Remo said nothing. Randy raised the bronze staff she carried and slammed it into his wounded shoulder. "Talk," she said.
"Artemis was making those recruits desert for you so that you could have your army. The officers who didn't see things your way on those bases were killed. You did that."
"Ah-ah, Remo. I told you long ago that the recruits were doing the killing. It was the truth. Oh, they had a little encouragement from Samantha's communion brew and Artemis's rhetoric, but the boys took care of their officers on their own. Artemis just gave them a taste of bloodlust with the chaplains they offed at those revival meetings of his. He loved Trilling, you know. He lived for it. An inspiration to the men."
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"But he worked for you."
Randy shrugged. "We all work for somebody."
"What about you?" Remo .asked groggüy.
She smiled. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt for you to know now. You'll be dead before the day is over, even if you run away." She stood up and added, "Which you won't."
She strode over to the throne and pulled a tassled cord hanging down the side of the draped area. The curtains swung apart.
Remo blinked in amazement at the sight. On the middle of the great throne sat a tiny man of indeterminate age, his face as bland as a baby's, his black hair cropped close to his head. In his hands he held a glass ball, which he watched with unending fascination, oblivious to the presence of Remo or Randy Nooner. The man gurgled and cooed as he turned the ball slowly. His face broke into a broad smile, and he kicked his feet playfully into the air.
"Vadass the Sheik," Randy announced sardonically, laughter tumbling out of her.
His attention drawn to her, the baby-faced sheik began to cry until the guide who had brought Remo to the throne room appeared with a new toy to distract him. Without a word, the guide closed the curtains and slipped away.
"That's who I work for. Or what I work for, to be exact. He's got the mind of a cabbage." She cocked her head disgustedly toward the throne. "He's forty-three years old, if you can believe that. But he still needs a woman. That's where I fit in. You're looking at the soon-to-be Queen of Quat, baby."
"Why you?" Remo asked, trying to pull himself from the floor and failing.
"He was neglected, the little dear. His brother
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was the sheik, and he ran everything. A year ago, . the brother went to the trouble of executing all of his male relatives to make sure nobody would try to take over the throne—all but Poopsie here, that is. Nobody thought this drooling fool could take over anything."
"Except you." .
She shrugged. "I can't take all the credit. Actually, it was my daddy's idea to have the sheik assassinated and put Poopsie in charge. But he was going to do things the American way, with American advisors and all. It would have given the United States an ally in the Middle East.
"Daddy was going to present his idea to the president, but fortunately he told me about it first. Once I showed him what we could do on our own, Daddy masterminded the rest of the plan. He was the one who picked up on Artemis and found out he was a killer. Daddy figured that a preacher who got off on murdering strangers could do a lot to set up an army, especially if that army had the complete approval of the American people."
"That's what the press conference was for," Remo said. "Artemis brainwashed the recruits at the four army bases for you, then you had them revolt and come to Vadassar."
"That's right," Randy giggled. "Now all those newsmen are telling millions of people that Fort Vadassar is a haven for poor, mistreated soldiers."
"Soldiers for Quat."
"They don't know that yet, of course. Vadassar is on file at the Pentagon as a regulation army base, even though the land belonged to me and Poopsie's money paid for the buildings. It was just a matter of changing records. By the time people find out that
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the soldiers at Vadassar aren't working for the American government, it'll be too late to do anything about it. My reports say that a thousand recruits a day are deserting their bases and joining the Vadassar forces. Even civilians are enlisting. By next month I'll have a hundred thousand soldiers ready to leap at my command."
"How does Daddy fit in?" Remo asked, sliding imperceptibly away from her.
"Daddy will see to it that Ouat gets more financial aid from America than India does. That, or we let loose the Vadassar army on the Texas countryside." She cackled with glee. "Can you see the implications of this!" she said breathlessly. "Never before has a foreign power occupied territory on the continental United States. Quat is going to become a world power. With American funds, we can even build our own atomic arsenal. We'll have Uncle Sam by both balls."
