Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  The contestants were interviewed, briefly. Makato did not speak English, so a translation of his prepared statement was read for him. It was all about the glory of karate and the uses to which he would put the grand prize he had virtually won. Obviously he had not written it, for no ranking karateka talked like that. "And now the American judogi, Jason Striker," the stout announcer said.

  "Judoka," I said, annoyed. "Not judogi—that's the uniform." Had he confused it on purpose?

  "And what are you going to do with the prize money?" he said with something like a sneer. I saw that it was not just me they were gunning for, but judo itself, and America. Everything I stood for was to be brought low tonight.

  I looked about, and saw Hiroshi again. He had tried to tell me something, and he had shown me his ki. Now he was here, and not to watch me die. He had shared Takao's oath. What had he meant, about being positive?

  "Striker!" the announcer said, snapping his sweaty fingers under my nose. "Little punch-drunk, maybe? I asked what you thought you'd do with that quarter-million dollar prize."

  "Two hundred and forty thousand dollars. It shall be divided evenly among the families of all those eliminated prematurely from this vicious tournament," I said before I thought. "The crippled and the dead." I had had Hiroshi and Takao in mind, but I realized now that this also struck at Pedro himself, a judo cripple. I saw his face freeze.

  The announcer was taken aback. No one had told him I had a mind of my own, and he seemed to find it awkward and unfair. "But Mr. Striker—nothing for yourself?"

  "The honor of representing Judo, and all serious martial arts," I said. Was that more positive?

  The men were beginning to nod agreement. Pedro made a signal, and the announcer cut off the interview immediately. Naturally they couldn't have the loser looking more decent than the winner, or foster undue underdog sympathy. But I saw the ghost of a smile on Hiroshi's face.

  The next item on the agenda was the selection of the three judges. Karate's was there, of course, and the neutral one was the Kung-fu, who had shown partiality for Karate in matches not against Kung-fu itself. No hope there. I would have to select the Judo substitute judge from the remainder, as if it made any difference in this stacked deck.

  Think positive! I reminded myself—and suffered an inspiration. "I can think of no more qualified judge for this important match," I said clearly, "than our esteemed host, Vicente Pedro, himself a third-degree black belt in judo."

  Pedro's mouth dropped open, but there was spontaneous applause from the audience, especially the girls, who thought this was a signal compliment to their employer. Many of the men knew better, but joined in after a moment, appreciating the irony. I knew then that the other contestants were not against me, but merely impotent to express their views. Whatever would be, would be; they were standing aside, and would abide the settlement with clean hands.

  Pedro, committed by the applause, said nothing. I knew that a certain perverse pride was warring against his fury, for he had to like the notion of participating in this ultimate match, even indirectly. He would not dare to show bias against Judo now. Also his own pride and martial training would force him to be fair; the code had to be ingrained, or he would never have achieved his third dan black belt, and would not so carefully have warned me about staying clear of Amalita. So I was not exactly throwing away my choice of judges. Perhaps I had neutralized my major opposition.

  "Vicente Pedro, the judge for Judo," the announcer said, and again Hiroshi smiled.

  It was time. Makato removed his robe, and I did likewise. Now the scars on his face stood out in the strong light necessary for the television cameras, and his torn ear had not yet healed. He looked like a brute, though the judogi concealed the extreme musculature of his upper torso. I doubted I looked much better. My face was unmarked except for bruises, but my lack of sleep probably made me holloweyed. Yes, we were gladiators, both.

  The starting gong sounded. The crowd hushed.

  I closed slowly. Of course I did not look at his eyes; that was a foolhardy amateur tactic. I looked at what could hurt me: his body, his arms, his hands.

  Makato was in a slight crouch, one leg a bit ahead of the other, one hand lifted shoulder high, the other waist high. His weight was balanced and he was ready to move rapidly, hitting, kicking or taking evasive action.

  His hands were extended in the "knife" position, fingers together and straight, thumbs on top and laid alongside the palms for protection. He was relaxed; this was not overconfidence or carelessness, but a state of superior readiness. The options were always narrowed by tenseness.

