Bamboo Bloodbath and Ninja's Revenge

by Piers Anthony

  True, all inhabitants were required to wear monk's robes. Even the paying tourists, like us. This had the incidental effect of preventing us from bringing in any concealed weapons or tools. But the habit was hardly haircloth, though I understood that was available on demand for masochists; it was silken, extremely comfortable in the air-conditioning. And the supposedly harsh, deprived life of the monks was alleviated by the maid service; no one had to clean up his own room. The maids I saw were exceedingly comely, too.

  In short, it was one big fake. There was no celibacy here, no hardship, no renunciation of the world, no dedication of body and spirit to God. It was just another money-making scheme. Successful, by the look of it. But I could not respect it.

  But our real purpose was to discover, if we could, where Luis Guardia was, and to rescue him. I studied every contour, analyzing the layout for secret rooms and passages. I peered into every monkish face. If Luis were here, he might be drugged, insensible of his whereabouts, subjected to brainwashing techniques...

  I saw a stairwell leading down from an interior patio. Two burly monks stood guard. This alerted me: why should any portion of the monastery be off limits to visitors, without any posted notice? "I'd like to see your catacombs," I said to the guide. "Such things fascinate me."

  "Sorry, they are closed for renovations," he said.

  I caught Loco's eye. The power room must be down there. There were just the five of us in the chamber—him, me, the guide, and the two guards. "Oh, I'm sure it will be all right," I said, walking to the steps the way a spoiled tourist might. Loco followed me.

  The guards closed in immediately. They were hiding something, all right! "It is not permitted," one said, one hand reaching into his robe. He was a leather-faced thug, no paying customer by the look of him. It was surely a gun he had in there.

  Loco made as if to go away, but as he turned he delivered a backward kick with the heel of his foot to the pit of the guard's stomach. At the same time, I used the keiko, or chicken-beak hand, on the other. My fingers and thumb were pressed tightly together to form a point, the back of my hand turned up. That beak hit the man in the hollow of his throat where it joins the neck. He should have been rendered unconscious instantly, but just to be sure, I followed up with a short blow to the abdomen.

  Loco had already jumped across the floor and knocked out the guide—a painless termination of consciousness, since the man was probably an innocent employee. Quickly we stacked the three men out of sight around a turn of the stair and moved swiftly and silently on down. Now time was of the essence, before they caught on to what we were up to.

  There was no renovation going on. The catacombs were dark and cool, the walls moist; mildew covered the crevices. We had to feel our way along the wall in places, because the light was so bad. Fortunately, it wasn't difficult to locate the power room; we oriented on it by the humming sound. Alert for more guards but knowing we had to complete our mission swiftly, we zeroed in on what we hoped was Luis' prison.

  A modern door closed it off, with a heavy bar across it. Loco lifted the bar clear, and I kicked open the door, ready for anything. But inside it was dark and silent.

  I stepped in cautiously. Then I saw the glint of a moving metal chain. I threw myself to the floor, rolling aside before the weapon could score. Then I flipped up to grapple with the ambusher.

  Suddenly a strong arm was around my neck, choking me. I tried to twist out of the hold, but I was in the grip of an expert. I couldn't even yell a warning to Loco.

  Then the hold relaxed. "You Americans are such amateurs!" a voice said in my ear. "When will you ever master self-defense?"

  "Luis!" I exclaimed joyfully.

  He chuckled. "I thought for a moment you two were coming to do away with me in secret, and I was not ready to go. Fortunately I recognized your style. Hello, Loco."

  He had recognized my style—bumbling American. "Let's get out of here!" I said, amazed at how easy it had been.

  "I fear I cannot, Señor," Luis said. "I am chained." Loco took the chain in his hand. It extended from a tight metal anklet on Luis' leg to an iron ring set in the wall. It was long enough so that he could walk about or lie on his bunk, but it was strong steel.

