Читать книгу The Sea Magician: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 4

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The individual who had spoken might have stepped from the pages of some historical tome, for his garb was that of a fighting man of the thirteenth century. Chain mail of fine workmanship shod him from head to foot, and over that was worn a short gown affair of white silk which was gathered in by a belt that supported a dagger and a short sword, both in scabbards.

The features of the apparitional being were concealed behind a fierce bush of black beard. The eyes were dark, piercing, the nose a hooked beak.

Tilted back over a shoulder, rifle fashion, the figure carried one of the biggest broadswords Johnny had ever seen in a museum or outside of one.

“For the love of mud!” Johnny gulped, forgetting his big words for once.

“Ah,” breathed the apparition. “Methinks thou art the rascal who touched my wine goblet with poison.”

The absurdity of the picture the other presented again seized Johnny, who was an extremely modern gentleman who did not believe in ghosts in any form. He burst into a snort of laughter.

“Listen, my friend,” he chuckled. “Why the masquerading in that rig?”

The ghostly figure advanced two paces, the chain mail clinking and grinding softly, the moonlight shimmering on the metallic links.

“Fool, dost thou not know to whom thou speakest?” demanded the cavernous voice.

“To King John, I suppose,” Johnny said dryly.

Then Johnny’s facetiousness suddenly evaporated, for he caught sight of brownish stains upon the broadsword which certainly looked like remnants of dried blood.

“Down to thy knees!” rumbled the figure. “Dost thou not know how to come before royalty?”

Johnny stood his ground warily. He was now convinced that he faced a madman, some poor fellow who had gone insane and imagined himself to be the long-dead English ruler. The fellow was probably violent, and there was no telling what he would do.

“What are you doing here, King John?” Johnny queried.

“Somewhere in these fens dwells the person who didst cause me to die,” boomed the one in mail. “I hunt him. Methinks thou art he.”

Johnny was carrying his shoes, socks and trousers under an arm. They made a compact bundle which he shifted uncertainly.

“I thought you found the poisoner last night,” he said.

“What meanest thou?”

“Didn’t you chop a fellow up with that broadsword last night?” Johnny elaborated. “He was a farmer named Joseph Shires.”

The black-bearded head shook slowly. “King John dost not trouble to remember the events which art in the past.”

A hopeless lunatic, Johnny decided firmly. If the fellow was permitted to continue running loose, no telling how many persons he would slay or injure. It would be a service to the English countryside if he were seized and confined in an institution where he belonged.

Johnny knew insane persons could often be persuaded to do things, if one sympathized with them.

“I am not the man who poisoned you,” he told the other solemnly. “But I know where he can be found, perhaps.”

“Whence?” questioned the figure.

“In the village of Swineshead,” Johnny said promptly. “Come with me and I will show you the way.”

If Johnny could get the individual who claimed to be King John to the village, he could be seized easily. He could be seized here, too, if care was used, but there might be difficulty in getting him out of the marsh. If he could be persuaded to come out under his own power, so much the better.

But King John’s ghost balked. “Nay, vassal. I knowest the one who poisoned me can be found here. I think thou art he!”

Lunging suddenly, the mailed figure slashed furiously at Johnny’s head with his broadsword.

Johnny ducked. Simultaneously, he hurled the bundle composed of his shoes, socks and trousers. The lump of clothing hit the other in the face just as the broadsword missed Johnny’s head.

The bony geologist leaped forward, feet-first. He landed squarely on the other’s midriff. Air tore through the black beard with a swishing moan and the fellow went over backward.

Johnny pounced on the wide handle of the broadsword. It was intended for two-fisted operation anyway, and there was room enough for him to get a grip. He wrenched and wrestled, got the weapon, then threw it away.

A mailed fist bounced off Johnny’s head, leaving a ringing and colored lights behind in his skull. He pumped two blows at his foe, but only barked his knuckles on the chain mail armor.

The fight was, Johnny perceived, going to be tough. The other was a big man, and strong; moreover, the fellow was incased in the protective linkage of metal.

Seizing his foe’s arms, Johnny tried to hold the fellow. The other snapped like a dog at his throat. Johnny retaliated by sticking a thumb in one of his opponent’s eyes. They went over and over in the reeds and soft mud.

William Harper Littlejohn’s eminent associates in the Fellowhood of Scientists would have been surprised to see him now, for the famous geologist and archaeologist was showing a knowledge of gutter fighting methods which would have been envied by the most brutal London dockwalloper. At that, he was barely holding his own.

The pseudo King John had lost the use of one eye temporarily, thanks to Johnny’s probing thumb. But Johnny’s lips were split, he had lost his coat, and his shirt hung to his person only by the sleeves.

