Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  Kill-13: that was the other source of the name. For a man under its influence had very little conscience and a lot of savagery. The murder had happened so quickly that there had been no chance for me to interfere, and now it was too late.

  Such a sight might have terrorized an ordinary group. But my students tended to be overbold, and they had witnessed an act of treachery and needless brutality. As a man they spread out to meet the demons, the black belts and brown belts in front. It was as though a voice had cried in each of their minds: Avenge the murder!

  There would be no more pulling of punches.

  The demons, as though responding to a signal of their own, moved almost in unison. From under every cloak came a weapon. Knives, chains, clubs, ice picks, an awful array of backalley instruments.

  Now it was twelve against twenty-three. Twelve deadly weapons against twenty-three unarmed students. A possible contest, if the demons were as inexpert with their devices as they were with their unarmed combat. But no matter what their skill, more people were bound to be killed.

  I ran for the back wall and dived for the phone. "Operator, emergency!" I cried. "Get the police! Send a riot squad to—"

  The phone box clanged as something struck it, and the line went dead. A cleaver quivered in the wall before my nose.

  Evidently someone knew how to throw well enough, unless that cleaver had been intended for my head. I turned.

  There was a moment of stillness, broken by the massed scream of the demons. It was an awful sound, calculated to bring the fear of death to the hearer.

  Then the demons charged.

  "Get back!" I cried to my students. "Form a wedge! Bull out through the front door!" But my voice was drowned out by the multiple screams of attack and agony: theirs and ours, respectively.

  The massacre was on.

  My students were fighting bravely, but there was little they could do against these weapons. In movies one bare-handed hero may overcome half a dozen swordsmen, but in life one swordsman is more likely to decimate half a dozen unarmed men. My boys didn't have a chance.

  I ran to the display case near the phone. There were ceremonial Japanese swords and several ancient daggers, and a nunchaku. I ripped down the last.

  The nunchaku is like two police billyclubs linked together by about nine inches of cord or chain. It doesn't look like much, but it has its points. I had learned to use one through an anomaly of circumstance, and never thought I would have occasion to draw upon that skill in this country. Now I was glad to have it.

  I gripped one stick, letting the other hang loose. I flexed my wrist a couple of times, getting the feel of it.

  My students were trying hard. I had of course drilled them in defense against assorted weapons, but had always stressed that they should flee a weapon whenever possible. Now it was not possible, and I saw that I had taught well. Several of the attackers had already been disarmed.

  But that was the small positive side of a black situation. Even as I fetched the nunchaku and got set for action, I was aware of several devastating encounters. One student faced a demon with a chain; he tried to grab the chain, but it whipped around his throat, choking him and dragging him down. The demon then stomped on his back, breaking it. Another student launched at him with a two-handed blow to the solar plexus. But the chain was already free. It wrapped around his two wrists, dragging him down to the floor on his back. The demon stomped with his heels on the fallen man's ribs, caving them in.

  One demon with a sickle faced two students. One tried to hit him with a shuto blow to the head. The blade flashed, cutting into his wrist and finally severing the hand. A fountain of blood spurted through the air. Still the student tried to close in. He struck with the other hand, with deadly force. But he trapped himself; the sickle jammed point-first into his chest. His body flopped against it, impaled. The demon hauled the thrashing student in, and this gave the second student his chance to apply a naked strangle, the hadaka-jime, on him.

  Then that second student was rolling on the mat, screaming. All I could see was what looked like a handsome black woman standing over him, obviously a confusion of my sight. There were no women here.

  Several other, students were lying on the mat, and a great deal of blood was visible. The battle had raged only thirty seconds, and it was obvious that another thirty would cost the health or lives of several more. I had to break this up rapidly.

  So I charged. "Disengage!" I shouted, hoping my students would recognize my voice and catch on. I wanted to be free to strike without hindrance. This is one of the few advantages a single man has in a fight against a crowd.

