Destroyer - Master's Challenge Part 8

"1 mean it. You're too good to be wasted."

"Get up," Ancion said contemptuously. "At least have the courage to die like a man."

Remo blinked. It had not occurred to him before that he might die. No one had ever been good enough to scare him, really scare him, in years. But Ancion was.

The bola sped by Remo's face. He swallowed. He couldn't move in forward. Ancion knew all those tricks. And he couldn't get to him from behind, because Ancion could control that, too. He had to stop . . . the arm. The easy, effortless swinging had to stop first. Then they could talk. Or something. Just stop the arm . . .

The bola came around on another pa.s.s. Remo waited. On the third, he leaped directly over the ball into a backward spin and landed hard on the Inca's shoulder. The bola spun wildly, but it never left Ancion's grasp. Remo arched backward, out of the way, as Ancion jerked the leather whip in crazy directions. His shoulder was broken, but he kept the weapon moving.

"Stop it!" Remo shouted. "You're hurt."

With a cry of pain, Ancion thrust the bola out once more.

The people watching scrambled out of the way. The ball hit a rock and careened backward at tremendous speed, 81.thudding into Ancion's chest. With a groan, the Inca dropped to the ground.

Remo went to him. Ancion's chest was exploded open, the blood pouring in rhythmic spurts from the large wound.

"Where's a doctor?" Remo shouted.

"They do not understand your language," Ancion said slowly. "There is no need, anyway." He closed his eyes, then opened them again. "You were not a coward, after all."

"I've never seen anyone fight like you before," Remo said.

The Inca s.h.i.+fted painfully. "You will," he said. "The opponents of the Master's Trial are worthy, as you are worthy. You used no magic."

"1 don't have magic," Remo said.

"Then beware. The Other has magic. The Other will come for you. This is the year. He will come."

"I'm not going to fight anyone else."

"You must. It is the law of the Master's Trial. The other warriors will be killed by their people if you do not fight them, after vanquis.h.i.+ng rne. It will be a grave insult."

Remo couldn't believe his words. "Are you saying you're glad this happened?"

"It was fair," Ancion said. "I die honorably. That is all any warrior can ask.''

Remo slipped his arms beneath the Inca's back. "I'll take you inside," he said.

"No. Leave me here. My people will see to me. They have buried their kings for five thousand years." His head fell back.

Remo rose, looking at the lifeless body of Ancion. There was a soft rumbling among the crowd of spectators.

"Hold it," Remo said to the advancing mob. "This was his idea, not mine."

The man Remo recognized as the warrior who led him 82.to the palace stepped forward and fell on his knees before him. The others bowed, too, until Remo was surrounded by kneeling subjects.

Remo stared at them, horrified. "Get up!" he shouted. "Can't you see I've just killed your king? What's wrong with all of you?"

But no one moved. The law of the Master's Trial had prevailed.

Disgusted, he picked his way through the prostrate bodies of the people and walked away. He never looked back.

Chapter Eight.

Sinanju.

It was the only purpose in the Dutchman's life now, a beacon signaling in the darkness.

Find Chiun. Find Nuihc's sworn enemy. Then he would find rest.

The moon was fuli, its light coating the budding trees in the Russian steppes where he walked. He had already come.a thousand miles, but he felt no fatigue. Nuihc's training had seen to that.

Nuihc had himself been trained to become Master of Sinanju, following the reign of Ghiun, his uncle. He had spent a lifetime of preparation learning the intricacies of the most difficult and effective of the martial arts. But Chiun had cast him out of the village before the t.i.tle of Master could be bestowed on him.

Nuihc spent the rest of his life trying to regain the legacy that was rightfully his, but Chiun had bested him again and again. Even in his old age, the Master of Sinanju had devised a secret weapon against Nuihc. He trained another pupil, an American, to carry out his will.

83.84.The Dutchman had heard Nuihc's story many times. His teacher had grown bitter and spiteful with failure. The disappointment of being cheated out of his destiny aged him before his time. Whenever Nuihc told the story, his eyes would glint with hatred.

