Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

  When my arms got tired, I hooked my legs over and hung upside down, resting. Then I handed along for another stint. It was a grueling journey, but I reminded my self that I had just finished a hard fight with the black mistress, and that I had to conserve my strength as much as possible for the coming encounter. So I rested frequently.

  By the time I got there, the palms of my gloves were in shreds, and my hands were hurting. That barbed cable!

  I hoisted myself silently over the gunwale and dropped to the deck. My arms were cramped; I hoped I would have a decent chance to rest.

  No one came. I proceeded along the long deck, looking for an entry to the interior. At this point, I was beginning to doubt that anyone was aboard. That was probably why I had boarded without being observed.

  "Not quite," a voice said.

  I jumped to face the sound, expecting the alarm to be cried at any moment. But this demon did not cry it. Instead I saw him assume a stance, in the faint light of the moon and the city. He wanted to fight.

  He was a fool. His fit of Kill-13 had made him too confident, too eager to prove himself. He obviously knew or suspected who I was, and wanted the glory of dispatching me, alone. He should have held me at bay while he summoned others, or else ambushed me from behind. Or better yet, alerted the ship without even letting me know I had been discovered.

  Not that I had any great confidence of my own. I was still tired from the long haul along the rope, and my vitality seemed low after my original injury. It was that it was tactical folly to give a trapped enemy a fighting chance. He just might expand on it.

  This demon was fast and powerful, but I had anticipated that. He tried a reverse punch to my face, and I caught it on my forearm. I countered with a low strike to his spleen, which he parried as easily.

  He was also a skilled karateka, obviously a black belt. A considerable cut above the other demons I had encountered, apart from Ilunga. This bothered me, not only because it indicated just how difficult my task was, but because it meant that the drug had already subverted some ranking martial artists. They must have been making a real attempt to bring in top men. Rabble and fakers were bad enough; real black belts were worse. Too much of this, and the entire martial arts movement of the world could be governed by the demon cult.

  He fired a high kick at my head, and such was its ferocity and nicety of execution that it should have scored. But it missed. Not by much, but by enough to weaken its effect considerably. It grazed the side of my face with enough force to make me dizzy. And I realized something significant.

  The light was very poor, here, mostly deep shadow. My eyes had adapted to it, but it certainly was no help in combat. The orange of the demons' eyes had to reflect gross distension of the capillaries, harming the eyeballs, and adversely affecting sight. Night vision should be exceptionally poor. In bright light it made little difference, but in poor light, the demon had to be partially blind. He couldn't see me as well as I saw him. I realized that all the demon encounters I'd had had been in daylight, except the one I had forced on Ilunga, and she had not fought as well as she might have, missing one of her kicks. Could this daylight activity be because the demons preferred not to operate at night? If so, good reason!

  If this were true, it gave me an important advantage. I adjusted my strategy accordingly. I drew him out of position with a series of front kicks, which he parried with his forearms, trying to catch my leg. While he was bent over I jumped in fast and scored with a hiraken, a half-clenched fist, to the side of his head. My thumb was folded in, my fingers bent at the second knuckles. I struck his head hard with the palm area of that fist, right near the ear. My fingernails lacerated the side of his face so that it bled.

  He might not have been able to feel much pain, but that blow shook him up. The brain itself feels no pain in the ordinary person, but when it gets banged it cannot function well, and a concussion can be fatal. He looked wildly around, having even more trouble locating me in the dark. Yes, his night-vision was a disaster.

  I didn't want to close with him, because that would enable him to work by touch, nullifying my advantage. So I tried to psych him out, to force him into a tactical mistake that would enable me to finish him quickly and quietly.

  "You're blind," I said. "The drug destroyed your eyes, and your sight is fading."

  My mistake! I had just given him something else to orient on: my voice. His hands whipped to his sash with the speed of a striking snake, and suddenly I was struck in the chest: once, twice. Not by his hands or feet; he remained across the deck, glaring in my direction. By two small throwing knives.

