Destroyer 055 - Masters Challenge

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Forewarned .

Chiun gave Remo a polished jade inscribed with three Korean characters. "Your opponents all have similar stones," he said.

"They will find you through it."

Remo read the characters. "The Brotherhood," he read. "I thought these guys were supposed to be

my enemies."

"Perhaps you will learn something of enmity and friendship on this journey," Chiun said as Remo

got into the boat.

"There's just one thing before I go. In the scroll you sent me, it said something-"

"The Other," H'si T'ang said. He sniffed the ocean air. "He is coming. Beware."

Chiun looked at H'si T'ang. "Who is he, my teacher?"

"I cannot see. But someone close, very close. His spirit is near. We are deceived. The Other is of

two beings. Yin and yang ..." His words drifted off, and H'si T'ang shook his head rapidly. "The

vision is gone."

"The Other," Remo mused. "A fifth opponent?"

"I do not know who he is, only that he comes."

"For me?" Remo asked.

"He is coming for all of us."

THE DESTROYER SERIES:

$K CREATED, THE DESTROYER #28 SHIP OF DEATH

^? DEATH CHECK #&r THE FINAL DEATH

#tf- CHINESE PUZZLE #S0' MUGGER BLOOD

$tt MAFIA FIX i^l THE HEAD MEN

#r DR. QUAKE #9« KILLER CHROMOSOMES

Jft DEATH THERAPY #35 VOODOO DIE

#7 UNION BUST #_?4 CHAINED REACTION

#V SUMMIT CHASE #p6 LAST CALL

W MURDERER'S SHIELD ^f6 POWER PLAY

#>0 TERROR SQUAD #37 BOTTOM LINE

#X KILL OR CURE #38 BAY CITY BLAST

#X SLAVE SAFARI #39 MISSING LINK

#jyACID ROCK i&tC DANGEROUS GAMES

#X JUDGMENT DAY #41 FIRING LINE

#1** MURDER WARD #42 TIMBER LINE

#]ft OIL SLICK #43 MIDNIGHT MAN

#>T LAST WAR DANCE $<W BALANCE OF POWER

#i# FUNNY MONEY #45 SPOILS OF WAR

#10 HOLY TERROR #46 NEXT OF KIN

#§<) ASSASSIN'S PLAYOFF #47 DYING SPACE

#* DEADLY SEEDS #48 PROFIT MOTIVE

#2? GRAIN DRAIN #49 SKIN DEEP

#P« CHILD'S PLAY #£6 KILLING TIME

#ar KING'S CURSE ^51 SHOCK VALUE

#2S? SWEET DREAMS £«2 FOOL'S GOLD

#2& IN ENEMY HANDS #53 TIME TRIAL

#X THE LAST TEMPLE #54 LAST DROP

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For the harmonica player, and the Glorious House of Sinanju, P.O. Box 1454, Secaucus, N.J. 07094

Prologue

The Legend

It came to pass that the great assassin Wang, first Master of the glorious house of Sinanju, came to be known and admired

the world over for his feats of strength and agility and discipline of mind. But there were those, far away among the wild

peoples of the earth, who questioned the Master's power and challenged him to test his strength against their own.

The Master, in his wisdom, knew that these peoples, whose diverse civilizations were as ancient as his

own, were not his enemies, but his equals. For amid all the timid hordes of men who lived lives of sloth

and insignificance, only these few remained from the ancient days of glory and kept the traditions and

secrets of their ancestors. Thus deeming them to be worthy opponents, the Master accepted their

challenge.

He traveled to each of their lands in succession, carrying neither arms nor food, and met with the best

among them in mortal combat. Although his opponents fought with honor and courage, the Master

vanquished them all, bowing after each death and commending to the gods the departed spirits of his

fallen adversaries.

When he had slain the last of his opponents, the family and friends of the dead man fell upon Wang in

anger. But the Master spoke, saying, "Do not seek to make war on me, for we are not among those

people who annihilate without thought. We are few in the world, we of valor and faith in the ancient

anger. But the Master spoke, saying, "Do not seek to make war on me, for we are not among those

people who annihilate without thought. We are few in the world, we of valor and faith in the ancient

ways. Let us leave one another in peace."

"My son will be avenged," spoke the father of the slain warrior.

The Master of Sinanju answered him, saying, "Then prepare your son's son to do battle with my successor. And for each

generation after, let our best meet together in blood for the ultimate test of their powers. We shall be enemies but once in a

lifetime. For all the rest of our days, may we leave one another in privacy and peace."

