Warren Murphy - Coin of the Realm

Destroyer 77: Coin of the Realm

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

Prologue

The Master of Sinanju reined in his shaggy-footed pony on the beach of what would one day be called Shanghai. The sun shining off the sea which the barbarian Chinese called the Sea of Sudden Typhoons hurt the eyes. He turned to his night tigers.

"Dismount," he called.

Weary and hunger-wasted, the young night tigers of Sinanju climbed off their steeds. One, Sako, sat dazedly on his horse blanket. His eyes were squinched shut in pain. His face, dry in spite of the brutal heat, was the color of soiled ivory.

"Help him," Master Mangko said, holding his scabbard as he dismounted.

Two night tigers assisted Sako from his horse blanket. They laid him on the trackless white beach. The sound of the tide was a lap-lap-lap that would not change with the centuries to come.

The Master of Sinanju knelt beside his faithful warrior. He felt the man's ribs. Sako winced in pain at evry gentle touch, but he uttered no curse or word of protest.

At last the Master of Sinanju spoke quietly.

"I can offer you no hope, my faithful night tiger. No hope, but one boon. You have only to ask."

"Do it," whispered Sako, and he shut his eyes on the last sight of his life-the Master Mangko, tall and lean, his hair like a cap of dark horsehair over his penetratingly clear eyes.

The Master of Sinanju, kneeling, rested one hand on Sako's fevered brow and the other on his throat. He spoke soothing words until he felt Sako no longer shrink from the touch of death. Sako would not know which hand would strike the blow. Such was Master Mangko's mercy. The blow came swiftly. The Master of Sinanju lifted a hand and it hammered in Sako's forehead like an old egg. Sako shuddered and lay still.

They buried him in the sand, close to the sea, so that the Chinese bandits who had wounded him would not get the body. Then they set about to build boats of bamboo and rattan.

They toiled all through the night, with the Master of Sinanju pausing often to cast his gaze inland. The bandits would not be far behind, although they too had suffered casualties.

Night came and the sun on the water no longer burned their eyes. When the young red sun rose, three bamboo boats sat leaning on sands that were as white as crushed pearls.

The Master of Sinanju inspected the rattan lashings of each until he was satisfied with their seaworthiness.

Only then did he give his night tigers a short bow to signify that they had done a creditable job, and the order to push off. The ponies were stripped of their blankets and provisions and given their freedom.

The bandits appeared atop the near hills. They sat on their horses like sullen Buddhas.

"Quickly," urged the Master of Sinanju. The first boats pushed off.

"With me," Master Mangko ordered. Two night tigers sprang to his side. They understood that they must give the others time to make open water.

The Chinese bandits came off the hills like thunder, the hooves of their horses pounding and splitting on the rocks. Master Mankgo shook his head. The Chinese never learned to treat their horses properly.

There were four bandits. They charged like a breaking wave.

The Master of Sinanju stood resolute in his blue tunic and trousers, a black-clad night tiger on either side of him. "Remember," he intoned, "if we die, our village dies. We do not fight for our lives only, but for the lives of our fathers and mothers, our sons and our daughters and their offspring for generations to come. The lives of thousands yet unborn depend upon our skills this day."

The night tigers clenched their iron daggers in their hands. Master Mangko drew a long sword from a scabbard. They stepped away from each other to give themselves room to fight.

The bandits howled in ferocity as they bore down on their victims, certain that their great swords were better than the crude blades of the Koreans, and that their war cries had paralyzed the interlopers.

Closer came the horses. And when they were almost upon the three unmoving Koreans, the great swords of the Chinese swept back for the kill.

The Master of Sinanju let out a cry of defiance and he rolled between two converging horsemen. His sword snapped bones to the right of him and bones to the left of him. Shrill whinnying preceded the sounds of the horsemen crashing into the surf.

The Master of Sinanju leapt to his feet. He saw that his night tigers had also snapped the forelegs of their foemen's steeds.

The Chinese were carried into the waves by their terrified, stumbling mounts. They floundered in the water. One was pushed under by the maimed hooves of his mount. He did not return to the surface.

The Master of Sinanju strode into the water. His blade flashed left and his blade flashed right. Chinese heads leapt into the sky like ugly moons.

As a last gesture, the Master of Sinanju dispatched the horses so that they would not suffer. He felt bad about the horses. It was not their fault that they belonged to stupid Chinese bandits.

"You did well," Master Mangko told his night tigers, and together they pushed off in the third boat and joined the others.

Days passed. The water was calm. They fished with string and silver hooks. They ate cold balls of rice boiled the night before.

It was many days' journey later when the sky darkened. They pulled down the gaily colored sails of cotton, fearing a storm. But no storm smudged the sky. The boats were lashed together for safety.

The Master of Sinanju grew pensive of visage. All signs pointed to a storm. Further on they sailed into the darkening sky of clouds. Talk grew less frequent. The night tigers were quiet.

When he felt it safe, the Master of Sinanju ordered the sails raised. But there was little wind to fill them. The universe seemed terribly still. After a time, their hooks brought up no more fish and the night tigers began to mutter of fearsome things.

"Where is the storm these clouds promise?" one asked. "And why do our lines fail us? Are there no fish in this entire sea?"

And the Master of Sinanju was silent for a long time. At length he spoke.

"We have entered the storm," he announced. The night tigers looked puzzled.

"You do not see this storm because it is not a storm in the sky," Master Mangko went on coldly, "but one of the deepest ocean. This storm is not above us. It is below us."

At that, the night tigers demanded answers, but the Master of Sinanju only gave them his enigmatic back. And still they sailed on.

On the twelfth day, the ocean changed color. First it was a milky brown, as if the very sea bottom had been stirred by a great hand. And as they sailed onward, ever fearful, the sea color became green. Not the green of certain pools, but the green of sickness, of poison.

They sailed past a floating body but did not disturb it. There was no sign of land for miles in all directions. Later, other bodies appeared. Men. Women. Some children. As they watched the swells, a body here and a body there floated to the surface, bloated and white. No sharks disturbed these bodies.

"What does this mean?" asked the night tigers.

And for that the Master of Sinanju had no answer either. When they were twenty days out and still no sign of land, the Master of Sinanju looked up into the night sky. He read the multitudinous stars and consulted a scroll. After a long silence he announced in a sad voice, "We must turn back."

The night tigers were shocked.

"Back? What of our destination? Our hardships to get this far? How can you order us to give up? Our village depends upon the coin of this emperor."

"The coin sent as a guarantee will have to do," intoned the Master of Sinanju, his voice full of doom. "The stars over my head tell me that we have passed the emperor's realm."