Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony

  Amazon Slaughter

  &

  Curse Of The Ninja

  Jason Striker

  Martial Arts Series

  Volume III

  Piers Anthony

  &

  Roberto Fuentes

  Copyright © 1976, 2001

  ISBN: 1-4010-3353-9

  CONTENTS

  BOOK 1: AMAZON SLAUGHTER

  Chapter 1 Feeding the Fish

  Chapter 2 Fun in Rio

  Chapter 3 Gift of Tongues

  Chapter 4 Mirabal's Entertainments

  Chapter 5 Spear in the Rear

  Chapter 6 Wrath of the God

  Chapter 7 March on the Black Castle

  Chapter 8 The Love of Oba

  Chapter 9 Animation of the Curse

  Chapter 10 City of the Future

  BOOK 2: CURSE OF THE NINJA AND OTHERS

  INTRODUCTION

  Chapter 1 Dream of Red and White

  Chapter 2 Strange Conquests

  Chapter 3 Sword and Stone

  Chapter 4 Roofer's Affair

  Chapter 5 Eighty Per Cent

  Chapter 6 Two Pictures

  SUMMARY OF THE REMAINDER

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  KI

  BEAST OF BETELGEUSE

  KIAI! HOW IT BEGAN

  WINDBREAKER

  Chapter 1: Cry For Help

  Chapter 2: Assignment

  SUMMARY OF THE REMAINDER

  SORCEX

  BIOGRAPHY OF A TERRORIST

  INTRODUCTION

  Chapter 1 Return

  Chapter 2 Three Misses

  SUMMARY OF THE REMAINDER

  BOOK 1:

  AMAZON SLAUGHTER

  Chapter 1

  Feeding the Fish

  They hung the captive ninja on a wooden frame in the jungle. He was stripped to the waist, his arms spread-eagled, his legs securely fastened. All he could do was scream—and he would not.

  "Where is your leader?" the big bald giant demanded. He spoke in Portuguese. He was six and a half feet tall, with the physique of a weight lifter, and an ugly scar ran down his face. His neck was so thick it made his head look shrunken. His whole aspect suggested brutal and fanatical strength.

  The crucified ninja did not answer.

  "I hoped that would be your attitude," the interrogator said. "I've never had the chance to flay a Jap." He gestured. His assistants took small wooden mallets and pounded on the ninja's skin. This was obviously painful, but hardly excruciating, and the victim did not cry out. Instead, his face assumed an expression of repose: he had invoked his ability to turn off pain no matter what was done to him.

  "Now while we undergo our preparatory massage," the giant said with a twisted smile, "let us review the manner of our acquaintance. You will correct me when I make an error in fact or speculation?"

  Still the ninja ignored him. The men pounded the captive's skin all over, methodically, going over each area again and again so as to miss no portion. After a time they took him down and rehung him so as to have access to his backside too. Then they proceeded to his legs, stripping off his remaining clothing. The job took some time, but the interrogator merely paused in his monologue to smoke an occasional cigarette and observe.

  Eventually the skin had been so thoroughly pounded that it was bruised purple, with blackish glints. The small blood vessels within it had been broken. The entire body gradually became a single extensive bruise.

  "First the introduction. I am Fernando Mirabal, of Spanish descent, but quite satisfied to settle here in Brazil. In fact I am a member of the Brazilian diplomatic corps, and my brother Ramiro is the Director of Petrobas, the Brazilian Petroleum Company. You are an agent of the notorious Japanese outlaw Fu Antos." He paused as though expecting agreement, but the ninja gave no sign.

  Now the blades came into play. The instruments used were not knives, but fine steel scalpels honed razor sharp. They sliced easily into the flesh.

  "Thus it is scarcely surprising that we should meet," Mirabal continued pleasantly. "When my brother asked my help in investigating the disturbances occurring in our newly discovered oil fields, I thought at once of Fu Antos—and I am pleased to verify that your ninja chief-scoundrel thought as readily of me." He contemplated the victim, as though fascinated by every stage of the slow torture. "I understand Fu Antos is old, extremely old. Four centuries, some sources claim. Oh, yes, I have researched the matter; that is my job! And I admit to being intrigued by the supernatural, though I can't claim to be able to practice magic myself." He chuckled. "I hope Fu is not so ancient as to be an inadequate adversary. I much prefer a genuine challenge."

