuated blot on humanity! You knotty-pated xanthodotous toad! Foul, loathsome, limping litch—prepare to die again!”

Laughing behind his battle mask, Tamerlane beat back every blow, searching for the tall man’s vitals. The tip of his blade, and sometimes the edge, sliced in and drew blood. This forced Johnny to fight a defensive battle. For he wore no armor.

Back and forth they battled, stepping forward, retreating, lunging again, Timur’s blade licking out like a steely fang, forcing the skeletal archeologist to fight two-handed. It did not seem to make much difference. Sparks flew. But neither man gave any ground.

Johnny had one distinct advantage: he presented not much of a target. A jest often made at his expense was that encountered full on, he was often mistaken for a man standing sideways. Several times, Tamerlane’s blade nicked his pipestem limbs when they should have driven through meat, of which the rail-thin scholar possessed little.

Perspiration coated Johnny’s narrow skull, getting in his eyes, blinding him. Perhaps this, more than anything else, turned the fierce tide of combat.

For while he was swiping the sweat from his brow, Tamerlane let out a vicious scream, and lunged suddenly, virtually hopping on his good leg. The blade pierced the unprepared archaeologist’s abdomen.

Johnny’s eyes went wide; he emitted a queer sound that was part grunt and half gasp.

When Tamerlane withdrew the sabre tip, he displayed it. The blade was slickly red.

“Now you die!” the icy individual proclaimed.

He brought his bloody blade up and around his head, swishing it several times, preparing to remove the head of his tottering foe.

Only seconds loomed before that awful decapitation occurred.

A RESOUNDING voice broke the moment, shattering it.

The giant Mongol whom they knew as Ondor suddenly commanded their attention.

He stood stationed in the mouth of an alley, where he had evidently crawled or staggered back after Johnny had defeated him. His colorful clothing was disheveled.

“The Chinese! They come. And Doc Savage is leading them! We are overwhelmingly outnumbered!”

A sound very much like rapid gunshots commenced, not far away. The smell of gunpowder soon soured the air.

Prince Satsu screeched, “We have no time for this! We must flee if we are to survive to fight another time.”

Tamerlane hesitated, poised on the verge of finishing his grisly task.

The towering Mongol rushed up, took him by the wrist, and said gently, “If we go now, Great Khan, we can finish this later.”

Grunting with disappointment, Tamerlane acquiesced.

Forming two groups, they charged from the square, leaving their ponies behind.

The big brawny Mongol gathered up the limp archaeologist, as if to bear him along for later execution. But when he examined the abdominal wound with his deeply dark eyes, he evidently decided that the American would not live long enough to be decapitated alive. He flung him away into a pile of clothing that had been pilfered from the adjoining houses.

Together, the ragtag survivors of the Iron Horde, along with Prince Satsu’s decimated retinue, rushed in the direction of the Mitsubishi transport plane.

Manifest shock rode their faces, for they knew that if they were caught, they would not live to see the sun set over this desolate region of China.

Chapter LXXII

GRIM DISCOVERY

MONK AND HAM, by working around the abandoned town of Fragrant Flower in a rough circle, managed to defeat in various ways five marauding Mongol warriors.

Ham accounted for three of them, employing a dazzling display of swordsmanship that caused the hairy chemist to look at him with new eyes.

“I didn’t know you could handle anything bigger than that infernal pig sticker of yours,” Monk muttered.

“If I still had my Damascus blade,” Ham retorted snappily, “I wouldn’t need you to handle the stragglers.”

It took some doing to make it this far, but when Monk and Ham finally burst into the dusty town square, and surveyed the scene—all that was left were the remnants of their former cages and a few scattered ponies, whinnying nervously.

The Khan’s throne sat where it had been, but it was empty.

The bitter stink of gunpowder was everywhere. A gray fume hung in the air over one ornate roof.

Going to investigate, Ham discovered a blackened string of red firecrackers that had exploded. Further along, he found others.

His agile mind assembled the evidence into a clear picture. Doc Savage had set them alight for some certain purpose.

Ranging about, Monk found Johnny Littlejohn deposited upon a pile of clothing. Crimson was leaking from a wound in his abdomen. The lean archeologist never looked more pale. His face had a bloodless cast that was not reassuring to the eye.

“For the love of little laughing Buddhas!” Monk blurted. Lifting his squeaky voice, he called, “Ham! I found Johnny!”

The lawyer trotted back, winced at the damage, and plunged into tearing up Chinese shirts in a frantic attempt to staunch the wound.

“He hurt bad?” Monk demanded.

Ham frowned. “Difficult to say. But the puncture does not look mortal, for the blade merely penetrated his side.”

The homely chemist examined the wound with worried eyes, saw that this was the case. It appeared as if the blade had entered close to the skin and not pierced any organs.

“Looks like bein’ so dang skinny saved his hide,” muttered Monk.

“No doubt,” seconded Ham.

“Where did everybody go?” wondered Monk, peering about belligerently.

“Why don’t you find out?” Ham suggested waspishly.

Monk went hunting. He popped his bullet skull in and out of buildings, until he found something of interest.

“Here’s the big Mongol that fought with Doc earlier,” he called over. “Out cold, too. Must’ve been a big fight here not long ago.”

Finishing up his bandaging, Ham Brooks rushed over, and got a good look at the unconscious Mongol bodyguard. The big fellow looked very much the worse for wear. His padded
del
was in rags.

“It appears that Doc Savage has been here,” murmured Ham. “I found exploded firecrackers he evidently used to create a diversion. He may have driven Timur and his band off.”

“Sure,” said Monk. “Doc chased ’em off, and is hot on their trail.”