  I swung the loose segment of my weapon around my head like a bolo and angled it to strike the head of the nearest demon. There was a satisfying thunk and he groaned and went down. Probably I had fractured his skull.

  The next demon was wrapping his chain around the neck of one of mine. I looped my cord about his own neck and jerked hard with both handles. As he staggered back I bashed him on the forehead, and he was out.

  Then there were three men at once—and they realized that they no longer faced an unarmed man. One lunged at me with his knife, while another struck at my legs with his club. This was no time for niceties; I swung one stick on the end of the cord in a short arc that smacked across both their faces, breaking at least one nose. But the third got me with his chain.

  Fortunately it was not a critical blow. The thing wrapped around my waist, smarting but not striking anything vital. He jerked me toward him, but I had already recovered my swinging stick. I snapped it at his ear, endwise. He didn't cry out; a man high on Kill-13 normally feels no pain. But his brain must have rattled within his skull, and he went down.

  Some fighting sense warned me, and I ducked. A cleaver whistled over my head. I whirled and raised one stick to block the return sweep, while the other stick swung wide and carried the cord around his hand, disarming him.

  Then the demons drew back, preparing to rush me. They were natural cowards, hesitant to engage in single combat the moment real resistance developed. Obviously these were not well trained; the drug gave them extraordinary strength and speed, but could create only the illusion of genuine skill. Only years of disciplined practice could make a man a professional.

  They paused, afraid to attack me even in a mass. Then a high-pitched voice urged them on, and they charged.

  I squatted down, whirling my nunchaku fast and low, striking them in the shins, knees and feet. The wood hit solidly, and I heard bones crack. They might be numb to pain, but they could not get at me if they couldn't walk.

  For a moment there was confusion. Some action continued elsewhere in the hall, as my remaining students tackled the remaining demons, but in my vicinity there was chaos. Then a new figure strode through the melee: a black face above the orange cloak, with long black hair.

  I whirled the nunchaku, knowing that this would be a dangerous opponent, summoned from the reserves. His eyes were barely discolored, meaning either that his fit was wearing off, or that he had developed a tolerance for the drug. That could mean that he would attack with less ferocity, but greater finesse. Probably much greater, because he was a veteran; his nose was disfigured by a healed-over break. I waited to see what weapon would come from beneath that cloak.

  His hands went to the neck, and suddenly the orange garment fell free. I accelerated the nunchaku, preparing for a rapid and devastating strike—and saw that my opponent was a woman. The same one I had seen before, and not believed had been there. She was in a kind of spangled two-piece outfit, her black midriff bare, and she had the shape of a sculptor's model. But it was her face, seen in this changed context, that stunned me. It was firm-chinned yet delicate, framed by hair too long to hold an afro. A beauty; a classic in any race, except for that broken nose. It reminded me of someone.

  She was unarmed. The nunchaku drooped from my hand; how could I mutilate this impressive woman with such a weapon? I hardly saw her motion. Then her foot connected to my groi
n in a swift, accurate, devastating kick. There was an instant of unbearable pain before my consciousness mercifully departed.

  CHAPTER 2

  CAMBODIA

  I flew backwards in time. I was in the Green Berets, back when American military commitment was quasi-official in Southeast Asia. I had private doubts about our involvement in that war, but the brass never inquired my opinion, and I knew better than to volunteer it. I had a job to do, so I did it, as well as I was able. It was not a nice job, and I never look back on that experience with any pride.

  It was blind luck that got me in trouble, but that was the way it was, in that region. The Cong and their allies were everywhere, and no one was to be trusted. I had known that sooner or later I'd catch it. My mission was to infiltrate the Cambodian jungle, avoiding the paths and roads, so as to observe the enemy movements along the southern end of the Ho Chi Minh trail complex. After I'd made a count of people and vehicles, so that I knew when a given trail was in current use, I'd plant a little sensory device that would generate a continuing signal for the bombers to home in on. If I were mistaken, and had spotted only a stray column instead of a main trail, the sensor would have a low count in the following days or weeks. But if it counted many troops, pretty soon the bombers came and—no trail.