She tapped the brass staff on the palm of her hand. "Now you know." She walked closer to him, her steps deliberate. "This is the end, Remo. What a shame. You were so good in bed."
At her signal, a handfuj of uniformed guards burst in and rushed toward Remo. Through his blurred vision, they looked like a hundred, stampeding toward him with monkey faces and thousands of arms. They lifted him like a wave.
The poison was working at its peak. Remo's body felt like rubber, his senses chaotic. He was drifting through corridors and stairwells as though he were flying in slow motion, floating past the walls of stone and wood, the footfalls of the men who carried him as loud as thunder.
After what seemed like an eternity of aimless
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drifting, Remo's head banged against a cold, hard surface. The movement jarred the numbness from his brain and set it on fire. But he would accept the pain, because to feel pain was to know he was alive. Chiun had taught him that.
Chiun. Through his kaleidoscopic vision, Remo saw him, lying like a statue on the stone floor. He reached out his hand to touch him. The old man was cold.
"Chiun," Remo whispered unbelievingly. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be.
The anger that rose in him turned to hatred, and the hatred brought him to his feet. The hatred electrified his useless shoulder and forced his arm back and ahead, into the throat of one of the guards, as his left hand exploded into the skull of another. There was no pain, because the hatred was stronger than the pain. He kicked a third guard in the groin, sending him flying in a screaming heap. He held another by the hair as he bashed the guard's head into the stone floon.
Then Remo saw the brass staff swinging prettily through the air an inch from his face, and it was too late. Randy Nooner's face was twisted into an ugly mask, her teeth bared, as she brought the staff down. Remo ducked his head. It was all he could do.
And he thought sadly, as the pain of the blow registered and the blackness began to envelop him, that he had failed. He would never see Chiun again.
i
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Fourteen
He was flying.
It was all so familiar somehow—the rarified air, the tether . . . the tether. Ahead of him, a beast of gigantic dimensions glided gracefully on the wind.
He was back in his dream, the Dream of Death, and the dragon of the dream was carrying him away into eternal blackness.
A monumental force from the West will seek to destroy Shiva, the voice in the dream had told him. But now another voice spoke, high and reedy and absolute in its authority. Chiun's voice.
And it said, You are that force, Remo.
Remo stirred in his delerium. "Father," he said.
Silence. He called again. "Father. Father!" he shouted. "Come to me."
/ am with you now, the voice said gently. I am in your mind, where I may help you.
"How?"
Understand you this. You are Shiva, and only Shiva may destroy Shiva. No harm may come to you but by the wavering of your own will.
"We are poisoned, Father."
Your body can withstand the poison. But it can-
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not heal itself without your will. Go into your body and expel the poison from it. Deep within. I will help you, my son.
And Remo felt locking into his mind another force, very strong, very sure. It took him into the depths of his living, physical self, past his weakened muscles, through his organs, diseased by the poison in them. It carried him along the roadway of his bloodstream, cluttered with moving cells and on into the volatile neurons of his nervous system.
This was where the poison had come to rest, among the powerful nerve cells that spurred Remo's senses and reflexes to action. They lay numb and dormant now, their potent electrical charges reduced to fizzling, unconnected sparks. This was where the force brought Remo, and where the voice commanded him to heal himself.
Go within the poison. Eliminate it by your will.
Remo's body shuddered as the strength of Chiun's concentration flowed into his damaged nervous system. He focused on the source of Chiun's thoughts and joined it, and together their combined wills took on an awesome power. Inside the delicate system, translucent ooze seeped out of the sluggish cells into Remo's bloodstream. He gasped as it coursed through his veins, burning like acid. His muscles twitched in spasm from the shock.
The poison entered his heart, and Remo cried aloud with the pain, his unseeing eyes flying open, his fingers clutching empty air.
Father, the pain.
Ahead, the dragon soared to the chilly heights of the stratosphere with Remo following helplessly behind, jerking in agony from the pain.
