Kzine Issue 23

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  “There will be no trace,” the man assured him. “As the night progresses, the victim will feel increasingly tired. But how is that different from any other evening? Soon he will be too fatigued to move, and will lie down to rest. The poison will weaken his heart. Before the morning, he will be dead.”

  There could have been many ways in which he could make the swordsman suffer, but suspicion could not be aroused so close to the games. Shi’u must die a death that seemed natural.

  “There are techniques you can employ to conquer your fear,” Shi’u continued, but Joo Won waved him off.

  “This is something I must resolve alone,” Joo Won said. “We will meet again at the competition.” These last words forced him to stifle a laugh of triumph.

  ***

  The seonsu of Joo Won’s dojang packed several buses that travelled to Gangneung two days later. The competition would be held in Ponam Entertainment Center, an open-air stadium near the river. The bus ride from their small city of Sokchu took a couple of hours, and the clear early morning skies promised it would be an uneventful ride.

  Shi’u’s untimely passing cast a pall over the swordsmen. When the master had announced to the dojang’s seonsu that Shi’u had died in his sleep, they’d all lowered their heads in grief.

  “He was our best player,” one had murmured. “Destined to lead our club to victory.” Joo Won had curled his fingers into fists because no one acknowledged him as Shi’u’s successor. Who else gained more victories in the dojang during practice besides him? Who else matched his speed and power? Even Shi’u had admitted that Joo Won should have been the one to stand in front of the president because of his exceptional skill with the sword. Yet as they rode to Ponam Entertainment Center today, no one took notice of him as they stared despondently out the window on this beautiful day.

  They checked into a motel and went to a sashimi restaurant for a light dinner before the following day competitions. Normally, their talk would be boisterous as they boasted about the fantastic feats of athleticism that they would use to whelm the spectators. Today, though, the somber mood prevailed, and they drank water that night as they ate a light meal of rice and raw fish. They did not toast each other. Midway through the meal, their gwan-jang-nim stood before them, and their voices fell completely. They lowered their chopsticks and turned to their teacher with heavy brows.

  Their gwan-jang-nim was not a tall man. He had tan skin weathered from the sun. He had a slim physique, yet he moved with a casual grace that bordered on extreme violence. Many seonsu had fallen beneath the bokken, a hardwood sword, and the jeok-gyeon, a short wooden dagger, when he competed in the games. Many skulls cracked open like melons to release their gray matter on the court.

  “Fate has brought us to this moment.” His deep voice carried through the restaurant. “We have lost our best player. We have lost a brother. We have lost a friend. As kumdo competitors, we are constantly exposed to death. It is as much a part of the games as the sweat that rolls down our foreheads. But who would have thought we would lose Shi’u so soon? Who would have thought he would be cheated by death instead of being given a chance to prevail against its dark shadow?”

  Their gwan-jang-nim stiffened with anger. “It’s the lack of a fair fight that enrages us the most. But we will not succumb. Each of you will step into the court tomorrow. You will stare death in its black eyes, and you will roar from here,” he tapped his gut, “I am not afraid!”

  All of the seonsu tapped their abdomens and cried out, “I am not afraid!”

  But fear did exist, and some of their proclamations were muted. Joo Won’s hands shook, and he clenched them into fists.

  I am not afraid, he told himself, without believing it.

  ***

  They rose before dawn to travel to Ponam Entertainment Center. Spring had burned away to a hot summer, and moisture hung heavy in the air. The stadium’s walls rose high above Gangneung’s buildings. Throngs of spectators gathered at the stadium’s entrance as the seonsu filed through the wide double doors. As the athletes walked past, loud applause rang out from the people who had journeyed to the stadium from the areas belonging to each separate district in Gangwon-do. But when the members of Joo Won’s dojang got off the bus, those who had come to support them lowered their voices to despaired whispers.

  “It’s true. Shi’u truly isn’t here?”

  “Can one such as he die?”

  “The sleepy warrior has disappeared into a dream.”

