Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony

  And that night I had another gallstone attack that made the first seem mild. Dulce gave me more coca leaves, and warned me that if the gall bladder burst I could die, unless I had surgery very soon. I promised never to go off my diet again, and finally this attack abated.

  Fortunately a ninja came in the morning to lead us to the Black Castle. I kept chewing coca leaves and made it, glad that my ordeal was almost over. Even the notion of surgery did not seem so bad, now.

  After that my memory becomes sketchy. Perhaps it was the recurring agony of the gallstone, or the mind-affecting coca I chewed to alleviate it; more likely it was what happened next. I was entering the most awful period of my life, physically, mentally and emotionally. But that's another story, a tortuous one. I can provide only snatches, with certain retrospective interpretations, and I can not promise even these are completely accurate. So for what little it may be worth, I offer these bits:

  The Black Castle seemed to be in ruins, surely that's a mistaken image, but I swear that's what I remember, with stones tumbled about. The plain around it seemed to have been flooded recently, though there was no river in sight, and there was a stench as of a recent bloody battlefield.

  Inside it was bare, but that was only the surface. Below there was an incredible labyrinth of tunnels and chambers. Like an iceberg, nine-tenths of the castle was beneath the surface. The important thing was that we had made it; we were safe!

  Except—another horrible vision. The boylike Fu Antos, larger than I remembered him but still a child, met me not with open arms of welcome, but with a great sword. This memory is the most nonsensical of all; it could never have happened that way! I was surely delirious. But I report the snatch as I have it. I, crippled by my physical agony and sheer astonishment, was unable to resist effectively. Those terrible hypnotic eyes of the lord of the ninjas, four hundred years old; the gleaming blade swinging at my head—

  It was Dulce who threw herself between us, intercepting the sword with a wooden chair. "Stop!" she cried. "Spare him, Lord Ninja! Only let him live, and I will do as you wish."

  And what could Fu Antos want of Dulce, whom he had never met before? More of my delirium, of course; I must have run a hell of a fever!

  Yet I found myself alone on a crude wooden raft, drifting down the mighty Amazon River, with only a few coca leaves for sustenance.

  In my fevered vision, that I knew must be untrue, I had been betrayed by my best friend, Fu Antos, at the time I least suspected. With my lucky Figa lost, only the sacrifice of the girl who loved me, Dulce, had saved my life.

  All false, of course. But one thing was not false: I was dying. For my gallstone had not been removed. My whole body was turning yellow from the jaundice of this malady. I could not survive long.

  Something bit my hand, which was dragging in the water. I jerked it out. Must be piranha fishes; they would get me in the end. My whole life passed before me, as I have recorded it now. For now the pain was starting again.

  I hear the cry, the raucous scream of some hungry jungle bird. It sounds like the gleeful laughter of a vengeful voodoo god. But it fades as I lose consciousness...

  BOOK 2:

  CURSE OF THE NINJA

  AND OTHERS

  INTRODUCTION

  This volume is only half a novel. We were writing it when news came that the series was being canceled, and work abruptly stopped. The first five Chapters, of a projected ten, are virtually complete, with spot summaries of intended scenes near the end of Chapter 5, and a little bit of Chapter 6, followed by a summary of the remainder. Unfortunately it was the finale toward which we had been building for two and a half novels that was aborted. We were not pleased, but it was not our decision.

  The volume has been filled out with several stories and sample projects, showing what else we would have written had there been any interest by a publisher. We trust this will have some interest for readers. This is really a collection of pieces, filling out our collaborative activity. We hope readers will enjoy it regardless.

  Chapter 1

  Dream of Red and White

  He was a middle-weight, around 176 pounds, completely bald, standing only five feet five inches tall but with his mass filled in by solid muscle. He was in a deep defensive stance and clearly afraid of me.

  Good—I needed an easy victory! I took hold of his jacket with my right hand, caught his right sleeve with my left, and whirled into a powerful uchi-mata inside thigh throw. It was one of my favorite techniques, and I was good at it. Very good. I hauled him up on my back, and my right leg thrust back between his thighs and up to sweep his legs into the air. He flipped completely over and came down hard on the mat in front of me.