  I had drilled for much of the night on my counter to Makato's kill-strike, until it was very nearly an automatic reflex. If he confined himself to that one type of blow.

  Makato did not attack immediately. Was he waiting for me to attempt another Harai-goshi throw? Fat chance!

  We circled each other. Where was the punch? I was primed for it, yet it did not come.

  Well, if he wasn't going to mix it up, I would show him some judo. I'd force him to use his weapon.

  I faked the Harai-goshi, gambling that the karateka had done some priming of his own. And he had. His left fist shot out like a pile driver, straight for my head. But my right arm came up, striking his hand with the bony edge of my forearm and deflecting the thrust as I pulled back and turned to the side to present a smaller target.

  There was such power in his blow that my arm was swept back to smack into my head. I had to jump away to escape its fury, and even then my whole body was propelled across the ring. My right forearm, where his fist had actually struck, was numb from wrist to elbow. But I had foiled his kill-shot by adapting the knife defense to my purpose.

  Makato came after me as I tottered off-balance. But I surprised him by trying a dangerous maneuver that succeeded: a flying kick to his chest with both my feet. Had he been on guard for it, he would merely have stepped aside and let me fall, perhaps hurting myself. But he had been intent on the attack, off-balanced himself, and so momentarily vulnerable. I saw Amalita watching, her eyes bright, her lips parted.

  She liked this. Pedro's face was serious, as if he were analyzing the particular motions. Hiroshi seemed neutral.

  We closed again. I noted the concentration of the other spectators. They were trying to fathom how I had foiled the fist, and wondering whether it was a fluke. Makato himself was not confused; he stalked me just as he had before, seeking his opening.

  I didn't allow him undue time to set up. I watched for my own opportunity, when his weight was balanced just so, and tried a foot sweep, De-ashi-barai, combined with a kick to the ankle. I caught his right leg and brought him down in such a way that he had no leverage for his fist. My blow had strength enough to break a normal man's ankle, but Makato's was not normal. It was a massive column of muscle and bone. I had hurt him, but hardly decisively.

  I seized him as he fell, and whipped into a stranglehold, the okuri-eri-jime, the sliding lapel strangle. My right hand gripped his lapel—but my broken finger hurt, weakening the choke, and it was extremely difficult to cut off either his air or his blood. Makato grabbed my hair and pulled savagely, unseating me and throwing me to the right. The pain was sharp, and I saw the hair between his fingers; he had pulled some of it out by the roots. I had to let go.

  He threw a flurry of punches as we disengaged, stinging me, for even minor strikes by those hardened hands hurt. But he was unable to deliver the killing punch, for a blow is only as strong as the thrust of the body behind it. Makato had broken tiles and boards not with his fist alone, but by using his fist as the leading edge of his dynamic body. He had to be set for it.

  I backed away, parrying, seeking room to maneuver. He followed, stalking me as he would a peccary, getting his balance.

  Now he was primed. His fist shot outand again I struck with my arm and thrust against it, jumping away. Again that freight-train collision. Arms flopping, I was flung back. Hard. I crashed into the wall, and the white pl
aster gave way, collapsing around me and powdering me with fine dust. My head overlapped the painted frieze, and I felt the imprint of the carved relief against my neck.

  Half-conscious, I hung there, supported largely by my own imprint in the wall. Makato came at me, his great fist firing to ward my face like a cannon ball. I wrenched my head asideand that juggernaut smashed into the frieze and through it, to the elbow.

  Momentarily, he was caught. His hand was trapped in the crotch of a supine nymph who surely had not anticipated any such rape when she was painted there. But I came to the defense of the lady, lifting my knee high to strike him in the groin. I braced myself against the wall so that there was no recoil; all my power went into that flesh-crushing, bone-splintering blow. But he twisted aside, and dropped, so that it caught him in the stomach.

