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

“What new man is this?” growled Chinua. “There is no new man.”

Now the round-faced sentry was completely nonplussed. He suddenly shivered, for he knew that discipline in the bandit camp was as firm and ferocious as that of any Khanate army of ancient times.

“He said his name was Batu,” protested the other. “He arrived in the middle of the night, proclaiming you had sent him on ahead.”

“What else did he say?” asked Chinua, dismounting.

The nervous Mongol pointed toward the great frozen block taking up the rear of the caravan. “Batu said you had captured a demon in ice, and it was urgent that this demon remain in the ice.”

“Go on,” said Chinua, unsheathing his curved
kilij
sabre.

The Mongol swallowed hard. He seemed to be searching for the proper words to speak. His watery eyes kept glancing toward the blade.

“Batu said to destroy all fire, and all apparatus for producing flame, so that the camp would be cold enough to keep the demon fast and preserve him in ice until you decided what to do about him.”

Chinua’s bleak eyes narrowed, as he thought speedily.

“What did this Batu look like?” asked Chinua in a low, quavering voice.

Measuring an imaginary man with one upraised hand, the sentry said, “A giant, with dark, smoky eyes. He was the tallest Mongol I have ever beheld.”

Chinua’s eyes narrowed further. An awful expression plucked at his brassy features.

At length, he muttered, “That was no Mongol. That was a foreign devil masquerading as a Mongol. I sent you no such man, and those orders contradict my plans.”

The plump little Mongol swallowed hard.

“Is that not a demon in ice?” he bleated.

‘‘Why don’t you see for yourself?” invited Chinua.

Thinking that he was absolved of all blame, the intrigued man floated up to the chuck of ice and begin scrutinizing the shadowy shape within from all angles. He came to the inscription carved into the uppermost surface, and his fattish jaw dropped, watery eyes all but popping out of his head like grapes being squeezed.

“This—this—”

He never got the word out. A bright blade flashed in the early dawn and severed his head from his rounded shoulders with a sound that was as swift as it was unforgettable.

The body collapsed instantly, the head landing in the crook of the man’s elbow, as if he had contrived to capture it in death.

“That,” said Chinua, turning to his men while shaking amazingly few crimson blood drops off his blade, “is how Timur the Terrible disposed of fools. Do not be a fool. I will suffer no fools under me.”

Murmurs of ascent came from every Mongol mouth.

With a sweep of his blood-streaked blade, Chinua commanded the great block of ice be dragged into the camp, while the headless body was left as carrion for the wolves.

As they rode, Chinua said to one man, “Keep your eyes sharp. Watch for spies. The bronze devil has not departed.”

The other nodded solemnly. “What does he want?”

Chinua gave a toss of his head to the rear and said, “He wants Timur. He will never have him. Mark my words. Over my dead body will the foreign devil take this illustrious ancestor from me.”

The other grunted, “Over all our dead bodies. This is our history. No one else’s.”

They rode into camp as dawn broke, suspiciously scanning the colorful tents sides flapping in the soft cool breeze, with the warming light changing the shadows on the hilltops. Particularly did Chinua pay attention to the hilltops. He knew that, if there were any ambushers, it was where they would lurk.

Chapter XIV

THE DANGEROUS ONE

DOC SAVAGE WAS not unaware of what was transpiring among the Mongol horde of the bandit chief, Chinua.

The bronze man had seen the tiny parachute come down, although the darkness had prevented him from making out what hung at the end of the parachute shrouds. He recognized that the parachute was one specially designed for Habeas Corpus, the pig. It was too small to support a full-grown man. That suggested only one conclusion, either his aides were dropping a package of some sort, or Monzingo Baldwin had for some reason evacuated the plane.

All things being equal, Doc could conceive of no reason his men would drop a package unannounced, and even if they had, to leave his hilltop perch to retrieve it would have exposed him to the Mongols on their approach march.

Employing his tiny telescope, Doc observed the byplay that took place when Chinua marched into the wind-blown encampment.

The Mongol sentry whom Doc Savage had tricked into snuffing out all fires had naturally gone to greet his master. Doc observed the decapitation of this bearer of bad news, and a flicker of distaste crossed his normally impassive bronze features.

Doc had not expected that result. But it had transpired, and there was nothing to be done about it now.