  "Ippon!" the referee cried, making the signal, his hand straight up. Wonderful gesture! That meant it was a clean throw, with my opponent landing with speed and force on his back: my victory.

  Judo is a martial art, a system of self defense, like karate, aikido, kung fu and others. If I were attacked on the street, and threw the thug like this on the hard concrete, he would not get up again in a hurry. But of course in contest judo we don't want to hurt the opponent—not that much, anyway—so we have a mat. We are careful to use correct technique so that he falls harmlessly.

  Immediately both judges got up. "Koka!" they cried, signaling with their hands at chest level. That meant an imperfect throw, a minor effort. An ippon is like a home-run in baseball with the bases loaded, or a touchdown in the final seconds in football: a game-winning score. But a koka is like a base hit or a first down: nice to have, but not really enough by itself.

  There was a brief conference, and majority ruled: I was awarded a measly koka for my throw. Well, these things happen, and a good judoka does not complain. He can think his private thoughts, though; I would have rated that excellent throw better than a mere base hit.

  I returned to the match and moved Uke around a bit. In judo, the man who performs a technique is always Tori, and the one who gets techniqued is always Uke. That's pronounced OO-kee, two syllables with, the accent on the first. The term derives from ukemi, or "fall" in Japanese. Anyone serious about judo has to learn Japanese terms and pronunciation.

  Uke was still too nervous to attack me; he knew he'd been well-thrown even if the judges didn't. So I spun into another uchi-mata. Again he flew and landed, and again the referee signaled ippon intelligently. And wouldn't you know it, again the two judges overruled him. "Yuko!" they cried, hands slanting down.

  Well, a yuko is like a double in baseball that knocks in a run, or a field goal in football. Enough to win, if the other team doesn't do anything, but not spectacular. I was frankly dissatisfied. I'm not nearly as good a sport inside as I am outside. But I kept my face calm.

  I closed a third time. I probably should have varied my technique, but at this stage I was determined to achieve the recognition my performance deserved. I shoved Uke back, and when he resisted I hauled him abruptly forward and off-balance, and rammed into a third uchi-mata. It was explosive; he sailed up so high he would have been thrown clear of the mat and into the lap of a judge if I hadn't hung on to his right arm. He came down partly on his side with a crash that shook the room. In fact, my throw was so violent that I myself fell forward on my head, turning to come down partly over him.

  "Waza-ari!" the referee cried, hand going out to the side at shoulder level. That's like a baseball triple with a couple of runs scoring, or a football touchdown with no extra point. A good, strong showing, but not enough to win outright. After twice being overruled, the referee was being more cautious. These judo-baseball-football scores are not directly comparable, of course; it's just an approximation.

  Surprise! "Ippon!" the two judges exclaimed, grinning. It seemed I had finally put enough oomph into it to satisfy their savage tastes. The match was over; an ippon always terminates it right there. That's one of the ways judo differs from other sports.

  But I wasn't through. Not by a long shot. The moment the first Uke bowed off the mat, a second
one was bowing on. For I was not in a tournament or contest; I was running the line. I had to fight five yodans, or fourth degree black belts in Kodokan judo, one after the other without respite.

  A yodan is a tough customer. A black belt in judo signifies a master grade, like a professional baseball or football player: the pick of the martial art. A shodan or first degree black belt could mop up any number of barehanded attackers in a street fight, though judo is called the "gentle way" of fighting. A nidan or second degree black belt could normally wipe out a shodan; only about one in three shodans make nidan. And there is a steeper ratio for each step up; one nidan in ten makes sandan, the third degree, and one sandan in thirty makes yodan, the fourth degree. So a yodan is one in a thousand black belts, roughly.

  And I was running a line of five yodans. Me, Jason Striker, a fifth degree black belt, or godan, one in a hundred thousand. Trying for one in a million. Could I do it?

  The first couple shouldn't be too bad—but as I grew tired, those constantly fresh Ukes would become greater hurdles. And if I lost even one match, I was finished.

