Doc Savage: Death's Dark Domain (14 page)

“Blazes!” squeaked Monk. “Doc, we’d better get back into the air.”

Doc Savage reached out to pick up the woman with the intention of bearing her to the
safety of the plane.

She pushed his hands away, flared. “Unhand me! I can walk!”

Surprise flickered in Doc Savage’s eyes—a thing which rarely happened. On other occasions
Doc had encountered young women with nerve. He had even considered some of these remarkably
brave. They were, however, shrinking violets in comparison with this steely specimen.

She jumped to her feet. “What are you all waiting for? Irons to clamp on your wrists?”

“What about you?”

“It would be better for me if I were not discovered where you had landed,” the dark-eyed
woman admitted.

Doc Savage said, “Follow us, then.”

They clambered aboard their craft, closed the door, and brought the large aircraft
back to life.

Turning about on one moaning engine, port brakes applied, Doc got the amphibian lumbering
back onto the road.

Pointing her into the wind, the bronze man advanced the throttles. With a throaty
song of power, the plane surged ahead. The air wheels bounced more than usual, owing
to the unevenness of the country blacktop.

Air flowing under the broad wings lifted the thundering amphibian off the road. The
aircraft cleared the furred treetops of the forest, wheels cranking up into their
hull wells.

Doc climbed to a safe altitude, and set course for Pristav.

“You have no conception of how dangerous was the territory you have just put behind
you,” the woman intoned.

“On the contrary,” said Ham. “We just witnessed a man being carried off and murdered
by a giant creature of prodigious strength.”

The woman took that statement in stride. “Was—was this creature invisible?”

“It was,” said Ham levelly. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Not ‘it.’
Them.
We of Tazan call them by many names. The Invisible Ogres. The Hairy Ones. Polyphemes.
Ciclopi.
”

For four or five seconds following that announcement, Doc Savage’s weird trilling
sound came into being and penetrated to the far corners of the cabin. Having no tune,
yet melodious, inspiring without being awesome, the fantastic note seemed to come
from everywhere.

The woman evidently did not realize whence it emanated. She looked around wonderingly.
She remained wide-eyed with wonderment even after the sound died.

Doc Savage said from the cockpit, “Did you say
Ciclopi?”

“Yes. Otherwise, Cyclopes.”

“Jove!” cried Ham. “I remembered reading about them. Ulysses encountered one during
his famous Odyssey. Polyphemus was the fellow’s name. He was a one-eyed giant many
times larger than a man!”

“This creature,” Doc Savage interjected, “possessed several eyes.”

“There are many species of
Ciclopi
dwelling in Ultra-Stygia,” returned the woman. “Some are small and the size of an
ordinary human. Others are gigantic, and boast many heads, eyes and hands. Only these
orbs can be seen. Otherwise, their unhuman nature defeats the eye. They cannot be
discerned under any light.”

“What is your name?” Doc asked abruptly.

“Fiana Drost,” she said.

Doc Savage did not show by his metallic expression that he had heard the woman’s name
spoken by Emile Zirn. He had not mentioned this exchange to his men. Instead, the
bronze man asked, “How did you come to encounter us?”

“I am a citizen of Tazan. I was in Ultra-Stygia, searching for my American friend,
Simon Page, who went missing.”

“Page!” snapped Ham. “That was the man Long Tom went to find!”

“I do not know this Long Tom, but I have discovered no trace of Simon Page, who is
said to have been captured by strange things that prowl Ultra-Stygia.”

“By these creatures?” asked Doc.

The woman shrugged. “By them, or others. There are ghouls living in the caves of Ultra-Stygia.
Things that fly at night that look like bats, but are the size of vultures. Men are
found drained of their life’s blood. Vampires do this, some say.”

“The man who was with us had his throat cut,” Ham offered.

Fiana Drost drew her long woolly winter coat more tightly about her slender form.

“For Ultra-Stygia,” she imparted, “that passes for a normal death. I speak of those
who are discovered without blood, showing the mark of the Undead on their throats.
Two puncture wounds. Or their jugular veins slashed as if by a cruel beast. It is
very unpleasant. I have seen this with my own eyes. A man named Zoltan, a countryman
of mine, vanished. He was found in this condition. He subsequently died.”

