Hot!
Gathering, Gage circled back for more room to maneuver, for more space to think. He blew out a breath to focus his mind. He was beginning to overheat, the conflict too long, too exhausting.
A sharp pain and Gage realized that he'd been cut somewhere else while they were on the floor, but there was no time to find it or assess it. He circled left again as Sato rose up, still holding his blade. The dark face was drenched in sweat but utterly untouched by fatigue or pain. The coal black eyes were coldly focused.
Gage felt a wave of fear.
He's too good, the voice whispered to him.
No! Don't listen!
Do what you do best!
Analyze the situation!
His reach is longer ... So close the gap quick, get inside it ... Use speed and feints to confuse your move ... He's stronger, don't wrestle with him ... Control him ... Guide him ... Wear him down with feints ... Harass him …
Shouting, Gage feinted low, an aggressive move. And Sato took it, the twelve-inch blade of the tanto flashing in an arc across the space where Gage's forearm would have been if the blow had continued.
Gage smiled.
Almost invisibly Sato shifted his weight.
Gage saw it, reacted.
A blur.
Sato was inside with the blinding leap but in the last moment Gage had seen the weight and balance go back on Sato's rear leg, had understood the movement, anticipating, and he had leaped forward also to meet the Japanese in midair – a stop-hit.
As quick as Sato was, he wasn't prepared to close the distance so quickly and Gage collided against him face to face. Then Gage was inside Sato's long reach and he instantly trapped the Japanese’s knife arm, hooking it with his left.
Once, twice, Gage's blade flashed inside, roars and screams echoing between them, and Sato grunted explosively at the blows that powered into his chest. Then the Japanese surged, adrenalized with the hysterical strength of pain and head-butted.
Stunning!
Dazed by the sledgehammer blow, Gage only dimly sensed that he was flung back to crash against the bannister. He ignored the splintered wood, quickly rolled through it to leap away, gaining his feet, circling until he had a visual lock again on Sato.
Upon acquiring a visual lock on the Japanese, still standing 30 feet away holding his wound, Gage felt a wild relief.
Taking advantage, he bent over, resting in a basic karate stance with feet spread wide apart for balance. Then, wearily, he wiped his sweaty brow with a forearm, catching his breath. He placed both hands on his knees, breathing deeply, steadily, hoping that Sato was suffering some damage from the chest wounds.
Clearly, the Japanese was hurt.
There was a long stillness, each man holding position, recovering.
Gage didn't initiate an attack, but chose to let the bleeding take its toll. Patient and alert, he waited. And for an instant Gage searched for words, for something to say, but there was nothing. There never had been.
It was understood; this was gladiatorial.
Sato shifted the tanto in his hand and walked forward. Gage, raising the blade before him in a right side-forward stance, danced in and out, changing the distance with every step, making it more difficult for the Japanese to bridge the gap.
Sato was stalking more slowly now, scowling in pain. He shuffled forward in a solid stance, controlling the center of the floor, attempting to cut off Gage's space, to corner him. And Gage moved around him, feinting and dancing.
Suddenly Sato changed, putting his left side forward, his right hand holding the tanto close to his chest, coiled like a spring.
Gage saw it, leaped in.
Exploding from this stance to spin his entire body in a tight half-circle, Sato swung the blade hard, a Fire and Stones Cut. But Gage was expecting the blow and had already jerked back, knowing instantly that the move was powerful but short-range. The tanto passed him and Gage had leaped inside again, jamming Sato's upper arm against his body to strike over the Japanese's shoulder at the neck. He missed and Sato shouted and jerk-stepped back, slashing down at Gage's leg and Gage slashed downward also to see his blade tear through the sleeve of Sato's coat
Hard!
Instantly knowing something but with no time to evaluate it, Gage reversed the blow as the blade came off the hardened forearm, used the weight of the blade to flip it, and the Dragon sliced down again, from the outside in, hitting the forearm a second time and some frantically computing corner of Gage's mind recognized ...
