Mortal Kombat Page 5

  Clearly, it was not.

  Though for thirteen years it had been a matter of pride, it wasn’t any longer. This year, with his soul in remarkable disrepair, his body weaker than ever, Shang Tsung had decided not to fight. This year, someone – more properly, something – would fight for him, and defeat the accursed Kung Lao. And with their champion beaten, Rayden and even T’ien himself would have to partake in the tournament. And when they fell, their souls would –

  But you get ahead of yourself, incautious dog! Shang Tsung chastised himself.

  He felt tired as he stood here for the first time since the last Mortal Kombat one year before. Each time he lost, Shang Tsung had come to this very spot and surrendered a portion of his soul to keep the portal from closing.

  It had occurred to him, of course, to disobey Shao Kahn’s command – to allow the portal to shut and then reopen it when he had collected enough souls. But in a panic that had started him on the road to insanity, Ruthay had pointed out that if the rift were to shut while Ruthay was still on this side, the Mother Realm would be destroyed, along with everyone in it – including them.

  How can that be? Shang Tsung had asked.

  It is in the nature of matter, Ruthay had said, that the demon can leave the egg, or the soul the human, but neither the shell nor the flesh can cross over. If they do, and the spiritual root of the home world is severed, then the particles that comprise all matter will be torn asunder and obliterate all.

  While he was here, trapped atop the circle, Ruthay was still rooted in the Outworld. But if the doorway were shut, he would be nothing more than an unctuous smear. Only if a god were to cross from one realm to the other, redefine the nature of the life and matter there, could the two worlds be mixed.

  So Shang Tsung would stand there while a wind from the other side of the rift pulled at him, drawing him down like a whirlpool. He would resist the pull, and only when he felt a sharp snap or a slow rip or long, twisting agony – for it was different every time – did he know that he had given part of himself in order for the doorway to stay open, and that he was free to go… until the next loss.

  The matter of pride had been that he be the one to defeat Kung Lao, to claim the high priest’s singularly mighty soul and use it to enlarge the rift between the worlds. But that was not to be, so with Ruthay’s help he had come up with an alternate plan and had presented that to their sovereign lord. And as he knelt with his spread palms to the floor, and prepared to face Shao Kahn once more, Shang Tsung was confident that what they were going to do was the right thing. Shao Kahn didn’t care about means so much as he cared about results.

  “Great Lord,” Shang said as he felt but could not see a hot, oppressive shadow fall over him.

  “What is it, mouse?” Shao Kahn said.

  The word stung, but Shang said, “Revered Emperor, I’ve come to assure you that this will be the year of Kung Lao’s defeat.”

  “You have promised this before.”

  “I have, Great One, it is true,” Shang said. “But this year, I have renewed hope. Not only will I permit your other servant to take on the Order of Light high priest and crush him utterly, for all time, the servant who is strong where I am weak–”

  “You are weak in most ways, Shang –”

  “I deserve the rebuke, Master,” Shang lied. “But after this day, you will be proud of what we have done. For not only will the Prince fight for you, but Kung Lao has come without the source of his greatest power, the enchanted amulet given to him by–”

  “Your prattle bores me, rabbit. Mastery of the Mother Realm is all that matters.”

  “And you shall have it,” Shang promised. “Soon.”

  “Go,” Shao Kahn said, “You have very little soul left, Shang, and I should hate to have to claim it. If I do, he bellowed, “you will hate it as well, for your eternity will be spent not as the ruler of Shokan provinces, but as a sore on the tongue of my dragon Twi’glet, one that causes her to belch fire over you for each moment of forever.”

  “I understand, Most High,” Shang kowtowed. “I will not fail you.”

  “Be very certain of that,” Shao Kahn said. “The Prince I have sent through the rift was not happy to go.”

  “I know,” Shang Tsung said, bending so low that his lips touched the floor. “I had thought, sire, the souls I sent in exchange–”

  “Briefly contented me. The pirates are now floating on a fiery sea while flaming swords slice hot wounds that are instantly cauterized. How the wretches scream when the blades are yanked from their burnt flesh. But these souls did not help the Prince. They widened the portal barely enough to accommodate his form. I had to force him–”

  “My lowest apologies, lord.”

