Chiun had seen those eyes before. They were not the eyes of his beloved son, but of a force far greater than any mere mortal. Even a Master of Sinanju.
His bow was deep and reverential.
"O Supreme Lord, your humble servant welcomes you joyously to this temporal plain."
And though his words were respectful, they were laced with fear for the world and sadness for the son who had to die to bring this terrible force to life.
Remo didn't answer right away. He didn't look at Chiun. His eyes remained directed on the house up ahead, the senses of his perfect body tuned to the life force that emanated from within. And when he spoke, there was a quizzical growl to the booming voice that rose like accusing thunder from deep within Remo's chest.
"I know this place. "
Chiun allowed a glimmer of hope. "It is the ancestral home of the Masters of Sinanju."
This seemed to strike a chord within Remo. He looked away from the house. His glowing eyes studied Chiun's face.
"I have encountered you before, old man. "
"You honor me to remember such a worthless soul as I."
The Dutchman's sunrise had oozed up over the horizon. Purple light spread like an oil slick across the dreary landscape. The light brightened across Remo's battered form.
It looked as if Remo had been dragged through Hell. His clothes were tatters, his hair filthy and unkempt. But it was the condition of his pupil's skin that made Chiun wince.
A year ago Remo had suffered terrible burns over most of his body. This was worse. There were blue blotches and oozing red sores. Patches of necrotic-tissue colored arms and neck with hideous splotches of black.
It looked as if Remo had wept tears of blood. The streaks below his eyes were dry now and beginning to flake.
He was filthy, covered with dirt and grime. His fingers and knuckles had bled profusely at some point in the very recent past and were now covered in scabs.
Yet through it all, Chiun sensed a strong heartbeat and powerful, working lungs. A great stillness suffused Remo's being. There was no sense of contagion coming from him. Whatever had happened to Remo, he had sloughed off the worst effects. His body was healing.
"Why am I here?" the being who possessed Remo demanded. "Did you summon me from my slumber?"
"My lips are not worthy, Supreme Lord. I would not defile your name to speak it, wretch that I am."
Chiun sensed the approaching presence of two men. He shot a glance back at Harold Smith and Mark Howard. An angry hand waved them to halt their approach.
The thing that wore Remo's face looked back to the House of Many Woods. His features seemed to soften visibly. A contemplative frown settled around his mouth.
"This was my home for many years," Chiun said sadly. "If the Supreme Lord wishes to claim it for his own, he may have it, for without an heir I no longer have use for it."
The words pained him. He had so much to tell Remo, so much now to discover in himself. But his revelations were nothing without his son to share them with.
The red-flecked eyes narrowed as the being within Remo considered Chiun's offer. At long last he spoke. "I'll put up with everything else, Little Father, but if you think I'm living in this dump, you're nuts." Chiun felt hope soar on fluttering wings.
"Remo?" Chiun sang joyfully.
"Do not address me, worthless one, " boomed the voice that was not Remo's.
As soon as he finished, he spoke again, this time in a voice more familiar.
"Yes," Remo's normal voice insisted. And again he shook his head.
"No," Remo said, louder now. He looked to Chiun, a puzzled expression on his face. The fire still burned within his eyes. But they were Remo's eyes. Though the fire came from another, it was his own to command.
"It's me, Chiun," he stated firmly. "But not me."
And a lopsided smile cracked his face wide, for the doors had been flung open and he at last understood. He had been given a moment. A glimpse of his future.
The fire came from within, from a primordial place that Remo had always known was there. It was right, and it was him and now, after all these years, he finally understood.
With a new strength-one that he owned but was not entirely his own-he spun back to the House of Many Woods.
"Time to kick some squatter ass," Remo Williams said.
INSIDE THE MASTER'S House, the man with the Asian features sensed the men approaching. At first he assumed they were representatives of Kim Jong Il's government, for the rumble of tanks was nearly upon the village.
But then the heartbeats came into his sphere, first one, then another. Men trained in Sinanju. Unmistakable.