Gauntlet!
Forget the forearm!
Gage saw Sato shift, tried to retreat.
Too late!
Roaring, Sato leaped forward and was inside and Gage felt the heat as they closed a third time, blades flashing up in a blinding series of blows that struck each man and drew blood. Gage ducked as the tanto came across his shoulders in a blow that would have severed his neck.
Off balance!
Stall him to get distance!
Gage feinted a wild straight-ahead thrust and Sato froze for a split-second to read it and then Gage leaped to the side, deluged suddenly with overcoming heat.
The sudden blast of fear had shaken Gage, and he lost his concentration. He leaped back frantically, retreating to increase the space, trying to regain his focus.
He knew what had happened.
It was one of those wild panic moments that come in combat when the mind, for no apparent reason, simply goes somewhere else, destroying concentration. It happens suddenly, without warning, and can cost a man his life because it shuts down reflexes and shatters the ability to anticipate, to initiate.
So Gage backed up quickly, knowing that he had only to concentrate for a moment to free himself from it. And while he concentrated, he analyzed his wounds, measuring blood loss, the pale shock descending.
He realized from the dull, deep, throbbing pain that his side had been hit, the shallow wound passing through the skin along his ribs, but not penetrating deep. And his forearm was bleeding, down onto his hand while his right thigh was blackened in the faint light, and aching; a stab wound through muscle tissue, no arterial bleeding.
Hot!
So much heat!!!
Face drenched in sweat, Gage grimaced at the heat, heat everything now, overcoming, distracting; he heard himself groaning, an unconscious release of pain, his overstressed body refusing to deny what his mind refused to admit.
And yet Sato seemed undisturbed by the heated stress, the hard physical strain of the contest. The Japanese laughed as Gage grimaced. And, implacable as ice, he moved forward.
Impossible!
Breathing out hard to concentrate, to regain his focus, Gage retreated. He clenched his teeth, eyes narrowing, focusing through the mist. His steps were light, but only with effort.
Pain everywhere, blood following.
Six feet separated them.
Gage stepped back but then, suddenly finding his concentration again, he stopped his retreat to focus once more and saw Sato hovering, poised at the edge of a lunge. Gage relaxed, balancing, coming onto the balls of his feet. Crouching, he held his position, all quickness; saw Sato shift to leap.
Inside!
The broad, flashing blade was lost in the blur, and Gage lashed out blindly with his free hand to hit the Japanese in the chest with a stop-hit.
Sato stalled in mid-lunge, spun tight: Blade!
Hit!
Gage felt it tear through his left shoulder, high and to the side, knew the muscle had taken the slicing wound and Sato savagely twisted the blade, pulling out. But Gage roared at the bolting pain and spun, locking the tanto in his shoulder muscle, and drove the Dragon out, blasting Sato's free arm aside. His blade hit the Japanese along the side of his face with a spear-point thrust and plowed a channel through the skin.
Savage as wounded beasts, they struck; roaring, cursing, slicing deeply with the blades. And then, gasping in pain, Sato finally tore loose, staggering back to rip the tanto from Gage's shoulder. Dazed, the Japanese retreat
ed a few steps before he fell backwards, tripping.
Moaning, Gage also staggered backward from the wounding encounter, blinded by the agony, and then he fell, numb, rolling, lost in depthless pain.
Pain ... So much ... Pain...
Squinting breathless through a red haze, Gage looked up, saw Sato climbing to his feet, gravely wounded but rising, always rising.
Unkillable.
Gage staggered up and fell backwards again, over a bench, before finally gaining his feet once more with a ragged steadiness. And Sato stood in blood, staring, the mouth slack, the eyes empty, seeming to recognize for the first time the true strength of his enemy.
No words were spoken. Each held a respectful distance, measuring, breathing hard.