Thus was the beginning of the secret ritual known as the Master's Trial.

MASTER'S CHALLENGE

Chapter One

Ancion paused at the end of Kwasha Challa, the sacred rope bridge that separated his domain from the rest of Peru. Kwasha

Challa had been built just for him, specifically for this crossing, as an identical bridge had been built a generation ago for his

father.

Twelve hundred feet below, the Apurimac river boiled with white rapids. Beyond it lay the green

Peruvian highlands dotted with the ancient burial towers of Ancion's ancestors. It would be, he knew,

some time before he saw them again.

The oracle had predicted a safe journey for him. Still, it was one he did not look forward to making.

He would have to cross most of the known world, alone and penniless as tradition decreed, to reach the

place his people called the Land at the End of the World. From the accounts given by his father and

grandfather, it was a desolate place, cold and inhospitable, with rocks in place of the lush and startling

contrasts of his native land.

He mounted the white llama that had been left for him. His father had done the same. And his

grandfather, dressed

in the same kind of garments that Ancion now wore, the woven wincha wound around his head for warmth, the silver pin

holding his cloak together, and the large gold discs pierced into his ears that communicated to those who understood that

Ancion was an Inca, the Inca, reigning king of a people believed by the world to be long extinguished.

For when Pizarro looted the Inca Empire in 1532 and murdered Atahualpa, the "last" Inca, his band of

bloodthirsty Spaniards missed an enclave in the mountains where Ancion's ancestors ruled. Since then,

Ancion's people had lived, hidden and secret, away from the ways of other men. Only one Inca in

each generation, the Inca, was permitted to leave, and then only on two occasions. The first was a stay

in the outside world to leam its ways in order to better protect his people from them. The second time

was to make the journey Ancion was embarking on now, the journey to meet the most powerful being

on earth. It was a tradition not to be questioned.

In his pockets were some dried potatoes, the precious papa that had sustained his people for 5,000

years, and his weapon. It was a bola, a cord weighted by a rock encrusted with sharp stones. Used

properly, it was deadly enough to kill a cougar in flight. The bola and a small sharp knife at his waist

were Ancion's only defenses against the white and black and yellow men who stood between him and his

destiny. They would be enough.

Unwinding the cord carefully, he whirled the bola over his head until it sang. Then he lowered it, still

vibrating in his hands, and snapped the two thick ropes that bound the bridge to the land. Kwasha Challa

fell, destroying the only entrance into his country until his return. It was done. His journey had begun.

The journey to Sinanju. The Land at the End of the World.

Emrys ap Llewellyn fastened his knapsack around his huge, square shoulders. "Griffith!" he called.

"Up here, Da," a small voice rang from the top of a tall pine. It echoed through the green hills surrounding the valley. The

boy laughed as the big man made a show of stalking the tree like a bear. With both hands gripping the pine's trunk, Emrys shook

it. The boy fell out of the branches into his arms, shrieking with delight.

"Got you now," Emrys said, hugging his son. The boy's hair smelled of pine and deep woods.

"Do it again, Da."

"That I cannot." Emrys hitched up his knapsack again. "It's time I'll be going, son."

Griffith's face fell. His large, soft eyes welled with tears.

"Now, none of your caterwauling. It's time, and that's that. Go on to home, you shameful baby."

"But Da, your eyes-"

"Don't you be talking back to me, scamp!" He swatted the boy across the bottom.

"Don't go, Da," Griffith wailed. "You'll not see well enough to fight the Chinee. He'll kill you

sure."

Emrys turned on him fiercely. "I'll not have you speaking so to your old father."

His eyes were different from his son's. For all their understanding, they were warrior's eyes, and

Griffith's words stopped at the sight of them. But he couldn't stop the tears. "It ain't right, so it's not,"

the boy said miserably.

"You've just got to understand. This is something I've got to do. It's the way of our kin. One

day you'll be going, too."

"I don't want to fight the damned Chinee," the boy protested.

"Watch your mouth!"

"I want to stay here, in these woods, with the Old Ones, the spirits. And I want you to stay with

me. Now that Ma's gone, we're all we have, you and me."

Emrys cleared his throat. Sometimes Griffith sounded as if he were a hundred years old. "Well, what a man wants and what

he's got to do are two different things," he said gruffly. "Besides, your Ma made you promise on the day she died to mind

me. Did you not promise her?"

The boy stared at the ground.

"Did you na?"

"Yes. I promised."

"Then go home. And not another word.''