  Of course there were hitches. Sometimes a congregation of animals triggered off a bombing mission, since the sensors did not distinguish between forms of life. Sometimes a sensor was discovered and moved, causing much mischief, especially when it was moved to the vicinity of our own forces. And of course the Cong were expert at rerouting and repairing, so that one mission never did the complete job. But they had to work mainly at night, and the more accurate the bombing the greater the inconvenience and delay for them. In a good sequence, we'd plant a new bomb-lure almost as soon as they got a new trail ready, and they'd have to start all over, while their supplies sat and waited.

  I worked with Cambodian mercenaries. These were Cambodians who had lived in Vietnam, who were trained for such missions. They could not afford to fight; the Cong would get their families if any of them were identified in association with me. But I didn't want to fight either; I had to remain hidden as long as possible. Until my tour of duty was up, I hoped. The Cong did not even know who I was, but they knew what I was doing, and they wanted me. Badly.

  It was grinding, boring work. Whenever we plowed through the jungle the leeches fastened to our legs, or wherever they could find skin. We couldn't pull them off; that just left the heads connected while the rest of their bodies ripped apart. We had to make them let go by burning them, as is done with the ticks on dogs. I kept a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on me, though I don't smoke, just to handle those leeches. A couple of my cigarettes I never used; they were boobytrapped with mercury fulminate. I had cut apart detonator caps and inserted the business ends into the cigarettes. The moment flame touched those...

  We were careful, but not careful enough. The enemy must have placed ambushes all over the jungle, hoping we'd blunder into one, and one day we did. Those Cong must have stayed motionless for two days, letting the wildlife become acclimatized to the intrusion; we had no hint of their presence until their guns fired.

  Actually, we outnumbered them, but it was no match. As the Cambodians went down I charged the baffle and landed with both boots on someone's face. No room here for a rifle; I laid about me with my knife, slashing at anything that moved.

  Then something struck my head, and I was out.

  I woke in a cage of bamboo. My head ached, and I had a welt where I had been hit, but that wasn't the worst of it. The cage was small, so that I couldn't stand or move effectively. I had to squat, my knees and buttocks jammed up against the bars, while the biting flies multiplied freely. By the time I swatted one, several others were sucking my blood elsewhere, and I had to go after them too. It did not help that my captors would not release me for calls of nature; I had to relieve myself in the cage, and bask in the growing odors of my own refuse while the flies bred in it.

  They did take me out for questioning. The guards had socks filled with sand. One spoke English. "Why are you here?" he demanded. "Where are your associates? Sign a confession!"

  Of course I did not answer. They had not expected me to. This was just a formality before the beating. They pounded me methodically with the socks. I took it; there was nothing else to do.

  Their object was to soften me, not to kill me. They wanted to make me feel miserable, more amenable to their will. And of course they hated everything I stood for. This was routine. In their position, I probably would have had the same motives and hates.

  Comprehension did not make it much easier to bear. Eventual death, probably by torture, was my likely lot, if I did not manage to escape. I was dumped back into my cage to meditate upon my pains.

  A guard approached, carrying my lighter and cigarette package. He was smoking with evident relish. "I learned to smoke when I fought the French," he told me. "Too bad these aren't marijuana. You want one?"

  "I don't smoke," I said, realizing that the truth would be the last thing he believed. "I only use them for burning off leeches." He took a languorous puff, evidently trying to tease me. I licked my lips as though secretly eager for a cigarette. Let him think he was torturing me this way; it might postpone the real torture.

  "I am the only one here who speaks your language," he confided. "So I get the easy duty: to question you. I get to smoke your cigarettes. Tell me the truth, and I will give half the pack back to you."

  "I won't talk even for the whole pack!" I said.