The cabin fell silent. Doc Savage and his men had encountered many strange things
in their eventful and far-ranging careers. They were not credulous men, but they had
learned not to be too skeptical. Especially where death was concerned.

At length, Fiana Drost spoke again. “This man who was found with his throat cut. What
was his name?”

“Emile Zirn,” supplied Ham.

The woman was silent for a space of seconds. “This Emile Zirn, what did he look like?”

Doc Savage gave a concise description of the man, omitting nothing important.

“I do not know this Emile Zirn,” Fiana Drost said at last.

“He knew of you,” Doc interjected.

Fiana waved a dismissive hand, saying, “Pah! Many men have tried to make love to me.
Or wish that they could.”

Ham, ever alert in his lawyerly mind, turned to the woman and asked, “Do you know
another Emile Zirn?”

She fixed him with her unfathomably liquid eyes.

“Why do you ask me this question?”

“We have heard of an Emile Zirn who disappeared from a liner crossing the Atlantic,
on his way to Pristav,” said the dapper lawyer.

“I do not believe I know that Emile Zirn either,” Fiana Drost returned thinly.

Monk and Ham exchanged glances. It was usually their way, when finding themselves
in the company of an attractive young woman, to start tripping up one another in an
effort to dominate the attention of the bit of femininity in question.

But this one time, the cold-blooded manner of this woman seemed to cool their usual
ardor. They maintained a reserved decorum. Even Habeas the pig, always happy to hop
into the lap of a young lady, spurned Fiana Drost.

Fiana volunteered, “I do not recommend that you fly directly to Pristav, where you
will not be welcomed. For war appears to be in the offing and perhaps you will be
dragged into it, in the event of a surprise attack by Egallah.”

“Is such an attack expected?” asked Doc.

Fiana nodded firmly. “At any moment.”

“We do not normally take sides in conflicts between nations,” stated Doc quietly.
“But we have business in this region.”

“What manner of business?” inquired Fiana, arching one pencil-thin eyebrow.

Doc Savage failed to reply. He appeared busy with the controls and unhearing. It was
a habit of his, not responding to a direct question if he preferred not to answer
it.

Noticing this trait, she pressed Monk and Ham. “Why do you men come to this troubled
land?”

Ham offered, “As Doc Savage said—business.”

Fiana Drost gave up. Her dark eyebrows drew together and she fell solemnly silent
once more. Despite the electrically warmed cabin, she seemed cold. For she drew her
coat more tightly about herself.

Monk Mayfair spoke up. “Doc, do we start lookin’ for Long Tom, or tackle the other
problem?”

Doc Savage said, “Time is of the essence. We will split up. You and Ham will go in
search of Long Tom. I will attend to the other matter personally.”

Ham was on the radio and listening intently through headsets. After a time, the dapper
lawyer jerked erect in his seat.

“Doc—that unnerving music again!”

“Cut it into the loudspeaker circuit,” directed Doc.

Ham yanked the plug. Over the cabin loudspeaker, uncanny cadences came.

Hearing this, Fiana Drost gasped.

“What do you know of this?” demanded Ham suspiciously.

“It is the funeral march of the late King Vladislav of Tazan,” she said. “Always it
is heard over the radio these days.”

“This is coming from Tazan?” asked Doc.

“Yes. They—we are in mourning.”

Doc said nothing. He cocked his head to listen closely. At length, he said, “It does
not follow the identical melody as the last time we heard it.”

Fiana hastened to explain, “It is an improvised piece, you understand. A medley. It
is not always the same each time it is performed.”

“I don’t recognize the instruments being played,” Ham said slowly.

Fiana said, “There is only one instrument. The electric harp.”

“Never heard of it,” said Monk.

Doc offered, “The so-called electric harp is capable of unusual orchestral effects.
It is sometimes employed in motion picture films to achieve musical atmosphere.”

“It makes me want to shiver all over,” admitted Ham.

“That is the point,” said Doc.

They volleyed along for a time. Doc was flying north, to landlocked Egallah. The great
expanse of Ultra-Stygia, which still bore signs of having been a battlefield during
the Great War, unrolled below. Sunlight showed evidence of frost heaves here and there.

“Picturesque lakes,” commented Ham.