  Loco tried to break it but could not. I tried, invoking my ki. That power came, suffusing me with extraordinary strength, but to no avail. Only in cheap fiction can a man actually break a sturdy steel binding; the metal is beyond mortal power, unless you have the proper tools or leverage. We had not brought any equipment, knowing it would give away our mission.

  "All together," Luis suggested. "The chain itself is too sturdy; I have tested its merit many times. But the wall is old...." We took hold, braced ourselves, and hauled together. Still no luck, no matter how we strained. Whatever company had made that chain had had good quality control; no weak link.

  "We must jerk it hard," Loco said. "Wrap it around me, then use me as a lever."

  "You'll crush your guts!" I protested.

  "Not my guts!" he said with a certain grim pride. And I remembered how phenomenally conditioned his body was.

  We looped it about his waist, leaving plenty of slack on Luis' end. Then we lifted Loco so that his feet were braced against the wall on either side of the ring.

  "Hit it!" he cried. He shoved his feet forward hard in a kind of drop kick, while Luis and I slammed into his shoulders on either side, adding to his thrust away from the wall.

  The shock was hellish. All three of us crashed to the floor, tangled up in the chain. But the chain was free, pulled out from its mooring at last.

  The chain? The block to which it was attached had popped right out of the wall!

  Had the noise alerted the monastery? We hoped not. The power room was noisy anyway because of the steady hum of the generators; it seemed silent after a few seconds because the mind tuned the hum out, but it still would help cover our activity. Also, the room was well-removed from the main residential section. Luis picked up his block and chain, and we moved out, carefully barring the door behind us. I didn't like making him carry that substantial load, for he limped from years-old leg injuries; but no one else could do it, really.

  We passed the three pseudo-monks we had knocked out. One was stirring, so Loco kicked him gently in the temple, anesthetizing him for another period. We removed his yellow robe and put it on Luis, concealing the chain and stone. Then we marched on, like tourists continuing the tour.

  I felt nervous. This was too easy. Surely the monastery had a better security system than this. Unless they didn't want to alert the paying residents to the shady doings below.

  We passed the main dojo, curtained off from the hall. A class was in session. I heard the instructor: "I teach my own system of wu shu or kung fu."

  I froze. That voice—impossible!

  I turned at right angles and plowed through the curtains. "Wait!" Loco whispered compellingly, but he was too late. I already stood contemplating the class. I had forgotten my mission for Fu Antos, my need to save Luis. My attention was riveted on the class.

  It was the biggest kwoon I had ever seen. The former central dining room of the monastery had been adapted for this purpose, the tables removed and huge permanent mats installed. Martial-arts accouterments adorned the walls-costumes, weapons, and even shields.

  There were about a hundred students dressed in black and white kimonos, and ten teachers in more elaborate bright red and blue ones. They wore soft kung fu slippers. At one end of the great hall, on a raised dais, sitting on a kind of throne and wearing a golden kimono, was the head instructor. He had a Chinese moustache, and he looked older and fatter than when I had seen him last, but there was no doubt in my mind.

  "Join me—or this girl dies!" He drew forth a knife and brought it to Chiyako's throat. Bound as she was, she could not resist him. I knew he would do it. I had to give in.

  "Never!" Chiyako cried.

  Slowly he brought Chiyako to him, and slowly he forced the blade toward her throat. "Then she die
s." And carefully he slit her throat.

  Kan-Sen—the slayer of my love. It was impossible, for I had killed him. Yet here he sat.

  Loco came through the door and put his hand on my arm.

  "We must get out of here before they recognize us!" he whispered urgently.

  "That's Kan-Sen!" I said.

  Luis came up. "Of course it is. He runs the monastery. He was trying to make me tell where I had hidden the arms. Do you know him?"

  "But he's dead! I killed him."

  I could feel Loco and Luis exchanging glances behind me. They were wondering if I had gone crazy.

  I wondered too.

  My horror turned to rage. I charged Kan-Sen. But he was ready for me. He was high on kill-13; his reflexes were faster than mine. We hovered above Chiyako's body, weaving back and forth, but the advantage was his.