  “As Ruthay will tell you when the poor fiend is lucid enough to speak, that is a most unpleasant experience.”

  “I understand, Your Highness,” Shang Tsung said, “but I assure you, I have the Prince under control.”

  “Control?” Shao Kahn chuckled. “One does not control the Prince. Once simply finds him a more appealing adversary and then gets out of his way. Had I been able to control him fully, he would have gone through long ago, instead of you.”

  And as the shadow presence of the great lord vanished, and Shang Tsung rose, he felt that he was certain of that. For, through a spy-hole, had had watched Kung Lao when he arrived at his room in the northern pagoda, had seen that the thirteen-time champion had come without his amulet, and had about him the chill of fear – the look of a man who was about to lose his first Mortal Kombat and suffer dumb and helpless while his soul was torn from his broken body and used as the first cobblestone in a demonic road…

  CHAPTER NINE

  On the morning of every Mortal Kombat, Kung Lao had a ritual.

  The champion would rise well before the sun, pray until after dawn, and then strip to the waist and slowly drag a thorn branch over his body, a sprig torn from the shrubs in the foothills of Mt. Ifukube. The thin, superficial wounds did not weaken him, but Kung Lao knew that if his flesh were sore he would react that much quicker to protect himself from being hurt.

  Adorned with this webwork of blood, Kung Lao ate none of the fruit and meat that had been left at his door, drank none of the nectars from their silver goblets. As he sat on the terrace of his spacious champion’s rooms on the bottom floor, and composed his spirit as cool sea winds washed over him, he ate two humble rice cakes that had been made for him by the Order of Light monks of Ifukube. It was good to feel the claws of hunger scratching at him during the tournament. It helped to keep him alert – right there, living in the moment.

  When he was finished eating, he continued to sit there, contemplating the deity in whose name he fought… and, on this day, wondering about the awful presence he had felt in the rooms somewhere above him when he’d arrived, and continued to feel in his sleep, during his deepest prayers, and even now.

  And then, when the huge bell sounded in the courtyard outside the place, the site of the initial bouts, he went to the tournament dressed in his slippers, loose skirt, leggings, and the mien of a champion.

  Only around his neck, and on his chest, did Kung Lao feel naked…

  CHAPTER TEN

  The courtyard of the palace was a giant oblong, made of stone with a huge black-ivory inlay of Shang’s dragon. It was said that the ivory was not dyed but had been made from the horns of the dragon itself, a beast that resided in some other realm.

  The stone stands reached two hundred hands high and surrounded the courtyard on three sides. They quickly filled with the dozens of participants who awaited their turn to fight, and with the mysterious retainers of Shang Tsung, who never raised their hoods to watch and who never showed any emotion or hostility, even when their own master was defeated. Stone dragons lined the wall behind the uppermost row of the grandstand, their mouths spouting fire at night so that the tournament could continue in the dark; yellow-orange banners bearing the silhouette of the black dragon hung limply from poles stuck in
the back of each stone figure. Behind the dragons on the long western wall were the flared red columns of the temple, with its roof of thick green tiles and a repetition of the dragon motif in black tile.

  On the fourth side of the courtyard, above the great gate through which the combatants passed, was Shang’s throne. The chair was made of iron forged in the shape of human bones, cushioned with the mystically preserved blubber of a whale and covered with a thick throw of fur from one of the sacred pandas – fur only one such as Shang would dare to take. A canopy of unknown material, supported by a column constructed of shark teeth, protected him from the hazy sun. Some said the material was human flesh, but few thought that even the vicious Shang could be capable of such a vile and corrupt display. Kung Lao was not one of the few.

  The champion did not arrive with ceremony, though it was his to request, nor did he sit in the special seat that was reserved for him in the center of the lowest row of the grandstand. He preferred to come and go as any participant: he believed that honor had to be won anew each year, not carried over from the previous tournament. However, he was not required to fight until all but the three best martial artists had been eliminated.