Johnny managed to jam both hands inside the facial opening of the armor hood and got hold of his foe’s throat. He squeezed; at the same time, he wrapped his bony legs around the other’s torso, pinioning his arms.

King John began making squawking sounds. His dark face purpled. Foam shot past his teeth and his tongue came out. Finally his struggle weakened.

Johnny ceased his choking before the other was seriously damaged, and utilized stripes of his own torn garments for binding. Yanking the knots tight, he started to stand erect—and a firecracker seemed to go off in the back of his head.

He saw the black muck of the marsh rush up at his face; he seemed to plunge far down into the earth where it was infinitely black and silent, and to remain there for a long time.

When Johnny came up out of the earth and opened his eyes, the pseudo King John was standing at his side, leaning on the broadsword.

“What—what happened?” Johnny gulped vaguely.

“Mine faithful horse came to mine rescue,” rumbled the other. “Yea. With his hoofs, mine animal subdued thee.”

“Hell,” growled Johnny, and felt of the back of his head.

There was a knob on the rear of his cranium, and it did feel as if a horse had kicked him. But Johnny knew no horse could have approached without being seen or heard. A horse could not travel over this marshy ground, anyway, because quicksands were too plentiful.

Johnny sat up. He was promptly knocked back with a forcible blow from the flat of the heavy broadsword, but before that happened, he saw that there was no one else around them. The marsh was as empty of life as if no one dwelled within hundreds of miles.

The figure in chain mail was rubbing his throat where Johnny’s fingers had tightened, this indicating the fight must not have occurred long ago. The moon had not changed its position perceptibly, so Johnny concluded he had not been unconscious for long.

Throat massaged to his satisfaction, Johnny’s captor fumbled inside his white-silk doublet and produced a flint and tinder device for starting a fire. This surprised Johnny. He stared at the apparatus. Then he whistled softly in astonishment.

The fire-making mechanism was undoubtedly ancient, an historical piece. It was deeply pitted, as if it had lain in the weather for a long time, but was still serviceable. It struck sparks, the tinder ignited, and the flame was applied to a tallow candle which the ghostly figure also brought from under the white doublet. The figure bent over a pile of papers lying on the soft marsh muck.

Johnny, staring, perceived that the contents of his own pockets were being inspected. Among these was a weapon which resembled an overgrown automatic pistol, but which was in reality a machine pistol capable of firing shots with extreme rapidity.

The weapon was an invention of Doc Savage, and Doc’s men all carried them, although they used them only on occasions of extreme necessity. Doc Savage and his five aides made it a practice never to take human life directly. They never killed an enemy, even when their lives were in the greatest danger.

The pseudo King John seemed unfamiliar with firearms, and fumbled the weapon in a manner which caused Johnny’s thin hair to stand erect.

“Turn that thing the other way!” Johnny snapped. “You’ll shoot somebody!”

The other seemed not to hear, but put the machine pistol down and picked up the papers.

“Verily, it is a strange writing which men use these days,” he remarked.

Among the papers was the cablegram which Johnny had received from Doc Savage, advising of Doc’s arrival in London. Its text was such to indicate that Johnny was one of Doc’s five aides.

The weird individual who claimed to be King John seemed greatly interested in the cablegram. He scowled blackly at Johnny.

“Are you one of Doc Savage’s men?” he growled.

Johnny did his best to keep from starting—for the other had spoken without using the weird English of other centuries.

“What difference does it make?” Johnny demanded.

“Are you?” the other snarled.

“Yes,” said Johnny.

The figure in armor swore explosively, and they were violent Twentieth century oaths.

“Did Doc Savage send you up here?” he questioned harshly.

“No,” Johnny denied.

“I think that’s a damn lie, bloke!” snarled the other.

Johnny squirmed about, realizing fully for the first time that his arms and legs were loosely but effectively bound with stout cotton cords. He could move, but not enough to put up a fight.

“You seem to have abandoned your antiquated mannerisms of speech, King John,” he suggested.

The other only glared.

Johnny, studying the man, abruptly decided the fellow was not insane after all, and that meant the individual had been playing the King John role for a deliberate purpose.

“What is the game?” Johnny asked sharply.

“Bloke, it’ll be a long time before you know!” the other snarled.

He lunged over suddenly and struck Johnny with his broadsword. He used the flat of the blade, but the blow was heavy and sufficient to introduce Johnny to quick unconsciousness.

“Doc Savage must have sent you up here!” the pseudo King John told Johnny’s insensible form. “And that’ll bear lookin’ into.”