  His right fist ripped out from the wall in a shower of plaster, carrying a section of wood with it and destroying the nymph. A loose flap of skin dangled from his knuckles, scraped off by the jagged break in the wall. My strike should have knocked him out; just a little higher and it could have caved in his ribcage and squeezed his heart, giving him a taste of Takao's final agony. But he would not go down.

  I saw Pedro staring, amazed at the punishment the karateka had survived. I was amazed myself.

  Or was it that Pedro was surprised and chagrined to see me putting up a decent fight? Well, he had some more surprises coming. I charged Makato, trying to finish it while I had the chance. I rammed his belly with my head, hunching my shoulders and covering my own ears in defense against counterattacks. I butted him back across the room, working on that weakened section where my knee had hit, keeping him groggy. But his stomach muscles were like rock and still he would not go down.

  Makato brought up his hands, too slowly. I ducked down and hit him at knee-level with my shoulders in a kuchi-kita-oshi dead tree drop, my hand catching behind his ankle as I lifted him. He had no chance to chop at my kidney this time.

  I got him in a ude-garami figure four armlock and leaned into it, forcing him to capitulate or have his elbow dislocated, but he would not give in. My weak hand betrayed me again. Makato, with a surge of strength, slowly bent his arm, escaping the lock.

  He sat up and drove his fist at my face, again forcing me to break the hold or suffer a concussion. As it was, my nose was smashed. Blood streamed from my nostrils so that I had to breathe from my mouth, although in the heat of combat I felt no pain. He might be indestructible; I was not!

  I disengaged and did a back roll, but not quickly enough. The fist of death came through to catch me on the thigh, numbing my leg. Now my nose was hurting, and I licked the salty blood, trying to mop up enough so that it would not splash into my eyes on the next maneuver. I hopped and staggered, trying to recover proper use of my legand Makato flipped to his feet and followed, scoring on my shoulder as I hunched to protect my head. My arm became numb too, moving with difficulty, and I dropped and rolled again, still trying to escape him. It was a replay of our first encounter.

  There was no escape. He kicked me, and I thought I felt a rib break. It was painful enough for a fracture; the agony was like a knife stab in my side. But I had no time to worry about details. I somersaulted, spun about, and got caught by another kick that barely missed my groin and drilled into my upper thigh. I must have slowed him up, or he would not have missed.

  I managed to catch his foot and pull upwards, upsetting his balance and throwing him on his back. He aimed another kick at my face. But I was rolling, carrying his ankle with me, throwing him off, and his horny sole only grazed my ear. I caught his lapels for another Okuri-eri-jime strangle, but it was even less effective than before. He reached for my hair again, and I spun my face about and caught his fingers in my teeth.

  Then, for the first time, he made a sound of pain, for it was no lovebite I clamped on him. My teeth cut through his flesh to the bone, and I felt the gristle grate, and my mouth filled with blood. His other hand came up to smash my face yet again, but I toppled him sidewise and put a third strangle on him, as my teeth ripped free. The blood flowing was no longer mine alone. This time my strangle was a kazure-okuri-eri-jime, a variation of the sliding lapel strangle, and my weak hand did not subvert it. But still he would not yield. He elbowed me in the ribs, tore away my hands, and as I jumped to my feet, that fist scored yet again, this time to my solar plexus.

  My breath left me, my heart missed a beat, and I blacked out momentarily. I had a vision of Takao falling to the mat as his heart failed, and I thought I would join him. I fell on my back, and far, far away I saw Makato falling toward me, his fist leading, middle knuckle protruding. That descending punch would crush my temple like an eggshell.

  I lifted my feet for the stomach-throw, but they were too slow, they would not respond. I was exhausted; my limbs felt as if each weighed a ton, and my heart was beating so hard it seemed it would burst. So I jabbed just two fingers at his neck, left-handed: the kung-fu snake's fang, stiff and swift.

  One fang hit his windpipe and collapsed it.