  The early contests were always interesting and exciting, as an eclectic mix of veterans and newcomers fought in a series of eliminations in three separate areas. Both losers and victors returned to the stands when they were through, the former to watch and learn, the latter to await the next series of bouts.

  By nightfall, the trio who would fight in the final rounds had been selected. Kung Lao was required to battle each one in turn. Despite their prowess, and the fact that two of the three were newcomers to Mortal Kombat, Kung Lao made quick work of them all. One of them, a brawny thing who called himself Ulfila the Ostrogoth, did not use the martial arts but attacked violently with a spiked club and shield and tired quickly. Another, Kung Lao’s old adversary Mahada, a Mauryan who recited the Vedic “Hymn of Creation” as he fought, put up a noble struggle but lost several teeth during the match – and, with them, his ability to utter the hymn, and his confidence. The third foe, a Roman wrestler named Toisarus, gave Kung Lao some trouble when he pinned him to the ground, but the pain of the champion’s self-inflicted lacerations was the added boost he needed to throw the challenger off. In the past, Kung Lao ruminated, the power of the amulet would have ensured that he not find himself in that position in the first place.

  All through the long day Kung Lao had continued to feel the presence of something formidable, though as yet he had neither seen, heard, nor smelled anyone that could have been the cause of his unrest.

  After beating Toisarus with a shoulder-throw that knocked the air from his lungs and the fight from his limbs, Kung Lao turned to his host, bowed, spread his legs, cocked his arms at his side, and waited. A long moment later Shang Tsung smiled – the first time Kung Lao had ever seen him do so.

  “Your victory is impressive,” said the host. “The more so because we notice that for the first time you participated without the aid of magic.”

  “Religion is not magic,” Kung Lao said.

  “A debatable point for some other time,” Shang Tsung said as he continued to smile. “What has earned our attention and respect is that you have won without your amulet.” The eyes of the prematurely aged wizard narrowed, and his bushy white brows dipped in the center. “Won – to this point. There is one more battle yet to fight.”

  “As you can see,” Kung Lao said, “I await you.”

  Shang Tsung looked at him for a moment, then crooked a finger at a hooded figure who stood to his right. “Fan,” he said. The figure reached into his robe and removed a folding fan made of rice paper. He moved it from side to side; though his motions were slow and unforceful, banners on the distant wall stirred.

  Shang Tsung’s smile broadened. The humorless, unnatural grin on that skull-like face made Kung Lao uneasy.

  “Did you know,” Shang Tsung asked, “that I decided not to fight this year?”

  “I am truly sorry to hear that.”

  “I believe you,” Shang Tsung replied. “Do you wish to come forward and accept the benediction of victory?”

  Kung Lao remained locked in his combative pose. “You know that goes against the rules of Mortal Kombat. There must be a battle between the champion and his host – or, if the host is debilitated, between the champion and the host’s champion.”

  “Of course,” said Shang Tsung. “Otherwise, the winner does not win the ultimate prize: the precious gift of not aging until the next Mortal Kombat.”

  Kung Lao shook his head. “That isn’t why I fight, and I submit that isn’t why most of these people are here. They fight for honor, no other reward.” He felt the presence more strongly than ever now. Whatever was going to happen, whoever was going to appear would do so soon.

  “You’re probably right,” Shang Tsung admitted. The smile wavered and collapsed. “What good is anything in life if we do not have honor… if we don’t control our own souls.”

  Shang Tsung waved away his servant, then continued to stare at Kung Lao has he clapped his hands once. There was a groaning outside the courtyard, as of a cart being wheeled beneath a staggering weight, and then a clanking and rattling as though chains were being pulled and then dropped. These were followed by the thunderous sound of footfalls in the dark beyond the dragon flames.

  “I have decided,” Shang Tsung said, “to, ah – take the year off. I’m no longer young, Kung Lao, and felt it would be best for this year at least to let someone else fight on my behalf.”