There wasn't shock or fear. Just another twist in the tangled knot of madness.
"They dare come against me?" he asked the wall. "Don't they know that I'm the mighty Nuihc? Nuihc the Unbeatable?" He turned to the blond-haired shadow in the corner. "The battle has come to us. You will do as you were trained to do, dog. Stay close and defend your Master."
And even as the order was being issued, the lips of the other man moved in perfect time with those of the Asian.
"COME OUT, come out or I'll blow your house in!" Remo called from the front walk of the Master's House.
The Master of Sinanju was at his side. They had instructed Smith and Howard to stay back near the village.
"Are you well enough for this, my son?" the old man asked from the corner of his mouth.
"Couldn't be better," Remo said.
The truth was, despite his appearance, he felt good. Better than good. It was like a puzzle piece had been missing from his life all along and he hadn't even known it.
When the door opened and Nuihc appeared, Remo wasn't shocked. Chiun had quickly filled him in about the blood on the shore and Pullyang's method of execution.
The Dutchman appeared through the door, as well. With Jeremiah Purcell in tow, Nuihc descended the steps.
It was an odd sight for Remo and Chiun, to actually see their two greatest foes in the same place. Through the years their battles with both men had always been separate. They had never before seen the two false Masters together.
"I miss the days when dead people had the decency to stay dead, don't you, Little Father?" Remo said loudly.
"Be on guard," Chiun whispered in a voice so low only Remo could hear. "For I am forbidden by tradition to raise a hand against the son of my brother."
"Okay, I'll take Nuihc, you take Purcell."
"Very well," Chiun replied hastily. "But the Dutchman's life must be spared. Remember, your spirits are intertwined. If he dies, so, too, will you."
Remo seemed about to say more, but there was no time.
Nuihc and Purcell stopped on the path. Only a few yards separated the pairs of combatants.
"Welcome to my village," Nuihc said.
"Love what you've done with the place," Remo said. "A few too many burned buildings and dead bodies for my taste, but I guess that's what you get when you hire a rubber-room reject as your landscaper."
The barb was directed at Jeremiah Purcell, but it was Nuihc who reacted. A small twitch at his thin lips.
"My son is not to be underestimated," he said coldly.
Both Remo and Chiun took note of the word. From what they had learned from Purcell, Nuihc had never thought of the younger man as anything more than a weapon. Purcell's feelings for Nuihc as father had never been reciprocated.
"You don't belong here, duck droppings," Remo said.
"You are welcome to try to remove me," Nuihc replied. "But this time can I assume that our mutual teacher will adhere to the dictates he claims to hold dear?"
"I will not kill you, wicked one," Chiun answered. Nuihc grinned. So, too, did Jeremiah Purcell. There was something wrong with the smile-with everything. The Nuihc arrogance was there. But the rest was off.
Remo had no time to question.
"Welcome to your doom, white mongrel!" the Fallen Master of Sinanju cried out in triumph.
And in a blindi
ng instant, Nuihc was off the worn path and in the air, teeth gritted in a mask of a hatred so primal that it defied the very grave itself.
SMITH AND HOWARD HAD taken refuge behind the facsimile of a burned building. The CURE director's heart was in his throat as he watched Nuihc's first attack.
An uncoiled toe flew for Remo's throat. Smith was certain that it would register. But at the last moment, Remo seemed to fall in with the blow. His body bent back and Nuihc flew over, rolling and springing back up.
As Nuihc jumped toward Remo, the Dutchman vaulted at Chiun. The blond-haired man circled the elderly Korean on the frozen earth beside the path. No blows registered as the two combatants circled each other.
Above, the sky began to shimmer. A cloak of swirling purple flooded the inverted bowl above the planet. Smith's worried gray eyes were directed on the heavens. "Purcell," he breathed, awed by the supernatural display.
Mark Howard was squinting at the battle. "There's only one of them," he announced all at once.
Smith tore his eyes from the roiling sky. "What?"