The bronze man had not seen the riders retrieve the figure who descended by parachute, nor Chinua take possession of the midget.

So as the bandit band drew closer, Doc at first did not perceive Monzingo Baldwin draped across Chinua’s saddle. The horse’s head and tossing mane blocked that small figure from view.

Only after Chinua and his warriors dismounted and hobbled their horses, did the truth became apparent.

Chinua lifted Baldwin off the saddle and flung him over to a lieutenant as if the insensate midget were a sack of booty.

Doc Savage could not tell if the little man was still alive or not.

It was now light enough that Doc and Johnny could see one another clearly. Using their flashlights as heliographs would no longer be effective. So the bronze man caught Johnny’s attention and began forming finger signs that were of a type similar to those used by the deaf-and-dumb.

“C-h-i-n-u-a h-a-s B-a-l-d-w-i-n,” Doc signaled.

“U-n-f-o-r-t-u-n-a-t-e,” returned Johnny. “W-h-a-t d-o w-e d-o a-b-o-u-t i-t?”

“W-a-i-t.”

Below, Chinua’s men got busy going from tent to tent, seeking signs of spies or lurkers. They came out with soggy bushels of ashes, testifying that every fire in the camp had been extinguished in such a way that none could be relit.

Mongol profanity rolled up and around the hills. There was a lot of it. Chinua’s band had ridden all night, and they were cold, chilled to the bone. A warm fire and hot food was their deepest desire at this point. Neither was possible, thanks to Doc Savage.

Having no recourse for comfort, Chinua ordered his men to move the crude cube of ice into an upright position in the center of the camp.

This was done very easily, for virtually every man wanted the privilege of standing the great Mongol warrior and general, Tamerlane, on his feet once again.

In the sharp-elbowed bustle for the privilege, a few fights broke out. Fists and knives came into play. Blood was spilt.

Had this been America, no doubt a bloody brawl would resulted, and the police called to quell the riot. But among these lawless Mongols, breaking another man’s nose or inflicting a non-fatal stab wound was considered a kind of roughhouse sport.

Chinua allowed this high-spirited horseplay to run its course, and soon enough the frosty lump of ice stood upright, and the yellow eyes of the long-deceased Tamerlane gazed down upon them through icy striations.

They stood about in a circle, marveling at the semi-shapeless form in the ice. A reverential silence attended this solemn ceremony. No one spoke.

Doc Savage saw that the block had been shaved and shaped during its arduous transportation. Although fractured, it was largely intact, and the figure within well encapsulated.

In the cloudy dawn, the icy bier showed no signs of melting. This was a relief, but of course it was only temporary. Doc’s subterfuge had simply forestalled what was probably inevitable.

Johnny caught Doc’s eye, and began signing.

W-h-a-t i-f i-t b-e-g-i-n-s t-o m-e-l-t?

Doc Savage hesitated long enough for Johnny to realize that the bronze man had not yet formulated an overall plan to deal with the situation. He had bought them time in the best way he knew how, but that was all that the bronze giant had accomplished.

Finally, Doc signed back: I-f t-h-e i-c-e s-t-a-r-t-s t-o m-e-l-t, w-e w-i-l-l h-a-v-e t-o t-a-k-e a h-a-n-d.

O-u-t-n-u-m-b-e-r-e-d, Johnny pointed out.

Doc did not reply to that. The prospect of taking on the Mongol clan was not an inviting one.

So they waited. Behind the clouds, the sun rose, and there was the faintest warmth suffusing the chilly morning air. How much warmer the day was going to get would be up to the cloud cover. Winter was not many weeks off.

Doc cast his eerie golden gaze in all directions. The Mongolian sky was normally a brilliant blue during the day. The country was famous for its open skies. Rank after rank of clouds marched along, thus spoiling that pleasurable vista. But here and there, Doc perceived breaks in these clouds.

Knowing that time was not on his side, Doc signaled to Johnny: A-m g-o-i-n-g t-o t-r-y s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g.

W-h-a-t-?

D-a-n-g-e-r-o-u-s, signaled Doc.

That was all the bony archaeologist could get out of him. Moving low, Doc started down the hill, slipping around to the side opposite of the encampment. Johnny tracked him with eager eyes, but the bronze giant was soon lost from sight. It was a remarkable thing, for Johnny had been with the bronze man for many years now, and even in broad daylight his stealthy ways still managed to fool the eye. Even the prepared eye.