Emrys stomped off toward the hills, following the winding stream that bisected the valley. It had been

a raging river once, in the days when all of Wales was as wild and unknown as the valley and its

surrounding woods.

There were no roads here, no electricity, no running water. No taxes, no trolleys, no army. Instead,

there were the hills, still dotted with the ancient shrines of gods who had been worshiped before the

Romans came. Mryddin, oldest among the dieties, still ruled in the valley. There was the forest, still

populated with the wild, savvy people who had dwelled there since the beginning of time, where the great

magician Merlin himself had hidden while he waited for young King Arthur to come of age.

There were spirits and music and timeless enchantment in the valley; outside was the contamination

of the new world. And beyond that, far off in lands so distant and strange that Emrys could not even

imagine them from the stories his father, Llewellyn, had told him, were other knots of civilization that

still clung to the old, true ways.

The place where he was going was one of those. The people there were fighters, like Emrys's own

kind. The Masters of Sinanju were rarely bested in battle. Llewellyn himself had fallen at the hands of the

great Chinee. It had

been a terrible shock to Emrys, who was already fully grown by the time his father took on the Master

of Sinanju. The Chinee was a small, weak-looking man well past middle age. But Llewellyn had explained

after his return from Sinanju, while he waited for the Master to come do battle with him, that the people

of that land lived so far away that even their appearance was different. Their size had little to do with

their strength, and their peculiar slanted eyes could see the legs on a caterpillar at twenty paces.

As his father lay dead, Emrys had been tempted to attack the frail-looking Oriental himself. But

the Chinee who had killed Llewellyn did an odd thing in his moment of victory. He found Emrys in the

crowd of onlookers and bowed to him. The look in the Master's hazel eyes had not been one of triumph,

but of respect for Emrys's dead father. Llewellyn had fought well, and the Master of Sinanju had

acknowledged his valor. It was during that moment that Emrys came to understand the Master's

Trial, and why his people had honored the contest since the days when the river ran wide as an ocean

through the valley. The outcome of the Trial was final. Until now.

It was Emrys's turn, at last, to challenge the protegee of the Master of Sinanju and avenge Llewellyn's death. Once in each

generation. It was his only opportunity.

He squeezed his eyes shut hard, as if the movement would disperse the cloudiness of his vision. Of

course, it didn't work. It never did. He only hoped his sight would hold out long enough for him to do

the things he had to do: go to Sinanju to meet with the great Chinee in peace. Return to the valley to

prepare for battle. Encounter the Master's son when he arrived in Wales. And kill him.

There was another thing he had to do as well, and the thought filled Emrys with worry. He had to

prepare Griffith to fight in his own generation's Master's Trial. For

regardless of the outcome of this contest, Griffith would have to go forth to the next.

What had happened to Griffith? Emrys's people sprang from fighting stock that went back for thousands of years. Now here was

his own son, Griffith ap Emrys, who could not even bring himself to kill a squirrel. Emrys Had come to blows more than once in

defense of the boy whom the others labeled weak and girlish, but there was no denying it: Griffith was a sad excuse for a warrior.

While the other boys of the valley practiced their falls and developed their fists on one another, Griffith spent all his time

exploring the old altars of the dead gods, so long vanished that even the forest people did not remember their names. He raised

lost birds and sang made-up songs into the air. He slept, frequently, in caves thick with bats and did not fear even the wildest

horse. But he would not fight.

Perhaps it was the lack of a mother. Emrys's wife Brawnwyn had died so young.

He turned for a last look at his home. The valley, stretching below him, looked like a miasma of

diffused light. Just let my eyes hold out, he said to himself. In the center of the dim, velvet-toned valley

stood Griffith where Emrys had left him.

"What will become of my strange little child?" he asked the wind. He waved slowly to the small

figure and then turned away, before he could think of an answer.

Jilda guided the slender wooden boat expertly over the freezing swells of the Bering Strait. On either

side of her rose the continents of Asia and America, vast lands filled with decaying, soft men and

uselessly ornamental women.

She was hungry. Keeping one oar in motion, she pulled a long iron-tipped spear from the bottom of

the boat. The water was rough. Jilda stood up in the tossing boat, watching. She saw a flash of silver,

poised her spear, then

lowered it, cursing. A halibut, but too big. Its weight would capsize the boat. She waited, immobile, perfectly balanced on the

choppy waves.

Her ancestors had watched and waited in exactly the same way, standing in the narrow-hulled boats that carried the first of

the Vikings to glory in the weak lands that stood like ripe fruit ready for picking. The Norsemen who had carried the lightning

of Thor from Norway throughout Europe and Russia a thousand years ago had waited with their spears in the air and hunger

gnawing at their bellies just as Jilda did now.

