Self-assured, as though bound on definite business, he hurried along with the others.
And he listened. He could catch snatches of talk. That was important—not so much for the import as for the dialect he must master. It was Russian, somewhat archaic, but Jim Wade’s linguistic abilities were equal to the task.
He was nearing his destination, and it was time to make the first move. A slightly built youth, with a sparse, adolescent beard, jostled him, and Jim Wade turned to the boy.
He kept one hand pressed to his swollen cheek, and mumbled as loudly as he dared:
“Where is the monk Vladimir? All the devils are in my tooth and I need his prayers. Do you know where he may be found?”
The lad was unsuspicious.
“Vladimir? Didn’t you hear? Duke Feodor ordered him taken prisoner when he tried to keep us from fighting the Norse. The Duke’s hated Vladimir long enough, and this was his chance.” He stared curiously at Wade. “I thought everyone knew—”
“I’ve been at home, with this accursed toothache. But—”
The boy’s mouth twisted bitterly. “Well, it’s the end of poor Vladimir. He was taken to Feodor’s torture room—and you know what that means.”
Wade let the other pass on. His brow was knitted thoughtfully. At last he followed the stream of Russians that were pouring into the big building. They were massing in a great hall there—a place of crudely barbaric splendor.
Someone murmured, “Feodor will be here soon. As soon as he’s killed Vladimir.”
On an impulse, Wade made for a doorway where a guard was standing.
He had noticed the glances cast in that direction. He would probably find Feodor there.
The guard glanced curiously at Jim Wade, but made no move to halt him as he moved confidently past. A bare corridor stretched out before him. Toward the end, steps wound down into the earth.
A torture cell would probably be far underground, where screams could not be heard from outside. Jim Wade went down the stairs. They ended before an oaken door, before which another guard stood, leaning on his sword.
“Get out!” the man growled. “You should know better than to come here.”
“I’ve important news for the Duke,” Wade said.
“What’s the matter with your face? Toothache, eh? Well, you know the Duke allows no intruders when he’s in there.” The guard jerked his head toward the door.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed. He was staring at the bullet hole in Jim Wade’s tunic. “Who are you?”
And his sword came up menacingly.
The gesture was only half completed. Wade’s fist cracked home on the point of the guard’s jaw. The Russian’s eyes rolled up, and Thunder Jim caught him as he collapsed. Instantly he pushed open the door, thrust his unconscious captive before him, and stepped inside.
It was a fairly small room, but well furnished with instruments of torture. A brawny, half-naked man was tied to metal rings sunk in the stone floor, and irons were heating in a nearby brazier filled with coals. Duke Feodor was walking toward his prisoner, a red-hot iron in one hand, when Wade burst in. The Duke whirled.
He was a big man, grossly corpulent, with bloated pads of cheeks. Red veins twisted across his forehead. He looked like some vicious, hideous, overfed hog—an Ivan the Terrible sunk into the decadent degeneracy. Black hair fell across his eyes. He tossed it back with a jerk, while he stared at Wade.
“Stupid fool!” he snarled. “Get out!”
“Sorry,” Wade said, tight-lipped. He thrust aside the unconscious guard and moved forward ominously.
Duke Feodor lifted the hissing iron bar. “Keep back!” he snapped. “Are you mad?”
“I don’t like torturers,” Wade said. His eyes were like glacial black pools. He moved forward with dangerous, feline grace.
Feodor swung the bar in a vicious arc. Wade could have gone for his pistol, but all he could think of just now was the driving necessity of smashing his fist into that bloated, degenerate face.
Wade didn’t like torturers….
He ducked under the bar and then struck, with the edge of his palm, at Feodor’s wrist. The Duke howled as the bar went sailing from his grasp. Lips writhing in fury, he lunged for Wade, wide open. It was really a pity to hit him.
But it was necessary and rather a pleasure. Wade stood rubbing his fist and looking down at the gross, unconscious figure. He turned toward the half-naked man, who was staring with wide eyes. There were a few minor burns on the hairy chest—Wade had arrived before Feodor had really begun.