  I dropped to my knees, groaning. Both blades were embedded to the hilt.

  The demon charged toward me. Then I struck back. I wrenched the knives out with my two hands and jabbed them at his belly. I underestimated his speed. He didn't stop or dodge aside. The blades penetrated his abdomen. He fell at my feet.

  I leaped clear. I was only scratched; the fiberglass vest had taken the brunt, absorbing the force and most of the length of each knife. My ploy had fooled the overconfident demon, who had not been able to see the vest on me. I was alive, thanks to Kobi's prophetic gift.

  But now I felt that the vest slowed me down too much, and against these demons, maximum speed was critical. So, regretfully, I took it off; it had served its purpose. I hoped.

  I stepped on down the deck, but already another demon had spotted me. He carried a manriki gusari—a length of chain with weighted ends. The thing was hardly a foot long, and it was light, but the lead weights made it deadly in the hands of an expert.

  Other demons had used chains, notably in the attack on my dojo that had precipitated my active involvement, but they had been adapted bicycle chains, not tailored weapons like this one. There is a tremendous difference between a weapon of momentary convenience, and one that has been crafted and adapted with skill. For one thing, the tailored weapon often indicates the serious weaponist, one who has trained under professional supervision.

  I wasn't going to gamble that this demon was a duffer. It was likely that this ship was the storage depot for all the Kill-13 drug supplied to this region, and it might be the entry facility for a much larger region. There was no way to tell how extensive the demon network was, or where their main supply route lay. Obviously the most skilled of their fighters guarded it.

  I had guessed right. The chain whistled as he approached. No amateur bumbling here; the demon knew what he was doing. In a moment he would have the length of it around my neck, a garrote, or else my hands would be trussed securely, making me a prisoner. Neither alternative was inviting.

  I dived to the deck. The chain struck me across the back, stingingly; the lead weight felt like a hammerblow.

  I twisted and twirled on the floor to escape further blows. My maneuver was partially effective; I got stung several times, but not critically. One strike across the face could blind me and break all the bones of my face.

  The manriki was a Japanese Samurai weapon, popular with palace guards. It was sacrilegious to spill blood on the palace grounds, yet competent defense had to be made. So this bloodless weapon came into play, most effectively. It was also used to disarm unruly Samurai warriors; a trained manriki could handle all but the best.

  I could not evade the chain much longer. I spun like a top, while that thing flashed above me, scoring my back like a whip. I dared not grab for it; my hands would be caught. All I wanted to do was get inside its radius.

  Then the shadow came to my aid again. The demon misjudged my roll, and overshot me. I straightened out within the radius of the chain, jumping up, and delivered a roundhouse kick, a mawashi geri, to the side of his head.

  The foot is reputed to be the strongest section of the body; the head the weakest. Much depends, however, on how they are used. An expert skull could break an inexpert foot. In this case the foot was expert. The ball of it broke the bones of his head, crushing his temple inward, and he was done.

  The sound of this fight had
alerted the ship. The demon sentry system had been incompetently organized; obviously they lacked proper discipline and direction. But that made little difference now. Four more demons charged me, their feet clattering on the rusty deck. All carried bos: long staffs, similar to those used the world over. Dangerous weapons, and a bleak prospect for me. One such weapon in expert hands would be enough to finish me. Four...

  Still, the darkness helped me. I realized they could not turn on lights even if they had them, because that would attract attention from the shore. This was supposed to be an empty ship. I snatched up the chain and struck the lead demon across the face with it—the very blow I had feared would be used against me. He staggered back, and I grabbed his bo. Now I had a weapon to match theirs, and thanks again to my brief Shaolin training, that had at least exposed me to such weapons though there had not been time to make me expert, I had some idea of how to use it. My odds had just improved significantly.

  I was near the superstructure of the ship, a restricted part of the deck bounded on one side by a narrow iron stair descending into the bowels. A lifeboat was lashed in this vicinity, and there were bundles of heavy rope strewn about. A cluttered place, and that was just fine by me.

