Kiai! & Mistress of Death Read online

  Kiai!

  &

  Mistress of Death

  Jason Striker

  Martial Arts Series

  Volume I

  Piers Anthony

  &

  Roberto Fuentes

  Copyright © 1974, 2001

  ISBN: 1-4010-3349-0

  CONTENTS

  BOOK 1: KIAI!

  CHAPTER 1 KIAI!

  CHAPTER 2 THERA

  CHAPTER 3 JIM

  CHAPTER 4 MARTIAL OPEN

  CHAPTER 5 MATCHES

  CHAPTER 6 DANCE

  CHAPTER 7 AMALITA

  CHAPTER 8 VENGEANCE

  CHAPTER 9 CHAMPIONSHIP

  CHAPTER 10 DEATH-BLOW

  CHAPTER 11 HOKKAIDO

  CHAPTER 12 FU ANTOS

  BOOK II: MISTRESS OF DEATH

  CHAPTER 1 RAID

  CHAPTER 2 CAMBODIA

  CHAPTER 3 KILL-13

  CHAPTER 4 AMALITA

  CHAPTER 5 KOBI CHIJA

  CHAPTER 6 SHAOLIN

  CHAPTER 7 CHIYAKO

  CHAPTER 8 ILUNGA

  CHAPTER 9 ENCOUNTER

  CHAPTER 10 MIKO

  CHAPTER 11 BLACK MISTRESS

  CHAPTER 12 PYRAMID

  CHAPTER 13 EARTHQUAKE

  CHAPTER 14 KAN-SEN

  CHAPTER 15 KALI

  Glossary

  BOOK 1:

  KIAI!

  CHAPTER 1

  KIAI!

  I was afraid. I saw him from the edge of my eye, and it was as though the kiai yell had exploded around me. My muscles trembled, my heart beat rapidly, and I felt the thin smear of cold sweat. My strength deserted me, and I wanted to hide.

  But my class was before me, standing barefoot in a great half-circle on the tatami, the judo practice mat. The preliminary calisthenics and limbering exercises were over and my students were ready for the formal instruction. They were young, mostly; some were only fifteen years old, and most were under twenty. But many were apt; several were brown belts already, and more showed promise. Next month I meant to take my top three candidates to the examinations for shodan, the first-degree black belt, and I expected two of them to make it with points to spare.

  I fought for control, and in an instant I had it, superficially. "Pair off!" I cried, forcing volume from my tight throat. "Alternate on the sweeping ankle throw. And yell when you hit the mat! Saaaa! I want noise!"

  Noise to cover my own confusion, to conceal the horrible weakness I felt. I needed time to recover, to work it out. But not in front of my judo class.

  They paired, they took hold, they threw, they landed, they yelled. This was routine for the experienced students, who were showing the clumsy beginners how. The sweeping ankle throw is easy to grasp in theory, but difficult to perfect. Timing is vital. But it absorbed their attention and gave me an essential respite.

  It would not have been good to have the class become aware that Jason Striker, their fifth-degree black belt instructor and one-time U.S. judo grand-champion was quaking with something very like terror.

  I watched them, but my mind was years away.

  Diago. Diago had been a flaming meteorite fifteen years ago. A small man, even for a Japanese, though he was only half Japanese but quick and strong and determined and amazingly skilled.

  He had skipped several of the beginning kyus, the student grades, then moved up the black belt ladder with phenomenal rapidity, winning most matches in bare seconds. He was rough, leaving many injuries in his wake, but there was no evidence that he broke bones deliberately. He struck with such devastating effectiveness that mortal substance seemed unable to withstand the punishment. Soon he was godan, fifth degree, one of the leading judokas in the world—and he was only twenty-three.

  Then his career slowed. His ability remained, but few men cared to meet him in contest. This was common sense, not cowardice. Injury can destroy the career of a judoka, and the conventions that militated against physical damage did not seem to be operative with Diago.

