Warren Murphy: Spoils Of War

But before the arrows were depleted, an eerie crackling electronic noise filled the room, and a woman's voice said, "Stop."

Immediately the bows were still and the archers slipped silently out the door. When it closed behind them, Remo was left again in the shadowy firelit room, which already had begun to smell of death.

There was laughter in the room, familiar laughter, and soon Remo recognized the woman's voice as Randy Nooner's. "All the girls love you, don't they, Remo?" she asked from four different points in the room, her voice amplified painfully.

"The last one betrayed her master for you. That's quite an honor, you know. The sheik's concubine," she sneered. "She was so sure she could protect you, the little ditz."

"Where is Chiun?" Remo demanded.

"Sleeping peacefully. I wouldn't disturb him if I' were you. He'll be sleeping for a long, long time."

He squinted through the darkness to locate the loudspeakers, which were hidden behind the sheets of silk on the walls. He blinked, trying to ease a growing pain in his eyes. Even the dim candlelight of the room began to burn with a terrible intensity. And the crackling of the speakers . . . Convulsively, Remo covered his ears to block out the sound.

134

The movement jolted through his shoulder, reminding him of the arrow wound. It had entered cleanly and gone out the other side—a small wound, insignificant compared with many he had taken—but the pain was worsening fast.

"Uncomfortable, Remo?" Randy's voice crooned. "It's a native poison. Works like strychnine but it's undetectable. No smell, no taste. Sharpens the senses to the breaking point. The old man drank his dose with his afternoon tea. Yours was more direct."

Remo pinched his ears shut to block out some of the booming sound from the loudspeakers.

"This is just the beginning, Remo. It gets worse. Much worse. Listen." Through the crackling of the speakers, Remo heard the amplified shuffling and clanking of gadgets as Randy readied herself. Then his eardrums nearly burst. The ring of a large bell clanged through the room, growing louder with each echo as Randy pumped up the volume on her controls. Remo covered his head with his arms, as if he were protecting himself from falling bombs.

"You should never have looked further than Fort Vadassar," the voice snapped, still shrouded in the echoes of the bell. "You had Artemis. You could have blamed everything on him. That was the point. Instead, you decided to come after me. It was the wrong decision."

"Stop," he cried. "I can't stand the noise."

"Poor Remo. You're so cute when you're vulnerable. Boyish. I like you this way." She laughed again, a high, cruel laugh like a hyena's, which echoed and roared through Remo's ears.

He forced his head up. The sound was deafening, and the light from the candles seared him. When he

135

breathed, the incense in the room nauseated him with acrid smoke.

He struggled to his feet, the room awhirl around him, and looked for a weapon. There was nothing.' The pillows, the candles, the incense—everything in the room was soft and pliable. The place was as harmless as a padded cell.

Straining his eyes, he looked at the incense again. The glowing cones were burning in tiny brass lamps. They weighed two ounces at most, but they were shaped in an aerodynamically sound wedge. If he threw them exactly right, weighting his thrust from the middle of his back, at exactly the right angle, he could knock down the loudspeakers and stop Randy Nooner*s laughter from pounding in his ears.

His right shoulder was throbbing demonically. He would have to use his left arm. He tried to aim one of the little lamps at the speaker's base, but the speaker was covered with the silk wall draperies, and the poison that the arrow had carried into Re-mo's body was distorting his vision. The objects in the room appeared to waver and melt together like party-colored spaghetti.

He missed. He stumbled to retrieve the lamp, threw it, and missed again. The effort left him limp and gasping for breath.

Randy's witchy laughter cackled over the speakers again. "The fighter to the end," she said. "It won't do you any good. Your Oriental friend knew that. He didn't struggle at all. He just lay down quietly, the sweet little thing."

"Chiun," Remo whispered. "Hang on, Little Father. I'm coming for you."

It was then that Remo saw the camera. It was poised over the door, hidden in the shadows beneath

136

the drapes of silk. Summoning the small strength he had remaining, he weaved his way across the room and stared up at it.

"You found me," Randy said. "Good. I'd like a closeup of you as you die. The fihn will make a good conversation opener when I show it at parties." Her laughter reverberated in Remo's brain. "Can you hear me, Remo? I don't think I'm getting my message across. I want you to die."

Her words rang and cracked as the sound became louder.

"I'm turning up the sound, Remo, so that you'll understand me clearly. Die, Remo."

"Die, Remo. Die, Remo," the distorted, disembodied voice echoed.

"Die."

"Die. Die. Die. Die."

Remo felt a small blood vessel in his ear explode. A trickle of blood trailed down his neck.

"I will not die," Remo said.

Slowly he raised his arms toward the camera as if in salute. Then, using his arms as borders, he willed the area between them into focus until he could see the camera clearly. He shifted his weight slightly to center himself directly below it. Randy was talking, but he did not hear her now. Now the universe was a space between his two upheld arms, and nothing more. Only the television camera above him existed. Nothing more. One by one, Remo removed all other sensations from his mind. There were no memories, no past, and no future. Only the camera.

He closed his eyes. The camera was still there, its presence exerting gravity, the only object in Remo's consciousness. He felt it. He was ready.

His knees bent automatically. His back straight-

137

ened. His heels left the floor, and he was springing reflexively as a cat toward the camera. His hands closed around it. It came away from the wall in a tangle of wires and bolts. It rested in his arms, the weapon he needed.

"You pig!" Randy screamed. But Remo did not open his eyes and pushed the sound out of his ears. He positioned himself in the center of the room and permitted the sound vibrations from the loudspeakers to touch his skin without entering his ears. He felt the corner sources of the speakers, and sent the camera spinning toward one, then another, then another. As the fourth speaker smashed to the ground in a fury of sparks, Remo allowed his concentration to dissipate. The speaker groaned once, then was silent.

Remo sank to the floor.

138

Thirteen

Quiet.

Remo luxuriated in it. The ringing in his ears stopped. The throbbing from his burst eardrum subsided. His eyes rested on the dim, incense-smoky wall ahead. He pulled his mind back deep into semi-consciousness, away from all thought. There was more in store for him, of that he was sure. There would be plenty of time for worry later. Now he had to rest.

Then the light appeared. It came from nowhere, a blinding expanse of light where the blank wall used to be. It sent him reeling. He blinked and tried to shield his eyes, but the light was unrelenting.

Into it stepped the figure of a man, his shadow attenuated against the yellow-white light. "Come," he said gently. Remo recognized the voice as that of the guide who first escorted him into the palace.

"Where is Chiun?" Remo whispered. "The old man who was with me?"

"Do not ask, my friend. In the Palace of Vadass, it is always best not to ask." His voice was low and sad.

He helped Remo stand and supported him as he

139