Mistress of Death

Mistress of Death

Mistress of Death

Mistress of Death

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Overview

In the second novel of the series, Jason Striker runs afoul of the black karate mistress Ilunga and a deadly drug conspiracy. These are fast-moving and violent stories, without ignoring human values.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781497657755
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 07/01/2014
Series: Jason Striker , #2
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 166
Sales rank: 634,915
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

About The Author
Piers Anthony has written dozens of bestselling science fiction and fantasy novels. Perhaps best known for his long-running Xanth series, many of which are New York Times bestsellers, he has also had great success with the Incarnations of Immortality series and the Cluster series, as well as Bio of a Space Tyrant and others. Much more information about Piers Anthony can be found at www.HiPiers.com.

Roberto Fuentes (b. 1934), a USA Judo expert, has collaborated with author Piers Anthony on the Jason Striker, Master of Martial Arts, series and the novel Dead Morn.
Piers Anthony is one of the world’s most popular fantasy writers, and a New York Times–bestselling author twenty-one times over. His Xanth novels have been read and loved by millions of readers around the world, and he daily receives letters from his devoted fans. In addition to the Xanth series, Anthony is the author of many other bestselling works. He lives in Inverness, Florida.

Read an Excerpt

Mistress of Death

Jason Striker Martial Arts, Volume Two


By Piers Anthony, Roberto Fuentes

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Copyright © 2001 Piers Anthony and Roberto Fuentes
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5775-5



CHAPTER 1

RAID

The door crashed open and they poured in: hell's own collection of deadly freaks. I knew in a moment they were doped, high on "Kill-13"; their eyes blazed orange.

"Class dismissed!" I bawled. "You kids get out of here—fast!"

But this was my karate class. It was a wilder bunch than my judo group, and less disciplined. A number of them had the notion that one kiai yell and a swift punch would overcome all threats. They had never had first-hand experience with hard-core martial-drug addicts. Startled but unalarmed, my boys halted their practice and stared at the intruders.

There were eight, demons with wild long hair and bright orange cloaks. The color of their clothing chillingly augmented the pigmentation of their eyeballs. They spread out from the door, forming a glowering line.

"Don't try to fight!" I yelled to my students. "Move out the side doors. Avoid contact!"

The leader of the demons took one step forward. "Do as the coward teacher says," he cried. "There isn't one of you sniveling bastards who could stand up to a real man!"

That stung. I saw half a dozen of my students stiffen. I felt like going up and pasting the insolent demon myself. But that would have been playing into their hands. They had come to disrupt my class and turn it into a brawl, at the very least. What might happen in such a free-for-all I dreaded to contemplate.

"You there, with the chicken-yellow hair!" the demon said, gesturing to my black-belt assistant Tom Sellers. "You must be color blind! Where's your white belt?"

Tom bristled. Conventions vary, but a white belt normally indicates the lowest level of competence, while the black belt is the highest. Ordinarily Tom had good control over his temper, but he was being challenged in front of the class. That made him sensitive. "Why don't you druggies go home and sleep off your fit?" he asked pointedly.

I started forward, ready to haul my students individually out of the hail. Avoidance of a fight in these circumstances was not cowardice, it was excellent sense. A man doped on Kill-13 is dangerous to himself and others. Safer to go after a rabid dog.

Then I saw, the other demons: two more for each door. There was no way out without a fight. And my students hardly knew what they were in for.

"The Kung Fu Temple would reject this child," the demon said. And spat at Tom.

Tom glanced at me. Now we knew where this bunch had come from. The Kung Fu Temple was a new establishment that had wasted no time in establishing a singularly bad reputation in the neighborhood. Little but the name connected it to any genuine kung fu school. I had suspected it of traffic in the violent new drugs, but had not had proof—until now.

I began to hope that the intruders would move on, once they saw how little effect their insults had on us. Any student of the martial arts knows that the best self-defense is to avoid a fight. Especially in a situation like this. The demon leader had tried to bait Tom and failed.

"All right: reject me," Tom said abruptly.

I barely refrained from gnashing my teeth. If only Tom had controlled himself just a little longer.

