BRITISH COMICS
THE PARALYSING EYE
First
episode taken from The Skipper No. 162 -
THE WEIRDEST
WEAPON IN THE WORLD.
An Eye That Steals
Men’s Strength
CHANG
The
boy ran wildly through the quiet
The
horrified defenders of the little town bunched together for self-defence. They
stood there as men stand watching their approaching doom once they know it to
be inevitable. Fifty yards from the edge of the town Chang suddenly raised his
arm, and at that signal each warrior touched a spring in the side of the
helmet. The eye in each forehead opened, and a strong red beam of light shot
out. Chang had done the same, and a weird ray from the ghastly eye shone
straight on the waiting townsmen. The effect was amazing. All those men were
strong, fearless warriors trained by a life time of skirmishing and fighting in
a troublesome country, but as soon as the red eye struck them their bodies
became limp, their knees trembled, and their arms did not seem to have the
strength even to raise their weapons. A moment later Chang and his Death Riders
were amongst them, and the slaughter had begun. For the tribesman and their
village it was the end. They merely formed another batch of victims for the
insatiable Death Riders. Chang never met with much opposition. The Red Eye was
the secret of his power. He was a man of brain as well as brawn, one of the
most dangerous characters in all
THE GOLDEN HORSE
Not
many miles away, whilst this raid was going on, a white man was standing in the
inner courtyard of the Dalai monastery. Bert Kerrigan was scratching the back
of his head as he stared at a huge golden image fashioned in the likeness of a
horse. Standing fifteen feet high, it was a wonderful piece of work, the finest
ever made by the Dalai monks, who were famed far and wide for their
craftsmanship in metal and wood. “Worth a fortune,” said Kerrigan, “but I
reckon the trouble of sticking to it in this wild country would be more than
it’s worth. What do you think, Kong?” The massive Chinaman at his side was
unimpressed. “Of what use is a charger which cannot gallop?” he grunted. “Far
more to my liking is your fighting chariot on wheels.” Kong’s thoughts were
usually of fighting, for he had spent a lifetime at it. His first means of
earning his living had been as a professional wrestler. He had then served a
Chinese mandarin as his personal bodyguard and headsman. For years he had been
the official executioner, but now his one aim in life was to serve his master,
Kerrigan, although his naked chest still showed the tattooed emblem of his grim
trade. His favourite weapon was the huge curved sword with which he had once
silenced the mandarin’s enemies. Kerrigan laughed and slapped his retainer on
his broad shoulder with a force that made even Kong wince. For Kerrigan was a
giant of a man himself, and a lifetime of adventuring had toughened him until
he was like steel and whipcord. For some years now the faithful Kong and he had
been exploring
The
Golden Horse has been modeled to the likeness of his favourite charger. It is
made entirely of gold, but it is hollow. You may not notice, but there is a
trapdoor in the underside of the body. I am glad the task is finished, and even
now a regiment of the Prince’s warriors are waiting to take the Golden Horse
back to their master.” “We saw their camp as we neared the monastery,” said the
White Warrior. “I’ve heard of the prince. Where’s his country?” “Far away in
the north. I shall be glad when the Golden Horse has gone. As you say, it will
be a magnet to robbers and brigands, and I would not like to be responsible for
its loss.” Kerrigan shot a keen glance at the old man. He could see the Lama
was genuinely troubled. “But surely nobody would attack the monastery?” he
asked. The anxious look deepened in the Lama’s eyes. “There is one man in this
country who would do anything that is evil,” he said. “Have you ever heard the
name of Chang the Killer?” At the words Kong seemed to prick up his ears, and a
gleam appeared in Burt Kerrigan’s eyes. “That name seems to be on everyone’s
lips these days,” he growled. “I would like to meet this Chang.” “It is not
wise to look for death,” murmured the Lama. “I do not believe in magic, but
they say Chang the Killer has the power to paralyse men. And it is rumoured that
he means to take the Golden Horse.” Kong spat, and rattled his big headsman’s
sword. “Then let us wait here until this Chang comes to take it, master,” he
growled. “Maybe there will be the chance of a real fight. My sword gets rusty
with disuse.” As though in answer to his spoken wish there came a scurrying of
feet as a monk ran into the courtyard. “Master, master!” he called to the Lama,
sweat running down his face as he stammered in his fright. “There is fighting
outside. They have attacked the soldiers of Prince Lun. It is Chang and his
Death Riders.” The old Lama did not lose his head. “Come!” he cried to Kerrigan
and led the way to a small tower which stood at the corner of the courtyard.
The White Warrior and his retainer had passed him before the tower was reached.
Up the steps they bounded, out on to the little balcony from where they could
see over the monastery walls. Kerrigan got his first sight of the Death Riders!