“Those,” corrected Fiana, “are bomb craters filled with water from a recent rain.
Everything that you see below remains contested territory, even twenty years after
the Armistice.”

“Tazan controls it currently, do they not?” asked Ham.

“And has since the war ended. But Prime Minister Ocel of Egallah has sworn to repatriate
it. He is a very determined man.”

“So we’ve heard,” said Monk.

“There have been many skirmishes there. Soldiers operating in Ultra-Stygia. But that
is not the worst of it, of course. Things are a-prowl in the disputed area, things
that cannot be killed by bullet or bayonet.”

“So we saw,” said Ham.

“Or didn’t see,” countered Monk. “All I could make out were the brute’s eyes.”

Ham suddenly asked, “Why are those beasts called
Ciclopi
when they have so many eyes? I fail to understand that part of it.”

“It is rumored,” said Fiana, “that the
Ciclopi
possess several separate heads, each equipped with one orb.”

“That make sense, I guess,” muttered Monk.

“It does not!” snapped Ham contrarily.

Doc Savage asked, “Did either of you notice the color of the creature’s eyes?”

“Brown,” asserted Ham.

“No, they were black,” insisted Monk.

“Which is it?”

Fiana answered that. “One of the unpleasant things about the
Ciclopi
is that each head contains eyes of a different color. Some have seen blue eyes. Others,
brown, gray, green. Even yellow has been reported.”

Monk asked, “What do you make of that, Doc? It does kinda sound like we’re dealin’
with a Hydra-headed monster.”

But Doc Savage declined to reply. What he thought, the bronze man kept to himself.

NOT many minutes later, Fiana Drost began fidgeting. She took to examining her nails
distractedly, looking out the window often and exhibiting other evidence of internal
worry.

“What is the matter?” asked Ham.

“I am unused to this flying,” she admitted.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Ham assured her.

Fiana began glancing about the cabin. “I do not see any parachutes….”

“We kinda used them up gettin’ this far,” Monk admitted.

“I think we have one or two left,” suggested Ham gallantly. “Would you feel better
wearing one?”

“I would. Thank you.”

Ham offered to help her climb into the parachute harness and pack, but the woman refused
assistance, going instead to the washroom where she donned the rig.

“Modest, I guess,” muttered Monk.

Fiana returned, wearing the harness under her Caracul coat. Once she settled back
into her seat, the dark-haired woman seemed to relax. For the first time, she began
to make casual conversation.

“What manner of aircraft is this?”

Monk beamed. “It’s Doc’s personal bus. He designed it himself.”

“It is a warplane?”

“No, Doc don’t believe in armin’ his birds.”

“Remarkable! He is flying over disputed territory, and he goes unarmed.”

“We can handle anything thrown at us,” inserted Ham Brooks. “This ship is swifter
and more maneuverable than any aircraft ever built. It is easily ten years ahead of
its time.”

Doc Savage did not contribute to this discussion. He was by nature reserved.

Fiana inclined her head in the direction of the unresponsive bronze man. “I imagine
only he knows how to fly this remarkable aeroplane.”

“Naw,” said Monk. “Me and Ham are pilots, too.”

“That is a relief to hear,” drawled Fiana.

“Why is that?” asked Ham.

“I was worried what would happen if he were incapacitated. I have heard of pilots
who have suffered heart attacks while flying. Catastrophe always follows.”

“Flyin’ out here, we each took turns in the control bucket,” reassured Monk.

“You flew all the way from America in this aircraft?” Fiana sounded genuinely impressed.

“It was rough, but we made it,” admitted Monk.

“May I inspect the controls?”

“Sure,” said Monk, climbing out of the co-pilot bucket to allow the dark-eyed woman
to take his place.

Fiana addressed Doc, “Mr. Savage, you must be the bravest of men.”

Doc ignored the compliment.

“You have a reputation for being very capable. No doubt you will locate your man,
Long Tom. And whatever other business you have here, it will be accomplished masterfully.”

Her hand drifted out to touch his shoulder.

Doc Savage did something very natural for him. He colored with embarrassment. He turned
his head, pretending to study the rugged terrain unreeling below.

Fiana Drost withdrew her hand. Unseen by the others in back, she slipped that hand
into the fur-trimmed collar of her woolly coat.