The demon grinned and rolled his eyes, making the orange flash. Kill-13, so named because it supposedly has thirteen fatal ingredients, somehow impregnates the eyeballs so that the person under its influence cannot be mistaken. It is a horrendous effect, but is deemed a badge of distinction among the addicts. It normally fades as the high wears off.

The demon squared off in the horse stance. He made a frightful scream, his face twisting into a grotesque contortion. The purpose was theoretically to scare his opponent, but I knew it was really to rev up his own energies. People, like car batteries, often need to be charged for the major effort.

The cloaked figure aimed a punch at Tom. The voluminous clothing served to obscure the thrust of the blow, but Tom blocked it easily. Tom countered almost simultaneously with a knuckle punch to the solar plexus. This looked like an effective blow, but Tom, used to harmless ritual sparring, pulled his punch up short as it landed, so that there was no force at all.

The demon made a flurry of knife-hand shots, and again Tom parried easily. Tom countered to the shoulder and the side of the head, and it was apparent that he could score at will, but each time he pulled his punches harmlessly.

Even the demon audience was beginning to realize that their man was no match for ours in sport combat. They began to move restlessly. The drug gave them a feeling of power and invincibility, but they were not stupid. This stimulated the demon to extra effort.

Tom scored again with a punch that could have crushed a cheekbone, had the effort been real. The demon countered with a terrible dragon stomp. He kicked out with the flat of his foot—and it was booted!—to Tom's stomach. This blow was not pulled; it landed heavily, making Tom grunt and stagger back. But he managed to catch the foot and twist it, making the demon fall ignominiously to the mat.

I knew that the demon had been out to hurt Tom, while Tom was obeying sport rules. But this could go on only so long.

Tom bent down to give the other a friendly hand up. It was a mistake. The demon pulled a dagger and, sliced across Tom's stomach. It was a savage swing, partly concealed by the man's cloak and Tom's position.

For a moment Tom stood there, not seeming to be aware of the injury. Then, too late, his hands grabbed for his abdomen. He pitched forward, and as he rolled his intestines spilled out onto the tatami.

Still, he was conscious. "Why? Why?" he cried.

For an answer the demon lifted his foot and stomped on Tom's face, again and again, making a gory ruin of it.

Kill-13: that was the other source of the name. For a man under its influence had very little conscience and a lot of savagery. The murder had happened so quickly that there had been no chance for me to interfere, and now it was too late.

Such a sight might have terrorized an ordinary group. But my students tended to be over-bold, and they had witnessed an act of treachery and needless brutality. As a man they spread out to meet the demons, the black belts and brown belts in front. It was as though a voice had cried in each of their minds: Avenge the murder! There would be no more pulling of punches.

The demons, as though responding to a signal of their own, moved almost in unison. From under every cloak came a weapon. Knives, chains, clubs, ice picks, an awful array of back-alley instruments.

Now it was twelve against twenty-three. Twelve deadly weapons against twenty-three unarmed students. A possible contest, if the demons were as inexpert with their devices as they were with their unarmed combat. But no matter what their skill, more people were bound to be killed.

I ran for the back wall and dived for the phone. "Operator, emergency!" I cried. "Get the police! Send a riot squad to—"

The phone box clanged as something struck it, and the line went dead. A cleaver quivered in the wall before my nose.

Evidently someone knew how to throw well enough, unless that cleaver had been intended for my head. I turned.

There was a moment of stillness, broken by the massed scream of the demons. It was an awful sound, calculated to bring the fear of death to the hearer.

Then the demons charged.

"Get back!" I cried to my students. "Form a wedge! Bull out through the front door!" But my voice was drowned out by the multiple screams of attack and agony: theirs and ours, respectively.

The massacre was on.

My students were fighting bravely, but there was little they could do against these weapons. In movies one barehanded hero may overcome half a dozen swordsmen, but in life one swordsman is more likely to decimate half a dozen unarmed men. My boys didn't have a chance.

I ran to the display case near the phone. There were ceremonial Japanese swords and several ancient daggers, and a nunchaku. I ripped down the last.