Then, Ham began making concerned faces. “Something is wrong here,” he murmured. “But I cannot put my finger on it.”

Monk made a monkey-like face expressing his puzzlement.

The elegant attorney snapped two fingers. “This man is wearing the wrong clothes,” he blurted out.

“Whatcha mean? Those are the same duds he had on before.”

“No,” returned Ham. “These are the clothes Doc appropriated earlier. That is the costume Doc was wearing when we last saw him. This isn’t a Mongol. This is Doc Savage! And he’s been knocked out cold!”

“Blazes!” Monk moaned. “We gotta bring him around!”

Not far away, the sound of airplane motors banging into life reached their ears. With a sinking feeling, they realized that their quarry was getting away.

Abandoning the fallen man, they pounded off.

RENNY and Long Tom, having been directed to do so by Doc Savage, had worked their way to the outskirts of town and crouched low in a miserable vegetable patch watching the big Japanese transport wait to take off.

Idly, Renny sampled some red radishes.

Long Tom said peevishly, “What a time to think of your stomach!”

“When was the last time you ate anything?” rumbled Renny.

Long Tom did not have to think about that very long. He, too, partook of a fresh radish, for their job was to prevent the Mitsubishi transport from taking off with Timur Khan and his Mongols. It showed no such signs, for the props stood still in the cool air.

Exactly how they would accomplish that feat without weapons had not been explained to them. But there did not seem to be many Japanese placed around the aircraft. One Marine stood stiffly at attention with a rifle, and another on hand was evidently the pilot. The pilot wore a brown leather jacket and matching helmet, similar to attire modern aviators were wearing around the world.

The pilot was smoking furiously. His nervousness was apparent. For the transport plane was deep in unconquered China, which was for them enemy territory. Summary execution would be their fate were they to be discovered by Chinese authorities.

Behind them, in the near distance, came rackety sounds. Steel meeting steel, suggesting sporadic clashes.

This did not contribute to the peace of mind of the waiting aviator and guard. Their heads came up, faces twisting.

Renny husked to Long Tom, “Sounds like Doc and the others are making progress.”

“Pipe down, you bullhorn,” Long Tom cautioned. “Do you want them to hear us?”

The warning was timely, for the guard suddenly started. Both Japanese peered about, seeking the source of the sound they thought they heard.

Crackle of gunfire in the distance interrupted, drawing their attention away from the vegetable patch where Renny and Long Tom crouched.

After another few seconds, noises suggesting a pitched battle commenced volleying through the walled Chinese town.

“Getting to be a blamed war,” Renny mouthed to Long Tom.

“M-a-y-b-e w-e s-h-o-u-l-d p-i-t-c-h i-n?” the slender electrical wizard signed back using his fingers.

Renny employed the same deaf-and-dumb system in replying, “D-o-c-’-s o-r-d-e-r-s a-r-e t-o h-o-l-d t-h-i-s p-o-s-i-t-i-o-n.”

Several minutes raced by, in which additional clamor of combat was heard.

More rattle of rifle fire. Rings of blade steel. Loud shouts. Blows.

Then a group of men rushed into view.

Clutching his thigh-banging sword scabbard, Prince Satsu ran at the head of the group, accompanied by a contingent of his Marines.

Behind him trailed what remained of Tamerlane’s Iron Horde. They had surrounded the Iron Khan, who ran with difficulty, owing to his gimpy leg.

Bringing up the rear, throwing fearful glances beyond him, was the nameless Mongol giant who had been appointed his personal bodyguard.

“Holy cow!” breathed Renny. “Looks like Doc has them on the run!”

They watched from concealment as the fleeing group rushed for the Mitsubishi, whose pilot had leapt into the cockpit to fire up the engines.

Eyes scouring the dusty road from the town, Renny and Long Tom watched for any sign of pursuit.

As the twin motors coughed into life, they saw none.

“W-h-e-r-e-’-s D-o-c?” wondered Long Tom with his fingers.

Renny shook his horsey head. “W-h-a-t d-o w-e d-o n-o-w?” signed back the big-fisted engineer.

“L-o-o-k-s l-i-k-e i-t-’-s u-p t-o u-s.”

Together, they heaved out of the vegetable patch and charged for the shimmying plane.

Chapter LXXIII

HOLOCAUST

SEEING THEIR ENEMIES on the verge of escaping, Renny Renwick and Long Tom Roberts charged for the Japanese aircraft with one thought in mind.

“We got to stop them from taking off!” bellowed Renny.

“You said it!” agreed Long Tom.

They were without serviceable weapons, but that did not stop the two intrepid adventurers. They came charging out of the vegetable patch and attempted to intercept the racing groups who were making for the snorting Japanese transport plane.

The cabin door of the plane hung open. Everyone made for that as if their lives depended on it, for conceivably they did.

For all his elephantine bulk, Renny made better time than Long Tom. He veered in toward the man running at the back of the pack.

It was the big bodyguard of a Mongol, whose name they did not know.

Lunging low, Renny attempted to tackle the giant.

But the Mongol was both watchful and wily. He had been casting sharp glances behind him all the time. He spotted the big-fisted engineer charging in like an enraged mastodon. The mountainous Mongol pivoted, and set himself in the fashion of wrestlers the world over, feet planted wide apart.

A titanic collision appeared unavoidable. Renny had every expectation of grappling with the giant. Instead, something miraculous happened. Reaching in with his massive hands, Renny endeavored to capture the man in a massive bear hug.

In some strange fashion, the big-fisted engineer came off his feet and went flying away, to land in thick brush that cushioned his humiliating fall. It was as if an invisible rug had been yanked out from under him.