And triumph. For even with his own skills lessened by the gnawing hate for his uncle, Nuihc had found a way to avenge Chiun's unfairness.

He got the idea when he heard of Chiun's new protegee. It was a perfect plan, a way to ensure his success even if he himself were to die. He would find his own heir, another to whom he would teach all the secrets of Sinanju that he had learned from Chiun.

But this heir could not be an ordinary man, as Chiun's was. The legacy of Nuihc would go only to one so powerful that neither Chiun nor his American "son" could defeat him. He searched around the world for such an heir. And one day, on a train in the plains of Iowa, he found him.

Jeremiah Purcell was just a boy then, but a boy such as Nuihc had never seen. He could direct others to do his will without speaking a word. An amazing boy who could set people on fire by thought alone.

The boy was a freak, doomed to a life of imprisonment, a laboratory rat whose tremendous power would be studied and written about behind gla.s.s walls. The boy himself had wanted to die, even at the age of ten.

But Nuihc changed everything. He took Jeremiah away from civilization and nurtured him. He secretly taught him the entire discipline of Sinanju. The boy was a magnificent pupil, made even more formidable by the dangerous abilities of his mind. And if those abilities caused the boy to suffer, it was of no concern to him. Jeremiah was a weapon, not a son to be coddled.

Nuihc protected himself from his creation by staying 85.away from the boy as much as possible, teaching him the methods of killing that were the essence of Sinanju, and then leaving him to practice alone for months on end. As Jeremiah grew, his exercises became more difficult. Nuihc would absent himself for years at a stretch, returning only to check on the boy's progress and remind him of the debt he owed him.

Should I die, bring to death by your own hands the Master Chiun.

And then, after years of silence, Jeremiah learned that Nuihc was dead. The mission of his life had begun.

He panicked. He was still too young. He took himself to the small Dutch island to train with all the power at his disposal. He ranged his mind along the empty seacoast, perfecting its destructiveness. But something began to happen, something he had not counted on. The more he used his mind, the more he needed the awesome horror it begat. The episodes of mental work left him exhausted and frightened, but he couldn't stop. As the madness grew, it overtook his sanity.

He needed to kill, the way he needed to breathe. The power became an overwhelming thing, a wild beast that lived inside him, uncontrollable, unpredictable. He had to learn how to rein it in, make it manageable, before the beast destroyed him. He needed time.

Time was the one thing he didn't have. By sheerest accident, Chiun and his pupil came to the island, and the Dutchman met his destiny.

He was too young. It had come to nothing. He failed to carry out Nuihc's demand. He had not found the rest he so needed. He traveled around the world, confused and terrified. The beast had won. He was helpless in its presence.

Until Cappadocia. Then he knew. It was time. The beast was going to destroy him anyway. Perhaps he would find 86.Chiun before it did. Perhaps, once he accomplished his task, he would be free.

As long as he did not allow the madness to take root, he reminded himself. Keep the beast caged, and you'll find your way. He took pains to keep away from civilization. No people. People were too strong a temptation for the beast. It needed to kill, and once it started, it couldn't stop.

He foraged for his food. He ate no meat, drank nothing but water. He walked and ran each day toward the east until he fell with exhaustion. The days were long, his periods of rest short. He made good time.

Keep the beast caged. . . .

He heard a sound. In the leaves on the forest floor behind him were footsteps, small and unself-conscious. A girl's voice sang a pretty Russian folk tune.

He ran.

"Ho," the girl called, laughing.

He closed his eyes in despair. It was already too late.

She was young, no more than twenty, with dark, curly hair and smiling eyes. She wore a red shawl over her dress and carried in her hands a basket filled with mushrooms. "Are you lost?" she asked in Russian.

The language was familiar to him, as nearly all were. Part of his training had been to learn every major language spoken on earth. It had been the easiest part of his schooling, and the most pleasurable.

"I'm-I'm just walking," he said.

It had been so long since he'd held a woman. Mixed with the fragrance of the forest, he could smell her, warm and sweet and female.