The nunchaku is like two police billy-clubs linked together by about nine inches of cord or chain. It doesn't look like much, but it has its points. I had learned to use one through an anomaly of circumstance, and never thought I would have occasion to draw upon that skill in this country. Now I was glad to have it.

I gripped one stick, letting the other hang loose. I flexed my wrist a couple of times, getting the feel of it.

My students were trying hard. I had of course drilled them in defense against assorted weapons, but had always stressed that they should flee a weapon whenever possible. Now it was not possible, and I saw that I had taught well. Several of the attackers had already been disarmed.

But that was the small positive side of a black situation. Even as I fetched the nunchaku and got set for action, I was aware of several devastating encounters. One student faced a demon with a chain; he tried to grab the chain, but it whipped around his throat, choking him and dragging him down. The demon then stomped on his back, breaking it. Another student launched at him with a two-handed blow to the solar plexus. But the chain was already free. It wrapped around his two wrists, dragging him down to the floor on his back. The demon stomped with his heels on the fallen man's ribs, caving them in.

One demon with a sickle faced two students. One tried to hit him with a shuto blow to the head. The blade flashed, cutting into his wrist and finally severing the hand. A fountain of blood spurted through the air. Still the student tried to close in. He struck with the other hand, with deadly force. But he trapped himself; the sickle jammed point-first into his chest. His body flopped against it, impaled. The demon hauled the thrashing student in, and this gave the second student his chance to apply a naked strangle, the hadaka-jime, on him.

Then that second student was rolling on the mat, screaming. All I could see was what looked like a handsome black woman standing over him, obviously a confusion of my sight. There were no women here.

Several other, students were lying on the mat, and a great deal of blood was visible. The battle had raged only thirty seconds, and it was obvious that another thirty would cost the health or lives of several more. I had to break this up rapidly.

So I charged. "Disengage!" I shouted, hoping my students would recognize my voice and catch on. I wanted to be free to strike without hindrance. This is one of the few advantages a single man has in a fight against a crowd.

I swung the loose segment of my weapon around my head like a bolo and angled it to strike the head of the nearest demon. There was a satisfying thunk and he groaned and went down. Probably I had fractured his skull.

The next demon was wrapping his chain around the neck of one of mine. I looped my cord about his own neck and jerked hard with both handles. As he staggered back I bashed him on the forehead, and he was out.

Then there were three men at once—and they realized that they no longer faced an unarmed man. One lunged at me with his knife, while another struck at my legs with his club. This was no time for niceties; I swung one stick on the end of the cord in a short arc that smacked across both their faces, breaking at least one nose. But the third got me with his chain.

Fortunately it was not a critical blow. The thing wrapped around my waist, smarting but not striking anything vital. He jerked me toward him, but I had already recovered my swinging stick. I snapped it at his ear, end-wise. He didn't cry out; a man high on Kill-13 normally feels no pain. But his brain must have rattled within his skull, and he went down.

Some fighting sense warned me, and I ducked. A cleaver whistled over my head. I whirled and raised one stick to block the return sweep, while the other stick swung wide and carried the cord around his hand, disarming him.

Then the demons drew back, preparing to rush me. They were natural cowards, hesitant to engage in single combat the moment real resistance developed. Obviously these were not well trained; the drug gave them extraordinary strength and speed, but could create only the illusion of genuine skill. Only years of disciplined practice could make a man a professional.

They paused, afraid to attack me even in a mass. Then a high-pitched voice urged them on, and they charged.

I squatted down, whirling my nunchaku fast and low, striking them in the shins, knees and feet. The wood hit solidly, and I heard bones crack. They might be numb to pain, but they could not get at me if they couldn't walk.

For a moment there was confusion. Some action continued elsewhere in the hall, as my remaining students tackled the remaining demons, but in my vicinity there was chaos. Then a new figure strode through the melee: a black face above the orange cloak, with long black hair.

I whirled the nunchaku, knowing that this would be a dangerous opponent, summoned from the reserves. His eyes were barely discolored, meaning either that his fit was wearing off, or that he had developed a tolerance for the drug. That could mean that he would attack with less ferocity, but greater finesse. Probably much greater, because he was a veteran; his nose was disfigured by a healed-over break. I waited to see what weapon would come from beneath that cloak.

