Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  Progress was faster, now that we were on the right path. Actually it was better to depend on our sense of touch, rather than sight; there could be more deadfalls. A patch of water opened out on one side, with dead reeds sticking up like broken spears. Evidently it was warmer in the immediate vicinity of the castle; maybe the heat of the daytime sun was reflected off the fragmentary walls, warming the moat and keeping the ice clear. Smart arrangement. Now that it was evening, a thin sheen of ice was reforming, but it would never support our weight.

  Suddenly there was motion. A figure rose from the water, to my amazement, and flung a series of knives—shuriken—so rapidly I could hardly see his arms operating. Pedro was a rank amateur compared to this tenth ninja.

  We were vulnerable. We had been caught off guard, and could only cower away from those shooting blades. I threw up my forearm automatically to protect my face and neck, and a sharp pain in that arm told me I had acted barely in time. Diago could not move his heavy pike fast enough, and Pedro was entirely outclassed; I saw him falling already.

  We could not charge the attacker because he was ten feet away, in water. It seemed ludicrous, but we four specialists in martial art were helpless before this lone ninja warrior. He had made his ambush well, and now was submerged to his chest in the freezing water.

  Then there was a kind of thud, as of metal striking bone. I saw the ninja sinking. Makato's axe was buried in his forehead. The light was fading, but we were able to reconstruct what had happened. The ninja had broken the ice beside the path and swept the edges to make it seem natural and cover his tracks. Then he had submerged himself, using a bamboo tube for breathing a favorite ninja trick, Pedro assured us—and waited. It was an incredible feat, for he must have been there, unmoving, for several hours while the marsh slowly froze over. I could not have survived such a vigil, yet the ninja had emerged to fire six shuriken at us before the axe struck. Two had hit Pedro, opening his cheek and sticking to his chest, not serious in themselves, but weakening him further. One had hit me in the forearm, the padding of my jacket protecting me from the worst. One had hit Diago in the back of the shoulder, giving him one more reason to be slow with the pike. Two had missed Makato, who was already in motion with the axe. One of these lay in the path we had made, one of its points blunted; it must have struck the blade of the axe itself. Astonishing accuracy, considering the diversity of targets, his speed of delivery, the poor light, his disadvantageous position for throwing, and the chill of his limbs. What might that warrior have done had he been on land, and warm?

  I feared we had killed a better man than any one of us. Only superior ki could explain the ninja's performance, both during the long cold wait and in the sudden action. Just a little lower on that one shuriken, and he would have hit Makato's eye instead of his axe, and won the battle.

  Again I wondered whether it would not have been better for all concerned if I had simply stayed at home and suffered whatever fate was destined. Better, even if Jim had not died. Still, we had not come to kill ninjas. We merely wanted to see old Fu Antos; the killing had been in self defense. Why weren't these hardy warriors content to let us pass, or at least to meet with us, ascertaining our mission? Why did they set killer dogs upon us, then attack with the same canine fury? None of them need have died.

  All of which suggested that our mission was not as innocent as we supposed. I could not believe Hiroshi would have sent us into such a merciless situation. Not knowingly. He had said he visited Fu Antos here upon occasion, perhaps once a year. Could it be that the ninjas turned a different face to Hiroshi, so that he considered them innocuous?

  Yet he had warned us, with his characteristic understatement, hinting at danger. He must have felt the mission was worth the risk.

  What could possibly be worth the lives of perhaps ten men, so far? We were exterminating the last of a vanished type, the true ninja. And dying ourselves.

  The moat, after all, was largely filled with debris. We picked our way across it, stepping from stone to stone, avoiding those that were precariously balanced—another ninja trap?—and stood at last under the ragged but forbidding wall of the castle. This difficult crossing set us up for attack, and we made it singly and nervously, but none came. Now it was dark, but we did not dare use a light. Some faint glow developed from the rising moon, reflected by the snow, however, and our eyes became adjusted to that level.