He was cold. The sky became darker. He was
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growing numb as the dragon carried him toward oblivion.
Let me go, father. The pain is too great, and I am only a man. Forgive me.
You are not a meat. You are Shiva. Withstand the pain and live.
Remo cried out. "Why?" IDs body racked with sobs. "What* s the difference, if you're dead? If s all a joke, Chiun, and I'm tired of laughing. Just let me go.»
Things are not as they appear. If I were dead, 1 would still be with you always. But I live. So must you live also.
"Father," Remo said.
Live, my son.
And the poison passed from Remo's heart and seeped through the layered tissues of his muscles, cramping them in hard knots of pain. Remo bucked forward, vomiting.
' Then he began to sweat. Rivulets poured from his skin and dripped into pools beneath his feet. He shook from the cold, the perspiration soaking him in the musty chill of the dungeon.
The dragon turned back. Back into warmth, into light.
Live, my son, the voice repeated.
And he was breathing heavily, and the trembling of his hands subsided.
Remo opened his eyes tentatively. They were filled with sweat, which cascaded from his forehead and blurred his vision. Through the stinging waterfall, he saw Chiun's still form lying lifeless on the cement floor.
His voice was a croak. "Chiun."
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He had pained to bring the dragon back from peaceful oblivion to live. For nothing.
His shoulders ached. He followed them upward with his eyes to his wrists, which were shackled and strung by chains to~the ceiling. His feet dangled free, inches from the floor. He was near enough to Chiun's body to see his face clearly. The old man's expression was peaceful and serene. He had accepted death well.
Remo wept.
Then he thought he saw a movement. Remo blinked twice rapidly to clear his eyes. It was Chiun's face. Something about it had changed.
Remo squinted. Was it his imagination?
No, he decided. There had been a change, an imperceptible change, but enough to alter the utter stillness of the old man's repose.
It happened again. This time, he saw it. "Chiun," Remo shouted.
And it happened once more. By fractions of millimeters, Chiun's eyes were opening. No other part of his body moved. Only the eyelids raised infinitesi-mally higher until Remo could see the hazel of his irises. Finally, when his eyes were fully open, the old man bunked slowly.
"Chiun," Remo said, the exclamation a mixture of laughter and fear.
The old man didn't respond. "Chiun?" Remo questioned. "Chiun. Answer me, Little Father. Chiun, do you hear me? It's Remo. Chiun!"
The Oriental's lips parted soundlessly.
"Chiun! Say something! It's Remo."
"I know who you are, dogface," Chiun said.
Remo gasped, his joy overwhehning all the pain
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in his body. "Chiun," he said, almost choking with relief.
"I also know who I am. Therefore, you may cease your incessant wailing of my name, o brainless one."
"I thought you were dead."
"Thinking has never been what you do best, Remo."
Remo looked again at the chains that dangled him helplessly from the ceiling, and blushed with shame.
Chiun floated to his feet swiftly and walked toward Remo, shaking his head and clucking like a disappointed hen. "The worst of it is that this hideous thing was perpetrated on you by Quati, who are possibly the most incompetent warriors on the face of the earth."
He sighed as he inserted a finger between Remo's wrist and the shackle around it and snapped it into fragments. "To be captured at all is embarrassing enough. But to be captured by Quati is unspeakable."
He broke the other shackle, and Remo fell to the floor. "The utter shame of it," Chiun muttered, prodding the wound in Remo's shoulder. He ripped the hem of his robe and bound the cloth expertly around the festering sore. "I will carry this shame with me to my grave."
Remo smiled. "I really thought you were a goner, Chiun."
"As soon I will be. The shame of your capture by Quati will doubtless deliver me into the Void before my time. Let it be on your head."
"Give me all the guilt you want," Remo said brightly. "I'm glad to see you. I was sure—"
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"You were sure. You are always sure. And always wrong. Did I not tell you I was alive? Did I not help you—yet again, may I add—to overcome your weakness?"
