Kiai! & Mistress of Death Read online

  They were brutal even when they didn't intend to be, in another of those ironies of war. There were, however, plenty of times when they did intend to be brutal. At each new village my cage would be set up in a public place, and the natives would pelt me with anything handy. Over-ripe fruit, clods of earth, roots, dung. Nothing really dangerous, because they were saving me for interrogation by the experts. I knew I would have to escape, or die trying, before that happened. There would be torture, and probably a combination of drugs and brainwashing that might or might not leave me sane, but would get the information they required. The pelting was child's play, when viewed in proper perspective. Literally, for it was the children who participated with greatest glee. I suppose flinging dung comes naturally to youngsters the world over. Good, clean fun.

  For two weeks I traveled, most of the time cooped in that cage, my legs numb from the position, my scratches smarting from grime and dirt and sweat. No one had pity on me. I knew that anyone who showed me the slightest open favor would be killed or tortured. They did not have to be preserved for interrogation.

  Yet there were those who seemed to show that they lacked the force of hate that was expected of them. They threw dung with the others, but arranged to miss me; they shouted insults that lacked conviction. None of them would help me, of course, but if I should escape, their pursuit would not be as vigorous as it could be. These people were good at that sort of thing; they really did not like trouble.

  One of these was a girl. She was young, perhaps sixteen, and petite, with long black hair. She stood about four-feet ten-inches, and might have weighed eighty pounds. Her figure was child-like, or more correctly doll-like, for it was all there and extremely feminine, accentuated by her long black pajama-like uniform. On her feet were crude sandals fashioned of tire rubber.

  She would have been a beauty, were it not for her crooked nose. It must have been broken in childhood and never set correctly. Too bad.

  She traveled with the Cong, and there was no mistaking her profession, but none of this showed in her aspect. She was just a girl trying to get along. Maybe her home had been bombed, her family killed, so that she had no support and no one to turn to. So she was using the one real asset remaining to her: her enticement of form. When that faded, she would be finished. But for that nose, she could have had a far better life.

  She came to me at night, hesitantly, afraid of this huge white stranger. She carried a bucket of water. I thought she was going to offer me a drink, but then one of the guards saw her and approached. She swung the bucket with all her force, and the water drenched me.

  The guard laughed, and the girl laughed too, but in her eyes there was sorrow. The guard took her away, into a nearby hut, and she seemed to go with him willingly enough, but she sent one glance back at me that reversed the meaning entirely.

  Or did it? I could not ignore the possibility that they were trying a subtle or not so subtle gambit to get early information from me. Let the little whore play up to the prisoner a bit, discovering how much he really knew of their language. If she got me talking, I might give her news to aid my supposed escape—news that would close that escape forever.

  No, I could not afford to trust her, unfortunately.

  She came again the following night, bearing her bucket. This time no guard interrupted her. She must have given him a warning, last night. I took the drink she offered, gratefully, and used the remainder of the water to wash myself off somewhat. She smiled at me, and the shadows concealed her nose and accentuated her white teeth, so that it was an extremely nice smile. I was tempted to throw away caution; I wanted to believe in her. I knew that two weeks in the cage, suffering and slowly wasting away from the inadequate diet, had distorted my judgment. Still, she was a pretty girl...

  She put her face to mine, just beyond the bars. Her hands came up to caress my cheeks. "Do you understand me?" she asked. "I am here to help you escape."

  She had rushed it, making the ploy too obvious. Now I knew she was no friend of mine. I shook my head as if in incomprehension. She continued to caress me. Her touch warmed me despite my distrust; it was so gentle, so feminine. Her face came closer, until I could kiss her, and I did. Meanwhile I put my hands through the bars, placing them about her slender throat, lightly, then tightly.

  I strangled her. I intended only to knock her out so that I could get her knife; I was sure she had one somewhere. They all do. Then I could cut my way out of the cage. But she struggled like a fighting cat, pulling away strongly, trying to get her teeth into my hands. I tightened up instantly, struggling to hold her still, determined to prevent any outcry while I searched her body for the knife. I did not realize how strong I was in my desperation, or how frail she was.

