Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (21 page)

Captain Savage turned to the silent Mayan. Chicahua’s face remained one of fixed stone, but his obsidian eyes smoldered. He began explaining the contest and its rules. Chicahua listened attentively, then asked a question in his native tongue.

“He wants to know if he can be the Dyak’s second, not yours,” Captain Savage reported.

“Why?”

“He wants to hold the man’s head underwater until his lungs burst. He has not forgotten his brother, and what was done to him.”

Doc said, “Assure Chicahua that I will win this contest.”

“I am certain Chicahua has every confidence in you, as have I. But he wants blood atonement.”

“Perhaps we should leave him on board, to guard the ship,” suggested Doc.

“No. Chicahua must be your second. Leave it to me to watch him. We will take no weapons. Is that clear?”

“Risky.”

“These are the rules of engagement in this contest. No weapons. A truce has been declared for this purpose. We must abide by it.”

“Very well,” said Doc. “Is there anything else I will need to know?”

A thundercloud of a frown settled over the captain’s brassy features.

“There is something I wish I knew,” he said slowly.

“And that is?”

“Three
bangkongs
came. But are there more? Were these the only survivors of the crossing to Skull Mountain Island, or are others lurking in the bush?”

“If there are, they could stumble upon Stormalong at any time.”

Captain Savage shook his head gravely. “I daren’t ask the Dyak headman about him. Too risky. Once the contest is settled, we return to the war path—all of us. If he does not know about Stormalong, so much the better.”

DAWN crept up not twenty minutes later, rising in the east, spreading a warm rosy light upon the bony dome of Skull Mountain. It made the landmark look as if it were rising out of the fires of perdition.

Doc watched the sun climb, noted the play of light crawling over the hollow-eyed face of the mountain peak. Men made that once. But what manner of men? Surely not the barbaric natives.

When the sun’s hot lower edge lifted free of the horizon, three
bangkongs
came around the headland.

“They must have found a way to scale the sheer cliffside,” ruminated Captain Savage.

“If they did, so can we.”

“We will leave that for later. Come.”

They dropped the dory off the side. All three went down the pilot ladder unarmed. Chicahua handed the severed ape’s-head trophy to Doc, who stored it under a bench seat.

Rowing, they reached the sand of the shoreline ahead of the Dyaks, beached the craft and stood waiting.

Calmly, Doc Savage removed his shirt. The play of muscles in action was something that would make Hercules incarnate shiver in envy. Although not overmuscled, the bronze man showed thews that were like bundles of piano wire. The cables and ligaments flexing on the backs of his hands and neck had an alarmingly solid look, resembling metal bars rather than mortal cartilage.

As the Dyaks approached, their gaze fell upon the patiently waiting giant of bronze. A ripple of fear crossed their blank, hairless faces. Weirdly, their deep-set eyes stared out of their skulls with an unnerving sharpness.

Soon, the
bangkongs
were grounded and drawn up onto the sand.

The Dyak band stepped barefoot onto the beach. They wore only their bark loincloths and feathered headbands. Many had elaborate tattoos on their necks, which Captain Savage had explained were talismans believed to keep their heads on their shoulders during battle.

Captain Savage and the Dyak chief approached one another and fell into low converse. Terms were being settled. The elder Savage produced the head held by Chicahua. That seemed to settle matters.

Satisfied, the two captains returned to their crews to make preparations.

Two rattan mats were brought from one boat and laid on a flat finger of coral reef, near the water’s edge where it was shallow, yet deep enough to immerse a man’s head if he could not surface.

“We must build a bonfire as a station to which to repair at the contest’s end, or to drag the incapacitated,” said the captain.

Doc and Chicahua gathered dry driftwood, palm fronds, and other materials. They made a pile, which the captain set alight with a flint striker. Soon, it was blazing nicely.

Captain Savage made a minor ceremony of placing the severed ape head trophy before his champion’s fire.

About a dozen yards to the south, the Dyaks had their own fire burning merrily, its flames whipped by fitful sea breezes.

