Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (27 page)

Everyone switched to single-shot operation, and commenced picking off what foes they could.

By this time, zipping arrows began finding broken windows, and chugged into the cabin.

Ham almost lost an ear. Monk jumped out of the way of one sharp missile just in time. It traveled clean through one cabin window and out the other, striking a hapless horse, which threw its startled rider.

Doc Savage had gone to the back of the plane and opened an equipment case. This was full of small grenades of various types. He gathered up a number of tubular devices, brought them forward, to distribute them among his men.

“Flash bombs,” he said.

Grinning, Monk took two, primed them, and flung them out through different windows. The others followed suit.

The grenades were filled with potent flash powder of the type that newspaper photographers used to employ in the days before disposable flashbulbs were invented. It was pretty eye-hurting stuff, when ignited. The darkness helped.

The flash bombs detonated in all directions, taking the circling Mongols by surprise. Hardly a warrior did not have his eyes on their intended victims. Consequently every one of the attackers found himself temporarily blinded by the shocking effect of the sudden flashes of light on their optic nerves.

This created enormous confusion among the horsemen and their mounts, which were also blinded. Frightened horses collided, tumbled, and there was a great deal of shouting and screaming by man and horse alike.

In this tremendous confusion, Doc Savage picked up Captain Kan and Cadwiller Olden, and led his men out of the plane and into the dark of the night.

Monk lugged Habeas Corpus under one burly arm, and toted his chemical laboratory under the other.

WHEN the Mongol horsemen settled down, and could see again, they first turned their attention to their frightened horses. When they finally got the ponies gentled down, they saw that the airplane door stood open.

Some of the bravest of the Mongols approached, and slipped inside. Foremost of these was Chinua, the bandit chief who was second only to Tamerlane.

He came out swearing. “The belly of the
namdu
is empty. Search them out!”

Enraged, the Mongols charged off in all directions, seeking their missing quarry.

By this time, an imposing man on a black stallion rode up, wearing an iron mask that matched his armor.

“Hold!” he commanded.

At the sound of the croaking voice, every Mongol suddenly wheeled his mount and looked in the direction of the iron-clad individual who commanded them.

“Do not ride in all directions like foolish children, or cranes who have been scattered by an eagle. Instead, follow me.”

The Mongol leader threw his helmeted head back and seemed to sniff the air like a dog. Behind the iron-rimmed holes of his battle mask, canine yellow eyes burned savagely.

Finally, he said, “Follow me.”

Without a word, every warrior followed the shivering horseman in the fanciful iron mask.

Chapter XXXVI

SUBTERFUGE

THE TERRAIN AROUND the Mongol encampment was varied. There were low hills, the odd willow tree, even a meandering river. Doc Savage had spied all this from the air and committed the contours to memory.

Carrying Cadwiller Olden and Captain Kan under each mighty arm, the bronze giant led his men in the direction of the brook.

They reached its banks. They all plunged in, then laid low while the Mongol horsemen charged past.

Doc had Cadwiller Olden’s nose and mouth firmly clamped in one metal hand. The Japanese officer was still in a state of slurred intoxication from the truth serum and barely reacted to being immersed in water.

The Mongols thundered by. Doc waited until the inevitable stragglers came into view.

Handing off the prisoners to Monk and Renny, Doc Savage flashed out of the water, and began hurling small glass globules in the direction of the stragglers.

The galloping horses suddenly went to sleep on their feet.

It was a comical sight, the horses succumbing first and pitching forward. The men in the saddles floundered about, then lost consciousness, still in their saddles, or half in them, as their staggering mounts collapsed onto the ground.

Rushing up, Doc Savage swiftly stripped the men of their native costumes, waving his men to do likewise.

Very quickly, everyone was swathed in a padded, long-skirted Mongolian
del
, and was drawing on fur caps with pendulous ear flaps to help disguise their Caucasian features.

Monk asked, “What are we gonna do with these guys?”

“Drag them to cover,” directed Doc.