  Still, in four more years he made rokudan, the sixth degree, and assumed the coveted red and white striped belt. No other non-Japanese held that rank at that time, yet it did not appear to be his limit. Diago's only liability was that roughness—but that was enough to make him unwelcome around the world, despite universal acclaim for his prowess.

  Generally when a man achieves such distinction he eases up, growing old gracefully while the younger judokas contest for points. Degrees higher than sixth dan normally go to those who have done genuine and continuing service to the art, rather than for victories on the mat. But there was one rokudan who was not content to rest. At forty-two Masaki Tanaka was still contending, though age was beginning to tell. Perhaps he was resentful of Diago's progress and reputation, and determined to show the world that fifteen years did not make a difference. Or that Diago was overrated.

  At any rate, the two sixth-degree belts met in a highly publicized Contest and it was Tanaka who got a kansetsu-waza, a standing arm bar, on Diago's left elbow. Diago tried to escape by making an immediate forward somersault, but it was already too late; he succeeded only in wrenching his own shoulder. They fell together and Diago's joint popped out just as both men landed crushingly on that arm.

  The mischief was about as devastating as was possible in the few seconds the accident took. Diago's wrist, elbow and shoulder were dislocated and the tendons wrenched.

  Diago had been served as he had served others. Some said old Tanaka could have let up in time, had he wanted to; others pointed out that his reactions were bound to be slower at that age, and that Diago was a dangerous opponent who could be afforded no leeway. The very speed of Diago's countermove, that violent somersault in place, had been stunning; instinct would have governed Tanaka's decision, nothing else.

  The referees called no foul, and that was the verdict, officially. Diago was finished. He healed, but his magic was gone. He could still compete against lesser dans, but lacked the power to go higher. He dropped out of sight.

  Masaki Tanaka, too, retired. It was as if he were ashamed of what he had done, but could not admit it. He had broken the code in spirit if not in letter, and that was a shameful thing for such a highly ranked sensei, a judo instructor. He never fought again. And he never boasted of his victory.

  Five years later Diago reappeared with a new weapon. He had perfected a kiai yell that was devastating. When he stood up to a man and screamed that scream, that man was stunned even though braced against it. For only a second, of course—but an instant of immobility was all Diago ever needed. He had his hold, and with it his victory.

  Where had Diago been? Where had he learned that kiai yell? He could not have developed such a unique weapon himself. A local trainer who ran a dojo not far from mine, Dato, claimed he had taught Diago the yell. But Dato couldn't do the yell himself, and nobody credited his story. Dato was past his prime, quarrelsome, and always alert for notoriety hardly a credit to judo, though in his youth he had been an outstanding player. He had been the first to set up shop in this region, and seemed to resent those of us who had come more recently, calling us squatters on his territory. Maybe if he'd been willing to teach all he knew, he'd have less concern about the competition. But many old-time Japanese senseis always held their finest arts back, lest their students become more proficient than they and beat them. In the centuries when students might indeed kill their instructors and take over, this was a necessary precaution, but today it could only hurt judo.

  No, Dato, even if he knew how to teach that yell, would not have given it away to Diago.

  Another suggestion was that Diago had gone to Japan, to the island of Hokkaido, to study under one of the deranged ninjitsu my
stics, Fu Antos. (Dato, of course, claimed to have studied under Fu Antos himself. But this, too, was the stuff of dreams. If Fu Antos existed at all, he was a harmless ancient, unable to impart any of the ninja techniques along with ninja's fabulous lore.)

  Whether Diago remained the judoka he had been, no one could say. But his kiai was more than sufficient. He was now more careful of the welfare of others, and was able to compete in more matches. In the ensuing three years he earned the seventh degree: shichidan.

  Then his fortune took another fall. Though born in Japan of a Japanese mother, Diago was in essence American. His father, a waiter in the American embassy, had U.S. citizenship, and Diago evidently felt a strong inclination toward this country. Between matches he roamed alone. There was an incident in a ghetto, and two men died. Diago said it was self defense against an attempted mugging, but the prosecutor claimed it was murder. Diego was tried, and the evidence seemed inconclusive, but he was convicted.