“Shut the door,” the captive said. “No one will come—no one dares disturb the Duke when he’s torturing.”
WADE complied, and then freed the victim from his bonds. “You are Vladimir? The monk?”
“Aye.” The stocky man rubbed his chest ruefully. “Well, a few more scars. They won’t matter. Thanks, friend. And who are you?”
Wade explained, as he used the ropes to tie both Feodor and the guard. Vladimir nodded from time to time.
“So. You saved my life, and I’ll help you if I can. But I don’t know how. I’ve already tried to stop my people from marching on the Norse, but they have been trained to obey the Duke. They’re afraid to disobey. He’s a complete tyrant. Curious,” the monk smiled wryly. “Two hundred years ago our great-grandfathers fled from the tyranny of Catherine the Great, and now their descendants live under a worse tyrant.”
“They wouldn’t listen to you?”
“They don’t know anything but obedience,” Vladimir said, glancing at Feodor’s motionless bulk. “All their lives they’ve obeyed the Duke. He’s ordered men to death, and they haven’t hesitated. I think I’m the only one who ever dared question Feodor’s authority.”
Wade nodded. The seeds of revolt require time to generate. All their lives these Russians had been conditioned to obey their Duke blindly. They—well, they couldn’t realize there was any other way.
“What about Trefz?” he asked. “You know him?”
“Yes. He made a bargain with Feodor. Said that if the Duke helped him conquer the Norse, he’d split the Norse treasure with him. For that, Feodor has agreed to arm his men with guns and bombs and wipe out the Norsemen. Then he and Trefz will escape from the valley, with the loot.”
Wade was pondering. “Trefz never intended to keep that promise, of course. He’s using Feodor as a tool, just as Feodor is using his people. Where’s Trefz now? I’d like to see that sneaky rascal.”
Vladimir pointed up. “In the great hall. We’re marching tonight. Feodor was only waiting to finish with me before giving the signal. Tell me, what is Russia like now?”
“You wouldn’t know it,” Jim Wade smiled grimly.
The monk shrugged. “Two hundred years…. We were a group of political refugees who offended Catherine the Great. We wanted freedom she would not give. So we were sent to Siberia—but together! We made our escape, and set out to the east. We took native boats and crossed to the other continent—or, rather, our grandfathers and great-grandfathers did, hoping to find haven in America.”
Wade nodded. “Across Bering Straits. Then?”
“The natives attacked us. We fled here. And the volcanic gases have kept us prisoner—” Vladimir stopped suddenly.
The door creaked open. Jim Wade whirled, but he was too late. The man who stood on the threshold had a pistol aimed unwaveringly at Thunder Jim’s middle.
It was Ben Trefz.
A BANDOLIER of cartridges was strapped across his deep chest, and his head was sunk between the bison-broad shoulders.
Pale eyes watched Wade unwinkingly. The earmuffs were an incongruous note….
“There should have been a guard before the door,” he said with quiet ferocity. “I try to check up on everything. When I noticed the guard was missing—” He didn’t finish. It wasn’t necessary.
Wade stood apparently at ease, but he was ready to go for his gun at the first opportunity. The trouble was, it was strapped under his tunic. If Trefz’
attention should waver for a moment….
It didn’t. Instead, the guard Wade had knocked out groaned and sat up groggily. Trefz snapped a curt command at him, without removing his eyes from Wade and Vladimir.
“You! Get on your feet!”
The guard obeyed, blinking dazedly.
“Pick up Duke Feodor. Carry him out of this cell.”
Trefz stepped aside to allow the other to pass with his burden. A cruel smile twisted his lips.
“I never take chances. You—you’re Thunder Jim Wade. I knew that when I heard the Thunderbug was here. Quite famous, aren’t you?” There was mockery in the harsh voice.
Wade didn’t answer.
“I’m not going to try and disarm you,” Trefz went on. “I’m not going to get close to you. There’s a lock on this door—and it’ll hold.”
He stepped back across the threshold. Wade said: “Wait a minute.”