Moving cautiously, Doc Savage found the base of the hill, and commenced making a circuit of the sheltering hills. Plainly, he was looking for something. But what it was could not be guessed by any observer, had there been any such.

DURING his careful observation, Doc Savage had seen one of Chinua’s men carry Monzingo Baldwin into the Mongol warlord’s personal tent. It was obviously the bandit chieftain’s tent because it was the largest and most sumptuous of all. Also, Doc had been inside it and seen by its lavishness that it clearly belonged to the leader of the Mongols.

Doc’s firm intention was to reclaim the little man while Baldwin was still unconscious, or if dead, to ascertain that fact.

Doc slipped along, moving from tent to tent, being careful to pause behind shelter every so often, so that his movements did not attract the attention of the sharp-eyed Mongols.

Reaching the yurt, Doc produced a clasp knife from his gadget vest, opened it, and used it to slice a long vertical slit in the rear of the thing. Once this gap was made, it was possible to slip within the tent, unseen by the Mongol warriors gathered outside of its entrance.

Giving his golden eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, Doc soon found Monzingo Baldwin splayed on a heap of sheepskins like a discarded doll.

At first, it appeared as if the midget were deceased. Doc moved to his side and laid a metallic hand upon his incredibly small chest. The slow rhythm of respiration, combined with the warmth of breath emerging from the tiny man’s mouth and nostrils, told Doc that Monzingo Baldwin still lived. It was a strange species of relief. The bronze man might have been equally relieved to discover his old Nemesis to be dead.

Making a careful check for injuries, Doc found the tiny man’s limbs to be intact and unbroken, but there was a significant lump on the miniature forehead, which told Doc that Baldwin had either been blackjacked and tossed out the plane, or had struck his head upon landing.

Doc could not envision his men, even at their most disagreeable, doing the former. So he concluded it was the latter eventuality that had produced unconsciousness in the midget. He was nearly correct.

Reaching into his vest, Doc took out a hypodermic syringe, and charged it with a stimulant. On second thought, Doc reconsidered the needle, having decided that the stimulant might be too potent for this little man. Restoring it to his vest, he brought out an ampule containing a chemical restorative of his own devising, similar to but more powerful than the common smelling salts.

Clamping one hand over the midget’s minuscule mouth to stifle any sudden outburst, Doc broke the ampule with the other, and waved the potent stuff under Baldwin’s nose.

Fractions of a second later, tiny eyes snapped open, grew round, and focused on the bronze man in horror.

His voice muted, Doc related, “You are a prisoner of the Mongols. You must be quiet so I can get you out of here safely.”

Doc gave the little man time to absorb these words. “Do you understand?” he pressed.

Cadwiller Olden shook his head in the affirmative very vigorously.

Satisfied, Doc removed the hand that had been keeping the midget’s mouth shut. As soon as he had done so, Olden opened his mouth to its widest, and shrieked out in a girlish voice.

“He’s in here! Doc Savage is here!”

Doc’s trilling was yanked out of him in spite of himself. It was rare that he forgot himself so, but this was one such time.

Wrapping up the midget, Doc plunged for the escape slit.

Olden attempted to scream his lungs out. Most of it was inarticulate. Some of it was understandable words.

“Save me! Save me!”

Doc Savage got out through the slit just fine, his head whipping in all directions, seeking the best route of escape.

Behind him, he could hear Mongols charging into the tent. There was a moment of confused yelling and searching. Then they spotted the slit, and rushed for it, assorted weapons brandished high.

Bullets started slamming through the felt fabric of the tent. Mongols were firing blind, and lead snapped through the air all around the bronze man.

Dropping suddenly, Doc Savage flattened himself atop the midget, silencing his outcries. Reaching into his vest, he brought out several metallic cartridges, primed them, and threw the devices here and there.

Black smoke was the first to erupt, but mixed with that was teargas and other noxious gases. The fumes might not help, given the tightness of his situation.

The bronze man had already drawn a simple gas mask over his own head, to protect him from his own fumes. It consisted of a cellophane-like transparent hood, to which was affixed a cartridge which chemically purified the air.