Gage exhaled a breath, hard, and waited, trying to reduce his oxygen level to clear his eyesight. A series of slow breaths brought his heart rate under control. His body felt so much pain that his mind had difficulty following all of it; the nerves were overloaded, carrying too much, crossing over one another with messages of deep injury that were getting sidetracked on other deep nerve clusters to become ultimately lost in the collision and confusing his mind as to where he was actually hurt.
Gage nodded his head faintly at the shock coming in, a red bloodless haze, as he recognized the massive overload of pain. Good, he thought, the greater the pain, the more confused the body would become. To a point, it would help him go farther.
Use it!
Gage felt himself centering, his eyes clearing, his balance returning. He stepped backwards, rightside forward, circling slowly to the right.
Sato gazed at him dumbly and reached into his coat pocket, searching, pulling his bloody hand out slowly. Then he squeezed, cracked something inside his fist.
Gage didn't move; he knew, and he watched with a cold, calculating gaze.
Frowning, the Japanese raised the bloody hand to his wounded face, sniffed, and sniffed again. Then he stared at Gage as the drug took effect. Gage watched the Japanese's face and saw the energy, the strength returning fresh and heated as the seconds passed.
Sato laughed, lifting his hand again to sniff the last of the powder, rising internally, ascending above the exhaustion and pain.
Gage didn't know what he had taken. Probably a PCP derivative, the worst. He knew that the drug would phenomenally enhance strength and endurance, increase blood pressure, kill pain and alter the nervous system's ability to perceive injury or even death.
He's got the advantage! ... Find a way to neutralize it! ... Put him in a position where he can't use his strength!
Mind scanning, Gage glanced behind him, searching for some tactic to neutralize Sato's sudden advantage. And he saw it; a desperate last chance, a final arena for this conflict.
When he looked back, Sato had taken a slow step forward, the knife held out again, waving, threatening. And the darkened face laughed, suddenly oblivious to the injuries and the blood loss.
In pain Gage retreated, luring Sato forward. He blinked to focus, backed more quickly as Sato continued to advance. In seconds he was at the entrance of a stone corridor, Sato only 20 feet away, still advancing, smiling, strength by strength building within him as the moments passed.
Gage backed until he stood well inside the hallway, and Sato advanced into it a dozen paces, also well inside. A single light, mounted low on the wall, was all that illuminated the subterranean tunnel.
Gage stood beside the lamp, glanced sideways at it. And then the Japanese seemed to perceive his intent, and laughed.
Sato advanced with the knife held tight, controlled and focused. Unafraid.
Fifteen feet.
Smiling, advancing.
Frowning, Gage watched.
Ten feet.
Advancing.
Gage's fist lashed out to shatter the light.
Plunging them into darkness.
*
FIFTY-FOUR
Silence.
Gage moved quickly back to make more noise than necessary, scraping his blade along the stones, and then he leaped forward again, with a quick step to the side, crouching in blood.
Still.
Listening.
He heard nothing.
Gage strained, listening closer, silently twisting his head to turn his ear slightly forward. He almost completely halted his breathing, a difficult task, and he closed his eyes, knowing only the rushing sound of blood inside, his heart pounding, a faint ringing that seemed to echo within him.
Careful to hold silence, Gage turned his head to offer his other ear to the corridor, his sweating face grimacing with the encompassing pain of his wounds.
Only silence.
Don't move ... Don't panic ... Don't let him push you ... Let him make the mistake ... It's almost impossible to move without sound ... Let him come to you ... Wait ... Wait ... Don't move.
Searching hard, Gage glared into the darkness of the corridor, but it was only gloom, utter gloom. Not even the faintest gray shade could be seen in the blackness, only inky blackness. And Gage knew that if Sato had been standing directly in front of him, he could not have seen the Japanese.
Gage tried to feel the air on his face, the stillness of it, the faint movement of it. Hot sweat on his neck and face was sensitive to the cool touch, the faintest shifting of the subterranean stillness. And he used it, glaring into the death shadow, his face turned slightly for the feel of the current, and to provide direct access of sound to his ear.
Gage heard nothing.
What is he doing!
Where is he?