  Then his foot landed in the pool of blood that had gushed from Chiyako's throat. His arm came down in an automatic effort to regain balance. I augmented that motion with a shove—and as we fell, his knife was caught between us, the blade pointed inward. My weight landed on him, shoving the knife down. I could not see the action, but he gave a sharp cry and went limp. Suddenly I realized: I had not actually verified his death! The knife had been there, and he had cried out, but that was not the same as a mortal wound.

  Fool that I was, I had not made sure. And so he had tricked me, feigning death, and escaped.

  That would be corrected!

  "Kan-Sen!" I roared. There was no mistaking my fury and intent.

  The figure on the dais turned to me, startled. Apparently he did not recognize me. "Stop the intruders!" he shouted. "They want to defile the sacred temple!"

  Immediately the students and instructors swung about, orienting on us. I did not care about them. Kan-Sen was running true to form, organizing a supposed kung fu hierarchy. He had done that with the Kill-13 demons, from whose cult I had released Ilunga. Now he seemed to be operating without benefit of the drug; not surprising, since I had destroyed the major supplies of it. I wondered how he had gotten off it; normally withdrawal was fatal. But these were only fleeting thoughts.

  I plunged ahead, intent on Kan-Sen. This time, for sure, he would die at my hands. Chiyako would be avenged.

  Loco and Luis had no choice but to fall in behind me, protecting my back and flank. They did not comprehend my motive, but they stood by me.

  Luis, with his weak knee and chain, was at a seeming disadvantage. But as the students converged, he disproved this with a vengeance. He was a fifth-degree black belt in judo, and he well knew how to fight.

  He brought out his chain and started whirling it around over his head, the heavy block of stone swinging ponderously but with devastating effect. It crashed into anyone who came near. Heads were cracked, arms broken, ribs crushed. They tried to catch the slow-moving chain, but the stone cracked open as it bounced on the floor at the edge of the mat, and suddenly the chain was free and light. Luis whirled it faster and faster, wreaking havoc.

  But one of the blue-garbed teachers was down but still conscious. As Luis stepped over him, the man hooked his foot and kicked his bad knee. Luis dropped, almost passing out from the pain. But still he fought, kicking with his one good leg at anyone who approached, crawling after me, despite everything intent on protecting my flank as long as he was able.

  But there were simply too many opponents, and soon Luis disappeared under a football-style pileup of bodies.

  Loco, meanwhile, was putting on one hell of a fight. He was a bull, and every time he struck, someone fell. He kicked, jabbed with fists and elbows, and even used his head like a bucking ram. From time to time he used a judo throw. Once he caught one of the students by one leg and one arm and whirled him around like a club, opening the way, then threw him to crash against the crowd. Another man jumped on Loco's back. Loco threw himself into a hard rear fall, crushing the man underneath him. Then he used both feet to kick another man who was jumping on top of him. He sent the man flying, then bounced to his feet again.

  Once two men made the mistake of grabbing Loco, one on each hand. Loco pivoted on his left foot, twisting his body, and caught one opponent in the left armpit with a right roundhouse kick. Then, with the same leg, he aimed a side kick at the other's solar plexus.

  Loco was taking lots of punishment, but the blood lust was upon him, a kind of berserk fury, so that he did not mind the blows that rained on him. He took two or three strikes for every one he delivered, but such was his fury that while he merely shrugged off even the hardest hits, his opponents went down injured or unconscious. Because these were kung fu students, they preferred to strike rather than to grapple, and this was a major weakness, especially against such a man. But when they realized that he was virtually invulnerable to ordinary strikes, they tried to overwhelm him with massed action.

  Still he fought, holding them off in a circle. But no man can maintain such a pace indefinitely, and Loco had had a bruising encounter with me and a shock to his body when we used him to haul out Luis' chain. His strikes grew wilder, his throws less controlled. Finally he stood there panting, no longer attacking, just waiting like a tiger caged within a circle. He was so tired he was almost out on his feet, but who steps into the range of a tiger, even a tired one, while that tiger keeps his feet?