This was quickly done, and everyone assembled around the sleeping horses. Charging a syringe plucked from his equipment vest, Doc Savage supplied every horse with an antidote to the sleeping anesthetic. The animals came around in a matter of minutes and, although dazed, allowed themselves to be helped back on their nervous feet.

“Mount up,” Doc ordered.

Everyone climbed aboard a mount of his chosing, Monk gathering up Habeas the pig and Renny taking the Japanese captain and laying him across his own saddle.

Seizing Cadwiller Olden, Doc prepared to do likewise. The midget started yodeling, until Doc Savage pinched shut his mouth and nose, warning, “If you would prefer, I can manipulate your spinal nerves until you cannot move at all.”

The midget subsided.

VAULTING into his own saddle, Doc Savage led his men in the opposite direction of the searching Mongolian warriors, whose pounding hoof thunder was receding in the night.

Johnny trotted up beside Doc Savage and started a conversation.

“The man in the iron mask was Tamerlane. What are we going to do about him?”

Doc Savage said, “We are going to capture him, if at all possible.”

Johnny cracked a grin of approval and asked, “How are we going to do that?”

“By laying a trap.”

Perplexity crawled across the gangling archeologist’s hollow face. “What manner of trap are you contemplating?”

But Doc Savage failed to reply. Characteristically, he did not wish his men to know his plans, should any of them fall into the hands of their enemies and be tortured to reveal them. But, in his innermost heart, Johnny the archaeologist wondered if Doc Savage in fact had any plan, given how far awry the evening’s undertakings had careened.

They rode back to the plane, and dismounted. Moving swiftly, they armed themselves with as many spare drums of ammunition and other weapons as possible. The plane was, of course, beyond repair. Not far away came the sounds of the maimed and injured oxen who had been dragged along after being pulled apart by the chains that had snared the big bird.

Hearing this, Renny took a shotgun from the stores and walked down to where the dumb beasts were crying out in agony. Methodically, he put them out of their misery, one by one, and came back, stony of countenance.

“That’s done,” he said somberly.

They reclaimed their mounts and rode off into the midnight of Japanese-occupied Manchuria.

Chapter XXXVII

HEADS IN A PILE

SEVERAL HOURS SHORT of midnight Doc Savage and his men came upon the Chinese village. It was a pitiful place of mud homes sitting amid an arid landscape in which red soil blew about in tiny dust devils that seemed somehow like imps cavorting.

It was late enough that the villagers would have turned in for the night, as this was a part of the world where electric lights were in short supply.

Upon approach, Doc Savage noticed two things. Strange silence, and even stranger scent on the wind. The smell was somehow metallic, and it made the tongue feel thick in the mouth whenever one inhaled.

Monk put it into words. “Smells like blood.”

Ham added, “Maybe someone butchered a bullock for a feast.”

Somehow no one believed that to be the case.

They dismounted cautiously, and picketed their horses. Then, they continued on foot. The unpleasant tang in the air grew stronger and more pungent.

The village was not much of anything—a few dozen scattered hovels built around a well and surrounded by rice patties. The rice patties had frozen over in the cold, and nothing was growing.

Seeing that the village appeared to be either asleep or deserted, they crept forward as silently as possibly.

They found the first head a dozen yards outside of the outskirts of the village.

It belonged to a man who looked to be about age forty or fifty—it was difficult to tell—and had been swept off the body with one clean stroke of a very sharp sword.

The beheading had not taken place many hours earlier. That much was clear. The expression on the dead man’s features was horrible to behold, depicting manifest terror.

They discovered the decapitated body not very far away. The unfortunate wore the common Chinese costume that resembled a cotton nightshirt and sandals. The dead man appeared to have been a rice farmer.

Moving on, they found more headless bodies. These were scattered as if the dead had been cut down while fleeing. There were women and children among the slain.

“Holy cow,” moaned Renny, aghast. “No one was spared.”

“Where are their heads?” wondered Long Tom.

Creeping forward, they discovered the missing heads. They were stacked in a pyramid, as neatly as it was possible for human heads to be piled atop one another and not come toppling down.