  But I had no time to worry about that. The first Uke had been tense and stiff, knowing he was overmatched. This second one was relaxed and confident. He was a large black man with a small mustache and big belly and strong arms. He knew the odds were against him, but with one break he figured he could take me, and he was bound to try. He might not be as good as he thought he was, but then again, he might. Maybe he was pushing for 5 Dan status himself.

  He let me grip his lapel with my right hand—then he went for waki-gatame, the armpit hold. This consists, basically, of clamping your opponent's arm under your own armpit and bending it backward. The pressure on the elbow-joint will force quick capitulation. But as with all armlocks, you have to be careful; too much pressure can break the captive arm. The victim will normally surrender long before that happens, so you give him a chance to tap out, to yield, and nobody gets hurt.

  This bastard didn't give me that chance. He grabbed my arm and drove down to the mat, not caring whether it broke in the process. But I was not exactly a novice; I somersaulted forward in a judo roll, changing the angle and fouling up his leverage. Then I broke his hold—but he moved with me and got on top with a yoko-shiho-gatame side four quarter hold. His left hand circled my neck; his right gripped my left leg.

  "O-saekomi!" the referee cried, signaling the commencement of a legitimate holddown.

  Out of the frying pan... I had thirty seconds to get out of it, or I was lost. Fortunately the hold was not absolutely tight; they seldom are in matches, since they have to be applied despite resistance. I used what room I had to maneuver. I grabbed his jacket on the side with my right arm, then twisted, reached over his head with my left hand, and grabbed his belt. This was tough to do, for of course he was shoving me down, and time was passing. Fifteen seconds, twenty.

  I bucked, my back arching high with my head and feet touching the mat. This is called bridging, and is a standard escape technique, but I had prepared for my bridge by pushing with my left hand as if to shove him off; naturally he resisted the thrust. Then as I bridged I reversed it, pushing with my right and pulling with my left, exerting a lot of torque in the same direction he had been shoving. As he pressed down hard on my torso, I added to his movement. I had a lot of strength in my arms; those hours of weight lifting I had done while training for this sure came in handy. Now for a human bench press.

  I heaved him right up and over in a forward somersault, then rolled on top of him in a yoko-shiho-gatame of my own. Now he had to break the hold—and he couldn't. He struggled valiantly, sliding across the mat, but I stayed with him. My hold differed from his in two crucial points: it was not loose around his neck, but so tight his head was shoved up painfully so that he could not even think of bridging. And my chin dug into his chest, putting pressure on his soft breastbone and further restricting his motions. These little details make all the difference. In fact, there can be just as much strategy and action and drama in the course of a holddown as in a spectacular throw, though it is more subtle. In thirty seconds I had my ippon for the holddown.

  Why was I doing this? Because I was going for the biggest step of my career: promotion to Rokudan, the sixth degree belt. This is beyond the black belt stage; the colors are red and white striped. Few men outside of Japan ever make this grade; I would be the highest ranked Caucasian in North America. Truly a status worth fighting for. 6 Dan was a worldwide elite; fewer than ten white men in the world had made this rank, in all the history of judo. I had already done the technical questions and the three classical katas or stylized demonstrations. These covered the nage or throws, the katame or grappling, and the kime or the ancient forms of self defense. I had also done two more of my own choosing. This five-man competition accounted for sixty percent of the examination. I had to win at least three of the matches and lose none.

  And these opponents were not about to lie down and play dead for me.

  The third man was big and strong. He was about 35 years old and weighed perhaps 230 pounds and seemed to be of Japanese extraction. That meant mass and skill and experience—a tough combination. I was panting from the effort of overturning and holding down my last opponent; not really tired, but the edge was off.

  So I tried for a quick win, much as the last had tried against me. Uke went for me with his right arm outstretched and stiff; I grabbed his sleeve with my left hand, my right hand going to his wrist. I lifted my right leg and put my foot against the top of his left leg. Then I fell back and to the side, pulling on that arm and pushing on his leg.

  When we were on the mat I passed my left leg over his captive arm, over the elbow, to put pressure on it, while I bent the arm back with bothnd shands. But this Uke was tough; he tried to resist and pull his arm back, and he had a lot of power. He was getting away, and I had to twist onto my side to hold him and apply more pressure.

