Warren Murphy: Prophet Of Doom

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"All will be as my servant predicted," the voice said sonorously.

"The prophecy?" Kaspar said, licking his lips anxiously. "I will govern the land in which I dwell?"

"All will be as I have foreseen."

Kaspar couldn't contain his ecstasy. This was no longer the Pythia he spoke to. The servant of Apollo had been banished to some unimportant corner within the vessel. These words were spoken by the sun god himself—and they confirmed that he would rule the United States of America.

"I am humbled by the gifts you have bestowed upon me, my master," Kaspar said, bowing. "The sacrifice we now make is a homage to your ineffable greatness."

He pulled the ceremonial dagger from the scabbard at his waist and, turning, summoned Esther Clear-Seer to him.

Esther wasn't sure what was going on, but she understood enough to know that it was something more vast and powerful than she had ever encountered. Dumbly she walked over to Kaspar and took the proffered knife. He gestured to Buffy Brand, and like an automaton, Esther began walking stiffly over to the girl, all the time never taking her eyes off the creature on the tripod.

Buffy, as well, was fixated on the man on the stool. But as Esther approached, knife in hand, she began struggling fearfully, trying to pull away. The heavy chains at her wrists and ankles prevented her from moving.

As Esther raised the knife, ready to bring it slashing down and across Buffy's throat, a sudden scream dis-

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tracted her. When she turned, she saw the mouth of what had been Remo opened in shock. The cruel face was a mask of rage and hate.

Kaspar stood before the tripod, surrounded in furious puffs of sickly sulphur smoke, a look of helpless confusion creasing his narrow features.

Before Kaspar could say or do anything, the head of Apollo slumped back to the body of its host vessel.

"Little man from Sinanju, you think you can best Apollo?" The voice was filled with anger and scorn.

Apollo appeared on the plain the instant Remo had stepped past the prone figure of the Pythia. He barred Remo's way.

The sun god wasn't as huge as he had appeared in the previous visions, but he was a powerful being nonetheless. He towered several feet above Remo. A giant among mortals. Around his shoulders was draped a cloak of fire, and across his back was slung a quiver filled with golden arrows. In his hand he held a mighty longbow. His face was a radiant bronze shield crowned by hair the color of sunshine. The eyes were reddish gold.

Wordlessly Remo took a step forward.

A hand flew faster than Remo's eyes could detect. Up, around, behind. A golden blur raced from the center of the bowstring.

Remo felt the arrow strike his shoulder. It thumped him back a pace, throwing him off stride. A second arrow flew, striking just below the first. He tried to take another step, but a third arrow, then a fourth and fifth in rapid succession knocked him back in place.

The arrows continued to fly. Each time Remo was

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sure the quiver must be empty, another deadly missile hurtled through the air of the netherworld.

His body was racked in pain. Blood flowed freely from hundreds of open wounds. Through it all, Remo did not fall. He refused to.

When the pain became too great and Remo was certain that his mind could no longer endure the torment of this other world, he suddenly felt another presence explode in white-hot brilliance in his thoughts.

It was something that was vast beyond his comprehension, but it didn't belong to the sinister creatures that had inhabited his thoughts of late. This was a presence that was neither evil nor judgmental, but was, incongruously, fierce and violent all the same. It was a force so powerful that it could not be reconciled to the modern world.

And it was familiar.

The force took over his will, but didn't attempt to obliterate Remo's consciousness. He remained a detached spectator, as he had been in the previous battles—but to a lesser degree. He was still his own self—yet now that self had become part of a greater whole.

And the force within him spoke and it did say, "Foolish minion of Greece! Save your simple tools of destruction for the ignorant who fear and serve you."

And in his mind Remo's hand swept down and yanked the arrows from his body as though they were nothing more than feathers. When he again looked up, he was on a level with the creature before him.

"I will have my due," Apollo sneered. "Atonement for the destruction of my earthly temple by the fool

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Tang. It is as I have foreseen—East has met West. The night tiger belongs to the gods."

The being within Remo threw back its head and laughed loudly at the endless black sky. "East has met West, fool," it spit. "But / am fulfillment of your prophecy."

Apollo grew angry of tone. "Who is this who speaks to me from the mind of my Sinanju vessel?" he demanded.

And the voice within Remo intoned, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer—death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. Prepare to pay with blood, corrupter of my avatar, Shiva Remo."

He advanced on Apollo, hands floating before him like questing python heads, ready to strike a deadly blow.

And in this place of immortals that knew neither time nor space nor dimension, the spirit of the sun god felt fear.

"What's happening?" Esther Clear-Seer asked fearfully. The knife was forgotten. She had dropped it at the feet of Buffy Brand when the voices started emanating from the mouth of the vessel on the tripod.

They were strange and alien voices. Loud and fearful. A struggle was taking place somewhere within the heart of the vessel. The body twitched in tiny spasms as cries of pain and anguish issued from its mouth.

All at once the sounds ceased, and the body became still once more.

Kaspar shot a worried look at Esther Clear-Seer, who had backed fearfully to the top of the stone stair-

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case. He stepped closer to the tripod, afraid that some unseen internal force had destroyed the integrity of the vessel. Remo's dark head was still slumped down on his chest, and there appeared to be no breathing coming from the vessel. Carefully Kaspar took a thick wrist in his hand, seeking a pulse.

The head suddenly rose. A pair of dead black eyes lifted, then bore into Kaspar's soul.

"Boo," said Remo Williams in his own voice.

Kaspar jumped as if shocked by electricity. He tried to pull away, but Remo had grabbed him by the arm. Kaspar stood rooted in place atop the metal grate as Remo got to his feet.

"This is not possible!" Kaspar yelled. He could feel the bones of his wrist shattering beneath the pressure of Remo's viselike grip. "My master prophesied my greatness! I will govern the land in which I dwell!"

"That is true," Remo said, and the smile that spread across his features was one of cruel joy. "But the land you govern is your own grave."

And with that Remo swung his other hand around and clapped it firmly atop Kaspar's head. As he held Kaspar in place with one hand, he pushed downward with the other.

In all, it took less than a minute. Remo made certain that Mark Kaspar was conscious until the last possible second. Kaspar's screams as his legs were shredded through the grate of the Pythia Pit grew more frenzied as his pelvis and torso passed into the crevice beneath.

It was as if he were being swallowed up by some breed of rock-dwelling shark, and the screams subsided as his heart muscle passed out the far end of the grate in three distinct sections. When it was all that

>

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was left, Remo pressed down with the sole of his shoe on the skull, delivering Kaspar's brain with a final,

n< feeble snap into the belly of the dwindling yellow

v smoke.