She felt their blood in her. She was proud, because her forefathers were the purest of the magnificent

warriors who had ruled the sea. When the Viking conquest drew to a close, most of her people changed

and adapted. They learned to live at peace with the world. They accepted lives of comfort and

idleness. But her own people, the small knot of sea-toughened men and women who had refused to

lose their wildness and their instinct for survival, chose to leave their homeland instead.

Many Vikings settled in the remote Faeroes Islands deep in the Norwegian Sea, and her ancestors

were among these. But her people, sensing the pervading onslaught of modern ways even to this distant

archipelago, chose to separate themselves from the rest of their kind. They selected for their new home

the smallest, coldest land mass in the Faeroes chain, an uninhabited island that they named Lakluun. And

on Lakluun they fished and hunted, built their turf-covered stone croft houses, brewed mead from

fermented honey, praised their gods, revered their legends, burned their dead at sea, raised their young, and

survived with the old ways.

A flutter on the surface of the water. The fish was a young one, its two flat eyes flashing in the

sunlight on its right side. Halibut. Effortlessly, Jilda tossed in her spear

and rowed to catch it before it sank. She cut the still-moving flesh with the dagger she carried in her belt and ate it raw.

Where was this place she was going? The elders had told her nothing, except that she was to meet a great warrior and

challenge his son in battle. The contest was called the Master's Trial. Why it was necessary to determine a master among races of

people who had no earthly contact with one another had puzzled her, but the, elders did not speak of it.

It was the way things were done. As the best fighter on Lakluun, it was Jilda's duty to comply, just as it

had been her duty to kill the first of the beasts offered during the Sacrifice of Nine. The animals were not

used for food but for ceremony, and the ceremony sickened her. Once every nine years the people of

Lakluun offered the sacrifice to Thor, Odin, and Freya, the three gods of thunder, war, and pleasure,

killing nine of every male creature in existence and displaying them in the Sacred Wood for the deities

to see. For weeks, the gentle woods stank with the corpses of horses hanging by their necks next to the

maggot-covered bodies of dogs and reindeer. But nothing was so terrible as the sight of the nine hanged

men, stolen from wayward fishing boats, their eyes rotting and blistered beneath the trees.

Tradition. How she despised the elders' senseless traditions! It was horrifying to kill nine innocent

men for the delight of the gods, but that was what tradition decreed. And it was contemptible to journey

halfway around the world to meet a warrior for the purpose of killing not the warrior himself, but his son,

whom she had never even seen. Tradition? Bah. It was stupidity, insanity, waste!

But then, without tradition, where would her people be? Living the lives of slugs hiding in shells, crawling

for their every need? What would Jilda herself be without the strength

and spirit of her ancestors? A fat, dimpled wife, perhaps, screaming at infants and driving a padded automobile with rubber tires?

A cooperative worker, running in her rat's maze each day without a mouthful of clear air, devoid of freedom or dignity?

No, she would choose death rather than submit to the life of the world outside Lakluun. But was

there no way to avoid the disgusting practice of the Master's Trial?

Jilda finished her meal and threw the bones overboard. She wiped her hands on the leather cape she

wore over her long grown. Her pale eyes changed color, as they did when she was deep in thought.

She had a plan.

She would meet with the Master of Sinanju as tradition demanded. She was the chosen warrior of

Lakluun, and it was her right to speak with the Master and the other contestants. When she did speak,

she would tell them all to abandon the Trial. Surely none of them wished to kill a perfect stranger in the

name of some foolish contest. This was one tradition that had to be stopped. And if she could stop it, she

could return to Lakluun and end forever the Sacrifice of Nine.

She picked up her oars again, satisfied.

Kiree was cold, colder than he had ever been in his life. The occasional soldiers he spotted along the

rocky shores of the place called Sinanju posed no problem; he was dark and small and accustomed to

hiding and moving quickly. He had not been confronted by a single human during his entire journey.

But the weather, even in May, would surely kill him. In the Dogon region of central Mali, where his

people, the Tellem, lived, temperatures of 115 degrees were not unusual. The heat could be withstood, but

the cold . . . Who could live in such a frozen wasteland? During his long trip, Kiree had at times

considered wearing protective clothing,

as others native to the frigid area did, but he had discarded the idea. He was a Tellem. He would wear the

loose black cotton leg wrappers of his people, the white cotton cap, the string of antelope teeth around

his neck, the ceremonial red sash around his waist, and nothing more. If he could not stand the cold, then

he deserved to die ignominiously before his turn at battle.

