Doc Savage: The Ice Genius (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 12) (43 page)

This brought blood into the Iron Khan’s feral eyes. He screamed further orders.

Another Mongol leapt in, and attempted to excavate the
tulwar.
But it had fallen so that the sword hilt was entirely covered by the original wielder. In his fumbling, this new entrant also managed to cut himself on the blade’s keen edge, and so succumbed to the sticky anesthetic which Doc Savage had foresightedly smeared there.

“No one may touch that accursed blade and survive,” intoned Doc Savage in a portentous tone of voice.

It was an exaggeration, of course, because the fallen Mongols actually succumbed to sleep, not death. But no one yet suspected that.

Striding forward, powerful torso muscles rolling, Doc Savage approached the throne of the Iron Khan.

His compelling golden eyes flicked in the direction of Prince Satsu. He recognized the Japanese, for he had encountered him years ago in Tokyo.

The Prince drew back at the bronze man’s approach. Doc ignored him.

General Chinua threw himself between the bronze Hercules and the iron warlord he served.

“You must go through me before you may touch my sovereign,” warned Chinua.

Doc Savage stopped, and suddenly flung out his mighty arms. No one noticed a tiny object escape his fingers, and go sailing away.

The gesture was dramatic, yet also deceptive. It was a bit of magician’s misdirection, pure and simple. For with his right hand, Doc had swept the rapier from his belt.

All eyes flew to the thin, supple blade, with which the bronze giant had previously felled Timur Khan in such a miraculous manner.

Thus, no one noticed the tiny vial escape his left hand to sail between two bars of Monk Mayfair’s cage and land between his bandy knees.

The simian chemist’s gimlet eyes fell upon the vial, and recognized it for what it was. His hairy hand scooped up the clear glass container.

In perfect Mongolian, Doc Savage proclaimed, “The army of Timur Khan is no more. It is only a ragtag remnant, composed of brigands and ruffians.”

General Chinua said sharply, “It will rise again.”

Only a few paces away, Timur Khan lifted his quaking voice and said, “Will you fight me to the death, brazen devil?”

The surrounding Mongols began to murmur in anticipation.

Their interest darkened when Doc Savage said, “I have already bested you once. Besides, you are an old man—aged and crippled. I am young and strong. It would not be a fair fight.”

The Iron Khan scoffed at that, and his horde started laughing derisively.

With his free hand, the bronze man palmed the tiny grappling hook he habitually carried. It was still attached to its thin silk cord. He cast the thing in the direction of the Iron Khan, and it snagged the ferric battle mask at the edge beneath the concealed jaw.

Doc gave a quick tug, and off popped the iron countenance, revealing the hideously wrinkled visage, dominated by the yellow eyes of a cur.

“Is this the true face of Timur?” demanded Doc of his audience in the Mongolian tongue. “Is this the mighty champion who left his glorious mark upon Asian history?”

CRIES of shock and surprise rippled from tongue to tongue. Although these horse Mongols were ill-educated, many never learning to read, some had seen picture books in which the stern but wise features of Timur the Great Emir were depicted.

This hideous gargoyle wore no such lineaments. This was instead the awful countenance of a demon. All could see this with their own dumbstruck eyes.

Doubt as to the true identity of the unmasked Khan took hold of their shocked brains—just as Doc Savage had intended. With his rolls of blubbery facial fat, Timur looked like some grotesque, incredibly ugly Oriental demon come to life.

The imposing bronze giant drove the point home. “Is this the Iron Emir of Samarkand returned from Heaven to lead his people into war—or a ghoul who lures them into fruitless destruction? Look around you. Your vast numbers are no more. How many have died following this wretch? How many more will perish because of this foul pretender?”

At this insult, Timur the Lame lurched forward. But his jackleg buckled beneath him. He stumbled, fell, clanking as his segmented armor struck ground.

Features darkening, General Chinua barked, “You lie, bronze devil. You will fight me instead!”

Doc lifted his rapier in response.

“No,” proclaimed Chinua, lifting his sabre. “We will fight as equals, with matched swords.”

So saying, Chinua threw his sabre in Doc Savage’s direction.

Doc caught it easily, while Chinua accepted another blade from a subordinate.

The second the hilt slapped into Chinua’s coppery fist, he charged.