  There was no sound as we passed the rock-strewn outer wall and made our way through desolate open courts. We saw great piles of rubble, and holes leading downward, suggesting an existent system of cellars and other passages. I thought I spied a skeleton at one point, but avoided that as scrupulously as the rest. Anything could be booby-trapped.

  We passed an empty kennel: this must have been where the dogs had been housed, for there was the smell of recent occupancy about it. And at last we came through the ominous stillness to the massive central keep, where Fu Antos should be.

  Had the ninjas turned against their O-Sensei, imprisoning him and finally murdering him? He had come originally to the castle, Hiroshi said, to reform this wild remnant of an extinct martial tradition. He had ninja training himself, and in his youth had been a mighty warrior, but had grown beyond that. Yet, he could not have had much success here, as these ninjas were manifestly unreformed. If they were determined to cover up their crime Makato pried open the keep gate. Pedro drew his new katana. Diago prodded inside with the pike. And I cautiously poked my head inside.

  Nothing happened. If other ninjas defended this place, where were they? Diago was listening, but there was a night wind whistling past the broken stones, making it hard to hear anything meaningful.

  There was faint light inside, and the chill was less severe. I smelled burning incense and some Oriental spice. But the inner walls were bare; it was a stark severe residence here. The glow was from a flaming torch set in a hole in the wall, deep in the keep. I proceeded into the keep, amazed at the sheer mass of its walls. There were very small windows, and the actual door aperture was tiny, so that we had to stoop to pass through, alert for further traps. Makato followed me, and Diago, tapping the floor stones.

  "Check above," Pedro warned. "Sometimes—"

  Something hairy dropped on me. I flailed wildly. A reddish demon was clutching me, chattering, biting. Others were landing on Makato and Diago and Pedro, clinging too tightly for the metal weapons to be effective.

  My demon was small—perhaps twenty five pounds—but powerful. Its teeth fastened on my forearm painfully. I shook it loose with a great effort and tried to wrestle it around, in hitting range, but its muscles were like furry steel springs. Finally I got the thing around its hairy throat and strangled it.

  It was a monkey. The gloom and surprise had provided it with a special terror. I threw the body aside and grabbed for the one on Pedro. I did not draw my long knife, as I was not accustomed to its use and didn't want to risk stabbing a friend. Bare hands sufficed. The monkeys were vicious and tenacious. They had been trained to attack relentlessly, like the dogs and the ninjas themselves. We were more massive than they, and trained in hand-to-hand combat, but they were superior natural fighters. I had seen cheap adventure movies in which men defeated apes in unarmed combat; the truth was that a man could not even outfight a chimpanzee. But these were smaller, and the six-fold to eight-fold weight advantage of the men sufficed. Makato soon killed three, breaking their skulls with hammer-fist blows, and I took care of two more, and the rest suddenly fled. We had more wounds, but still nothing serious.

  "What are monkeys doing here?" I demanded breathlessly. "They're tropical creatures!"

  "Macaques," Diago said. "Cold-adapted. They live here and in Tibet, too, I think, as well as in the tropics. Good guardians."

  I shut up, embarrassed at having shown my ignorance. The monkeys had done us one favor, at least: they surely would have sprung any further traps within their reach. If we looked about, we might discover monkeys crushed under stones, pierced by sprung barbs.

/>   We continued on down the gaunt stone hall, moving from torch to torch. I took down the first and used it for more specific illumination. In an emergency, it would also do for a weapon. Silently, Diago pointed. There was a closed chamber ahead; he meant that his sharp ear told him it was occupied. More monkeys over the sill—or armed ninjas?

  Diago piked it open, while Pedro stood by with shuriken in each hand. Makato and I stayed back, ready to cover our ears, for if an attack were sprung here Diago would surely blast out with his devastating kiai. Even so, I had the premonition that men would die in this chamber.

  But there was no action. By the light of my torch we saw a very old man sitting on a dirty mat. Beside him stood a young boy, bare-headed and bare-footed. Fu Antos and his body servant? We filed in and stood before them. And found ourselves somewhat at a loss. The primary mission was mine, of course, as my fear of Diago's delayed death-blow had brought me to Japan and served as the focus. I should be the spokesman, but could not speak Japanese. Did the old man know English?