  They started on the extremities, slitting the softened skin carefully at the ends of the fingers, proceeding down across the hands. They loosened the skin at the base of each finger and pulled toward the ends, as though removing tight gloves. Care had been taken that no bones were broken and no vital organs damaged, so that the victim would not expire prematurely. The individual cuts were shallow, performed with surgical precision, so that there would not be a disastrous amount of bleeding. It was a bit like peeling an orange without letting any juice leak.

  The undersurfaces were raw, like hamburger, bleeding slowly. They applied a special mixture of salt and vinegar to slow the bleeding further, rubbing it in. The man's body writhed and strained at its restraining straps in these moments, seeming almost ready to break its bonds. The pain was evidently excruciating, despite the victim's self-control.

  "But I digress. I came to the oil camp, then visited the nearby Pacifico, the pacified Indian village." He laughed. "Not pacified enough, it seems! So I made a token demonstration. The usual: shooting a few natives, taking some hostages, borrowing a couple of the prettier maidens for passing entertainment, explaining how readily such a village might burn if some accident occurred. I had hoped someone would carry word to old Fu, and it seems I was not disappointed."

  After the fingers, they turned the ninja over and worked on his back, the easiest place. They tore great sheets of skin away, slowly, carefully. Then they returned to the front, flaying the chest and abdomen. They did not touch his face or neck, afraid he might die; instead they moved down. They stripped his arms and legs, finally coming to the buttocks.

  "Except in this: my little welcome was intended for the old Jap himself, not his hireling. Oh, you sneaked in cleverly enough; had it not been for our special American starlight amplifiers we would not have seen you in your black suit. But I hardly expected you to be so readily deceived by the ploy of placing an aide in my own bunk. You stabbed your knife into an innocent employee! But his death was not in vain, for we surrounded that tent, employed the floodlights, and now we have you. Beg pardon?"

  For now at last the ninja screamed, as they skinned his penis and testicles, by applying a combination pull and slice. Mirabal smiled, seeing the victim's amazing control breaking down at last. "It was touchy for a moment, I admit. You very nearly did succeed in killing yourself, after you disemboweled one of mine and split the throat of another. But again, you had not anticipated our anesthetic dart-guns. And the delay entailed in cutting off the victim's head—that was foolish. I realize old Fu has a fetish about collecting the heads of his enemies, but you had the wrong head." Mirabal touched his own head with a gesture of pride. "No, I'm afraid you were a disappointment to me. I expected more subtlety."

  The ninja subsided as the flaying was completed. He was now a strange looking creature, but still alive and conscious. "Now I can still kill you quickly," the torturer said. He held up his pistol, a Spanish Astra 8-shot 9mm able to fire every type of 9mm and 38 automatic
round. He aimed it at the victim's head. "Your pain will be over, if you talk. Otherwise—well, I think we have several hours work, yet. There is still the head: a more delicate operation, fraught with risks to your sensory apparatus, but surely worth the effort. After that we might begin to disconnect the muscles. I have always been a student of anatomy, and there are distinct advantages in working with living material. Don't you agree?"

  Suddenly an arrow swished over Mirabal's shoulder and struck the ninja in the chest. He was dead instantly; the shot was through the heart.

  Mirabal whirled and dropped to the ground, pointing his Astra back the way the arrow had come. But there was nothing. His three cohorts scrambled for cover.

  There was silence. "Bugger must have slipped out while his arrow was airborne," Mirabal said disgustedly. "Wonder why he didn't aim for me?" He got up, brushing himself off. The others rose with him.

  Then one screamed and fell forward. An arrow protruded from his back. It was a very fine bamboo shaft a yard long with a stone arrowhead and black feathers. Mirabal whirled again, getting off a shot, but again there was nothing.