  Word spread from the citizens of Sokcho to the others gathered to watch. Shi’u had been a feared seonsu in previous tournaments, and his reputation was widely known in Korea. Even people from other provinces admired his skill and courageousness in the face of injury or death. But all must fall somehow. Joo Won patted his pocket where he kept the poison so that no one would accidentally find it among his things. It seemed to burn now, so when they finally entered the stadium, he took it out and put it in his shoulder pack. He would dispose of it here in Gangneung. No one in his hometown could ever discover the poison’s existence. If they did, questions might arise about Shi’u’s untimely passing, and those questions might lead directly back to Joo Won.

  Joo Won repeatedly flexed his hands as he changed into his dobok, the loose, navy blue jacket and pants that allowed for free, easy movement during the match. They tied the leather skirt protecting their groin and thighs to their waists, then the black bamboo protector protecting the chest from glancing blows, though prone to shatter at power strikes.

  Joo Won would fight first for his dojang. He carried the protective mask in his left hand, and his bokken and jeok-gyeon in his right. He went to court #2 and faced his opponent on the opposite side of the shai-jo. For this match, Joo Won wore a blue ribbon tied to his back, and his opponent wore a white ribbon. Both men dropped to the formal seiza position, their legs folded underneath their thighs. They slid the ho-myeons over their heads, stood simultaneously and slipped the hardwood bokken and jeok-gyeon into their belt. Only then did the three shimpan enter the court. The referees stood in a triangular formation, and held two flags, one white, one blue, signifying the color of the ribbons on the competitors’ backs.

  Joo Won and his opponent stepped into the court, and the shimpan shouted, “Begin!”

  Joo Won and his opponent inhaled deeply and let loose a cry that reverberated through the stadium and brought the audience to their feet in applause. Joo Won leapt forward and thrust his bokken forward in a chest strike. The man easily deflected with the edge of his bokken, but Joo Won wrapped the tips of his fingers around his jeok-gyeon, slipped it from his belt, and hurled it at his opponent’s unprotected shin with incredible force. The wooden dagger bore into the man’s leg with a sickening crunch of bone. He let loose a horrible scream as the three shimpans raised their blue flags to indicate a point for Joo Won.

  The man tried to hop back, but Joo Won let his momentum carry him forward and slammed into his opponent with his shoulder. The man’s legs crumpled under him. He tumbled backward, his head tilting back as he fell. Spying his chance, Joo Won redirected his bokken, bent his wrist and thrust the hardwood tip into his opponent’s exposed throat. Blood splatted his face as the wood penetrated the man’s neck. The shimpan raised the blue flags to indicate another point for Joo Won.

  “Winner!”

  The audience went wild. Joo Won stood over his opponent, his heart racing as the man gurgled with blood filling his mouth. Gazing into his opponent’s dying eyes, Joo Won thought of Shi’u. He stepped away from the man as the assistants raced out onto the court to retrieve the body.

  “Your bokken and jeok-gyeon,” they said, nodding to his weapons. Joo Won yanked the bokken from the man’s throat. Blood squirted from the wound and splashed his dobok. To get the jeok-gyeon, Joo Won had to place one hand on the dead man’s leg, and tugged several times before the thick bone released the wooden dagger. The assistants congratulated him on his win, put the body on a stretcher, and carried the corpse away.
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br />   Joo Won returned to the section where the seonsu from his dojang waited. The men clapped him on his shoulder and congratulated him on his fierce play. Now no one mentioned Shi’u’s name, and they said to each other, “We will be victorious!”

  Joo Won went to the bathroom and washed the blood from his face and dobok. His heart hammered, and he avoided looking into the mirrors, not wanting to see the fear in his eyes. When he reached for the soap, his hand shook so that he could barely grasp it.

  The bathroom door swung open and the dojang master entered.

  “Your next match is in fifteen minutes,” his gwan-jang-nim said. Joo Won, avoiding his eyes, nodded. Returning back to the waiting area, he inspected his weapons. The jeok-gyeon had several breaks, so he exchanged it for a new one. The bokken remained in good condition. Wiping the blood from it, he placed it and the dagger next to his ho-myeon.

  “Joo Won,” one of his comrades said, “you should see this match.”