  I heard a crack, and she hung in my two hands, limp. Her black pajamas became soiled; her bladder control had vanished. I had broken her neck.

  She was not quite dead. She jerked about as I held her, her body twitching in involuntary spasms the way a beheaded snake does. I had no choice; I held her up one handed while with the other hand I searched for the knife.

  My fingers wormed into her loose top, exploring her warm breasts. They were not large but well formed, and no knife was there. I continued down, feeling her smooth belly and firm thighs, intensely regretting my destruction of this beauty. Finally I found the knife strapped to her waist, concealed by the slack in the uniform. I ripped it off, then let her drop. She was all the way dead now.

  I cut the cords and the bamboo rods separated. I was free. But at what price, what price! True, she might have intended to betray me, but I could have stopped that without killing her.

  Now what? I hesitated to leave her there. Better to have my escape a mystery, so that their pursuit would be uncertain. If they thought an agent had come to free me, or better yet, a traitor what havoc with their intelligence system. And I just didn't like to implicate her, rightly or wrongly. If any of her family lived, they would pay the price of her supposed treachery.

  Perhaps it was that I was thoroughly ashamed of what I had done. Murdering an innocent girl. How innocent, I didn't know. I picked her up, feeling the wetness in her clothing, and hauled her into the jungle. I knew I didn't have time to bury her, but if I could hide her—and then I heard the cry of alarm. My escape had already been discovered.

  Actually they would have been smarter to organize their pursuit silently, so that I might have been lulled into carelessness. This way I knew exactly where they were. I threw the body into a tangle of brush and took off. My chances were fairly good; it was almost impossible to track a man in the jungle, if he had any ability in covering his traces. And I did.

  But I took the further precaution of ambushing the two guards who were hottest on my trail. One had a Russian automatic rifle with bayonet attached, an AK-2; this was much lighter than the American equivalent, and superior for use in the jungle. It did not jam as readily as the American M-41. I wanted that weapon.

  The other man had a machete. I jumped out behind them as they passed and plunged my knife unceremoniously into the side of the nearest, the machete man. The other whirled, swinging his rifle about to cover me. My mistake; I should have gone for the rifleman first.

  I jumped at him, deflecting the barrel as the weapon fired: The bullet hit my side, but what annoyed me at the moment was the noise it made. Now everyone would have a clear notion where the action was.

  I grabbed the bayonet with my bare hand and pulled it toward me. I hit the man with a karate chop to the head. He grunted and fell, and I finished him off with a couple of hard kicks to his throat and face.

  I kept the rifle, of course, and also the machete. Now I was doubly armed, and my pursuers knew that, for the hue and cry had died out. While they hesitated I made good my escape. Ten minutes was as good as a week, for they would never find me now.

  Certain of my reprieve, I suddenly felt my personal state. I was weak from hunger and the cage, and my side was bloody, and my right hand was a mess where I had gripped the
bayonet. I did not look at it; I kept my fist tightly clenched. But blood was leaking out and it burned terribly.

  The same wilderness that hampered the pursuit would make my private survival difficult, especially in my condition. I was not familiar with this region and had no supplies. I staggered on, uncertain of my course, thinking dizzily of the girl I had killed. That sweet little form...

  My footing gave way. I windmilled for balance, realizing that I had blundered into a river. Then my face struck the water. I gasped for breath instinctively, and took in a lungful of liquid. Choking weakly, I faded out.

  CHAPTER 3

  KILL-13

  I must have faded in and out several times. I knew that hours, perhaps days, had passed, and I had jumbled memories of stretchers, motion, sirens, doctors, jungle—no, some of that was years ago.

  It is not my way to collapse after one blow. I might have been out at first, but hardly for this length of time. I knew the doctors had drugged me, putting me back under again and again. That bothered me; I don't like drugs, particularly when they are used on me. I seemed to be whole; my arms and legs were present and responsive, and my senses were all right. Why this hospital treatment?