He made his way carefully toward the cave, moving quickly in the night shadows. Before his death at

the hands of the yellow man, the great warrior Balpa Dolo had described the cave to Kiree.

"It is the home of the ancients of the Yellow Land," Balpa Dolo had said. "Outside the entrance are

plants that have not been seen in all of Africa. Three plants, a pine, a bamboo, and a plum blossom. But you

will not need this sign. The cave is a holy place, and you will feel its holiness. Open your senses, and

your instinct will take you there."

Kiree had closed his eyes at the shore of Sinanju, and felt and listened for the thrum of life. He felt it only weakly from

ordinary humans, but among the Tellem, the vibration was strong. And here, too, the unheard music of concentrated, instinctual life

pulled him toward the cave and nowhere else. He did not see the flowers until he was almost at the mouth of the hill.

A thin old man with strange features and golden skin emerged from the cave on footsteps so silent

and controlled that even the dust beneath his feet did not move. He wore a robe of dazzling red, embroidered

with threads that shimmered like water in sunlight. He was small, nearly as small as Kiree, and looked as

insubstantial as a feather. To Kiree's eyes, the yellow man resembled nothing as much as a series of high

clouds, from the wispy white hair on his head and chin to the slender, inch-long fingernails on his hands.

And yet there was power about him. Near him, the

thrum of life was deafening to Kiree's sensitive instincts. And there was peace, too, the unmistakable serenity of the born warrior,

"You are the Master of Sinanju," Kiree said in English.

The frail-looking old Korean bowed formally. "I am Chiun," he said. "I welcome you to this place of peace."

Inside the cave, the vibrant life force washed over Kiree like warm waves. The other contestants sat on a fragrant grass mat that

covered the floor, their faces bright in the light from a smokeless fire. There was an enormous white man, a thin, aristocratic

brown man with a high-bridged nose and jewels in his ears, and a woman with golden hair. The level of energy that emanated from

them was almost tangible. The cave was alive with pure life. Balpa Dolo had been right. It was a holy place.

"There is safety here," he said softly.

The splendidly robed Oriental smiled. There is always safety among persons of honor.''

Chiun brought food and drink, and treated each of the guests with impeccable courtesy. "Now that you

have all assembled here, I wish you to meet another of my people," he said.

"Your son?" Emrys asked.

"No. According to the rules of the Master's Trial, the protegee of the victor does not meet with the

challengers before the hour of combat. At the appointed time, my son will travel to your lands, just as you

have come to Sinanju, alone. This is a meeting of peace among those of us who have kept the old ways

in the face of the new."

"The old ways are not always the best ways," Jilda said. Her voice was respectful, but her chin was

thrust out defiantly.

Ancion's dark eyes flashed. "Do you mean to lead your people away from their traditions?" He looked

at Jilda with contempt.

"I speak only of the Master's Trial. It is a tradition that is unworthy of us."

Ancion set down his bowl with distaste and rose quickly. As he did, he stepped on the hem of his cloak,

momentarily losing his balance. He broke his fall with his hands, digging into the red-hot peat of the

fire. Ancion yelped with the pain, righting himself. "You do not belong here!" he spat.

"And you are only angry because you have shamed yourself by tripping over your clothes like a child,"

Jilda taunted.

"Hold. Hold." The voice, thin and quavering, came from deep within the recesses of the cave. The contestants fell silent as

they watched an old, old man emerge from the shadows. He was heavyset and bald, and his face was so worn and wrinkled that

it looked like a crumpled sheet of translucent parchment, but he held his back perfectly straight. His eyes were like those of a

statue, their pupils pale and unseeing.

Emrys rose. "The old Master," he said. The others murmured. "My father spoke of you. The most

powerful of all the Masters of Sinanju."

"The Venerable One," Jilda said. "1 remember, too. It is he of the Sight."

"H'si T'ang," Kiree whispered. "The warrior who can see the future."

"I would much rather see the present," the old man said, smiling. "But these eyes have long since

abandoned this old body." He turned his sightless gaze toward the fire.

Chiun took his hand. "H'si T'ang was my teacher," he said, helping the old man to a place at the fire

beside Ancion. The Inca regarded him coldly.

"And who are you, my children?" H'si T'ang asked.

"If you have the Sight, you should know who we are," Ancion said.

Jilda slapped the floor with her open palm. "How dare you speak to the Venerable One in this way!"

"Venerable One," Ancion mocked. "A useless blind man who lives in a cave."