  One way to find out. The ancient sat absolutely still, not even seeming to breathe. He looked to be about ninety-five years old and in poor health. His flesh was dessicated, his skin stretched parchment-taut over prominent bones. His body exuded a sickly sweet odor, as of corruption. Could this really be the fabulous trainer of ninjas, O-Sensei to Hiroshi? No sign of physical prowess remained.

  "I'm afraid he doesn't understand me," I said to Diago, after a couple of halting attempts.

  Diago spoke in Japanese. The sunken eyes did not even glance up, and I realized with a small shock of horror that the old man was blind, and probably deaf. He wasn't even aware of our presence. But the boy should not be similarly mute. He seemed to be about seven years old, yet he stood with glazed eyes, making no more response than his master.

  Hiroshi had said he would send word of our mission ahead, perhaps by pigeon. Obviously he had, for the ninjas had been well prepared for our coming. So Fu Antos had to know of us. Was this a fake, a decoy set up to confuse us?

  I turned to Diago, about to voice my suspicion. But at that moment the old man's hands came up. They gestured in a strange, wobbly pattern. It seemed to be some kind of sign language. I hoped one of us could read it.

  Makato spoke and Diago translated. "Fu Antos says we must kill him."

  "What?" I demanded, suspecting that old Fu was senile after all. "After all the trouble we have taken to save him from the ninjas? Tell him he has nothing to fear from us."

  But before Diago could retranslate, the ancient mystic addressed himself directly to me. One withered finger made a half circle about his ear, while the thumb of the other hand jerked down. "Crazy? Not me!" those hands said in plain colloquial American. He understood me well enough; not my words, but my thoughts.

  Then one finger pointed to Diago, and returned to slice across the O-Sensei's scrawny neck. Diago had been selected for the murder. "This is ridiculous!" I said, speaking for us all. "We came only to talk to you, Fu Antos! To—well, you see, I was struck by this delayed—"

  Fu Antos' feeble hand gestured me to silence. His fingers, though hardly more than papered bones gnarled by arthritis, were so expressive that I understood him perfectly. "Wait," they told me. "I will attend to you in due course."

  After Diago killed him? Something prickly crept up my back and tugged at the short hairs of my neck.

  "The ninjas would not kill him," Pedro said, evidently reading his own message in the moving fingers. "They knew that either he would die, leaving them without their honored teacher, or he would reincarnate in too strong a form, depriving them of their way of life."

  I nodded. I knew the Buddhists did believe in reincarnation, with the soul occupying a new body after the old one had passed, until through right living it became purified and joined Buddha in nirvana, that ultimate state of unity.

  "And it is against his religion to commit suicide," I said, reading those amazing fingers for myself. "Leaves a burden on the soul. So he will help us only if we render this necessary service." I stopped short, hearing my own words. "But how can a dead man help anybody?"

  There was a noise behind us. I whirled, and saw more ninjas in the passage.

  "Do not fear," Diago said. "Those are the remaining guardians, who were with their families in the neighboring villages. They could not travel swiftly enough to join the battle on the mountain, so followed us here. They dare not intrude upon this holy chamber."

  "Not while Fu Antos lives," I muttered darkly. "But if we are fools enough to—"

  "I must do it," Diago said, still reading the fingers. "He promises me release, the right to stay here with him."

  "Stop!" I cried, whirling on him. But he had already set down the pike and approached the O-Sensei, and I was powerless to prevent him. It wasn't the ninjas outside, or even my own wounds; rather, something within me bade me abide what came.

  Diago gave his kiai, half-stunning us all. I found myself propped against the wall, while Makato stood shaking his head somewhat stupidly and Pedro sat ignominiously on the floor. The ninjas beyond the door were in a tumble of bodies and weapons. But Fu Antos merely smiled, showing blackened gums bereft of teeth, and made a gesture signifying a creditable performance by a promising pupil. He had not been affected by the yell, perhaps because of his deafness.