  As if on cue, a doctor entered my room. "Good afternoon, Mr. Striker!" he said jovially. Well, on his pay I'd be jovial too.

  "Afternoon? First I knew of it."

  "Two o'clock." He seemed to have a slight British accent.

  "I remember there was a fight," I said.

  "Some fight! You physical training roughnecks certainly make a job of it, you know."

  Roughnecks. He classed us all the same, demons and martial artists. Typical ignorance; no point arguing. "I got kicked, that was all," I said. "No cause to run me broke in a place like this. What about the others?"

  "Kicked!" He shook his head, making a soundless whistle. "Evidently you don't realize—"

  "I realize." The drug they had dosed me with hadn't worn off entirely. I felt numb in the crotch area, and was in better spirits than I suspected I ought to be. "That black woman was an expert at her trade. She would have gotten me, if I hadn't—"

  "Would have? I did the surgery on your testicles, Striker! You'll be lucky if you're not sterile. I may have saved one."

  This medic lacked something in bedside manner. No doubt he figured me for a charity patient he could talk down to. No sense in reacting too strongly to his attitude, however. I picked up my sentence where he had interrupted it. "If I hadn't learned the trick of drawing them up into the body cavity for emergencies. It's an almost involuntary reaction to danger, now. The last thing I did as I saw that kick coming"

  He looked at me with a certain grudging appreciation. "You did that deliberately? I assumed the kick had luckily driven them there."

  I nodded. "I would have done better with more warning. It certainly hurt!"

  "Because you were only half successful," he said. "Some parts of the body don't heal, Striker. I can't promise—"

  Even through the euphoria of the medication, that hurt. How far had I been unmanned?

  "Time will tell," he concluded with his damned mock cheer. "The saddleblock will be wearing off soon, and you'll feel pain. The more the better, frankly; it'll mean the nerves are sound. If there's no pain, you'll really be hurting! Ha ha."

  "Ha ha," I echoed sourly.

  "The nurse will give you a shot when you ask for it."

  "I don't drink, Doc," I said. "Ha ha."

  He frowned. He really wasn't much for his own medicine. He got up and headed off to his next case, no doubt to gladden other hearts as delicately as he had mine.

  The pain did get bad, fortunately, and in due course I gave up and drew on my ki to suppress it. Ki is a wonderful inner power, but not to be abused, and for me it was erratic. But this time it worked.

  The nurse came with her needle, and was amazed when I waved it away. Nurses don't understand ki, unfortunately.

  I must have slept another hour or two, for I felt better when I awoke. I swung my legs off the bed and stood unsteadily, glad the numbness was gone.

  Ouch! I had had surgery, all right. That woman had really scored, and it had all been unnecessary. If I hadn't stood bemused by the sight of her—

  I could walk. It required strenuous discipline to contain the agony of every step, but that was all. My muscles had not been damaged, after all. Obviously I had suffered crushed veins or nerve damage, and a substantial bruise, as well as the surgery. All that would take time to heal.

  So I walked spreadeagled, trying unsuccessfully to summon the ki again. I hoped no one would see me and inquire whether I had been gang-raped. You get some sick humor in hospitals.

  I was sure I was not supposed to be out of bed, but there were things I had to know. I got into my robe and marched out the door as though on routine business. Naturally the nurses ignored me. I walked down the length of the hall, stopping at the double doors to the lobby. I could read the sign backwards from my side: No admission. Cut out the Adm and it would read the same forward or back. noission. Not that it mattered.

  I turned about, trying not to grimace from the sensation that shot through my groin with this twisting motion and ambled back. I had glanced surreptitiously into each room as I came down, and verified another suspicion: several of my students and at least one demon were also here. From the look of it, they were all considerably worse off than I, and only one seemed to be conscious. I couldn't tell who, because his face was bandaged, but I saw his brown belt and part of his judogi hanging over the foot of the bed. He must have insisted they be close, to give him moral support, so the hospital personnel had obliged him just that much. I liked that fighting spirit.