  The thundering grew louder as a great and hulking shape began to emerge from the darkness. It was vaguely human in form, but stood over eight feet tall and had – it appeared – not the usual complement of limbs, but more.

  As the being approached, Kung Lao felt the sinister presence grow stronger and stronger, as though a great evil had been dropped in their midst. More evil even that Shang Tsung, who, after all, was still human.

  This new thing was not. As it bent its titanic head to get under the gate, then stood in the fire-lit courtyard, its red eyes scanned the stands. There were cries of fear from many of the great heroes who had gathered here, and more when the bronze-skinned entity roared, the uppermost of its four powerfully muscled arms thumping its great chest, the lower two reaching impatiently toward Kung Lao. The muscles of each of the four forearms strained against the iron wristbands by which it had been kept manacled, and every one of the three thick fingers on the two lower hands curled, aching for combat. The newcomer’s sharp ears twitched with obvious delight as it listened to the fear of the beaten warriors.

  When Kung Lao didn’t flinch, the creature shook its great head defiantly. Its long, black queue of hair swung pendulously behind it, and its nearly lipless mouth opened wide, exposing white teeth and two sharp fangs glistening with spittle.

  The giant shifted impatiently from leg to leg, its clearly defined abdominal muscles straining behind a red leather belt with a Yin and Yang symbol on the buckle, its elephantine leg muscles bulging beneath the blue loincloth it wore.

  The monster – for such was the only word that came to Kung Lao’s mind – had two powerful claws on each foot, and the one dewclaw behind, and all six of them scratched angrily on the floor of the arena. The gray leggings it wore on its shins seemed about ready to pop from the pressure of the sinew beneath them.

  Shang Tsung’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “Kung Lao – I would like to introduce you to my champion, the son of King Gorbak and Queen Mai, the Prince of Kuatan and Ruler Supreme of the Armies of the Kingdoms of Shokan.”

  Kung Lao watched as the brute’s evil mouth tightened with rage.

  “However,” said Shang Tsung, “if you can speak hereafter, you are free to call him by his given name: Goro.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If.

  A thousand ifs flitted through Kung Lao’s brain as the behemoth began to move. If he had been confident enough to have brought his amulet, he would have
stood a better chance against the challenger. If he had accepted the championship without the benediction, as the rules did permit, his honor and perhaps his life would not be at stake. If he had insisted on fighting Shang Tsung, as was his right, then he surely would have won, for the onetime martial arts master had grown frail.

  If.

  With a roar that shook the flames from the stone dragon’s mouths, and thumping footfalls that rattled the courtyard itself, Goro charged his foe. As befitted a warrior-priest of the Order of Light, and a champion of Mortal Kombat, Kung Lao did not stand and wait to receive his attack. He ran at his overbearing challenger, with a piercing cry that came from somewhere deep inside. The shout was so startling, so feral, that even Goro’s brutish face registered surprise. But it didn’t stop him. The two warriors continued to thunder toward each other.

  As much dragon in appearance as human, the beast was not as fleet as Kung Lao, and the champion felt that would be his only advantage. The instant Goro was within reach, Kung Lao turned, dropped to his hands and one knee, and stretched the other leg behind him in an effort to sweep-kick the giant off his feet. Instead, Goro bent and met the attack with his lower right forearm. His stiff limb blocked the kick while his other three arms reached for his quarry.

  Taking a quick look behind him, Kung Lao caught one of Goro’s hands with a crouch-kick, then tucked himself into a ball and did a backward somersault between the giant’s wide legs. Rising quickly behind him, the champion executed a high jump-kick and planted it in the small of Goro’s back. The crowd cheered as the titan’s arms flew up and his head flew back.

  But the blow seemed to simply enrage the leviathan rather than harm him; as Kung Lao jumped to try and land a second quick kick, Goro planted himself firmly on one stout leg and kicked the other behind him, catching Kung Lao on the way up. The kick knocked the champion backward, though he was able to roll with it, somersault again, and land crouching on the stones of the courtyard.