Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  "I am concerned. Here I am, taxing your strength. What do you have?"

  "Malaria. I have lived with that parasite many years; we are old acquaintances. Patience is all that is required."

  "Malaria!" I reviewed what little I knew of this scourge, perhaps the most widespread and devastating disease in the history of man. It was practically incurable, and the terrible fevers and chills were almost impossible to ameliorate. Hiroshi was a very sick man.

  "How long has this siege been?"

  "Only a few days. Perhaps I overtaxed myself."

  A few days..."You fought Makato—and Mustapha—during an active siege of malaria?"

  He closed his eyes. "If one may make a request—do not let this fact be known. It would not bring honor to these men, and would neither help me nor give me pleasure."

  I stared, at him. He meant it. He was not a nice old sensei, he was a holy man. "I shall keep silent," I said heavily, feeling my burden increase almost intolerably. I had been laboring over grassy knolls while this man surmounted glaciers. "But why did you fight, in such condition? In fact, how could you fight? Malaria—"

  "There was no one else," he said, answering my first question in the simplest way. When there was a job to be done, he did it without excuse or complaint, regardless of how he happened to feel "Many things are possible, with the ki."

  The ki! That mysterious inner power that some men claimed to be gifted with, that made them stronger and somehow better than others. I had heard of it often, but never experienced it myself, and never verified it in another man. Ki required complete discipline, intense practice, absolute faith, and a proper mental attitude, and even then it manifested only erratically. I had often doubted its existence. Yet surely, if any martial art possessed ki, it was aikido. And if any man had it, that would be Hiroshi. Yet...

  "I do not mean to scoff," I said. "But ki is not a thing I understand. Surely you did not use it when—"

  He shook his head. "I would not use it in a match."

  "But if you have it—"

  "No. Not to harm another man. Only to preserve my own well-being, or to aid someone in need, or to accomplish a necessary labor."

  "By entering a match despite malaria?" I asked incredulously.

  "This is not readily explained," he reminded me gently. He meant that if I could not clarify it on my own, no one could clarify it for me.

  I stood there numbly, certain I was on the verge of the most important understanding of my life, if only I could fathom his meaning and share his faith. But it would not come. His philosophy was alien to me.

  Then he took my hand, and now somehow he had become cool. Physically cool. His raging fever was down. No doctor's medicine could have done it so soon. And I felt the incredible force of ki passing into my fingers, warming them with a heat that was not of the flesh. He did have it.

  And I did not. My hand, my spirit grew cold as that contact parted.

  With a regret verging on the death-wish, I left his presence and his power. In grief I returned to my lonely room.

  The last matches were finished. Judo and Karate were tied at 10-2, with match awards of $52,000. Part of that had been paid during the halftime show, of course. Kung-fu was third, 8-4, $44,000; and Aikido fourth, 6-6, $36,000, because of Hiroshi's three terminal losses. Then Wrestling, 4-8, $28,000, and Boxing tied with Thai Kick-Boxing for sixth, 2-10, $20,000. But all that was the small change.

  The team prize for first place was $240,000. Second was $120,000. Kung-fu got $60,000, and Aikido $30,000, in addition to their match awards. The prizes continued to halve each time, so that the bottom teams received only $7,500. But even that last-place minimum, when added to the match awards, totaled $27,500, or almost fourteen thousand dollars per man. Losers seldom got that kind of money for two weeks work.

  There would be a playoff match, where I would meet the bull-stunner, contending for that top money and the dubious honor of winning the Martial Open. I had a weak wrist and a broken finger. But I doubted I could take Makato even in my best condition; he was devastating, and had beaten me before.

  Yet it seemed to me that judo was inherently superior to karate, for judo is a broader martial art, with better worldwide organization and continuing research for improvement. There is no fixed set of rules for judo; it is a state of mind, drawing the best from all other fighting disciplines and developing steadily, not stratified in set patterns. Every strike in the karate arsenal belongs to judo too, as Takao had demonstrated; every kick of the Thai kick-boxers is valid for judo, and every leg takedown of sambo wrestling. I could use the kung-fu tiger's claw, had I the fingers for it, and the aikido armlocks, and wrestling's strangles and boxing's punches. Nothing limited me except my personal knowledge and ability.