Many eyes were open and staring. An evening breeze was stirring the hair on many of the piled craniums. That was the only sign of life in the macabre construction.

“No need to guess who did this foul deed,” murmured Ham, eyes sick.

Monk growled, “That Tamerlane is up to his old tricks. Right, Johnny?”

When the gangling geologist failed to reply, all heads turned.

JOHNNY LITTLEJOHN stood rigid in his boots, his expression aghast, his skeletal face turning green. His elongated frame was trembling, like a scarecrow in a steady wind.

Doc Savage went to him. “What is wrong?”

“I—I wish I had never gone into that accursed cave,” bleated Johnny.

“Get a grip on your nerve,” said Renny. “You couldn’t know what this would turn into.”

Johnny got control of himself and they entered the village.

It was the same everywhere. Heads without bodies, bodies scattered about with raw stumps where their heads should be. Some were young, others old. Most were adults of assorted ages.

Renny grunted hoarsely, “He makes Genghis Khan look like a piker.”

“There appear to be no survivors,” said Ham, nodding somberly.

But that was wrong.

Hunting in the huts, Monk Mayfair discovered a pigtailed man cowering in a corner. He hauled the trembling individual out into the night. The latter wore one of the native costumes that resemble an old-style cotton nightshirt.

Doc Savage spoke to him in two different dialects before he received a response. They conversed for several minutes, then the bronze man turned to the others and said, “This man says that a group of Mongol horsemen led by a man in an iron mask did this. They rode in, demanded that every villager surrender without resistance, promised that no one would be harmed, then simply slaughtered everyone with their swords.”

Johnny looked around. “Curious. They did not employ their arrows at any time. I wonder why?”

“The answer is simple,” said Doc.

All eyes went to the bronze man.

“This village is practice for something greater.”

Ham snapped his fingers abruptly. “The Japanese do not yet control all of China. It is too vast. By terrorizing countryside villages, they may be able to bring the entire nation under thrall.”

They went back to the horses, where Captain Kensa Kan had been left, tied to a saddle.

Doc undid his bindings and set the man down forcefully. He was still under the influence of the intoxicating truth serum.

“Why did Tamerlane attack this village?” demanded Doc.

“To train his growing army in the arts of war,” said Kan slowly.

“All of this slaughter, for practice?”

“They were only Chinese peasants,” murmured the Captain.

“There you have it,” stated Ham grimly.

Doc Savage addressed his men. “We have to stop this army of terror before it grows any larger.”

“How do we do that?” grunted Renny. “There’s only six of us against hundreds, and they’re probably growing every day.”

“Which is why we have to crush it here and now,” said Doc Savage grimly.

A strange laughter broke the silence that followed. It was the tittering of Cadwiller Olden.

“What are you laughing about, you wormling?” Long Tom accused.

“Stop Tamerlane? The greatest, cruelest conqueror in human history? How are you going to do
that
?”

The laughter rolled out of the little man’s mouth in nervous peals.

Abruptly, it stopped, and Cadwiller Olden gave out a wild yelp.

From behind them came an odd sound. A
thunk.
Another came. Then another.

Looking about, they could see nothing. But the unpleasant sounds continued.

Doc Savage and his men looked up.

The night sky was alive with moving things. Thin, reedy projectiles. Some of them whistled like banshees unleashed.

“Blazes!” squawled Monk hoarsely.

It started raining arrows!

Chapter XXXVIII

RED BLADE

“TAKE COVER!” RAPPED Doc Savage.

It was not so easy as that, however. There was little immediate cover to be had, and the first wave of arrows sprouted all around them. They struck the ground like fast-growing weeds. Not every shaft missed.

Monk let out a yipping howl.
“Ye-o-ww!”

Struck in the chest, he fell backward, attempted to scramble to his feet and ended up taking another arrow in the right shoulder, which turned him half around.

Going on all fours, monkey-like, the hairy chemist bounded for the shelter of a grisly cairn of human heads. He was forced to drop his portable chemical laboratory, which he had carried from the wreck of their airplane.