“Well?”
“I’m warning you.” Wade’s eyes were cold. “You can stop this slaughter if you want.”
“Sure. But I’m not going to.”
“If you carry out your plan,” Wade said very gently, “I’m going to kill you. That’s a promise. And I keep my promises.”
For a brief second, apprehension showed in Trefz’ face. Then he laughed harshly and stepped back, closing the door as Vladimir sprang forward. There was the sound of a bar falling into place.
Then silence. The monk tested the door, and found it immovable. “If we could break it down—”
“No use,” Wade grunted. “It’s reinforced with iron. So we can’t burn it down, either.” He stared about the cell. It was empty, save for the brazier of coals, the various torture implements, and a few benches.
Despite himself, Wade felt a chill creep down his spine. He had failed, after all. Duke Feodor would lead his men against the Norse, and then—
“There’s one chance,” Wade said at last. “It may kill us, but it’s a way to get out.”
“Then take it!” Vladimir’s eyes glittered.
Wade drew from his pocket the two grenades he had taken from the trap Trefz had set down the valley.
“We’re going to blow the door down. The roof may cave in on us. The concussion may kill us. But—”
For answer the burly monk grinned. “We are in God’s hands, my friend.”
“Well, we’ll try to help ourselves,” Wade said practically. He tore strips from his tunic and made little plugs for his ears, while Vladimir did the same. He put one of the grenades against the door, pulled the pin, and darted behind a barricade of benches he had built, where Vladimir crouched waiting.
The seconds were eternities. They dragged on, as Wade and the monk ripped off their garments to wrap them around their heads.
Then the grenade exploded. The world ended for Wade.
Chapter VII
War—and Peace
HE WAS alive. That incredible thought he clung to, for it was the only stable thing in a rocking world. Dazedly, weakly, he tried to move. It was difficult….
There was dim light. It came through the smashed door, from a torch far down the corridor. The cell itself was a shambles. Not only was the door gone, but the doorway, too, was wrecked. It was only a miracle that had saved Wade and Vladimir.
Vladimir? Wade turned to the motionless figure at his side. Blood had dried on the monk’s face, but his heart still beat. He was unconscious, and seemed unhurt save for minor contusions. Wade realized that he himself was a mass of cuts and bruises. His clothing was reduced to rags. But the barricade of benches had saved the two men from death.
How long a time had passed since the explosion? Wade investigated his wounds. The blood had caked dry on his clothes.
Apparently the Russian attackers had already marched, and no one had troubled to investigate a dungeon that was obviously blown to bits. Again the benches had been helpful—their splintered remnants had concealed Wade and Vladimir from any spying eyes.
Vainly Wade tried to resuscitate the monk. He could waste little time. He had to get back to the Norsemen or at least find out what had happened while he had been unconscious.
He shouldered Vladimir’s body and staggered out into the passage. He was weaker than he had thought. His gun—it was safe. He carried it ready in one hand as he climbed the stairway.
The Russian city—or, at least, Duke Feodor’s palace—seemed deserted. Wade met no one. He emerged through the gaping doors, ready for attack, but there was none.
“Looks like Feodor conscripted everybody,” Wade thought grimly. “Probably left the women hidden somewhere. What next?”
Vladimir was an unnecessary burden. Wade carried him down the valley for half a mile and left him concealed in a tiny cave he found. The monk would be safely hidden there till he recovered.
Wade hurried on, forcing his aching muscles to greater exertion. Distantly he heard shots. He rounded the valley’s bend and saw what was happening.
The Russians were in retreat. There were not many of them—about thirty, Wade saw. What had happened to the rest? The Vikings, fifty strong, were racing after their fleeing enemies, red-bearded Tryggvard in the lead. The Russians were heading for a narrow gorge in the valley’s wall. Wade ran on. He could see the Thunderbug, lurching up the valley—but its guns were silent. Argyle and Marat were on the job but they were handicapped—the Thunderbug was a fighting machine and Wade and his men were in this place to save lives, not destroy them.