In the nearby camp of Prince Lun’s men, pandemonium was let loose. The Death
Riders had taken them by surprise, and although far fewer in numbers than the
soldiers they were sweeping through their ranks like an avalanche. Ruthlessly
Chang’s men hacked and slashed with their heavy sabres. Bodies piled upon the
ground. Panting with his exertions, the Lama reached Kerrigan’s side and
pointed with trembling hand. “Kong!” Burt snapped, and leapt for the stairs.
“Make for the armoured tank and tell the monks to open the gates.”
A SURPRISE FOR
CHANG
Down
to the courtyard he clattered, past the Golden Horse that was already causing
bloodshed and slaughter, to the armoured car which was his most treasured
possession. In a moment he was inside the steel plated body and had pressed the
starter. Swinging the car round, he roared for the gates to be opened. After a
moment’s hesitation, two trembling monks obeyed. The car shot into the open;
the gates clanged behind it. The monks were taking no chances. Peering grimly
through the bullet proof glass slit in the front of the car, Kerrigan saw that
the rout of the Prince’s camp was complete. The one-sided fight was still going
on, and it seemed as if Prince Lun’s regiment would be annihilated. The
mysterious Chang was mustering his men for a final attack, the red eyes
gleaming evilly from each helmet. Kerrigan knew there was a great risk of himself
being overcome by the red ray, but he hoped the bullet-proof glass, tinted to
protect the driver’s eyes from the intense sun, would also protect him from the
ray. In any case the White Warrior was going to chance it. Like a thunderbolt,
the armoured car came hurtling straight at the Death Riders, and it was Chang’s
turn to be surprised. Above the roar of the motor, Kerrigan could hear the
death rattle of Kong’s machine-gun spitting leaden bullets, and he smiled with
satisfaction as several of the Death Riders swayed and toppled from their
saddles. Then the car was on them, and went through their ranks as the Death
Riders had a few minutes before gone through the camp. Slowing up, Kerrigan
swung the car round to repeat the attack. Suddenly he became aware of a red
glow inside the car. The rattle of the machine-gun had stopped. “What’s the
matter, Kong?” There was no reply. The White Warrior glanced over his shoulder.
With a shock he saw that the big Chinaman’s arms were hanging limp. In a flash
Kerrigan realised what was happening. One of the Death Riders, maybe Chang
himself, was galloping along beside the car, through the loopholes; Kong had
gazed into the fascinating ray. With an effort, he forced himself to reach up
and jerk Kong down into the body of the car. Then he stabbed on the accelerator
and shot out of range of the deadly red stone. Pulling up at a safe distance,
Kerrigan looked back over the plain. The Death Riders, on a compact orderly
body, were galloping away. Apparently Chang was too wise to try conclusions
again with the armoured car so soon after it had caused him losses.
The
White Warrior turned to Kong, and with relief saw that the Chinaman was sitting
up and rubbing his limbs. “So the power of the Red Eye is real!” drawled
Kerrigan. “How did it feel when you looked into it, Kong?” The ex-headsman
growled and shook himself angrily. “My joints turned to butter and my muscles
to water,” he said. “But it took me by surprise. The next time I shall cut him to
ribbons.” Kerrigan grunted. A new idea had come to him, and he drove swiftly
back to the scene of their recent encounter. Those strange silver helmets
seemed to give immunity. If he could get possession of one or two of those!
Half a dozen of the Death Riders lay dead, but none of them wore his strange
helmet. Chang had made sure they had been collected before he left the scene of
battle. He was making sure that only he should profit by the power of the red
stone. “The wily skunk!” murmured the Britisher, gazing at the evil, swarthy
faces now uncovered. “He has brain as well as courage. Maybe the Lama was right
when he said there was no wickedness that Chang the Killer would not undertake.
But we’ve saved the Golden Horse this time, Kong. I’d hate to see that pass
into the hands of a fiend like Chang and be melted down to fill his coffers.”
He drove slowly back to the monastery, where the monks cheered from the walls.
They had seen the Death Riders leave, and took it as a victory for the White
Warrior.