The others protested, but H'si T'ang quieted them. "Ancion may speak as he likes here." He turned to the Inca. "You are

quite right, my son. It is to a shamefully inadequate dwelling that Chiun has brought you, but it was for a reason. You see, the

Master of Sinanju occupies, by tradition, a house in the village, but Chiun believed that you would prefer to meet in secrecy.

That is why he chose my home for this gathering. He did not intend to insult you by bringing you here."

"It is a holy place," Kiree said. "The cave where our fathers met."

"You remember well," H'si T'ang said.

"It's good enough for me," Emrys added belligerently.

"It is still a cave," Ancion said flatly. "And I would like to know why the so-called Master of

Sinanju allows his teacher to live in such a rough place. In my homeland, when the old king passes on his

powers to the new, he continues to live in splendor. It is his due. You seem to me a man worthy of little

respect among your own people."

H'si T'ang smiled. "At my age, respect from one's peers is not so important as understanding of

one's own heart. This 'rough place,' as you call it, is of my own choosing. For it is here, away from the

traffic of daily life, that I may contemplate all the things that I was too busy to notice during my youth." He

reached for the Inca's long, tapering fingers. "For example, twenty years ago, I would not have been able

to know that your hands were burned without seeing or touching you,"

Ancion snatched his hands away. "Don't touch me."

"I am more than one hundred and thirty years old," H'si T'ang said. "1 would not harm you, but I

can help you." With an impossibly swift motion, he clapped Ancion's hands between his own and held them.

When he released them, the Inca stared at his palms in amazement. The burns had healed completely

in the instant that H'si T'ang had touched them.

"Sorcery," Ancion whispered, making a sign against witchcraft. "One such as you should never have

been permitted to fight in the Master's Trial. You killed my grandfather with trickery."

"1 felled your grandfather, the great warrior Huaton, in combat."

"You bewitched him!" Ancion shrieked.

"1 cannot bewitch. 1 can only heal. 1 would have healed Huaton if 1 could, but he was dead even before

he fell."

Ancion shouted him down. "There is no Master's Trial, only the work of sorcerers!"

"Stop it!" Jilda commanded. "The Master's Trial is an evil thing. It is causing us to rum against one

another already.''

"This is not your affair, woman," Ancion said coldly.

"1 am one of the contestants in this misbegotten game, and it is my affair," Jilda said. "We must stop the Trial before it

begins. There are so few of us left, we people of honor and strength. Why should we seek to destroy one another when the whole

world pushes to destroy us?"

"Sorcery," Ancion muttered.

Jilda rose. "Inca ruler, I witnessed the death of my predecessor at the hands of the Master Chiun. He used

no sorcery. But if that is what you fear, then help me to stop this wicked contest."

"1 fear no one! It is you who fear, because you are a woman, and by nature a coward."

Jilda's jaw clenched. She stared at the Inca for a long moment, as if Fighting with herself. Then, exhaling

suddenly, she pulled the dagger from her belt and leaped like a deer toward Ancion. He moved out of her

way swiftly, pulling out his own knife.

it happened in a matter of seconds. Then, in another moment, a third pair of moving hands entered

between then, snatched both daggers away, and thrust them upward, where they quivered embedded in the

stone ceiling of the cave.

"This is why we have the tradition of the Master's Trial," Chiun said wearily, his hands still on

their wrists. "This way, only four from each generation among us are destroyed."

Ancion jumped up and extricated his knife from the rock. He held it, hesitating as he watched the blank eyes of H'si T'ang.

Then he slid the blade back into its sheath. "I will fight your apprentice. But if there is any trickery, my people will stand ready

to tear his limbs and scatter his blood on the wind." He threw his cloak over his shoulder and left.

Chiun poured more tea into the remaining cups and cleared the Inca's things away. "Not the peaceful

meeting I planned."

"It was my fault," Jilda said. "I attacked him." She hung her head. "I, who wished to abolish the

bloodshed."

"Violence is a difficult habit to break among our kind," H'si T'ang said kindly. "It is the way of all our

peoples. It is how we have survived."

"But we don't have to kill each other."

"That is for each of you to decide in your own heart." He turned to Emrys. "Tell me, will you resign

from the contest?"

Emrys grunted. "I'll not be called a coward."

H'si T'ang nodded. "And you, Jilda. You would not permit yourself to be called a coward, either?"

"It is different for me. I'm a woman. I cannot be the only one to retreat. The elders of Lakluun

would be shamed."