  Joo Won stood and looked out into the stadium where his comrade pointed. “The seonsu’s name is Min Jae. Before it was thought that he and Shi’u would meet each other in the final match, but now.” He glanced at Joo Won.

  Min Jae wore the white ribbon, and his opponent wore the blue. They bowed to each other and slid their bokken out of their belts.

  “Begin!”

  Both men’s cries ignited a fire inside of them that became palpable as a crackling energy. They leapt at each other. When neither saw an opening, they stopped in midair and flipped backwards. Min Jae’s opponent landed on his toes, propelled himself to the right, and flung his jeok-gyeon at a horizontal angle at the unprotected area beneath Min Jae’s underarm. Min Jae flung his arm back to avoid the strike, caught the dagger by the tip of its hilt and threw it back at his opponent. Quickly Min Jae grabbed his own dagger, and as the man leapt, Min Jae crouched low so that his belly touched the ground and threw his jeok-gyeon at a sharp right angle. The dagger embedded itself into his opponent’s crotch, and the man released a terrible howl of pain as the shimpans raised the white flags to indicate a point.

  The man crashed in a writhing heap on the ground. Min Jae pounced forward, his bokken held high. He swung at the back of the man’s head and crushed his skull in a devastating blow.

  The shimpans raised the white flags again. “Winner!”

  Joo Won stepped back from the gruesome sight. How could he face Min Jae? How could he possibly win?

  He thought back to the poison in his shoulder bag, but how would he manage to administer the droplets to his opponent? Joo Won watched the brutal matches that followed with growing horror as seonsu after seonsu fell, either from serious injuries or fatalities. The tournament had become a grand feast for death.

  When Joo Won stepped into the court for his second match, the crowd roared. Despite the open stadium, the air became oppressive. Joo Won struggled to breathe. Sweat soaked his dobok and his bokken slipped in his grasp. Yet when the shimpan shouted, “Begin!”, Joo Won leapt forward without hesitation. His opponent tried to block his wide swipe. Expecting this, Joo Won swept his bokken upward and brought it down with tremendous force on his opponent’s mask. The hardwood splintered and shattered, and the shimpans raised the blue flags.

  Joo Won did not pause. He freed the jeok-gyeon from his belt, kicked his dazed opponent in the chest knocking him back, stabbed through the mask and impaled the dagger itself into his opponent’s nose with an audible suction.

  “Winner!”

  Joo Won stumbled back as the dying man tried to suck air through the dagger protruding from his cratered nasal cavity. Again the assistants appeared to remove his opponent. Joo Won freed his weapon, wiped away the mucus dripping from the dagger, bowed to the audience, and quickly walked into the bathroom. He closed the stall door, dropped to his knees, and vomited into the toilet.

  How had he made such good friends with death? In the following matches, Joo Won delivered killing blows that came to him with perfect clarity. The seonsu from his dojang began to back away from him in fear after each match.

  “He is possessed,” they whispered, and Joo Won buried his hands in the folds of his dobok so that no one would see them shaking as he rushed to the bathroom. He cleaned his face yet still felt remnants of warm blood snaking down his cheeks and dripping into his collar.

  The afternoon came and went, and evening claimed the sky over the stadium. The number of players thinned out until finally, only two competitors remained: Joo Won and Min Jae.

  The crowds stumped their feet and cheered in anticipation as both men waited in private chambers during a brief rest period. Joo Won’s muscles ached from swinging the bokken and jeok-gyeon all day. He had gone through several weapons, and had requested for his gwan-jang-nim to bring him fresh ones. He heard his name chanted in the stadium above his head. He choked back a wail of terror at a quiet knock on the door.

  His gwan-jang-nim entered the small room with the two new weapons. “It is time,” his master said after a moment of silence. Joo Won tried to steady his hands as he reached for the sword and dagger, but he could not. His master inhaled sharply.

  “Please,” Joo Won said, “place them here.” He motioned to the floor.

  “You and Bak Min Jae must enter the stadium together,” his master said after a moment. “You must not allow him to see you this way.”

  Joo Won closed his eyes and heard his gwan-jang-nim start towards the door.

  “Master,” he said, “may you bring me one more item? My shoulder bag.”