  It was whispered that he would have gotten off if he had not been half black. Or if he had been tried in Japan, where his martial skills had a following. But it had happened in America, a nation backward in the martial arts.

  He escaped. The police guards had thought guns and handcuffs sufficient but had not reckoned with his terrible yell. They transferred him from one van to another, and one of them shoved him contemptuously, and Diago stunned them with his voice and knocked them down with the metal chain that manacled his wrists. He used his handcuffs to break the skull of one and crush the cheekbone of the other. Now there were more counts against him, but he was gone.

  For two years Diago had stayed lost, and it was generally thought that he was out of the country. But I had heard other rumors. America might have treated him shabbily, but his heart remained here. Some of the leading black belts in large cities had turned up mysteriously injured. They claimed these were mere training accidents, but I had watched Diago fight in the old days, before his kiai, and I recognized the pattern.

  Now he had entered my club, and I knew.

  There is a camaraderie among black belts that goes beyond mere courtesy. Any sensei can enter any judo club anywhere in the world and be granted the hospitality of the premises. If he needs help, he will have it. If he wants to work out, he will be accommodated. If the club happens to be shorthanded, he will assist. He does not attempt to embarrass his host, and it is always friendly. This is the nature of this truly international society of the martial elite.

  But Diago was no ordinary judoka. He had killed, and he stood convicted for murder. He was a criminal. To help him was to become an accessory. I believed in my country and in the law; I knew my duty.

  Yet there were so many questions about that conviction. People do get mugged in ghettos, and the law there is scant; people do sometimes have to kill in self defense. If two armed men jumped me in a dark alley, I'd react violently. I'd lay them out any way I could, because any weapon is dangerous, and most particularly a gun. If I ever killed a man, this would be how. And Diago had a violent disposition.

  Half yellow, half black, and the law, unfortunately, not always Color blind. Perhaps the white jury had been unfairly predisposed. Diago had stood still for justice; in fact, he had originally turned himself in. But what he had received had not necessarily been justice.

  Oh, he should not have broken and run, and he certainly should not have bashed a policeman in the process. He should have appealed his case to a higher court. Our legal system has its strengths, and the appeals system is one of them. Still, he had been raised in the Orient; it was hard to blame him completely.

  Now he was here. I had to choose between three: help him, turn him in, or ignore him. The law denied the first, and I had never before broken the law. I'd never even gotten a parking violation. The very thought of it shocked me. Yet my own conscience forbade the second alternative. And I suspected he would not let me get away with the third. Those injured judokas...

  This was my real fear, I saw now as I worked it out objectively: not the man himself, but the ugly choice his presence forced on me. Even if I pretended not to know him, I would be shading both the ethics of my patriotism and the courtesy of my profession. Traitor, either way or neither.

  So I quaked while my class drifted, hung on the horns of an ethical dilemma. I saw my honor inevitably compromised, and my career damaged, for I could not continue in judo without self respect.

  I glanced about and he caught my eye. Then I knew I could not temporize. Diago had come to me, and he knew that I knew him. He would not let me pass him by.

  I had to act. But still I could not.

  Jim, my bull-necked young assistant, realized something was wrong. I was letting the class practice the same movement too long. Practice is imperative in judo, but these students needed variety too, or their attention flagged. None of this three months drilling on the horse stance to the exclusion of all else, the way an apprentice to the martial art of kung-fu might start. I'd lose half my class if I drilled them for three hours on one position!

  Jim was a good boy, a shodan at nineteen who would soon make the second degree black belt. He was one of my most promising students, and he worked hard with weight-lifting on the side to strengthen himself, but he was still impetuous. You have to act quickly, in judo—but you have to know when to wait, too, and that was where he sometimes slipped. I didn't want him getting involved with Diago.

  Now Jim approached as if summoned. "Want me to spell you for a bit, Sensei?" he asked eagerly.