WHEN THE RED EYE
CLOSED
It
was the following day, and a strange procession wound down into a deep valley
some distance north of the old Lama’s sanctuary. In the middle of the troop was
the Golden Horse. Surrounding it were the survivors of Prince Lun’s regiment,
some with their horses hitched to the low, wheeled platform of the statue. At
the head of the column drove Kerrigan in his armoured car. He had taken on the
task of delivering the Golden Horse to its master. The escort had been helpless
and leaderless after Chang’s attack; the old Lama was glad to get the image of
doom out of the monastery; and the White Warrior knew that Chang was not
beaten. More than anything, he wanted to meet Chang again, for he had
determined to rid the country of the menace of the Red Eye. The horses were
getting weary, for the way was rough. Kerrigan presently stopped the car and
Kong descended. “We’ll make camp here,” the Britisher ordered. “See that double
guards are posted, Kong. I’ll sleep under the Golden Horse on the wheeled
platform.” For an hour the bustle of camp life continued, with its savoury
odours of cooking round the fires, and the subdued murmur of conversation
amongst the men. At the end of that time silence had settled over the camp as
the tired warriors settled down for the night. Stretched on the platform
between the Golden legs of the statue, Burt Kerrigan slept soundly in his
blankets. The moon filtered wanly through the clouds. Ten men kept watch around
the sleepers. Kerrigan had himself visited and warned all the sentries before
he had turned in. Now he was confident they would have good warning of any
impending attack. Particularly had he told his sentries to listen for the sound
of approaching hooves. Time passed, and Kerrigan did not stir. Then a strange thing
happened. Above the sleeper there came a movement in the belly of the Golden
Horse. A trapdoor swung softly open. A man’s head appeared, wearing a weird,
metal helmet which shone dully in the dim light. For two minutes he stared at
the sleeper and the surrounding soldiers, then came a slight click and a beam
of red light shot downwards until it rested on Kerrigan’s face. Something like
a chuckle came from Chang the Killer as he saw the sleeper twitch and stir. All
those sentries and precautions had been unable to keep him away from the object
he desired.
Overnight,
whilst the monks were celebrating Kerrigan’s victory, the Killer had caused
himself to be smuggled into the monastery by one of the kitchen staff, who was
his spy. Terrible was the death of any poor wretch who once gave allegiance to
Chang and then tried to withdraw it. Chang the Killer had ridden all day most
uncomfortably in the stomach of the Golden Horse, but now his patience was to
be rewarded. He had at his mercy the one man who had so far been able to beat
him in fair fight. The red eye continued to gleam, and Burt Kerrigan stirred
again. Something was troubling his sleep, although he did not feel altogether
like waking. A strange limpness was coming over his powerful limbs. He felt as
though he was sinking deeper and deeper into a feather mattress. He yawned,
opened his eyes wearily, and stiffened. He had recognised the Red Eye! Kerrigan
was one of those men who are either asleep or awake. Never between the two.
There were no waking moments of his when he was not conscious of what was
happening around him. From sleep he always leapt to instant wakefulness, like
the beasts of the jungle.
The
paralysing eye! It was shining straight upon his face, and he was unable to
take his eyes from it. The red gleam fascinated him as the eyes of a snake are
said to fascinate their victims. He lay perfectly still, and from behind the
Red Eye came the evil chuckle of Chang. “So, White Warrior, you would pit your
strength against mine!” he murmured, not loud enough for the sentries to hear.
“Feel my power. Feel your limbs turning to water, and your heart melting like
butter in the sun. Feel your courage oozing away beneath the glare of the Red
Eye. I could strike you dead at any minute now, but I prefer to let you live
and give you another and worse end.” Burt tried to move his limbs, and found
that he could still control them, although he felt remote and weak as though
with fever. Mentally, he measured the distance to the door in the underside of
the Golden Horse. Chang was leaning out the better to concentrate the red glow
on its victim. Now he had dropped lightly beside the Britisher and leaned over
his victim. Kerrigan set his teeth, gave a jerk, and shot his arms up suddenly.
His powerful hands closed round the thick throat of the Killer and a second
later he had hauled the surprised man down. The impact of the man’s fall had
nearly winded Kerrigan. Coming on top of that insidious sapping of his strength
by the power of the Red Eye, it gave him very little chance to put out his
best, but it so happened that they rolled sideways from the platform on which
the Golden Horse was mounted, and this time it was the Britisher who was on
top. “Crash! He found himself sprawling full-length across the Killer’s chest, his
head close to the side of the silver helmet. Right close to his eyes was a
protruding knob which seemed to control a spring, and he guessed what it was
for. He reached up and turned it. Click! A snarl came from Chang as the Red Eye
closed. The camp was in uproar. A roar came from the other side of the camp,
where the Chinaman had been assuring himself that the sentries were still
wakeful. Over and over rolled the pair on the ground, and the soldiers of Lun
scattered out of their way when they saw the metal helmet of their leader’s
adversary. They had not forgotten the massacre of the previous day, and the
mere sight of that head-piece was enough to strike terror to their hearts.
Chang was undoubtedly the most powerful man Kerrigan had ever grappled with.
Even at the best of times, he would have found it hard to hold his own with
him. Now he found himself being slowly mastered. The powerful arms were forcing
his grip aside; he could see Chang’s eyes gleaming viciously under the metal
helmet. The Mongol giant’s breath came hot on his face. But someone was running
madly to the Britisher’s aid. Kong was making his huge curved sword whistle as
he came, and out of the corner of his eye Chang must have seen his impending
doom. He made a superhuman effort to break loose, and for a moment they
actually staggered to their feet locked in each other’s arms.