  Two things happened then, both unfortunate. Our opposing forces were so great that something had to go, and it did. His arm—and my spine. I heard a tearing sound as the ligaments of his arm tore, at the same time as pain shot through the twisted muscles of my lower back. He screamed and tapped out, and I let go, the victor.

  He would not be able to practice for a while, and I was sorry for that. But it had been his own fault for struggling so hard against a potentially injurious hold; he could have yielded with honor and without damage the moment I secured it. I had applied pressure slowly, giving him opportunity to do just that, and instead he had tried to fight out of it.

  I had my own troubles. My wrenched back was not too bad, but I could not afford to let it rest, and it would weaken my attempts at throws in the two remaining matches and make me look worse than I was. With good luck I would not aggravate it too much; with bad luck, I could wind up with a serious injury and lose my promotion to boot.

  It takes a moment for one contestant to clear the mat and the next to come on, for everything is formal in judo. In that moment my eyes surveyed my surroundings. We were in a large dojo, or judo exercise hall, with bleacher seats tiered in a huge oblong, filled with spectators avidly watching the action. They were not paying fans, but the friends and relatives of the judo players who had come to participate in the tournament and the promotions. Judo is one of the few sports where the players pay and the spectators come free. Not always, but true in this particular case.

  Crowded up as close to the demonstration area as allowed were a number of my own students and associates. There was Illunga, an almost-handsome, no, almost-beautiful black woman who instructed karate at my dojo. And a tall, copper-bronze haired slender woman, a brown belt, watching intently, one of my best students. And of course a number of my friends and judo associates, here to watch me try for the big one.

  The next man was a giant, even bigger and stronger than the last. He must have weighed 300 pounds, no fat. He took off his glasses just before he stepped out, and peered myopically at me. Some very powerful men have weak eyesi
ght, but judo is hand-to-hand combat, so it hardly matters. A blind man could be a good judoka; some blind men are. This one had a beaked nose and white-flecked hair, and seemed Italian. He would have power to burn, while I struggled along on my tiring system and hurt back. This was going to be bad.

  We closed, took hold, pushed each other around a bit, feeling it out. Then I leaped in for a morote seoi-nage shoulder throw. My right arm bent at the elbow and angled across his chest, heaving up as I rotated to draw him up over my back. But my back gave a stab of pain as I took the load, making me hesitate fractionally—and Uke used that moment to recover his broken balance and stand firm. His left foot swept forward as he hauled me backward, going into a counter-throw.

  I danced out of the way. But he followed up his advantage, dropping into a left tai otoshi body drop throw, seeking to augment my spinout right into a fall. However, avoiding such traps was second nature to me. I jumped over his outstretched leg and tried to counter him myself; a failed technique in judo is a golden opportunity to initiate a counter technique. But he had the jump on me and was carrying through a continuous attack. He was already winding into a soto makikomi wraparound throw, passing his right arm over my head and throwing himself to the mat, carrying me along with him. It was a sutemi, or sacrifice technique, doubly powerful because Uke's deliberate loss of balance was transmitted to my body, bringing it down. When a heavy man does this, there's an awful lot of pull. I was unable to resist it, but I did foul it up so that the throw was imperfect.

  "Yuko!" the referee called. It was a good call; the bastard had taken me down. No doubt Uke thought it had been an ippon, but now those hard-nosed judges were on my side.

  Well, that put me behind, but not by much. This man was a demon on his feet, but maybe not so tough on the mat. I, however, was tough on the mat. It was part of being an all-around judoka. Even as I fell, I wasn't just messing up his throw, I was setting up for my own next technique. I twisted and hooked one leg over his belly, gained leverage with that leg, reached around him and literally climbed on the back of the giant. He got on his hands and knees, trying to stand up. You aren't permitted to retain a mat-hold once your opponent stands up, and wouldn't want to; he could drop you hard, falling backwards and crushing you beneath his weight. Remember that image of the concrete pavement: no hold is worthwhile if in real life combat you'd get your brains beat out while maintaining it. But naturally I acted to keep him down. I rode his back as though he were a horse, and pushed with my stomach and with my legs on his thighs so that he sprawled on his belly; my weight and position would not permit him to get his legs under him.