Destroyer - Master's Challenge Part 14

He waited in silence for what seemed an eternity. Finally he spoke, burning with shame. "Just asking," he said bitterly.

"Please-"

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"Hey. No need to make excuses. Believe me, I don't want any strings, either. It was a swell one-night stand."

He ran down the hotel steps, hot-wired the first unguarded car he saw, and laid a strip of rubber a mile long.

"b.i.t.c.h," he muttered, speeding out of the city. He was never going to get mixed up with women again. He would limit himself to tarts and dumbbells. If no tarts or dumbbells were available, he'd settle for cold showers.

What was so special about what's-her-name, anyway, he asked himself. He'd just been lonesome and h.o.r.n.y. As a matter of fact, she was as ordinary as they came. Couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. And her nose was crooked. Didn't even know how to use a fork.

She was freaking weird, when it came right down to it. Eyes that kept changing colors, like a kaleidoscope. Muscles like a d.a.m.ned stevedore under that silky skin. Probably lifted weights on her lunch hour. He wouldn't be surprised if she was a d.y.k.e. Or worse. One of those Scandinavian s.e.x-change jobs. By G.o.d, that was why she wouldn't give him her name! Call me Harry, darling. h.e.l.l, he was glad to be rid of her.

But oh, the taste of her lips.

Forget it. What was done was done. Even if it never started.

He made it to Wales in record time. Stopping at a village to buy some gas with all the money he had left, he considered buying a map of the area, but discarded the idea. Michelin didn't include places like the Valley of the Forest Primeval on its maps. He was too embarra.s.sed even to ask directions to such a ridiculous-sounding place, even if Chiun did insist that it was the correct address.

He headed north. It seemed like the more primeval route. By the time the roads changed from stone to earth, and the rickety wooden signposts touted places like Llanfairfechan and Caernarfon as major metropolises hun- 137.

dreds of kilometers distant, the late afternoon mist was beginning to settle along the mossy banks where he drove. The trees were huge here, lush pines stretching to the clouds. Insects and hidden forest animals seemed to be everywhere, chattering endlessly. The air was thick and sweet.

Remo drove the car down the narrowing road, overgrown almost to invisibility by gra.s.s, until the road petered off into a footpath and then, in the distance, disappeared altogether.

"Great," Remo said out loud. "Just freaking great." He must have come fifty miles on that road. "Valley of the Forest Primeval. I've got to be out of my gourd."

He slammed the gears into reverse and backed up. "Look on the bright side," he explained to the steering wheel. "The one good thing about having a rotten day is that after a certain point it doesn't get any worse, right?"

He was looking over his shoulder when the rock smashed his windscreen.

"Wrong," he muttered, getting out of the car.

There was a rustling somewhere in the forest. He ran toward it.

Nothing. Everything was still once he reached the shadows of the pines. The chipmunks and squirrels kept up their angry chatter.

Must have been a freak accident, he decided, coming back to the road. A rock that got spun up by the tires . . .

He closed his eyes, hoping it was all a bad dream, then opened them again. No dream. All four tires were flat.

He examined one. A puncture. A very neat puncture, executed by a sharp metal instrument. The others were the same.

"I can't believe it," he said. He'd always thought of vandalism as an urban problem. But there wasn't even a 138.

road here, and his tires had been slashed by a knife. He looked around. Not a footprint.

Where did they come from? Maybe the people out here imported hoodlums, like oranges. Maybe somewhere in Llanfairfechan there was a company that brought gang members from Chicago or New York by the truckload, snarling and slas.h.i.+ng at travelers to make sure the area didn't get overrun by tourists.

He leaned against the car and slid down to a sitting position. He hadn't seen a house for thirty miles, and he'd pa.s.sed the last garage four hours ago.

h.e.l.l, what was he thinking about? He didn't have any money to pay for tires even if he found them. There was nothing he could do now except wait it out till morning and then carry on on foot.

Maybe it was for the best, he thought sleepily. He hadn't gotten much rest the night before, what with squandering his one evening of relaxation on a girl. It wouldn't hurt to catch forty winks. He closed his eyes.

Ping.

"Wazzat," he said, leaping to his feet. On the car's fender, just beside the place where his head had been, was a small dent. From the angle of the mark, its trajectory had been from above.

He looked up at the trees. "Okay, you little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," he yelled.

Ping.

He caught it with a slap of his hand. A pebble. And another, whizzing through his hair.