  I stayed on the deck, where I had dived for the fallen staff. I might not have been a match for any one of them with this weapon, but they had made the mistake of rushing in together, crowding each other, hampering each other's motions, tripping over the ropes. A group is not better than an individual in all cases, especially when the locale is restricted.

  They tried to draw back, to organize against me, but I gave them no chance. I poked the end of my bo like a rapier. I hit one demon in the chest, breaking ribs; I got another on the chin with the backswing, knocking him out. I twirled my staff around my head, seeking another opening.

  Now there was one. He struck at my head. I ducked down, just as though this were a routine Shaolin exercise, so that the bo passed harmlessly over my head. Then I rifled a lengthwise shot to his crotch, using the bo like a spear. I hated to do it, after my own experience. But my chance to catch Miko was vanishing, and I had to move swiftly. This blow was incapacitating, regardless of how little pain he actually felt.

  The last bo demon went down. Probably he would be up again soon, but not in condition to do me harm. I jumped out of the tangle of injured or unconscious demons, and braced for the onslaught of the next, now striding down the deck.

  And I fell on my face. My bo flew wide. One of those injured had grabbed my foot. Feeling like an idiot, I kicked backward and hit him with my heel, crushing his cheekbone, and he settled down again. I had underestimated the demon's resistance to the pain of injury, and it had almost cost me severely.

  Time for a change of venue; if I stayed here my luck was sure to run out. I rolled for the rail and half-tumbled into the stairwell, trying to avoid the oncoming demon. I got my feet under me and charged downward, seeking a good place to hide. They certainly knew I was aboard, but if they had to spread out in a search pattern covering the whole ship, the advantage would be mine. I might yet be able to locate Miko and make him talk.

  "Lights!" the demon behind me cried.

  Blinding lights came on. I shielded my eyes with one hand and made out a demon with a rifle, trained on me. I froze, needing no command. Evidently the sudden transition to brilliance didn't bother demon eyes, perhaps because of that lack of night vision. "I thought you folks didn't use firearms," I said.

  Now the pursuing demon descended the stairs. "Astute, judoka," he said. "We do believe in the power of our bodies, a power that cannot be properly exploited by the use of firearms. Any weakling can pull a trigger. We much prefer the manly ancient ways. In addition, firearms make a great deal of unpleasant noise, and our hearing is acute. There is a decided advantage in silent weapons. Finally, there are strong local gun-control laws. I fear our immunity to police interference would be severely strained if we violated those particular statutes. So we eschew such weapons, except in special cases."

  I turned, slowly, to face him. He was about five feet eight but looked shorter because of his gorilla-like build. He weighed about 225 pounds, with long arms and short, bowed legs. When he walked, he limped. A scar ran along his chin, enhancing his ugliness. His clothing, in contrast, was bright and pretty: blue kung-fu trousers and kimono shirt.

  "Hello, Miko," I said.

  "You have gone to a great deal of trouble to find me, Striker," the demon said.

  "Kill-Thirteen has been a great nuisance to me, Miko," I replied. I watched him carefully. He did not appear to be armed, but I knew better than to trust that. Anything could be hidden under his uniform.

  "The terms of our encounter are simple," Miko said. "Defeat me in fair combat, and you shall go free. Lose, and you will become one of us."

  "One of you!" I exclaimed, appalled.

  "Come now, Striker," he said as though admonishing a balky child. "It is an excellent proposition for one of your stature. We make no secret of it; we desire to be represented by men of your reputation and competence. There is a substantial future for you, with us."

  "Substantial future!" I echoed. "I am your enemy! You could never trust me!" But, my own words gave me a thrill of misgiving, for I remembered saying something similar long ago, to the head monk of the kung-fu monastery. How wrong I had been, then.