  Makato's fist missed. His body fell across mine, but he was breathing yet. His neck was strong, so the trachea had sprung back, but he had suffered a hell of a shock. I hit the side of his neck with the edge of my hand, trying to score on the nerve center that controlled the flow of blood to the brain, thereby knocking him unconscious. But his neck was too tough, and my arm too weak. He rolled off and started to climb to his feet.

  I had to get him now, while I had the chance. He was partially dazed too; his whole effort was to disengage and stand. He was open for a terminal strike—if only I could make it.

  I tried. I reached up to grasp the right side of his head with my good left hand, and with my cupped right I smote his left ear. The sudden explosive pressure was calculated to rupture his eardrum. It did. Makato leaped up, and I knew that soon blood would dribble from that ear; he had no calluses inside his head. But still he did not yield. He would go on fighting as long as he was conscious, no matter what injury I did him.

  I sat up, my head spinning, and looked about the room. I was braced to catapult into action the instant the karateka attacked, and I wanted him to come to me. But for the moment he stood back, shaking his hurting head and kneading his bitten hand. Now he knew that judo was no easy match; his own life was at stake too. And he knew that Jason Striker could fight.

  Everyone in the audience was sitting silently. There was no encouragement for either judoka or karateka, and no condemnation for the tactics employed. Only a tense waiting for the outcome. Amalita sat beside her uncle as if hypnotized; perhaps her fate also hung on this match. There was no expression on Pedro's face, and Hiroshi's eyes were almost closed.

  But I could not afford to dwell on the spectators. Makato was stalking me again, more carefully now, for I had hurt him and might do so again. Another man would have yielded, with the injuries he had suffered so far, but not the Korean. I found myself on my feet, stepping back. Did he know how much he had hurt me with that iron hand? I could not last much longer. My hand, my leg, my chest, my face...

  As I circled, my eyes crossed the room again, involuntarily seeking some escape though I knew there was none. I had to kill or die. My eyes took in fast details as they swept the faces there. I saw the two wrestlers, Kipchak and Whale, uncomfortable in their formal costumes; Whale's eyes were heavily bandaged, so that he could not see at all. Next to him was Mustapha the boxer, one brown fist clenching spasmodically. Then Wang the kung-fu sifu, for once not smiling. All the men were deadly sober. The girls were uniformly pale, whatever their physical colors, some frozen-faced, some not looking. What had they expected, a Ping-Pong game? Then my roving eye caught Hiroshi's eye—and I felt something remarkable.

  It was as though a star shone in his face, though there was no special light. It was the power of his ki, imbuing him despite his illness, making him more than a man. The power I had not believed, until I discovered it in him.

  Be positive! I thought, reminded of Hiroshi'
s advice. But what was positive about death? Only the removal of Pedro's grudge against me could stop this kill-fest, and how was that possible, when I had given him cause? No power on Earth could expurgate my act with his niece. Makato was getting set again, and all the good will in the universe would not stop the fist of karate at this moment.

  I saw the fist, as if it were in slow motion, rising from his springing body. Makato was hurt, yes, but the whole of his intolerable might was in that final blow. It was driving toward my face like a wrecking ball toward a condemned building.

  Yet I did not move. My feet seemed rooted, my arms hung down. Some strange rigidity was spreading through me, pulsing outward from my eye, as though I had seen the gorgon Medusa and was being transformed to stone. My face hardened, my neck became stiff, my torso crystallized. All feeling left my body, and only my brain functioned, deep within thick layers of leather, gristle and bone.

  The blow struck my jaw just below the left ear. The impact was tremendous. I felt bone giving way, nerves being crushed, flesh being pulped, blood vessels bursting hydraulically.

  I watched Makato's hand fall away. I heard a groan of utter agony, not mere pain, but the loss of the certainty of a lifetime. Then I understood. It was the ki.

  My flesh and bone and brain had not been crushed; Makato's had. His hand hung loosely, like his spirit, shattered. I moved. Every muscle in my body glowed with smooth power, and there was no pain anywhere. I was invulnerable.