"I see. And you, Kiree? Would your elders be shamed?"

The little black man smiled. "Very much," he said. "You see, the Tellem do not believe in death. It is our belief that

when we die, our spirits are transferred to others. That way, we continue to live. To fear shedding one life when there is

promise of another at hand is most unworthy."

"We believe much the same thing here in Sinanju," H'si T'ang said.

Jilda sighed. "So the Master's Trial goes on. Because we are afraid to be afraid."

"That is so," H'si T'ang said.

They slept. The next morning, as the three warriors prepared to take their leave, Chiun gave each of

them a polished piece of jade inscribed with Korean characters. "It is the symbl of the Master's Trial,"

Chiun said. "When my pupil comes to your lands for the contest, he will be carrying one of these so that

you may recognize one another."

"What about Ancion?" Jilda asked.

Kiree laughed. "I think Ancion will have everyone in his country looking for the protegee of the

Master of Sinanju."

Emrys strapped his knapsack onto his back. H'si T'ang moved toward him in the shadows. "Forgive

me, but there is something about you, my son. Your aura. Something is wrong."

Emrys looked back quickly to Jilda and Kiree, standing in the doorway of the cave. "There's nothing

wrong with me," he said loudly.

"it is your eyes-"

"My eyes are as good as anybody's. Good enough to fight your boy, at least," he bristled. Then he straightened up and

smiled. "No offense, H'si T'ang. Whatever you did to Ancion's hands last night made a good show, but I don't cleave much

to magic and hocus pocus myself. Besides, I can see just fine. Your aura locator made a mistake this time." He chuckled and

joined the others at the door.

When they had left, Chiun turned to the old man and said, "The big one is becoming blind."

"I know. But he is too proud to admit it."

They settled near the fire. "And where is your successor now?" the old man asked.

"In America. But he will arrive here soon. I wish for you to meet him."

"Then his visit must be very soon, because my days are coming to an end," H'si T'ang said softly. "He

is a good pupil?"

"Good enough," Chiun said, not wishing to boast about his protegee. "He is white."

"Oh?"

"But worthy," Chiun hastened to add. "That is, reasonably worthy. For a white."

H'si T'ang laughed. "I am making you uncomfortable," he said. "I do it out of amusement, because

you are so painfully prejudiced."

"I did not wish to train a white boy. It just happened."

"It was meant to happen. Perhaps you do not know the legend. You are still so young."

Chiun was disconcerted. "I have lived more than eighty years, my teacher. No one would call me

young."

H'si T'ang snorted. "Wait until you are my age. Even the mountains will appear young. You do know

the legend, then?"

"Which legend? We have so many."

"The legend of Shiva." The old man spoke softly, remembering. "The ancient god of destruction will come to earth as a tiger

wearing the skin of a man. He will be called the white night tiger, and he will die, to be created anew by the Master of Sinanju."

"I know the legend," Chiun said. "It has sustained me."

"And he is the one? The white night tiger?"

"I believe so. I have seen signs in him."

"And the boy? Does he know himself to be Shiva?"

Chiun shook his head. "He tries not to believe. Even when the signs exhibit themselves, he strives to

forget. He is white, after all. What can one expect from a white thing?" He spat on the cave floor.

"He is only young. Too young, perhaps, to undertake the Master's Trial. He has not encountered

opponents such as these contestants before, no doubt."

"No. Not like these."

"Take care of your godling, my son. This rite of passage is measured in blood."

Chiun stared at the fire for some time. "He is ready," he said at last.

H'si T'ang nodded. "Good," he said. "The scroll you took from my collection. Did you send it to

him?"

"Yes, Little Father," Chiun said.

"Then you know the prophecy?"

"I do not understand it fully."

The old man smiled. His rnouth was broad and toothless, and he grinned like a baby. "If the prophecies

were perfectly understood, they would be history, not prophecy," he said, clapping Chiun on the back.

"So. Tell me, son. What do you call your young, white, misplaced, nonbeliev-ing pupil who bends his

elbow during combat?"

Chiun looked up at him, startled. Then he smiled, because through the long years he had forgotten that his old teacher could

stiil surprise him. "If you know he bends his elbow, then you know his name."

Chapter Two

His name was Remo and he was crawling into a whorehouse. That's all it was, Remo thought as he

inched up the outside of the swank Fifth Avenue apartment house while a small colony of police

waited impotently on the sidewalk below. Only a whorehouse wasn't what you called any

establishment in a building that rented space by the square inch.