All the surviving Russians were in the narrow gorge now. The Vikings were racing toward them, swords gleaming in the dim sunlight. Wade signaled to the Thunderbug, and the craft hesitated and then headed for him.
THEY met near the mouth of the gorge. From the door Argyle’s red thatch emerged. He stared at Wade.
“You look as though you’ve been through a clothes-wringer! What—”
“You tell me what happened.” Wade was pushing past Argyle into the Thunderbug’s cabin. Svendson was there, and Dirk Marat was at the controls.
“The Russians attacked—only a few of them. The Norse went crazy. We couldn’t stop ’em without shooting everybody down. I’ve a hunch the Russians are leading Tryggvard into a trap—but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Wade peered through a port. He could see into the depth of the gorge. The Russians were at the end of it, and rope ladders were being dropped to them from above. Like monkeys they scrambled up, well ahead of the pursuing Vikings.
“Yeah,” Jim Wade said tonelessly. “Look at that.”
A group of Russians had emerged from hiding-places and were closing in to block the mouth of the gorge. They were armed with rifles and grenades. The Norsemen were bottled in—and the ladders were being drawn up beyond their reach.
“They’ll try and charge out,” Wade said. “Against guns.”
Red cursed. “If we could only get ’em to palaver—”
The figures of the Russians, on the low cliffs above the gorge, were busy.
They were hurling down stones upon the Norsemen—no, not stones. Hollow containers that smashed to bits, while whitish fog curled up.
Wade remembered Trefz’ ingenuity as a trapper, and cursed it.
“That’s poison gas. Trefz found some of the volcanic outlets and manufactured gas-bombs. Crude, but they’ll work.”
He slid into the pilot’s seat as Marat slipped out of it.
“I’m taking over. We’re stopping this, pronto!”
“We can’t take all the Vikings into the Thunderbug,” Argyle growled. “And we haven’t enough gas masks to help.”
Wade sent the swift tank racing toward the gorge’s mouth.
“That place is a natural trap. The gas is heavier than air. It stays put.”
“Well?” Argyle’s big hand was caressing his gun-butt. “So what?”
Wade’s lips curved in a tight grin. He knew the Thunderbug’s potentialities as no one else did. That miracle craft had a few aces up its sleeve.
On the face of it, however, t
he rescue seemed impossible. The Vikings were already falling, overcome by the gas. As the tank raced down the slope, Wade could see the line of Russians waiting at the gorge’s mouth, ready to turn a withering blast of gunfire on any Norsemen who might break through—ready to close in and hurl their grenades when the signal was given.
Where was Trefz? Wade could not see him.
Nor could he catch a glimpse of Duke Feodor.
THEY were at the gorge’s mouth. The Russians saw them, turned their bullets against the black monster rushing down upon them. A grenade sailed through the air, but exploded harmlessly, fifty feet away. Luckily, the Russians had not had time to familiarize themselves with the new weapons.
They broke and scattered before the stubby snout of the Thunderbug. The line wavered, and then resolved itself into frantically running figures dodging from the behemoth’s path. The tank lurched on at top speed, into the gorge.
Half the Vikings were down now. The others were trying to rally, Tryggvard shouting at them.
“That gas can’t be very strong,” Jim Wade said crisply. “Stands to reason—there isn’t enough of it. And the gorge isn’t so big.” It was true that the gorge was only about as large in area as a city block. Yet it was an efficacious trap, with the walls too steep to climb, the Russians guarding the mouth—and poison gas filling it.
Wade halted the Thunderbug. “We are taking a chance on grenades,” he said. “Dirk—Red—use your guns. Watch the cliffs. If you see anybody throwing a bomb, wing him. Don’t kill.”
He touched a lever. From the nose of the Thunderbug plates slid aside. The retractable propeller was pumped out. That was all—Wade didn’t bother to send out the wings or landing carriage that would have transformed the tank into a plane. All he wanted was the propeller—and power.
He got both. He revved the engine, and the prop started to spin. It gathered speed. The whitish gas was sucked into it.
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