The Dyak leader went first. He strode down to the water’s edge and took a position upon one of the rattan mats laid on the flat finger of coral reef, which served as a platform. His second followed him, stood thigh-deep in the water beside the reef. The latter man held two ironwood staffs two feet longer than he. They appeared to be blowpipes. Curls of dried human hair were attached to them.

With great ceremony, Monyet removed his gold breastplates and handed them to his second. He was attired only in his simple loincloth now.

DOC SAVAGE did not follow immediately. He had been charging his lungs. He continued to do so, bringing deep draughts deep into himself.

The Dyak chief, seeing this, decided to follow suit. He quickly began inhaling deeply and ferociously, expelling long breaths and taking in fresh ones.

Doc observed him carefully. Monyet clearly knew something of the proper way to charge the lung tissues with life-giving oxygen, but his technique was different from those of the pearl divers under which Doc had learned the dangerous art.

Time alone would tell whose technique was superior.

Finally, Doc entered the surf, walked with calm deliberation to the coral reef, and stepped on his mat. There he locked eyes with his opponent.

The Dyak glowered back, no trace of fear in his blank, deep-set eyes.

A Dyak second handed his leader a long blowpipe. This was shoved into the ground, and served as an anchor and support staff for the combat.

Chicahua came up and did the same, accepting the other blowpipe from the opposing second. It was stout enough to serve the purpose.

Doc grasped the thing with one cabled hand.

A Dyak dignitary, wearing a more elaborate costume than the others, strode up and began a speech. It went on for quite a while.

At the end of it, Doc asked, “What was he saying?”

“Ceremonial ritual,” replied Captain Savage quietly. “He was invoking the spirits and asking that justice be done. It is time.”

Doc gave his lungs a final charge. Monyet did the same.

They grasped their anchor poles. Both men knelt and placed their heads under water.

At first, a hush accompanied this action. The ordeal had only begun.

Men crowded closer to watch, eyes greedy for the spectacle of combat.

A single bubble of air dribbled up from the Dyak’s nose. None from Doc’s. A second air bubble popped the surface, then a third.

Yet no air bubbles were released by the big bronze man.

A minute crawled by, then two. More air bubbles came—a little flurry of them. The sense of tension grew, and overtook the crowd. They began chanting.

“Labon! Labon!”
they cried over and over again. Fight! Fight!

Finally, a big bubble came from the spot where Doc Savage’s head was submerged.

The Dyaks went wild.
“Labon! Labon!”
they roared.

The three-minute mark was reached. The Dyak’s shoulders began to struggle. His second bent down and laid both hands upon him—one on his hair, the other on the muscular back of his neck. He forced Monyet’s head to stay submerged.

Now it was a struggle for life.

Doc released another big glut of bubbles. But his bronze shoulders remained resolute. The bronze skullcap that was his hair might have been an inert thing in the water.

“Labon! Labon!”
howled the Dyaks wildly.

Chicahua stood poised to step in, but his eyes, flicking between the broad back of Doc Savage and the Dyak’s jittering muscles, decided him. He remained on his feet.

His obsidian-dark orbs went to the cheering Dyaks. Flint struck no more fierce sparks. The look on his face, while outwardly impassive, was one that bespoke confidence.

“Labon! Labon!”
went up the frenzied cry.

Now the Dyak leader was fighting for his life. Air came streaming upward, breaking in furious bubbles. Mewing sounds came from beneath the water. He clutched his staff with a frenzied fury. He was a man at war with himself. He fought to win, but also struggled to live. Both impulses were in direct conflict with one another.

Doc Savage remained resolute. Air drooled up, this time in an orderly trickle of tiny bubbles. It was as if the bronze giant was releasing his pent breath the way a smoker blows smoke rings. Sometimes, he made as if he were expelling a struggling breath. Other times, it was as if he was playing with the release of the contents of his lungs.

At no point did Doc seem to be in distress. And the agonizing minutes were rushing by. Four. Five. Six—

Finally, the Dyak leader went into convulsions. He seemed to lash out at his second, desperate to bring his head back to the reviving realm of air. But his second, determined that his leader not lose the contest, redoubled his strenuous efforts. He pushed down hard, as if prepared to drown his leader rather than see him lose face.