It was an unlikely place for a group of sweat-stained terrorists, but then New York was a city that

tolerated eccentricity, a term used to cover every type of pervert from the standard garden variety wand-

waver to lunatics like the Managuan Liberation Front.

The MLF, as the group of unwashed, make-believe soldiers inside the whorehouse called itself, was a stock item in a city

that specialized in mayhem: A handful of power-crazed fools who used international politics as an excuse to play with bombs. The

MLF had tried to blow up four politically significant Manhattan buildings: the courthouse, the prison known as the Tombs, and

two police stations. But the bombs were so poorly made and the

preparations so inadequate that they missed all four targets entirely and managed only to blast a lot of

innocent bystanders to smithereens.

The one tactically intelligent thing the MLF crazies had thought up was to take refuge in the Versailles Arms. The tall, white

marble building housed some of the richest people on the East Coast, and the MLF went to pains to select the richest and most

celebrated among the tenants and hold them hostage in the discreet, thousand-dollar-a-night bordello on its top floor. Because of the

danger to the hostages, the police were under orders not to storm the place in an all-out shoot-em-up, and were reduced to

hanging around the entrances, waiting for the MLF to come out for air.

Remo didn't work for the police anymore. He was an employee of the United States government, but

his name didn't appear on any federal payroll, since the nature of his work demanded a certain lack of

publicity.

Remo was an assassin.

And an assassin, especially one as elaborately trained as Remo, could go places where no policeman would

think of venturing. Like up the sheer face of a marble building.

When he reached the top story, his feet and hands using the momentum and weight of his body to scale

the surface, he pushed away from the building and forced his legs upward into a backward spin that

propelled him through a window in a shower of broken glass.

The room he vaulted into was, not surprisingly, a bedroom. The walls were covered with metallic

mylar, and a chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. On the oversized round bed were two swarthy

young men wearing only purple berets marked by an insignia depicting a clenched fist with its middle

finger outstretched. Standing over them was a leggy platinum blonde in a Nazi officer's

cap satin garter belt, and thigh-high black leather boots with six-inch heels.

"Now they're coming in through the windows," she shrilled, throwing down the snakeskin whip in her hands. "I give up.

First these twerps who haven't got two bits between the bunch of them, and now the human fly. I knew supply-side

economics was leading to this. I suppose you're not going to pay, either."

Before Remo could answer, the two Managuans jumped out of bed, waving a pair of switchblades. On their hairless chests

were tattoos bearing the words, "MLF" and "Free Managua."

"Hey, man, get your own poontang. The madam here's for us."

"Shut up, shitface," the blonde said. " 'Long as I'm giving it up for free, I choose him." She sidled

up next to Remo. "At least he smells like he took a bath since last August."

She brushed a white-gold lock of hair out of her eyes. "Honestly," she grumbled. "These creeps are

driving me crazy. They take over the building, they drive all my regular customers away. I've taken a

net loss of thirty thousand bucks since they got here. And kinky. Let me tell you-"

"What you doing here, man?" one of the Managuans said, brandishing his knife. "This here's a

revolution." .' Remo glanced at his naked body, which looked as if it had been nurtured since infancy on

a steady diet of tortilla chips and Coca Cola. "It's pretty revolting, all right," he agreed. "You're the

terrorists, I guess."

"We're the Front, dude," the Managuans said, ribbing each other jocularly.

"Maybe you'd better switch to the back. The Front looks like it died."

"You gonna die, man." The switchblades moved closer.

"Look," Remo said. "1 don't want to fight with you. I just washed my hands. How come you're

doing this with the bombs and the hostages. . . ." He waved vaguely.

The man with "Free Managua" stenciled onto his chest fixed Remo with a practiced intense stare. "We're doing it 'cause we got

political consciousness, baby." He pounded his tattoo. The gesture produced a jalepeno-scented belch. "We want independence

from America. You strip our country, man. We ain't putting up with that."

"Aw, come on," Remo said. "There's nothing on Managua except hurricanes."

The Managuan looked uncertainly at Remo for a moment. "What else they done, Manuel?" he whispered

out of the corner of his mouth.

Manuel thought hard, apparently expediting the process by probing his navel with his index finger. "I got

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Forewarned.ChiungaveRemoapolishedjadeinscribedwiththreeKoreancharacters."Youropponentsallhavesimilarstones,"hesaid."Theywillfindyouthroughit."Remoreadthecharacters."TheBrotherhood,"heread."Ithoughttheseguysweresupposedtobemyenemies.""Perhapsyouwilllearnsomethingofenmityandfriendshiponthisjourney,"Ch...

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