  I walked boldly in. "Hello, karateka!" I said in a professional tone, a parody of the doctor's. "I did surgery on your brain. I saved one hemisphere. You're lucky you're not senile!"

  He recognized me immediately despite the masking of his eyes by the bandages. "Mr. Striker! How'd you get past the guards?"

  "Didn't have to," I admitted. "I'm in two, two rooms down. Walking wounded, though I'd rather not walk! Who are you?" He smiled beneath the bandages, knowing I knew his voice. I know all my students; they are not mere meal-tickets to me. "Andy Jones. I feel like hell."

  "You look like hell!" I told him, putting the right amount of cheer into it so that he would know I was joking. The irony was that he did look bad.

  There was another patient in the room, an old man with a cast on one scrawny arm. I thought he was asleep, but now he laughed. "'Bout time somebody told the truth around here! He looks like to die, and I don't want his ghost haunting me."

  I smiled, though I wasn't sure I appreciated his remark. "What happened to you, Andy?" He was a good student, a sincere worker, and I hated to see him in this condition.

  "I think I'm blind." His chin was firm, but there was a quiver to his lip.

  That was my fear for him also. "They wouldn't have you in here like this if they didn't figure they could cure you," I said.

  "Now you're lying, just like the rest of 'em," the old man said. I decided to let the old bastard have it. People with the foulest tongues are apt to be the most sensitive to incoming foulness. And I wanted to verify certain impressions of the past few hours. "How about your memories of the fracas?" I suggested to Andy. "Details, I mean."

  For an instant he smiled. There was an understanding between us, though I felt a tinge of guilt too. The old man probably wasn't responsible for his lack of tact; he might be in pain, or even senile. People in their declining years often do not realize how loud they talk or how badly they come across. But Andy and I were in pain too, more than physical. We needed catharsis.

  "It was pretty bad," he said. "You know how those demons came after us with weapons, and all of us bare-handed. We tried to fight, but—"

  "I know," I said grimly. I knew the oldster was listening closely. "How'd the others make out?"

  "I didn't see all of it. Things were pretty wild and crowded. Just one I watched,
with an ice pick; he lunged at Joe. Joe blocked it the way you taught us, the same as the knife defense. And then Joe tried the uki-goshi floating hip throw, and threw him, but Joe didn't hang on to the armed hand."

  "Oh-oh," I said.

  "And on the way down the demon stabbed him in the kidney. God, those bastards are fast! I don't think Joe made it."

  I hadn't seen Joe in the hospital. Either he was dead, or in intensive care. "I'm afraid not many did," I said.

  "Hey, what kind of a party was this?" the old man asked querulously.

  Andy ignored him. "Someone else caught at one of those chains, and punched the demon in the nose with an inverted fist blow, the uraken. Smashed it flat! But then a demon with a knife got him in the side. The blood spurted out all over the two of them and on the floor—"

  The oldster had had enough. He clutched for the basin beside his bed. We had torpedoed him, but I found no pride in it. Sick men teasing other sick men, and the sickness was multi-leveled.

  "You," I said. "You, Andy—how did you catch it?"

  "Two of us came after the demon with the sickle," he said. "Matt and I. Matt went in first, trying for a shuto blow to the head."

  "I saw that," I said. "That sickle took off his hand! Then the point went right through his body."

  "Yes. I jumped in—I was almost crazy with rage, and fear too, I guess. Never felt that way before. Always thought I'd run from trouble."

  "Smartest possible move," I said.

  "I put a naked strangle on him and twisted his head. I had the pleasure—this sounds horrible, but I swear it was a pleasure—I pulled back and heard his neck crack, and then—" He paused.

  I remembered my first glimpse of the black woman. The karate mistress. I had then thought it a trick of my imagination.

  "What then?"

  "Someone caught me from behind. A woman, by the feel."