His hands went to the neck, and suddenly the orange garment fell free. I accelerated the nunchaku, preparing for a rapid and devastating strike—and saw that my opponent was a woman. The same one I had seen before, and not believed had been there.

She was in a kind of spangled two-piece outfit, her black midriff bare, and she had the shape of a sculptor's model. But it was her face, seen in this changed context, that stunned me. It was firm-chinned yet delicate, framed by hair too long to hold an afro. A beauty; a classic in any race, except for that broken nose. It reminded me of someone.

She was unarmed. The nunchaku drooped from my hand; how could I mutilate this impressive woman with such a weapon?

I hardly saw her motion. Then her foot connected to my groin in a swift, accurate, devastating kick. There was an instant of unbearable pain before my consciousness mercifully departed.

CHAPTER 2

CAMBODIA


I flew backwards in time. I was in the Green Berets, back when American military commitment was quasi-official in Southeast Asia. I had private doubts about our involvement in that war, but the brass never inquired my opinion, and I knew better than to volunteer it. I had a job to do, so I did it, as well as I was able. It was not a nice job, and I never look back on that experience with any pride.

It was blind luck that got me in trouble, but that was the way it was, in that region. The Cong and their allies were everywhere, and no one was to be trusted. I had known that sooner or later I'd catch it. My mission was to infiltrate the Cambodian jungle, avoiding the paths and roads, so as to observe the enemy movements along the southern end of the Ho Chi Minh trail complex. After I'd made a count of people and vehicles, so that I knew when a given trail was in current use, I'd plant a little sensory device that would generate a continuing signal for the bombers to home in on. If I were mistaken, and had spotted only a stray column instead of a main trail, the sensor would have a low count in the following days or weeks. But if it counted many troops, pretty soon the bombers came and—no trail.

Of course there were hitches. Sometimes a congregation of animals triggered off a bombing mission, since the sensors did not distinguish between forms of life. Sometimes a sensor was discovered and moved, causing much mischief, especially when it was moved to the vicinity of our own forces. And of course the Cong were expert at rerouting and repairing, so that one mission never did the complete job. But they had to work mainly at night, and the more accurate the bombing the greater the inconvenience and delay for them. In a good sequence, we'd plant a new bomb-lure almost as soon as they got a new trail ready, and they'd have to start all over, while their supplies sat and waited.

I worked with Cambodian mercenaries. These were Cambodians who had lived in Vietnam, who were trained for such missions. They could not afford to fight; the Cong would get their families if any of them were identified in association with me. But I didn't want to fight either; I had to remain hidden as long as possible. Until my tour of duty was up, I hoped. The Cong did not even know who I was, but they knew what I was doing, and they wanted me. Badly.

It was grinding, boring work. Whenever we plowed through the jungle the leeches fastened to our legs, or wherever they could find skin. We couldn't pull them off; that just left the heads connected while the rest of their bodies ripped apart. We had to make them let go by burning them, as is done with the ticks on dogs. I kept a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on me, though I don't smoke, just to handle those leeches. A couple of my cigarettes I never used; they were booby-trapped with mercury fulminate. I had cut apart detonator caps and inserted the business ends into the cigarettes. The moment flame touched those ...


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Mistress of Death by Piers Anthony, Roberto Fuentes. Copyright © 2001 Piers Anthony and Roberto Fuentes. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1 RAID,
Chapter 2 CAMBODIA,
Chapter 3 KILL-13,
Chapter 4 AMALITA,
Chapter 5 KOBI CHIJA,
Chapter 6 SHAOLIN,
Chapter 7 CHIYAKO,
Chapter 8 ILUNGA,
Chapter 9 ENCOUNTER,
Chapter 10 MIKO,
Chapter 11 BLACK MISTRESS,
Chapter 12 PYRAMID,
Chapter 13 EARTHQUAKE,
Chapter 14 KAN-SEN,
Chapter 15 KALI,

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