"Do you live in the village?" she asked, smiling. It was an invitation.

He tried to talk, to utter some pleasantry and then depart, but his eyes couldn't leave hers.

87."I said-"

He stepped forward and took her in his arms.

She intoxicated him. Her lips were ripe and hot. The skin on her neck was as smooth as alabaster. Beneath it, blue veins throbbed with her heartbeat.

She pulled away from him in a tease. He was a handsome man, lean and tall, with eyes of an extraordinary electric blue color, and women liked him. Women who didn't know what he was.

"Please go," he whispered.

She laughed. "Are you frightened? No one will see us." Setting down her basket, she unknotted the shawl around her shoulders and let it slip to the ground. Beneath her dress he could see the outline of her erect nipples in the bright moonlight. She held out her hands to him, st.u.r.dy working hands that knew how to please a man. A prost.i.tute, he thought.

"How much?"

"No more than a few kopeks. For my family. You will not regret it." She smoothed her hands over him, lingering expertly over the growing hardness between his legs. "You will please me, too."

She undressed him and put her mouth on him. He closed his eyes and allowed the colors to wash over him. Bright, familiar colors . . . The beast was unlocking its cage and stretching its muscles.

He groaned. "Stop . . . you must stop."

"But I've just begun," she teased. Her tongue flicked over him as softly as a moth's wings.

The beast was laughing at him. It would never be caged again.

With a yank, he pulled her up by her hair and tore her dress from top to bottom. She shrieked.

"Look what you've done! You are too rough. My dress ..."

88.He slapped her, knocking her to the ground. She lay there, stunned, her ripped clothing spread out behind her. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were large, and quivered with her short, frightened breathing. Her legs were covered by an absurd pair of long cotton bloomers.

As he watched her, she backed away slowly, on her elbows. "Please," she said, holding up one hand as she tried to get to her feet.

He fell on her, pinning her arms over her head, tearing off the pants she wore while she lashed her legs. The struggle enflamed him. When she cried out, he slapped her, again and again, until her face was swollen and bruised. At last she stopped, her wide, terrified eyes spilling over with silent tears.

He entered her in a frenzy, thrusting wildly. She screamed with the pain.

"The police will come for you. My brothers will come-"

He slammed his fist into her mouth. Two teeth broke with a crack and lodged in the back of her throat. She choked, gagging and spitting blood on his face.

He stopped, shaking. The blood. He could taste it. Deadly nectar for the beast.

The girl's eyes rolled back in her head. She stopped struggling, and her clenched fists opened. A sound, deep and rasping, came from her throat. Her blood-smeared mouth froze into an open O.

The Dutchman exploded.

With his teeth, he gouged the blue vein, no longer throbbing, in her neck, and pressed his lips to it, sucking the red juice while he spilled his own fluid into her.

In the distance, a tree cracked and splintered apart in a shower of sparks. The small animals of the forest shrieked and darted for cover.

When he was done, it was nearly dawn. The round moon was high in the graying sky. On the forest floor lay 89.the dead girl's body, caked with dried blood, her face unrecognizable. Beside her were the silly cotton bloomers, now dark with blood.

He staggered away. There was no remembrance, no regret. The ravaged body in the woods meant nothing to him. The beast had won. In the Dutchman's mind was only a feeling of deep, everlasting weariness, and one thought. A word: Sinanju.

Chapter Nine.

As the president of the United States was flying to Europe for a special meeting with the German president, Harold Smith was attending his first lecture sponsored by the Earth Goodness Society.

Its president was a British physician named Mildred Pensoitte, who was speaking to a school a.s.sembly at Revvers College in Ma.s.sachusetts, where just days before, the American amba.s.sador to the United Nations had not been allowed to speak because her views did not coincide with those of the Revvers english and sociology departments.

As one female student explained to the middle-aged man in the three-piece gray suit: "We keep bad things from being said here. We have freedom of speech. Some things just shouldn't be said."

"No doubt," said Smith.