Read Online Beneath an Opal Moon by Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online Page A

blood. His head throbbed and he knew it was just a matter of time until the cord would cause him to lose consciousness. He used his legs first but the Jhindo saw this coming and danced his own legs away. Then Kossori used his elbows, ramming them hard, as if it was all he had and he heard at length the answering grunt and the cord went slack for just long enough for him to turn around so that he was facing his opponent. A small blade flew out of the Jhindo’s left cuff, into the open palm of his hand and Kossori let him have it, watching the slash ballooning in toward him, anticipating the angles vectoring on the final approach. He used his right hand, knowing that, for him, it did not matter, for a blow on the inside of the Jhindo’s wrist—and the blade flew out into the night, skittering brightly across the wood planks, coming to rest at last, bright as a droplet of blood, shimmering. But in its place was a jitte, a double-bladed knifelike weapon, and now the Jhindo’s other hand was wrapped with a row of black metal spikes arching over the knuckles.
    The jitte flashed in a blur, the Jhindo’s spiked hand following hard upon it, a lethal one-two strike. The Jhindo was appallingly quick, faster, perhaps, even than Kossori himself but there were many other elements that must be considered.
    The jitte ripped aside Kossori’s white robe and his flesh shone palely underneath in the wan monochromatic light of the newly risen moon.
    Then the row of spikes went home, sinking themselves into the flesh of Kossori’s right shoulder.
    It was the end for the Jhindo and, to his credit, his eyes registered this knowledge a split second before Kossori’s rigid fingers, held at a peculiar angle, slashed down upon him. They moved more swiftly than the eye could follow, the enormous force of the blow snapping the Jhindo’s right wrist as if it were made of bamboo and, in the same motion, sweeping upward now in concert with the other hand, breaking both of the Jhindo’s shoulders. And before his sagging body had time to sprawl upon the wooden rooftop, Kossori had delivered a final strike as quick and devastating as a living lightning bolt, shattering the Jhindo’s vertebrae.
    Moichi came up beside Kossori, feeling as if he were moving through water. He had practiced with his friend many times, had even seen the killing art of koppo used on wood and metal. But never on another human being. He was awed by the devastation so few short bits of motion could wreak. No wonder Kossori was never armed. What need he of conventional weaponry when he possessed the secrets of koppo?
    â€œWhere did you learn that, Kossori?”
    The other was staring down at the broken body of the tall Jhindo. Blood pooled darkly, seeping through his ebon garb. “We’ll have to call someone to clean up this mess,” he said, almost distractedly.
    â€œKossori?” Moichi put a hand gently on one shoulder. “Are you all right?”
    â€œQuite good, this one.” Kossori’s voice was like a ghostly spiral of smoke, dissipating on the night air. “So fast.”
    â€œKossori.” Moichi stepped around in front of his friend, saw the other’s eyes come slowly into focus.
    He smiled and shook his head. “It takes a little time, my friend. The mental strain is the true difficulty in mastering koppo . And, of course, one tends to get caught in a kind of killing vortex. Otherwise, we’d never have the strength—” He put out his hand and Moichi glanced down at the humped body as broken as a discarded marionette ripped apart by a vengeful child.
    Kossori ripped off a strip of fabric from his robe and bound up the four puncture wounds made by the Jhindo’s strikes. “I was lucky,” he said. “Those things could have been poisoned.”
    Moichi went the short distance over the wood to where the oval box squatted, flat and ugly. “I wonder what he was up