  "Get under cover, and stay there!" Mirabal rasped. "It's an ambush, and the bastard wants to play. I'll signal the camp for reinforcements."

  He reached for his walkie-talkie—and a third arrow struck it just as his hand touched it. He jerked his arm back. "Cono!" he swore. "We're exposed here; they can pick us off at will." He reached out and snatched the third arrow. "Black obsidian head with a glasslike edge," he murmured. "Excellent craftsmanship, not local. It seems our ninja villain has arrived." Then he raised his voice: "When I give the signal, we'll make a break for better cover. Right?"

  There was no answer. Irritated, he looked across, and saw the reason. His companion had an arrow sticking out of his eye. He was dead. The third man had disappeared, and was presumably dead too.

  Now Mirabal was alone. He jumped up, grabbed the other man's body, and slung it over himself as a shield. He had a limp, but was so powerful that the added weight was unimportant. He ran for cover.

  Panting, he flung himself behind a huge rubber tree. "Made it!" he gasped.

  "Congratulations."

  Mirabal whirled again, dropping his burden as he raised his gun. But all he saw was a boy. "Who the hell are you?"

  "I am he whom you seek."

  Mirabal's bark of laughter resounded through the jungle. "Well, then; here's death for you!" He pointed his gun—and stopped. The boy wasn't there.

  Mirabal strode forward, peering around the tree. Suddenly a cord looped his hand, jerking the gun away. The boy stood behind him, holding the weapon. "As you have done to my man, so shall I do to you," the lad said.

  The man aimed a mighty kick at him, a savage shot to the head. But suddenly the boy was gone again. The foot passed through empty air, and then the lad's hands caught the heel of the boot and pushed upwards. Mirabal, off-balance, tried to hop back, but the boy's toe snaked forward and hooked that other ankle, anchoring the foot. The torturer took a brutal fall on his back. The air whooshed out of him and for a moment his consciousness faded.

  When he opened his eyes, the boy was staring down at him. "Now," the boy said, "I will question you." His eyes seemed to become huge, and his fingers moved in a disconcerting way. Suddenly Mirabal recognized the pattern: it was the notorious ninja kuji-kiri finger-hypnosis.

  Mirabal tried to get up, but his body was frozen in place. Those eyes, those devil fingers were sapping his willpower, taking over his mind. Now he believed: this was indeed Fu Antos, lord of the ninjas!

  Fernando Mirabal tried to fight. He concentrated in an effort to break the hypnotic hold. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and he felt he was winning. He moved his head a fraction of an inch, slowly tearing his eyes away from that devil's gaze. Now he knew his antagonist, and was on guard; once he regained his feet...

  The sound of gunshots passed through the jungle. The distant birds became quiet, the wild animals paused. Even the river alligators and caimans seemed to listen. What was happening? Fu Antos clenched his small fist and bared his teeth in a momentary display of fury. "I told them to wait!" he gritted.

  Mirabal was abruptly freed from the compulsion. "You were going to ambush our camp, and those rascally Indians attacked prematurely!" he said gleefully. "I could have told you that would happen. Those savages have no discipline at all."

  But he was speaking to air. Fu Antos was gone.

  It galled Fu Antos to leave the butcher, but it would take time to deal with him properly, and right now he had to get to the camp and untangle the mess the Indians had made. The situation was certain to deteriorate in minutes without his guidance. He should have used his skilled ninjas for the job, instead of the poorly organized Indians. Well, those Indians would very quickly learn the meaning of their exuberance. Firearms were tough opponents.

  Meanwhile, he would have to see the chore through himself, using what he had. There was no time to fetch his ninjas, who were widely scattered on other missions. Maybe the first shock of failure would make the Indians realize the importance of timing and caution.

  Too bad he had not arrived in time to save his advance scout. But of course the man had not talked, and at least he was out of his pain. Actually, he could have killed his ninja earlier, or rescued him after only partial flaying. But he could not abide carelessness or a bungled job, and so the ninja had deserved the agony he had suffered. Had the man talked, Fu Antos would have tortured him himself. And Mirabal's monologue had been of interest, as well as his skinning technique. Fu Antos possessed a superior technique, but it was good to compare styles.