  But I also knew that everything else would fall aside the first time Makato's iron hand scored. I might never wake from that smash. I represented the superior martial art, but I was not necessarily the superior man. And in the end, it is always man to man, not art to art. Japan had judokas who could lay Makato low, and so did Europe, such as the East German who should have been here. But I was American.

  I reviewed the films, searching for potential weakness in my opponent. I had seen the Karate defeats by Judo and Aikido, but they were not enough. Now I looked at Karate's victories, to see how they might have been converted to losses.

  Jesus Granda the Puerto Rican karateka had had a difficult time with Pung Lii, the kung-fu Red Guard who had slain my partner. They had traded terrible blows, and Pung had scored with the leopard's paw knuckle blow to the middle of the chest, cracking the sternum. It was the very sort of blow he had used to weaken Takao, and had brought blood to Jesus' face. But Jesus had finally won with a powerful but quite risky high kick to the chin, for a knockout. He had gambled and won. But I doubted that Makato would gamble with me unless I was beating him.

  Makato himself had met Wang Hsu in the other Karate—Kung-fu match, and that had been the karateka's closest call. Wang scored early with the tiger's claws that ripped open Makato's forehead and barely missed his eyes, the streaming blood interfering with vision. That strike had been enough for Wang to win over Aikido, I remembered, but not in this case. Makato had managed to duck, so that his eyelids were not touched. Now he pressed forward with terrible fury, delivering a remarkable series of punches, chops and kicks. But Wang avoided most and foiled the rest with an equally remarkable defensive series. Later Wang scored again with the tiger, this time nearly ripping off Makato's left ear. Then the karateka scored to the shoulder, knocking the sifu back a good eight feet. He then made the mistake of following with a high kick. That tactic had been risky against the junior kung-fu specialist, and was foolhardly against the senior one.

  Wang dropped into the "horse stance," knocked the foot up for a near miss, pivoted 180 degrees, and whipped out his right arm in a backfist attack to Makato's groin. It was the complex movement known as the "black dragon's thrashing tail," and it very nearly finished the karateka. But then Wang himself made the mistake of failing to make certain of his victory by an immediate followup, and Makato shot a desperation kick from the floor that smashed into the sifu's own privates. This time the fight really was over.

  I shook my head. That was perhaps the best match of the tournament, and the deadly Chinese had gone all out, yet Makato had prevailed. My nails were nothing compared to Wang's, so I could hardly hurt Makato with the tiger's claw, and in any event that had not stopped the powerful karateka. I could execute the thrashing dragon's tail, but not nearly as well as Wang had. Imperfect technique would be disastrous. And again: the sifu had actually struck the karateka's groin, probably doing serious damage, yet Makato had hung on long enough to win. So that too was a losing strategy. I could also dodge straight punches and kicks, as Wang had. But despite all the fancy opposition techniques, the Korean had prevailed before, and surely would again.

  Punches and kicks... I put on the films of the two Boxing Thai Kick-boxing matches. Mustapha took on Suph
on of Thailand, and managed to block or avoid most of the kicks rather neatly, so that it looked like a win for him, but then the Thai went into a clinch, seized Mustapha with both arms around the waist, and rammed a terrible series of head butts to the face. Blood spurted and Mustapha's face became a mask of sausage before the judges jumped in and made the Thai desist. Mustapha was already unconscious, held upright only by Suphon's hugging grip.

  Poor Mustapha! If the Thai had tried that on me, I would have boxed both his ears with my cupped hands, bursting his eardrums, or knocked him out with a knuckle blow to the temple, and he would not have butted more than once. But Makato certainly would not try butting me, and I would not try it on him, for that reason.

  In the other film, Filo the Philippino kick-boxer actually did try the same butting technique against the Argentine Pibe Rosario. But Pibe, more canny in the clutch, let go with a savage rabbit punch to the back of the neck even as the first butt opened his cheek. Filo dropped unconscious, and Pibe mopped his bloody face, unconcerned.

  All of which did not help me much. The other fights seemed to have no unique keys to victory. How could I handle Makato? The answer was that I couldn't—unless I could foil his terrible fist.