  Diago, dismayed but not finished, got down on his knees behind the seated man and applied a respiratory strangle, the hada-kajime. He placed his left forearm around the front of Fu Autos' thin neck and caught his hand on his own right upper arm. His right arm went back so that his right hand was braced behind the old man's head.

  Fu Antos was old and weak, surely near death already. This strangle would be effective against even a robust athlete. I knew it would be over soon. Then what?

  Diago tightened his hold, pushing the bald head forward as his left forearm pressed firmly against the throat. Fu Antos did not even attempt to resist. I was sickened at this calculated murder of a helpless fighter, yet still could not bring myself to interfere. Those fingers were still moving, as though nothing of consequence were happening.

  Strange. Fu Antos breathed easily, while Diago became red in the face and began gasping. His eyes bulged, the veins in his forehead throbbed, and the four stripes down his face made by the tiger claws were burning bright. Diago had taken a beating on the way here, but I had not realized that he was this far gone. He seemed about to pass out himself.

  Suddenly Diago let go. He panted as if the strangle had been on him, not the other man, and fell to the floor. Yet Fu Antos sat unmoved. Diago's attack of faintness had prevented him from ever putting on real pressure.

  Diago recovered in a moment, however, and shook his head. There was a red mark on the front of his neck, perhaps a welt just rising from the monkey attack.

  Now Diago knelt in front of Fu Antos and tried a sanguineous strangle. He put both hands on the man's neck, fingers to the back and thumbs to the front, a bit to the side. The neck seemed almost too small for a decent grip. He probed until he found the carotid arteries throbbing under his thumbs, then gently applied pressure against them. Still Fu Antos did not resist. This strangle would knock out an ordinary man within five seconds, for it cut off the supply of blood to the brain.

  One, two, three, four, and inexplicably Diago desisted, letting his hands fall limply as he sagged. He had not applied enough pressure to make the old man waver, yet the O-Sensei's thin hands were talking again in that marvelous way of theirs, congratulating Diago on an excellent try.

  Diago, with what must have been a supreme effort, recovered again and set up for a third strangle. He seized the lapels of the old man's kimono at both sides, his thumbs inside and his fingers outside, then twisted both hands so that the knuckles were pressing into the neck. This was the nerve strangle, eri-jime, forbidden in normal competition because it was extremely dangerous. He found the spot on each side of the neck, a little below and to the front of the ears, and bore down savagely.

&
nbsp; There was a cry of anguish and Diago fell again. He was not breathing.

  "The ninja poison!" I exclaimed, suddenly realizing. "They are experts at poisoning! On the tiger's claws!"

  Pedro stared at me. "Poison! Of course! And he knew it! That was why he insisted on cleaning my wounds so carefully. The dog's teeth could have been coated too. I wondered why I felt so weak and ill."

  "Why didn't he say something!" I cried. "He must have felt it working on him, yet he—" But by his own admission Pedro had felt the effects too. Why should a man burden others with his weakness? Both had kept silent.

  Fu Antos gestured benignly to Makato. I gazed upon the scene with helpless horror: the decrepit old man, the unmoving boy-child, the fallen Diago. Those parchment fingers speaking in intricate patterns, saying that our friend was now at peace and inviting the karateka to kill the O-Sensei next.

  I had my second awful realization. Those fingers—they were not just talking in unique polylingual sign language. This was kuji-kirithe ancient ninja hypnotic exercise. Fu Antos was not sitting passively, he was actively hypnotizing us all. That was why we were unable to move, and had to attempt to kill him at his directive, when in the normal course our reactions would have been quite different.

  My respect for the O-Sensei's powers increased considerably, but my comprehension of his motives diminished. Surely he had no need of our services, when he possessed the ability to control men this way. And why should he want to die?

  No, I could answer the last question myself. Confined to a decaying body, unable to leave this bare chamber or to read or listen or walk. To be isolated from all meaningful experience was to be condemned to hell.

  "Not so," those fingers said to me. "There is no greater experience than Zen!"

  I shut my thoughts up, abashed. I had to believe either that he was telepathic, or that I was losing my sanity.