  He had been moving rapidly through the overflow forest, a region near the river that became seasonally flooded. Here the trees were of medium size: palms and wild rubber trees, with massive drooping vines that rooted in the ground to become new trunks. His fast passage startled a flock of macaws that flew screeching with their brightly colored plumage flashing. He breathed the ambient odor of the jungle, savoring its naturalness. Once Japan had been primitive like this, pleasant. Alas, no more.

  Now he came to a bluff overlooking the camp. It was in a clearing beside the great river: a cluster of tents, with a few palm-thatched and board-sided dwellings. Separate shacks for radio and equipment stood a little apart. There was also a wooden tower for test drilling, flanked by a jeep and a heavy truck.

  The Indians' wildcat attack had been repulsed. Several dead braves were sprawled about, along with two white men. Now the remaining Indians were in hiding at the edge of the forest, while the surviving government men were holed up inside the main tent. They kept up a steady rifle fire, preventing any safe approach. No question about it: the damage had been done. What could have been an easy, virtually bloodless takeover, was now a difficult problem. The element of surprise was gone.

  Yet Fu Antos smiled. The camp was vulnerable; he could redeem the situation. His eyes traveled on to the river. A boat was there, tied at an improvised dock: a fast launch guarded by two sharp-shooting crewmen.

  Yes, he would put the fear of the ninja into these people! It would be long before another such party intruded in this territory. And now two of his ninjas arrived, attracted to the commotion. They had been reconnoitering nearby, and their prompt presence showed they had been sufficiently alert. Excellent; he had need of them.

  He summoned the Indian subchief. "Maintain harassment," he said in the native tongue, for he readily mastered any language he needed to. "Delegate two men to me for special instruction." The chief frowned. "Many are already dead. We can not go against the guns."

  The Indians, downtrodden for centuries, had been eager to cooperate with anyone who promised to lead them out of their repression and misery. But they hardly trusted the ninjas yet. They had been deceived and defrauded by outsiders too often. But Fu Antos was different; so far they believed in his magical-seeming powers, if not in his age or motive. And his skin was yellow, not white. So the relation between ninja and Indian was a
s yet jury-rigged; it needed strengthening every so often, especially at stress points. In time it would become so firm as to be unbreakable.

  Fu Antos started to twine his fingers in the kuji-kiri pattern, but stopped. He wanted to build a more enduring affiliation, not one based on temporary compulsion. He seized the chief 's wrist, and though he looked like a mere stripling his fingers were like steel pins driving in. "Do you question me?" He twisted, making the chief lean forward involuntarily. "I will lead your braves to great victory."

  Cowed by the ninja lord's power, and the stares of the two other ninjas, the chief saved face by acceding. Two Indians were delegated, while the rest kept up a barrage of arrows and stones.

  "You two," Fu Antos said, gesturing with one hand to his ninjas. "Go upriver, swim underwater with the current to the bottom of the boat, using hollow reeds for snorkels. Use your knives silently to make holes in the hull. Do not let the water enter. Stuff those holes immediately with this." He showed them a concoction he mixed from clay and red powder he took from a vial at his waist.

  "But the water devils—" one protested.

  "That substance dissolves in water," the other said.

  Fu Antos gestured, compelling them as he spoke. Now his own ninjas were questioning him. "Dung of monkeys!" he swore gently in Japanese, smiling pleasantly so the Indians would not catch on. "Have I trained you these last twenty years only to have you grow feeble when there is work to be done?" But he knew what was bothering them: though they well knew of his transformation from decrepit hulk to childlike youth, they had trouble really believing that he was the same man. They had not known him in his vigorous manhood, for they lacked the secret of immediate reincarnation. So they wavered. "Smear this salve on your bodies; the water devils will not molest you. Do not be concerned about the boat: it will sink—when the time is appropriate."

  They looked at him, comprehending his meaning. This was the old Fu Antos, master strategist, talking! He gestured again, and they went.

  He turned to the two Indians. "Fetch arrows," he told them. "And fine cord."