"I thought that was my imagination."
"Imagination!" Chiun squeaked. "Oh, the odious pride of you. The insufferable arrogance. After overcoming the poison in my own delicate being, I bring myself to the brink of the Void to rescue you from your unbelievable weakness and stupidity, and you call it your imagination."
"I'm sorry, Chiun. I should have known you'd be allright."
"Your imagination is of the same quality as your powers of reason. At best, they are dangerously inadequate. Do us both a service, Remo. Never think. Take up a new profession for which a brain is not necessary. Become a wrestler. Write commercials for television. But do not think."
"I said I was sorry," Remo pouted.
"Sorry, sorry. Sorry us out of here, if you will, Remo. I have seen quite enough of Quat."
"Okay," he said, looking up a stone stairwell leading to a closed metal door. "I'll need your help."
"Of course." Chiun followed him up the stairs.
The door was connected by two giant steel hinges. With his foot, Remo smashed the lower hinge. As the pieces clanked down the steps, Chiun leaped above him to shatter the top hinge. Remo pushed the door outward with the force of an explosion, sending out a wave of smashing steel that reverberated throughout the palace.
"The throne room's that way," Remo said, pointing. "I'll go down this passage, and you take the opposite route."
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A handful of guards armed with, knives and sabers came running down the corridor at them. With one movement, Chiun sent five of them sprawling into the walls, each leaving his own set of indentations. Remo was heading down the long passageway to intercept another group when the whistle of a knife in motion sounded by his ear. Reflexively, he jutted out his elbow, and the knife tumbled to the floor as the guard doubled over clutching his stomach.
He kicked his way through the crowd as the hard clang of steel hitting the marble floor echoed through the walkways. Another saber slashed savagely at Remo's wound, tearing off Chiun's dressing. It immediately began to throb again, but Remo could not let himself give in
to the pain. He took the hilt of the saber and wrestled it away from its owner. The guard jumped away, cursing Remo in his strange tongue.
Finally Remo stood at the portals to the throne room. Randy Nooner looked mildly annoyed to see him. She looked up briefly from the magazine she was reading and without expression called, "Guard."
When there was no answer, her lips tightened in impatience. She called again. "I said guard," she snapped. "What do we pay you guys for? Get over here."
No one came.
Remo stalked closer.
"Guard." Hysteria was rising in her voice. 'Til have you all beheaded, you worthless peasants. Hurry up."
Remo neared, his eyes fixed on hers.
"Guard," she screamed.
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"They're not coming." "Help me, you bastards!"
"They're gone," Remo said quietly. "And I'm not. And you're dead."
Randy jumped to her feet and picked up the brass staff she kept nearby. "Don't come any closer," she warned.'TU kill you."
Remo chuckled. "Try it," he said. "Remember, I'm not poisoned anymore. Miss Nooner, you can throw your little stick to your heart's content."
In a rage, she flung the weapon at Remo. He moved out of the way, and it clinked harmlessly onto the marble floor.
"I guess that's that," Remo said. He came closer.
"Stop," Randy shrieked, the veins in her neck standing out grotesquely, her red hair tangled over her face. She gestured toward the throne covered by white gauze. "Take him," she pleaded. "The idiot. He's the sheik. You can have the country. Kill him and if s yours. Just let me go."
"No thanks," Remo said pleasantly.
Just then, behind the veiled throne, the curtain covering the wall rippled and parted. Standing in the opening was the guide who had ,£rst brought Remo to the throne room. His face was stony, and he stood perfectly still beside the throne of the idiot king. In his hands he held a short, thick knife.
"Rajii," Randy called, breathless. "Thank God you're here. Kill him, Rajii. Hurry."
The man did not move, not a finger, not an eyelash.
"Kill him," Randy Nooner ordered.
"The girl killed by the arrows was my daughter," Rajii said in a flat monotone to no one in particular.
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