The Dyak gave a final squirming twist, then collapsed.

The chanting of the crowd turned into a low groan, then subsided into a long snaky hiss.

Monyet’s head was quickly pulled up. His jaw hung slack, his face utterly bloodless. The eyes were rolled up in his skull, as if dead.

A groan rose up from a dozen Dyak throats. It was over.

THEY dragged him back to the fire dedicated to him, where wet mud was thrown into his face. This brought him around in time.

All eyes were on the Dyak leader. Hands were slapping his slack face. He began to cough and hack out water from his tortured lungs. He seemed dazed, unable to focus.

Few eyes were on Doc Savage, calmly releasing air bubbles from his nostrils. Chicahua stood sentinel, his eyes feasting upon the features of the Dyak murderers of his brother. The Mayan’s triumphant smile was tempered by a darker emotion. It could be seen in his unblinking gaze.

Captain Savage tore his gaze from the ministrations designed to bring the Monyet back to his senses.

“Clark, you may stop now,” he said firmly.

Doc Savage allowed another minute to pass before he lifted his head. He took in a single relaxed sip of air and seemed unaffected by his long immersion.

“Evidently,” he said calmly, “the Dyak technique for swimming underwater is not as advanced as the pearlers of Paumoto.”

Captain Savage nodded. “No doubt the natural lung capacity of your opponent played a role, as well.”

Doc looked to Chicahua. Something in the dark depths of his eyes was not good to see.

Doc warned, “Chicahua is not satisfied.”

“He will obey. He is a good sailor.”

They went toward their own campfire, to await the fate of the Dyak leader.

The man was coughing unbearably. Hands continued to slap Monyet’s face, yank on his hair, and pull his fingers, until he looked so bedraggled all semblance of royalty had departed from him.

Seawater poured from his nostrils. Doc stepped in to turn the man over. There was some resistance, which the bronze giant shrugged off with his powerful shoulders.

Doc laid the man on his belly on the sand and applied pressure to his back. Seawater poured out. The awful hacking resumed, then subsided.

Standing up, Doc withdrew.

“Tell them he will live,” Doc told his father.

Captain Savage repeated the words in the language of the Dyaks.

Before very long, the leader rolled over and sat up. He had to be held to remain erect. His eyes held a beaten, confused light.

“What comes next?” Doc asked his father.

They were destined never to know.

Two things transpired in close order.

From the surrounding jungle fierce war cries resounded, followed by a storm of flint-tipped javelins raining down.

Two unwary Dyak warriors were immediately transfixed through the chest. They sagged to the sand, fatally impaled. Others scattered in all directions.

In the melee, Chicahua raced to reclaim his borrowed blowpipe. He also grabbed up the blowpipe that the Dyak leader had used for support.

Blowing the former clear of brine, he inserted something into it and, taking the tube to his mouth, expelled a powerful breath.

A dart flew out. It would have struck the Dyak leader, but for one of the frantic warriors scrambling to get out of the way of the rain of spears. That unfortunate man took the dart in his face and gave out a shriek of fear.

This attracted the attention of others, who ran to claim some of the spears that had not found human targets.

Spears were shouldered, leveled in Chicahua’s direction.

Doc Savage plunged in then. Metallic fists began raining blows. Knuckles broke noses, jaws, knocked heads askew on their necks. The audible crunching of spinal bones and other mortal injuries could be heard.

“To the dory!” shouted Captain Savage. “To the dory! The truce is broken.”

Chapter XXVII

FOR THIS ONCE, Doc Savage dared disobey his father.

Rushing to the beached
bangkongs,
he began smashing them where he could, using great rocks he scooped up from the surf.

Spears continued to rain down, but none came near him. They were all aimed for the clot of Dyaks milling about the beach.

Only then did Doc rush to join the others at the dory.

They got it off, jumped in and began paddling furiously. This made them a clear target.

Spears began chucking into the water. But only a few. All missed. Doc rowed with Herculean energy, propelling the dory away.

On the beach, natives and Dyaks became embroiled in a great combat.

“With any luck, they will destroy one another,” said Captain Savage.