Panic rose up.
Cold sweat dripping off his face, stomach muscles tight in a crouch with legs dead, trembling from exhaustion, Gage forced himself to wait.
Sweat blinked out of his eyes. And, through his exhaustion, Gage slowly released a single, tightly focused breath, directed it downward, felt drops of sweat come off his chin, his lips.
He closed his eyes, focusing.
Wet leather cold on his skin.
He ignored the clamminess, breathed quietly and shallowly through his nose to slow his respiration, his heart rate. But he didn't know how long he could control it; the oxygen strain was building, intensifying fast. He trembled, holding position, muscles cramping, tried not to move at all because the leather would sound so easily in the stillness.
And the thoughts came to him again.
Where is he?
Did he retreat?
No, something told him, the answer is no. He's there. Waiting. He wants to claim you. To claim the joy of killing you.
This is to the death ... He won’t be retreating.
Gage poised in silence, beyond silence, and only silence sur-rounded him, a corridor of silence, of nothing; darkness. And what he did next was simply done, without real thought, his inner being knowing, while his mind watched.
Get him to move!
Not so faintly that it would have been made on purpose but to indicate an accident, the rare mistake of a true professional, Gage purposefully made the slightest, faintest sound, shifting his boot delicately on the stone; a sound that would not have existed at all if someone were not poised in the dark, crouching only feet away, waiting for it, prepared for it.
Then, unmoving enough to become part of the darkness himself, Gage listened, fingers tight on the hilt of Dragon, waiting. And he lowered his free hand in front of him to touch the floor, palm and fingers facing out, feeling the dark air against his blood-soaked hand, relaxed to catch the cool current. He held the position, knowing nothing, frustrated.
He waited, knowing more air would stir on the floor than at any other level.
Still, nothing.
Sweat rained from his face, silent against the stones. He stifled a moan at the agony of his wounds and hoped that the chemicals Sato had taken would cause an adverse reaction, provoking the powerful Japanese to grow impatient and move first.
Maybe …
Gage estimated the depth of the corridor, imagining how Sato would advanc
e. He tried to perceive what was beyond him in the darkness when a sudden, thrill-charged instinct made him freeze.
Gage held his crouch, his muscles instantly knotting in unendurable pain at the fatigue, the vivid fear. Something... had happened.
A touch had passed him.
It had been along the floor, but also somewhere else. With his bloody hand he had felt the wind stirred by a close footstep. Whatever else he had felt could not be discerned; it was too faint.
Face freezing in sweat, Gage strained desperately to understand, using every sense to perceive, to search out what it had been.
There!
Close again.
Gone!
Gage concentrated frantically, face grimacing in cold, sweating frustration, faint.
What was it?
Then he felt again – the ghostly stirring of air along the floor, and he knew that Sato was close, maybe directly in front of him, searching.
Eyes wide to stare through the gloom, Gage froze in fear and trembling rage, his skin open to the slightest brush of wind. Reflexively his hand tightened even more on the knife. And he understood suddenly that Sato had, indeed, been closing on him since he had made that first, faint scraping sound. And the Japanese had come upon him without a whisper of warning. Now they were face to face, Sato searching for his exact location so he could launch a final attack.
There!
Something faintly moved a thin ribbon of air, the stirring not strong enough to indicate a body. And then Gage knew it completely and at once, understanding finally the reason for the faint stirring of wind, what it was and what it had been.
Sato’s blade …
It was a blade; the cold steel almost at Gage's face, moving slowly through the air, its coldness emanating through the stillness to faintly touch the chilled air which, in turn, brushed the sweat of his skin; a ghostly caress.
Tensing violently against a trembling that threatened the stillness, Gage stiffened. An overpowering panic almost compelled him to leap forward, stabbing blindly, but training instantly shut down instinct.
Cold … The blade closer now … A whisper of wind.
Sato had moved a silent step forward, slow enough to only barely stir the air. And he was crouched only a step away, was searching the space before him with the tanto.
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