  "All demons are trustworthy," he said. "They know there is no other source of Kill-Thirteen. Be at ease on that score. Also, we know you to be a man of integrity; if you agree to join us, you will do so."

  "Then why don't you just shoot me down and dose me with it now?" I demanded, partly because I was afraid they would do just that.

  "Two reasons, Striker. First, the drug is a strain on the system, initially. If you were dosed when wounded, it could be fatal, and that would be pointless. Second, we must have your acquiescence. You are strong-minded; dosed against your will, you would seek suicide at the earliest opportunity, and would be of no use to us. But if you agree, your strength and your honor would tremendously enhance our effort. It is worth some risk to us, to convert you."

  "You talk of honor," I said. "What assurance do I have that your man won't simply shoot me dead, after I beat you?"

  "Striker, we do have standards," he said. "We are not fly-by-night ruffians. We merely want to pursue our objectives with security. We have no reason to kill you."

  "That wasn't the way it looked when your black mistress raided my dojo!"

  "An object lesson, no more. She spared your life deliberately."

  "And in the hospital—"

  "They were underlings, not party to our higher decision. With a man like you in charge of such operations, such errors will not occur."

  It was possible, I realized. They did stand in need of better leadership. Miko was an excellent talker, but his ship-alert system stunk; he was an incomplete leader. But he was intelligent enough to recognize his own limitations. Probably their really competent people were spread thinly.

  I gave it one more try. "Ilunga told me you would kill me."

  "Ilunga is a woman," he said, almost contemptuously. "You humbled her. It is quite possible that she hopes you will kill me, as she aspires to my position."

  Answer enough. And they did have me covered. I would have to gamble. Gamble that I could beat him, and that the demons would keep their word.

  "One other thing," I said. "I didn't come here just to go away again. I need to know the source of the drug."

  Now he hesitated, which was a good sign. A liar would have agreed readily. "Few demons and no straights can know that place," he said finally. "If I told you, they would cut off our supply, and we would all die."

  "You don't offer much of a bargain, then," I said. "If I lose, you'll tell me, because I'll be an addict, a demon. If I win, I deserve the information. You have to be prepared to gamble yourself."

  "No. My gamble is in fighting you. This is sacred."

  I laughed. "You are demons! Creatures of hell, bound to
a hell-drug! How can anything be sacred to you?"

  But he was serious. "Kali would know. And punish. I can offer you your life, no more. If we cannot agree on terms, I shall be forced to kill you now." And he raised his arm in a gesture to the rifleman.

  Kali. Who was that? It was a clue, perhaps sufficient. He seemed to have spoken the name unawares. And they could kill me.

  "All right," I said. It was a hell of a gamble, because the last thing I wanted to do was to take a sniff of Kill-13. But I had to chance it.

  "This way," Miko said.

  We were on a kind of catwalk overlooking a tremendous interior room. In fact, it was the cavernous hold of the tanker, converted to human use. The walls were painted red, and the broad floor was carpeted. One end was set up like a dojo, with training equipment and even hangings of bright silk and pictures on the wall. It was a lush residence, but the reek of oil was omnipresent. The rifleman remained on the catwalk, covering me, while Miko, the other demons, and I climbed iron rungs set into the wall, to the bottom of the hold.

  I certainly was not going to make any quick break out of this one, even if I were prepared to break my word.

  Miko signaled, and the rifleman lowered his weapon. Not that that made much difference now. The wounded demons formed themselves into a semicircle on the floor. Miko approached carefully, bare-handed. He knew one of the bare-handed martial arts, obviously, probably kung-fu. His kung-fu uniform meant nothing; all demons called themselves members of the Kung-fu Temple, even karatekas like Ilunga.

  We made formal bows, then closed.

  Miko leaped straight into the air, his lameness disappearing. He emitted a terrible kiai yell and made an awful face. "Saaaa!"

  If he thought to frighten me, he was a fool. I was an old hand at this. I too leaped high and let fly a worse yell. "Yaaaa!" And I made a face I wish I could have seen.