  And there, perhaps, was my key. The karateka had many punches and kicks in his arsenal, but the thing that distinguished him was the iron fist. If he wanted to kill me, seemingly by accident, before the television cameras, that fist was a certainty. A kick that incapacitated me and ended the match would not suffice; he had to use the bomb.

  That was his weakness: the win had to be fatal. Only his fist could do it properly.

  Foil the punch, and I foiled Makato.

  There were feasts and games and parties, for the tournament was over, for most of the combatants. I hardly paid attention. I ate moderately and tried to rest, with little success.

  I did not see how it started, but suddenly there was a commotion several places down the table from me. The Whale stood ponderously, swayed, and picked up a bowl of noodles. He was obviously drunk.

  Then he flung the bowl across the tableinto the face of Pung Lii, the Red Guard.

  The others just sat, amazed, while the kung-fu fighter wiped the juice out of his eyes. There were noodles tangled in his hair, giving him a comical appearance, but nobody laughed. A lot of odd things had happened, but this seemed more like a challenge. What had brought it on?

  Pung Lii's face was burning, and not merely from rage. Those noodles were hot. Yet he retained control, as a trained warrior should. Slowly he stood, and his pretty Caucasian companion for the evening stood with him, taking his arm. With perfect aplomb she picked splattered noodles out of her bosom.

  "The gringo is intoxicated," Pedro said loudly from the head of the table. "Pay him no heed."

  This was all we needed, I thought sourly. Another clumsy scene by a white-skinned North American.

  Whale lunged across the table and caught the woman's arm away from the Chinese. "No white woman touches the likes of him!" he bawled.

  Pung Lii whirled about, assuming the horse stance—and Whale lifted his knee and boosted the entire table into him. The dishes and drinks crashed to the floor, inundating the seated warriors all along the line, including me.

  But from the gross confusion, Pedro's voice emerged supreme. "Bring the cameras to bear! Ten thousand dollars to the winner, no holds barred!" He sounded gleeful.

  "Stop it!" I cried. "Whale's drunk! He's in no condition to—" But I was drowned out by general applause. The majority wanted to let them fight.

  And fight they did, while the rest of us cleared back, food and liquor dripping from our formal clothes.

  Whale picked up a gooey yam from the rubble and hurled it at Pung Lii. "Choke on it, killer of heart patients!" Whale cried.

  Suddenly I comprehended. My partner Takao had saved Whale's life, and Pung had killed Takao. Whale had a blood debt to settle, not to mention the humiliation he had suffered in his tournament battle with Wang Hsu. That Crane's-beak blow to the solar plexus.

  Actually Whale should never have challenged kung-fu again. Pung Lii was the lesser member of that team, but he was still a deadly man, as he had shown Takao. Whale was a blubbery mountain, 325 pounds, the weaker member of a weak team, and he was drunk. I feared he had just brought death on himself, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  Pung Lii's formal dress was stuck with noodles and spattered with yam. He had been publicly insulted and assaulted. But he was not drunk, and he had an iron control He wanted only one thing: to kill Whale.

  One moment he was standing, soberly brushing himself off, while the Whale poked amid the garbage of the banquet. The next, Pung Lii was in mid air, his feet thrusting forward to strike Whale in the chest.

  Whale stepped aside, and the kung-fu warrior landed square on the table, crashing amongst the dishes. He skidded on through the wreckage, his course greased by butter, wine and gravy. The sight was ludicrous, but still no one laughed.

  I realized then that Whale was not drunk at all. He had been clowning, as was his habit, and had suckered Pung Lii into this messy combat. It was, like all the others, a fair fight. Except for one thing: Pung Lii was a much more brutal customer than Whale. He weighed little more than half as much, but all of it was deadly.

  Whale found a roast on the floor. He heaved it at Pung Lii, and followed it up with a foot stomp. That was a mistake; Pung grabbed the foot and twisted. Whale fell on his side. As he went down I heard the table boards snap under his weight. Immediately Pung was on top of him, trying for a nerve pinch on the trapezius muscle of the shoulder. But that was his mistake. Whale was too big, and had too much fat overlaying his muscle; the pinch was obviously painful, but not incapacitating.