  They ringed him, afraid of him. Now and then one of them would dart at him, making a daring sally, and he would dispatch that idiot with a quick chop or kick or throw.

  Occasionally he would charge the ring, enlarging it for a while. But he had been nullified, for he could not break out. Meanwhile, I was on my way to Kan-Sen, heedless of all else. I think he recognized me now, for he was off his throne. I have no memory of how many men I tossed aside; my reactions were automatic, like swatting mosquitoes. I know I lifted one blue instructor in a mighty te guruma, grabbing him by one leg with my other arm around his stomach and hurling him into the man in front. Another I took with a hane goshi hip throw that I converted to makikomi, going down in a wraparound sacrifice but landing on top of him, hard, so that I crushed in his rib cage. It wasn't that I bore him any personal malice; it was that he wouldn't let go, and I refused to be constrained even for a moment.

  At one point three men surrounded me. I lashed forward with my head and squashed a nose, then sideways and broke a jaw, then backward to crush a face. Three blows, using my head as a weapon, and perhaps the ki imbued me, for I never felt the impact, while all three men went down.

  The one I remember clearly was competent: a blue-clad teacher who made an impressive jump-kick at me. I sidestepped it. He landed cleanly, then started the whirlwind hand movements of the Chinese kung fu combat. I knew better than to step into that pattern. The others were standing back, letting the expert put on his show, demonstrating how to foil a barbarian. It would be an expression of contempt for their instructor if any of them piled into me now. So I waited calmly, out of reach, watching for an opening. I don't hold any grade in kung fu, but I have been exposed to it, and much of its technique overlaps that of karate.

  I realized that my blue opponent's defense was flawed. His hands were too high, at times leaving him open. This would not have been perceptible to the average opponent. Also, he expected me to come to him, which meant I didn't have to worry about his potential charge. Too much defense can be a man's undoing.

  I figured the pattern, timed my move precisely, and made it with untelegraphed speed. I made a right roundhouse kick to the left side of his neck, felling him in that fraction of a second he was vulnerable.

  Then the others piled on me, but I had little concern for them. I kicked them in the armpit, stomach, and chest, downing them like so many tenpins. I jumped onto the dais, laying about me, and suddenly I was kicked hard in the back. The blow sent me careening into two men in front, who clobbered me with blows about the head and shoulders before I righted myself. I threw them down, but three more were on me immediately, and I could not turn to see who had landed the telling blow on me. I
swept my arms forward, bringing two men down, but the third entangled my legs, and I ended up in the pile with them.

  I struggled to extricate myself from the tangle. I had an inherent advantage here, because this is a form of grappling, and much of judo consists of grappling. I punched one in the chest, butted another in the groin, and made working room for myself. But as I lifted my head, ready to try for a joint technique or strangle, I felt cold steel around my neck.

  My hands went up, but it was the noose of a manriki gusari, a twelve-inch chain weighted at the ends. Bogged down as I was, unable to maneuver, with my antagonist tightening the noose from the rear, I was helpless. I made one valiant effort, throwing my head forward, trying to jerk the ends out of his hands, but only succeeded in tightening it.

  I began to black out. Strangulation looks and sounds awful, and many people oppose execution by hanging as cruel and unusual punishment, but actually it is one of the less painful ways to go. It can even be pleasant, for your fading awareness conjures visions. After the initial discomfort—and discomfort was what it was, rather than pain—I felt a great lassitude, a pleasurable sinking. I saw the face of Chiyako, my lovely fiancée. "Come to me..." my lost one called, and I went to rejoin her.

  Then an ear-splitting kiai yell cut through my contentment, a hot knife through butter. Suddenly the pressure was off. I took in a rasping lungful of air as the chain unwound.

  I tried to stand, but could not. I fell to my knees. If the going had been blissful, the returning was agonizing.