  "Too bad for you, good for me," he said, lighting another. "The longer this takes, the more smokes I get for myself. I am in no hurry! But we must make this look good, for the others are jealously watching. They want so much to cut you up!"

  Surely the truth. But dead men seldom give valuable military information. So their natural appetites had to be restrained, for the time being.

  He poked the new cigarette toward me, intending to burn me with it, another standard torture. Suddenly I saw that it was one of the special ones; I had tried to make them indistinguishable from the rest, but this was impossible, and of course I did need to know the difference myself.

  I jerked away, genuinely horrified.

  "Ah, you are brave with the socks, not so brave with the butts," he said with satisfaction, taking another puff so that the end glowed brightly. "Your weak point, your Achilles' heel, eh?"

  He prodded my leg with the glow. I tried to get away, knowing my leg would be blown off if the thing exploded at that instant, but the cage was too confining. He scored on my thigh, and the pain was sharp. I yelled, but that, too, was for a purpose. He thought it was the pain alone that set me off.

  He puffed again, enjoying this. "Yes, you Americans are all such cowards. A little burn—I would not fear it! But you, with your decadent soft life—shall I burn your white nose first, or your white pizzle?" He pushed it toward me again.

  "Wait!" I cried. "I'll talk!" Actually I was doing some feverish calculating. I had set those traps to explode in about a minute from ignition, but it is hard to be accurate in a homemade job, and there were many variables. That cigarette could help me or kill me. It all depended where it was when the trap sprung.

  If he were just poking it through the bars of the cage at the time, not too close to my flesh—escape! I would suffer burns and other damage, but he would lose his hand—and the cage would be blasted open. With luck, I could make it to the jungle before the others collected their wits. It could hardly be worse than another beating. And if the explosion were too close, and I was killed at least it would be quick and clean.

  "So talk," he said, holding the ember halfway between us.

  "Well," I began, acting as if I were going to balk after all. He moved the cigarette toward me and I speeded up. "I'm on a mission for the Green Berets. Planting sensors to mark your trails, for the bombers to home in on." I was telling the truth, gambling that it would make no di
fference after the blast. They would assume I had been lying merely to buy the precious time, if they even guessed about the cigarettes. Meanwhile, my talking encouraged him to hold the cigarette right where I wanted it: close enough to serve as a threat without actually burning me. Near to the bars of the cage.

  But it didn't last. He listened attentively, bringing it up to his lips for another draw. Half a minute had passed, and the cigarette was too far away.

  "Aw, give me one puff," I said, interrupting myself. "You promised me half the pack."

  He started to bring it toward me as I wanted. I didn't expect him to give it to me, but to tease me with it—but that would place it exactly where I wanted it.

  "After I am satisfied," he said. He held it toward me a moment, then slowly returned it to his mouth for another lingering puff.

  The blast tore his head apart and momentarily blinded and deafened me. When my senses cleared, the whole camp was standing around us, amazed. But I remained confined, and he was beyond help.

  They were confused and angry, and so was I, for rather different reasons. To have escape so near...

  But there was one small benefit. Evidently he had spoken the truth about being the only English-speaking one, and they did not realize that I knew some of their language. They could not figure out how I could have smuggled a bomb into my cage, since I was obviously helpless. So they let me be; there was no one left to interrogate me.

  I was taken to several villages. That was the only exercise I got: walking with my hands bound behind me, yoked to the cage, hauling it along behind me. I knew better than to stall or try to run; there was no escaping such numbers when they were on guard. If I tried, they would put me back in the cage and haul it themselves, and the battering would leave me in much worse condition than I was.

  They fed me the same rations they gave themselves: a bowl of rice with a stinking fish sauce. I could hardly choke down the putrid mess, but there was nothing else. As it was, there was not enough. They were giving me the same amount each of them took. But they were small men, weighing about a hundred pounds; I weighed 180. It took more to sustain me. So I went hungry, in time might have starved, on the same rations that kept them healthy.