  Again, Joo Won did not look up to see his reaction, but moments later his gwan-jang-nim returned and placed the bag beside the weapons.

  “The shimpans wait.” His gwan-jang-nim left the door open when he exited the room. Joo Won took several deep breaths to calm his violent tremors, but he could barely grasp the tiny vial of poison at the bottom of his bag. His breath was labored as he buried the scream desperate to escape from deep down inside of him. With a quick movement, he uncapped the vial, opened his mouth and swallowed the poison.

  His hands stopped shaking, the suppressed scream evaporated, and his breath slowed. Joo Won picked up his bokken and jeok-gyeon and joined Min Jae at the end of the hall. They walked into the stadium to thunderous applause and went to opposite sides of the champion court. Since this was the last match of the tournament, the players and the shimpans turned and bowed to the president. Then Joo Won and Min Jae slid their bokken from their belts. Joo Won stared without fear at his opponent. When the shimpan yelled, “Begin!”, he leapt forward with a resounding cry, sure in the knowledge that he would win.

  CHAINS

  by Lindsey Duncan

  My beast sense told me there was human life in the village below, but I saw no motion and smelled no chimney smoke. The fields were crowded with weeds. The wildlife was subdued, skittish, giving the settlement a wide berth, though the squirrels were fat and content on stolen grain.

  I returned to human shape as I descended the hill, abandoning four feline limbs for two human ones. No reason to startle the natives. Stop in Goldwyld, my mother had urged me before I fled—so here I had come. It was another thirty miles to the border, as the surveyor drew, but I needed to rest.

  No one challenged me as I passed through the ‘gates’, which were nothing more than a more sizable gap between hewn poles. I shivered, more through reflex than chill. I could feel the verdant burning of life-force, but the place felt abandoned… a sensation I had not experienced since the razing of Vidanis and the triumphant victory tour my foster father had given me.

  “In a way, I envy them,” he had said when we paused to look upon what had once been an ampitheatre. “The final peace, the perfect dreamless sleep.” He flashed a smile. “This place will never dream again, snow-child.”

  It was what he called me, for I was that pale, even to faint grey eyes and curly white hair. In beast shape, I was not quite albino, but always light.

  I paused, scanning the houses in the morning light. I chose the n
earest with a flicker of life and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I pressed my ear close and heard steady breathing, too quick to be slumber.

  “Hello?” I called. Still nothing. I reached for the door handle, hoping to elicit a protest, but even a hard rattle drew no response.

  I gave the handle another wrench and discovered it was not locked. Ill-prepared, I stumbled into the room. A stout older man sat at his kitchen table. I tensed at the knife in his hand until I realized he held it to carve a piece of wood. A half-etched house-sprite leered from his other hand.

  The man did not react to my entrance. His eyes remain fixed on a point halfway up the carving’s face, but they did not see.

  Bracing myself, I inched forward and laid a hand on his shoulder, opening myself to his life-force. His body was normal, in good health, but his mind was so faint I could scarcely detect it. Delving deeper, I discovered his consciousness was trapped in a cage of astral force. He was a prisoner, bound up within himself.

  I withdrew hastily, shuddering. Astral prisons had been designed in the Time of Sorrows when real prisons failed; they were hardly used now, when the stones of great fortresses such as Greyward made escape impossible. In an astral prison, the mind was fully aware of itself while the body remained in hibernation that could sustain it through the prison term.

  Astral force was closely related to life-force: a refined, higher-plane version of the same energy. I knew from the way my foster father—who valued only power—favored me that I was much stronger than most. I might be able to free this man with brute force.

  But what did I know of him? What crime had he committed to merit such a prison? Surely there was nothing that could justify the torture of being trapped within your own mind, and—I studied him—even if he was dangerous, I could certainly overpower him.

  Still, I had no way of containing a criminal. My foster father had made too many of such men into generals and commanders. I did not want to add to their number.

  I backed out of the house and closed the door, wishing I could close my guilt inside with him. I trotted down the street and encountered a bizarre scene: two women frozen exiting from a shop, their heads turned in unending conference. They breathed scents of stale bread into each other’s faces.