  "Yes!" I said, relieved. I glanced again at Diago, unable to help myself, and Jim followed that look.

  "Who's that fellow?" he asked. "Seems to me I've seen him before somewhere."

  "Never mind!" I snapped. "It's a private matter."

  He nodded dubiously, comprehending my attitude if not its root. I had told him this was not his business, and professional courtesy required him to stay out of it. That was part of the discipline of judo, a discipline I had tried to impress on him, and on all my students, many times.

  Jim faced the class. "Stop!" he barked, and they stopped. "Now gather round for a demonstration!" He really liked being sensei, and actually he wasn't bad at it.

  They came, sweating from their exertions, and in the confusion I slipped away. Jim would keep them occupied for the duration, probably on hand throws, his current favorite. As with the ankle throws, timing was essential, so the novice seldom succeeded; but at Jim's level the challenge was irresistible. He thought every level should perfect these techniques.

  I walked to my private office. I knew Diago followed. I turned to face him. Suddenly. I saw a fourth alternative. Honorable but dangerous. The only one for me.

  "I greet you, Diago," I said.

  "And I you, Jason Striker," he replied with perfect courtesy. One of the things that outsiders seldom appreciate about judo, or any martial art, is that respect and courtesy increase with proficiency. A man capable of killing another with a single blow will take extreme precautions to avoid the necessity of doing so, being most considerate of the feelings of others. A bully is normally an ignoramus about combat.

  "You need help? Go to Dato," I suggested, though that was not my real notion. "He claims to have taught you."

  "Dato!" he barked with rich contempt. "He went to Hokkaido, and came away empty-handed."

  So I had shot down one rumor, but I still didn't know where Diago had learned his kiai. Well, it was none of my business. But this was: "Why didn't you use your kiai to stun those muggers? You didn't have to kill them."

  "I had a cold. Laryngitis. I could not even warn them off. They thought I was tongue-tied with fright."

  There it was: the last bastion of my doubt about his guilt. How could he have reasoned with criminals intent on mayhem when he couldn't even talk? So I was justified in giving him an even break. "Let's do shiai," I said.

  He only nodded. Master judokas do not deceive one another. We would meet on the tatami in a practice match. If he beat me, I would provide what
he needed and keep silent, regardless of the law. If I beat him, I could report him to the police with a clear conscience, having earned the right. It was not necessary to voice these terms; they were inherent in the situation. In fact, it was important that there be no specific commitment, for who else would understand? Certainly not the law.

  I gave him a judogi, a judo kimono, jacket and trousers. He stripped immediately, setting his worn suit neatly aside. He was small and dark, with a flat Japanese face and somewhat frizzy Negro hair. And he was less muscular than I had expected. He looked hungry; probably he had gone without many meals before being driven to this alternative. That left my feelings mixed. I was in the peak of condition, having worked out daily for many years and participated in regular shiais, or meets, apart from my erstwhile championship days. Thirty is not old for a judoka, and I was larger than he. If he were physically debilitated, I might beat him, for there is no substitute for conditioning. But that would be a cheap victory, unworthy of me.

  Still, it was his voice that made him what he was. And his experience. He was seven years older than I, and held one of the highest degrees in the world today. That skill and that experience could not be discounted. In fact, I was doomed unless I could withstand his terrible cry. I had never actually heard it myself, for we had not met during his later period, but I had no reason to believe I would be immune. Diago did not need to be in top shape, if he retained his kiai.

  He was ready: naked under the baggy judogi, as was I. Any clothing at all is a hindrance in judo, and even more so in karate and other disciplines. It can get in the way in case of injury, and it restrains free motion and offers purchase for the opponent's grips. But men do not fight naked in America.

  Diago lifted a student's white belt from my shelf and knotted it about his waist. This was a necessary artifice; his own belt would have given his identity away immediately. White is also the color of nonregistered judokas of any skill: those who have the physical ability to compete, but have not acquired the proper formal credits for black belt degrees.