What followed was an example of swordsmanship mixed with brute force that would long be remembered by those who witnessed the duel and survived to tell of it.

Chinua came slashing in. Doc Savage flung his lean rapier away.

Again, no one noticed the cunning way in which the bronze giant accomplished his aim. For the blade went flying in the direction of Ham Brooks’ cage, impaling itself on the floor between two bars.

Hastily, the dapper lawyer reclaimed his weapon.

With the broad Mongol sabre, Doc parried Chinua’s first attack, and the two blades banged, sparked, clashed again. General Chinua was accustomed to hacking and slashing his opponents, wearing them down with his ferocious might.

Doc Savage was larger, and more skilled. The blade in his hand might have weighed no more than a dagger, for the effortless way he wielded it.

Artfully, the bronze giant beat back every attack. To show his superior skill, he began cutting and chipping away at Chinua’s armor until it became undone in spots. He speared the man’s scabbard, sending it into the dirt.

Soon, the furious Mongol general became a ludicrous sight as more and more of his protective raiment was slashed off and carelessly flung aside.

As a gesture of contempt, the bronze giant knocked Chinua’s ornate helmet off his skull, plunged in and booted it away from the Mongol’s grasping fingers.

Tiring of that play, Doc switched tactics.

Instead of counterattacking, he faded back, shifting around to show his bewildered opponent that his flashing blade could not come near his bronze tormentor, no matter how hard he hacked.

Chinua became furious. He charged, lunged and failed to make contact. The big bronze American might have been so much metallic smoke. Nothing he could do could bring his blade tip in contact with his lightning-fast foe.

Finally, Doc swept in and disarmed his opponent with a deft maneuver that slapped the other blade aside and knocked it to the ground in two blinding strokes whose sharp clangs blended into one ringing sound. Stopping, the Mongol lunged for his weapon. Doc kicked the sabre out of reach.

Panting like a frustrated dog, General Chinua fell to his knees, utterly exhausted.

A thin sheen of perspiration showed on the bronze man’s tremendous muscular physique. Otherwise Doc Savage was not even winded.

The bronze giant lifted his voice, proclaiming, “Bronze bests steel!” He stepped back, and his animated orbs swept the field.

The surviving army of Timur Khan stared like an assemblage of brown owls. They gaped, unblinking. They looked to their general in the dirt, and their Khan struggling to stand up in his heavy armor.

They made no move. For a moment, it seemed as if the bronze giant had the upper hand.

That was when a new element entered the picture.

Up the street marched a squad of hard-eyed Japanese Marines. Evidently, they had become concerned over the long absence of their prince, and the resulting din of combat had summoned them to investigate.

The squad marched up, rifles pointed ahead of them, bayonets fixed.

Seeing rescue at hand, Prince Satsu raised his voice and cried, “Kill the bronze devil! Slay all the American enemies of the Emperor!”

Chapter LXVI

SLAIN LEADER

JAPANESE RIFLES SNAPPED up to epauletted shoulders, and pointed in the direction of the bronze man. Eyes under green helmets were without mercy.

Doc Savage wore nothing above the waist, so he was not in a position to stand up to a volley of slugs.

Worse, one of the riflemen aimed for the kneeling form of Johnny Littlejohn. The bony archaeologist was helpless, and about to be riddled with slugs.

Doc pitched in his direction, ahead of the first whistling leaden missiles. Scooping up the long, dangling form, the bronze flash slammed into a nearby building, taking the heavy door off its hinges with one brawny shoulder.

Bullets snarled all about, peppering the façade.

One Mongol—a huge fellow nearly the size of Doc Savage—happened to stand closest to the building. Encouraged perhaps by his great size, he made a bold move.

The giant drew his sword, leaped inside, and struck. The blade disappeared into Doc Savage, who could be glimpsed by some. He staggered back, out of sight. Several witnessed this through the open doorway.

An audible groan, such as might be emitted by a man who had been impaled by cold steel, rang out. All heard this ugly sound.

The big Mongol disappeared from view, bent upon finishing off his victim.

High up in his cage, straining to keep the ponderous lead roof balanced on his broad back, Monk Mayfair let out a bloodcurdling howl.

“Doc! That big bruiser got Doc!”