He stalked through the forest, crouching, moving so that his feet didn't disturb the leaves beneath them. About fifty yards away, he caught sight of a pair of short, skinny legs in ragged pants s.h.i.+nnying down the trunk of a tree. A little torso covered by a leather jerkin followed, and two arms, one of them clutching a homemade slingshot. The last part 139.

down was a tiny, dirt-smeared face, its eyes wide and alert, searching in all directions.

"Graaagh," Remo yelled, s.n.a.t.c.hing the boy by the scruff of the neck.

The boy screamed and kicked, his grimy limbs dangling in midair. "Let me down, you great filthy beast."

"Look who's talking," Remo said. "They can smell you in Albuquerque."

"Fight me fair, and I'll kill you, Chinee." He looked at Remo, puzzled. "You are the Chinee, aren't you?" '

Remo lifted him until his face was level with his own. "How Chinee do 1 look?"

The boy's mouth set defiantly. "Well, you musta used magic to cover yourself up, like. Swine of a yellow Chinee, I know who y'are. Set me down and fight like a man."

"Oh, jeez," Remo said. He dropped the boy, who rolled a few feet in the moss like a dirty leather ball, then righted himself, his fists high. "Go on, fight me, villain."

Remo tapped him on the stomach with one finger.

"Oof." The boy fell backward. "Lucky punch, that was. Do it again. Dare you, pig."

Remo tweaked his leg. The boy somersaulted onto his back.

"I'm not down yet, Chinee," he panted, staggering to his feet. He blew a lock of unruly black hair off his forehead.

"Look, before we continue this fight to the death, suppose you tell me why you threw that rock into my winds.h.i.+eld and cut up my tires."

"Fool. Had to get you to stop, didn't I?" He put up his fists.

'' You could have asked.''

The boy snorted. "And let you run away from me like the ruddy yellow coward y'are?"

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"We all have to take our chances," Remo said. "How do you think I'm going to get out of this place?"

"You're not leaving alive, if that's what you have in mind."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot. You're going to finish me off here and now."

"That's right. There's nought but one winner in the Master's Trial."

"Prepare to die."

The boy lunged. Remo swept him up under his arm. Now things had really gone too far. Fighting a dwarf had been bad enough. But if Chiun expected him to murder a ten-year-old kid, he could take his traditions and shove them up the old archives.

"You've got to be kidding," he said.

"By the G.o.ds ..." The boy was flailing for all he was worth. Remo let him wear himself out. After a long, wild bout, the boy drooped exhausted, suspended by his midsection, twitching occasionally and sniffling. "By the G.o.ds, you'll not kill my father," he squeaked.

Remo set him down.

The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve. "I will fight ya," he said, his tears cutting little white rivulets down his cheeks. "Just need a minute to get m'strength back."

"Sure," Remo said gently, putting his arm around the boy. He didn't resist. "Suppose you tell me who your father is."

"Emrys ap Llewellyn," he said, digging his fists into his eyes. "Son of Llewellyn. I'm Griffith. Griffith ap Emrys. Son of Emrys."

"So that's how it works."

"Who're you?"

"Remo ap n.o.body, I guess. I'm an orphan."

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The boy nodded. "I'm half an orphan. My ma's gone. Remo don't sound like a Chinee name."

"Griffith doesn't sound like the name of a killer."

"A man's got to fight, if he's a man. That's what my da says."

"Only if he's got no choice."

"What about you? You never even met my da, and you come all this way to kill him."

"I'm not going to kill your father. I've come here to tell him that."

"You're lying."

"Cross my heart."

The boy looked hopeful for a moment. Then his frown returned.

"But you'll fight him."

"Nope. Not unless he attacks me."

The boy squirmed. "Da's a funny man," he said.

"How's that?"

"He might attack you. It's the Trial Riles, you know, to fight. But he can't kill you."

"Why not?"

The boy scrutinized Remo suspiciously. "Maybe I shouldn't say. It'll be giving you unfair advantage."

Remo couldn't argue. The kid was a dirtball, but he was no dummy.

"Unless you promise not to kill him, no matter what."

"Okay. That's a deal."

"No, a real promise. With this." He produced a pocketknife.

"Exhibit A," Remo said.

"Come on, hold out your finger."

"Oh, no you don't. I can't stand the sight of blood."

"It'll just be a p.r.i.c.k on your finger. To promise." The boy waited expectantly.

"Well, all right. But not too deep."

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The boy gave him an expert stab on the end of his index finger. "Okay, now swear you won't hurt my da."

"1 swear."

"Swear by all the ancient G.o.ds, by Mryddin and Cos and the Lady of the Lake-"

"All right, all right already," Remo said. "Why won't your father kill me?"

The boy leaned close to Remo's ear and whispered: "Because he's going blind."

Remo straightened up. "Are you serious?" .