"There's only one guy there, Dr. Smith," Howard repeated excitedly. "It's another illusion."
Before Smith could stop him, Howard was scampering out of hiding and running toward the Master's House.
"It's Purcell!" Howard yelled.
Remo's attention was directed at Nuihc, Chiun's at the Dutchman. Neither man dared look to Howard, who had stopped on the road below the bluff.
"I told you to stay back, junior," Remo snarled.
Mark's face was pleading. "You're both fighting Purcell!" he insisted. "There's no one else there but him. It's just another illusion."
The words struck hard.
Howard had some insight into Purcell's sick mind. For an instant Remo thought he had been given a decoy and that the Master of Sinanju was fighting the true Dutchman.
But then the man Remo thought was Nuihc glanced down at the assistant CURE director, hatred in his eyes.
"Knives!" he shouted.
Mark instantly buckled, grabbing chest and abdomen. He collapsed to the road. Smith ran from cover to his side. He began dragging the injured young man to safety.
Remo wheeled in shock. "Purcell," he hissed. From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow that had been dancing around Chiun vanish. The Master of Sinanju found himself facing empty air where a moment ago he would have sworn was a solid opponent.
As the shadow Dutchman was evaporating, Nuihc's features began to change. The flat Asian face dissolved, replaced by the Caucasian features that had been lurking below all along. The black hair lengthened and turned to silken blond. The hazel eyes melted to electric blue.
Remo found himself face-to-face with Jeremiah Purcell.
A crooked smile split the younger man's pale face.
Above their heads, lightning crackled blindingly across the swirling purple sky, flashing demonic light over the Dutchman's twisted features. Fat drops of rain the color of blood began to splatter the ground. They struck the earth like balls of thick molten lead.
"I am Nuihc!" Purcell cried out. "Do not speak the name of that failure in my presence, for he is dead to me."
"That makes two of you," Remo said.
And ignoring the growing storm that was a window to the madness of Jeremiah Purcell's mind, Remo Williams lashed out.
SMITH PULLED Howard behind the half-burned building. By the end the young man was crawling as Smith dragged.
"I'm fine," Mark insisted, panting. "He just knocked the wind out of me."
Smith searched for blood. There wasn't any, nor were there any wounds. Typically victims of the Dutchman's mental attacks believed so vividly in their injuries that they manifested fatal symptoms. But, thank God, Mark Howard's reactions to the Dutchman's mind games were atypical.
Leaving his assistant propped against the wall, Smith scampered over, peering around the corner. Up near the House of Many Woods, Chiun had fallen cautiously back, his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his kimono. This fight was Remo's. Smith didn't know how to gauge a Sinanju battle. It seemed to last an eternity. Feet and fists flew. Traded blows deflected to impotence.
The first blow to hit home came abruptly, landing with a sickening crunch. The sound echoed out across the wasted village.
At first it was unclear who had drawn first blood. Remo and Purcell stood locked in eternal struggle, each with an arm outstretched, fingers like steel mauls.
Then Remo wavered.
The Dutchman! Jeremiah Purcell had scored a blow against Remo!
Remo's arm dropped back to his side. His face was a grimace. Of course the pain had to have been excruciating. But when Remo again raised his hands, Smith saw that he had been mistaken.
No, not pain. At least not for Remo.
It was Purcell who had been hit. The Dutchman pivoted back on his heel, twisting out of harm's way. As he did so, his left arm swung down useless to his side.
"Strike one," Remo said tightly.
One arm crippled, the Dutchman battled on. Another blow, this one to Purcell's right arm.
It was the traditional Sinanju attack of disrespect to show an opponent was unworthy. Years before, Nuihc had used the method on Remo. Back then Nuihc had played the coward, using proxies to deliver the first three blows. Coward as he always was. Coward as Remo, a full Master of Sinanju and so much more, would never be.
Purcell knew what was happening. He held his injured arms close. "Fire!" he cried in desperation. And Remo felt the flames lick his damaged skin. But he had already come through worse, and the fire that burned from within was far greater than any mere hallucination.