Then
Kerrigan remembered a wrestling trick, and back-heeled the giant into the dirt.
Chang fell face down on the loose earth, and came up spluttering and spitting out
dust and loam. A roar of rage escaped him; he expanded his huge chest and tore
himself loose. The almost exhausted White Warrior was sent reeling backwards,
and with a howl of triumph the Killer switched open the Red Eye once more. Once
again he directed it straight at his enemy, but this time no powerful red beam
shot out. There was a faint red flicker in his helmet, that was all. In
falling, he had driven the protruding eye into the earth, and dirt had for the
moment clogged the delicate mechanism which opened the shutter over the stone.
Chang did not know this. He did not realise that he only had to wipe his hand
across the Eye in order to clean it. He thought that the power had failed him,
and panic seized him. Almost on top of him was Kong, lips parted from his even
yellow teeth, the huge headsman’s sword whistling in readiness. Kong had never
needed more than one swing in his life to behead a man, and it is certain that
had Chang the Killer remained on that spot his head would presently have rolled
in the dust. Wisely he turned and ran, ran, in great, leaping bounds which
carried him swiftly out of the camp. Kerrigan started after him, remembered his
revolver holster lay somewhere under the Golden Horse, and went back for it.
Kong had in his hand the only weapon he needed, and he raced after the
redoubtable brigand with a gleeful chuckle. Most of the other men stood around
helplessly until roused by Kerrigan’s roar—“After him! It’s Chang, and the Red
Eye is not working.”
THE CORDON OF
DEATH
Reassured
by his shout, about a score of them grabbed their weapons and started off
rather belatedly. Burt Kerrigan himself was well on Kong’s heels, and he
noticed that Chang was leading the way towards a dark forest at the southern
side of the valley. Chang knew the White Warrior would have firearms, and he
was making it his business to get out of the way of them. In and out the
thickets he raced, always bearing southwards, and suddenly they heard him
giving a loud blast on a horn. It rang out through the darkness, an eerie sound
which echoed away for a mile or so. The pursuers glanced at each other. “He’s
got his killers somewhere in the neighbourhood. If we don’t get him in the next
few minutes it may be too late.” Kong sliced in two a sapling which obstructed
his path. His teeth gleamed in the pale light. “Let them all come, master. The
more the merrier. We will make their heads dance like pine cones in the autumn.
“Fool!” snarled Kerrigan. “The others will have Red Eyes that are not out of
order.” To blow the horn Chang had lost a few seconds of his lead. Burt
Kerrigan was blazing away at him with his revolver, and the Mongol was
zig-zagging amongst the trees to offer as poor a target as possible. No more
than twenty yards separated them, but already the Britisher could hear the
clatter of the oncoming hoofs. He suddenly remembered his charge, the Golden
Horse. If the Death Riders arrived, and found the escort scattered and without
a leader there would be nothing to prevent them taking the golden statue. So
Kerrigan swung round on Kong. “Go back, Kong! Take the men back with you and
guard the horse as you would your own life. For the moment you are in charge.”
Kong stopped, his face twisting in bewilderment. “But you, O master, what of
you?” “I am going to try and get Chang as he rides past. Nothing can stop him
reaching his men now, but if I am hidden here in one of these trees he may ride
within range.
Kong
obviously did not like the orders he had received, but orders were orders, and
he turned and raced back the way he had come. He could be trusted to round up
the escort and take them to the Golden Horse. Kerrigan slowed down and crept
forward through the forest until he heard many voices just ahead. Chang had met
his Death Riders, and was evidently in a fury at what had happened. Parting the
bushes, the White Warrior saw the whole band around him. His charger was there,
and in the half-light the helmeted Death Riders looked more hideous than ever.
Then Chang was in the saddle, manipulating the switch which controlled his Eye.
Not for five minutes did he discover the cause of the trouble, and then when he
had scraped out the dirt from the Red Eye it functioned perfectly. It maddened
him more than ever to think how easily he had been misled about the Eye. Waving
his sword in the air, he commanded—“Forward, you fighting hounds, and let us
make an end of this business! The White Warrior is too strong for one Red Eye,
but even he will not be able to stand before two or more. As soon as he is
sighted let every man shine the Eye upon him. Forward!” They surged forward
with deep-throated growls. The Golden Horse was a prize worth taking back to
Ghat, and they were ready to follow their dread leader anywhere in order to get
it. That his ruse in riding in the Golden Horse had failed only stirred them to
greater efforts. Behind a tree, Burt Kerrigan raised his revolver and waited.
He was a dead, and he knew just where he was going to aim. The Red Eye in the
middle of the Killer’s helmet offered a good target in the dark, for Chang had
left it blazing. The bullet would pass into his brain, and then the scourge of
The White Warrior was in mortal danger. The Red Eyes came closer and
closer.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007