Ham said weakly, “Maybe it was Johnny instead.”

To which Long Tom added gruffly, “Don’t kid yourself. That sounded like Doc Savage.”

Whoever had been felled, the knowledge impelled the men of Doc Savage into furious action.

Monk uncapped the captured vial that Doc had sent his way, carefully tracing the lines around himself, along the edge of the cage bottom. Very quickly, the liquid began smoking.

“What are you doing?” demanded Ham.

“Acid,” Monk retorted. “I’m bustin’ outta this overgrown canary cage.”

Ham took up his rapier, and struggled to cut through the rattan lashings that held his own cage together. The blade was not designed for this kind of work, but Ham put all his wiry might behind it. Soon, bamboo bars were popping free.

Below, arriving Japanese Marines were firing indiscriminately into the Mongol crowd, very few of whom possessed pistols of any sort. Those who gripped such weapons ducked for cover, returning spiteful fire.

High above them, the men of Doc Savage were momentarily out of the fray.

That is, until Monk Mayfair felt the floor of his cage separating. The combined weight of his two hundred and fifty pounds, along with the flat roof weighing on his broad back, produced the desired result.

The hairy chemist knew that when he landed, the detached roof would break his spine. So he rocked his gorilla-like body, swinging his cage back and forth.

When the floor fell out from beneath him, Monk was ready. He hooked the bamboo bars with both hands, and swung outward, rapidly switching his grip from the inside to the outside of the cage.

Floor and roof fell free, landing with an unpleasant thud that threw up yellow dust.

Emitting a great victory whoop, Monk commenced swinging on his perch, until he let go, landing atop Long Tom’s cage.

The simian chemist was howling now. He grasped the bamboo bars, and set about shattering them in his strong fingers. Very quickly, Monk excavated a hole and hauled out the slender electrical wizard. The released roof smacked the floor, tore loose its moorings, and both made a dusty commotion on the ground. That left Monk and Long Tom hanging precariously to the empty cage in full view of the combatants.

In his own confines, Renny Renwick placed his monster knuckles against the floor, set himself for maximum leverage, and attempted to straighten up. He did this in one violent motion, with the result that the cage twisted on its rope, and somehow unhooked itself. The woven contraption landed on its side, splintering open. Finding himself free of the backbreaking weight, Renny wrenched and tore at the bars with his gigantic fists.

By this time, Ham Brooks had cut a sufficient aperture that he could climb out and cling to the outside of his own cage, although he lost a shoe in the process. He held onto his slim sword, however. The descending roof slammed flat on the flooring, which miraculously held in place.

Ham dropped to the ground, rapier at the ready.

Below, Prince Satsu drew his ceremonial sword out of its scabbard. Stone-faced, he marched over to General Chinua, who had sought shelter behind a makeshift corral of frightened ponies.

General Chinua was still exhausted from his sword fight with Doc Savage, and so when the Prince strode up to him, blade gleaming, Chinua was unprepared. The
katana
sword lifted in both hands.

Giving vent to a high shriek of rage, the Prince managed to sever the Mongol’s spinal column at the neck, although he failed to completely decapitate the man.

It did not matter. General Chinua crumpled without further resistance.

Despite the confusion, this did not go unnoticed. Having at last struggled to his feet, Tamerlane picked up a curved sabre in order to avenge the death of his right-hand officer.

The sword fight that followed was no spectacle. Tamerlane was handicapped by age and shaking limbs, while Prince Satsu, while soft in appearance, wielded a sword that was superior to the Mongol
kilij
.

They hacked and slashed and parried against one another, grunting with muscular exertion, without inflicting any particular damage.

MEANWHILE, Monk and the others picked up heavy stones, fallen blades, and anything else they could lay their eager hands upon. They ignored the milling Mongols. Instead, they jumped the Japanese Marines who had spread out and were attempting to pick off any and every Mongol they could fix in their gun sights. The squad had made good progress in whittling down the opposition, when flung rocks started bouncing off their helmeted skulls. Unexpected Mongol sabres chopped away at their unprotected limbs.

Renny popped one Japanese with his gargantuan fist, with the result that the man’s head flew out from under his helmet, and his rifle suddenly smacked into the severe-faced engineer’s oversized paws.