  Whale got up very quickly, and shook himself. He bucked like a bronco, surprising Pung, and threw him against the wall. Sweat poured like water from Whale's body, mixing with the grease that coated him.

  Whale flung himself after Pung, and the kung-fu warrior's snake-fang fingers plunged at Whale's face. The blow was swift and horribly effective: one of Whale's eyeballs bulged half out of its socket, and the other was covered with blood. He had been blinded.

  But Whale had contact. He pulled Pung's head down and opened his mouth. Pung screamed as their two faces came together. Then they broke, and I saw why. Whale had bitten off Pung's nose.

  Pung's face was now a mass of blood, but he had not quit. Goaded to maniacal fury, he leaped on Whale, raining punches on his head and face. The kung-fu sophistication was forgotten now; this was elementary savagery.

  He would have done better to retain his training. Whale, sightless, could only grappleand grapple he did. He caught an arm, then Pung's whole torso. Suddenly, with insane strength, he lifted the Red Guard up, up, high in the air, one hand on the man's shoulder, the other on his thighthen brought him down across his bent knee.

  Pung's spine broke with an audible crack, and he lay still in the garbage. If he were not dead, he would wish to be when he woke. Whale was little better off. He stood there swaying, blood streaming from his face, from his two eyes.

  The whole thing was brutal and unnecessary, a butchery that never should have been allowed. Yet behind my horror, enhancing it, was a certain guilty satisfaction. For I too raged at Takao's death, and now he had been avenged.

  And where did that leave me? With another circus massacre, to no more purpose than the others? No, there was purpose: I had to win the big money, so that Jim's medical bills could be covered. I had to sacrifice one man to save another.

  The servants moved in to clean up. Whale stood there, eyeball hanging, blind. I returned to my room, numbed.

  A long telegram was waiting there, delivered in my absence. It was from Jim. He had suffered a spontaneous recovery, and was now, he claimed, as good as ever. Or would be, soon, with a little practice. There would be no colossal medical bills.

  "You're doing great!" he finished encouragingly. "Wrap it up for Judo!"

  "Yeah, s
ure," I muttered, feeling twisted inside.

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAMPIONSHIP

  The playoff match was set up in the ballroom, so that everyone on the premises could attend. The tatami had been placed beside the wall, where the orchestra had been. I saw to my dismay that the girls had been invited, each dating a fighter or judge. Furthermore, they were all formally dressed, as they had been at the halftime banquet. The TV cameras were in place as always. Though I knew that millions were paying to watch this on closed circuit, the magnitude of the publicity hadn't been brought home to me until I saw the incongruously elegant attire of the audience.

  Vicente Pedro himself arrived in his wheelchair, flanked by his niece. Amalita looked wan, but she kept her gaze level. I would have had more sympathy for her if it had not been for the kris-murdered innocent girl. As it was, my primary interest was in protecting myself; Amalita knew how to take care of herself.

  Pedro settled in his chair at ringside, and his fair niece sat at his right. Another wheelchair was brought to rest on his left. It was Hiroshi! I had not seen him enter. What determination had brought him from his bed? Surely he had no particular fascination with this deathmatch!

  Pedro was here to watch me die. Hiroshi must be trying his positive approach, however that might work. And Amalita was neutral.

  Very likely Pedro would be satisfied, much as I intended to resist the denouement of this long bloody contest. My finger still hurt, my stomach rumbled, my gut was flatulent, and I had not slept well. Makato, in contrast, seemed to be in top shape. Only faint scars marked his forehead where the kung-fu sifu had raked him, and there was no sign of the crotch strike or his other injuries. He did not exude confidence or swagger, as that was not his way; he was merely a quiet, stolid Oriental with a square face and an irresistible fist.

  This time there was a live announcer to puff up the match. He reviewed the fights we had had, speaking English, and I knew that translators were working from his broadcast. He dwelt unnecessarily, I thought, on my prior loss to Makato and on the bout I had won by forfeit because Makato had incapacitated my Aikido adversary. How I wished I could tell the world about Hiroshi's malaria, but naturally I could not. The announcer's verbal picture made Judo mediocre beside Karate. Was this intended to make me mad? If so, it failed, for I had more pressing problems. Mainly, staying alive. If I could accomplish that, the image of Judo as a martial art would take care of itself.