Remo wound like a top, twirling on one leg, the other bent up near his body. He took out the Dutchman's right leg. The mass of muscles tore, and the young man could no longer stand. The leg buckled and he felt to the dirt.
"I will have my vengeance!" Purcell shrieked. And Remo spoke. The words were thunder that rolled up from a place deep within him, and for the first time in his life he owned them. And he did say, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. Who is this dog meat that dares challenge me?"
"I am Nuihc," Jeremiah Purcell sneered, "he of the pure bloodline, true Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju."
"This is my house now," Remo said. "And you're nothing but a schizo son of a bitch."
And he was on Purcell, his arms wrapped around the younger man's injured shoulders.
"Did you forget?" the Dutchman taunted weakly. Blood and sweat streaked his face. His teeth were bared in a superior sneer. "You can't kill me. If I die, you die."
"That should work both ways, pal," Remo whispered in his ear. "But I died a couple of times already, and you're still kicking. Lemme test a theory."
And Remo Williams took the throat of the last false Master of Sinanju in both hands and gave a mighty twist. There was an unholy crack of bone. The Dutchman's head whipped around twice on a tightening knot of loose flesh before lolling to one side. Strings of mottled blond hair stuck to pale skin.
In that instant there was shock in the eyes.
For Jeremiah Purcell, life had been a curse. Death was a thing longed for. But in that final, brutal moment there was the first true instant of understanding of life.
Then the light faded from his electric-blue eyes. And as the flickering force of life slipped finally and forever from the wicked Dutchman, the illusions around the village of Sinanju began to fade.
Chapter 34
The bodies went first. Disappearing one by one in little puffs of light and steam. The purple sky washed to blue, sweeping away the mirage of destruction that had been painted across the village. The sunlight of a new winter day erased the charred buildings, replacing them with familiar wooden homes and businesses.
The Dutchman's mental projection had apparently surrounded the entire village of Sinanju with a false backdrop, for as the final spell ever to be cast by his tortured mind coll
apsed, there appeared just beyond the northern border a row of North Korean tanks. Soldiers shouted to one another as they ran between army equipment.
Smith had come out of hiding. Mark Howard, now well enough to stand, also came.
Smith's eyes strayed to the bay. Until moments ago it had been shrouded in darkness. He was relieved to see that the Darter wasn't visible. The sub had sunk below the waves and wasn't scheduled to resurface for hours.
"What now?" the CURE director asked Remo warily.
"Don't sweat it, Smitty," Remo said. "They're with me."
Some men were moving into the village. Smith and Howard stayed back with the Master of Sinanju as Remo went to meet the new arrivals.
The soldiers were propelling a lone captive before them.
Benson Dilkes had been captured while trying to flee the village. The North Korean forces turned him over to Remo without question. Their orders had been clear. They were told from on high to do anything the white Master of Sinanju asked. So far, they had only been told to round up anyone who tried to escape from Sinanju.
Remo ordered them to stay put. The soldiers went back to man their vehicles while Remo dragged Dilkes back into the village.
"I didn't want any of them to get out of here," Remo explained to the others. "I've had enough clomping around the world for my next three lifetimes." He turned his attention to Dilkes. "Where is everybody?"
Dilkes was staring at the lifeless body of Jeremiah Purcell. Although he didn't see Nuihc anywhere, he assumed the worst. By the looks of it he had picked the wrong team.
"This way," Dilkes said, defeated. He led the four men from the village.
"The real Nuihc didn't just want to kill us," Remo explained as they walked along the rough shore. "He wanted to take over the village and lord his victory over everybody here. He had an ego as big as North Dakota. If Purcell thought he was channeling Nuihc, he'd want to take over Sinanju, too. A kingdom's no fun without subjects."
Caves carved by the rolling sea speckled the rock a mile from the village. As they closed in on the caves, Remo and Chiun sensed many heartbeats coming from within.
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