When he finished he called to the guards for a light for a cigarette. He pondered the passivity that commanded his actions, that cast a pall over his soul so deep that the flash of fate's vision would soon be inescapable in the darkness. What was he about to endure, about to see?
When he finished his cigarette, Bolan sat in the dark, his mind on the fight to come.
He must not be afraid, he told himself.
Fear was the greatest obstacle to concentration.
Then, too, it was selfish to worry about losing your life. He had been put on this earth to promote the good of man, not his own welfare.
Get beyond love and grief: exist for the good of man.
One of the Four Oaths of Bushido, the way of the warrior.
From some recess of his memory Bolan recalled the words of Sensei Matsubara, his kenjutsu master, on the side of a mountain in Virginia: The way of the warrior is the resolute acceptance of death.
This means choosing death whenever there is a choice between life and death.
If you can accustom yourself to the idea of death you become one with the way of the warrior.
You can pass through life with no possibility of failure and perform your off ice properly.
The way is not technique.
The way is the right spirit.
God, give me the right spirit, Bolan prayed.
The sword was a blur, and the Yao bandit toppled, brains spilling from his severed skull.
Bolan, a spectator, bowed his head and the crowd applauded.
It was the fourteenth death of the morning and they had all been grisly, the main object of the executions being not so much to kill the man as to test the sword.
For this purpose various cutting techniques were used. They ranged from the simple across-the-waist-in-two, to the more sophisticated shoulder-to-opposite-nipple. The last one had been horizontally-above-the eyes.
Every technique required a special pose. The victims were made to lie sideways on blocks, hung from bars, were spread-eagled between bamboo poles or simply held by guards in a particular position.
The end result of these elaborate cuts and poses was that death was seldom instantaneous. To Bolan this was the worst example of Animal Man in his life to date. He did not fully realize it yet but the event was to be an inescapable exorcism for him.
About a hundred people were watching the executions, mainly Tiger soldiers with a few Burmese plantation workers. The mood was as festive as if it were a bullfight. The fact that men and not animals were being killed bothered no one but Bolan.
In Burma, as in Thailand, Montagnards were a slave class, considered no better than animals. Not even in death was any respect shown them. The bodies were not disposed of until they had been hacked some more to test other swords.
The grim business took place in a sandy enclosure red with blood. To the side were tables where the results were noted. After each execution the sword was brought to Liu who examined how the blade cut through bone, how the fat stuck to the blade and how the iron was discolored.
A scribe committed Liu's comments to paper. The observations would be included in the certificate that went with the sword as well as inscribed on the tang, the part of the blade that went inside the hilt.
Bolan watched the proceedings from the front row of the spectator benches. He was dressed in a white gi, a black hakamaa divided skirt of the kind samurais wore and raffia sandals. In his lap lay a beautiful sword. He prepared to execute Liu with it.
Earlier that morning the adjutant, who was sitting next to him, took him to the mansion to show him Liu's private collection of swords. Bolan was told he could have any weapon he wanted. He chose a sixteenth-century katana, a samurai long sword.
The Japanese weapon was one any sword collector would have given his eyeteeth for. The scabbard was of finely lacquered wood, colored cherry red, overlaid with a silver mesh. The hilt was of ray skin bound in leather thongs with silver pommels decorated with chrysanthemum designs. The guard was of bronze and silver.
As for the blade, it was of Osufane steel, hand tempered. A clover flower pattern of burl grain ran along the tempered line, the hallmark of a famous sword-maker of the time. The blade was as sharp as a razor and had not a trace of discoloration. Bolan could not have asked for a better weapon.
It surprised him little that Liu would throw open his private collection to him. A man whips a man then makes a grand gesture. It was to be expected of an individual who saw himself as a god. From the adjutant Bolan learned that Liu's title in Chinese was Lord of Life and Death. This place of ritual had locked Bolan into a myth and a struggle older than man.
"How many more executions?" Bolan asked. The Yao's body was being dragged out of the enclosure by a pony. The corpse was hacked beyond recognition.
"One more man," replied the adjutant.
Only it was not a man. The next victim was a boy. To Bolan he looked no more than fourteen. Tears flowed down the boy's face, and he was shaking with terror. His wrists were tied at the front, and he had a cord around his neck, the usual way prisoners were led in.
"You execute children, too?"
"He stole a chicken," said the adjutant. They spoke English.
"And for that you're going to kill him?"
The adjutant shrugged. "The colonel ordered."
A blindfold was tied around the boy's head. His wrists were undone so he could hold his hands over his head, the pose for the next cut. The cord from his wrists was used to tie his ankles so he would not run away. A name was called out, and a young soldier rose from the spectator benches. He was not much more than sixteen.
"A cadet," said the adjutant.
The cadet went up to Liu who handed him a sword. He bowed to Liu, then to the audience, then stationed himself at the boy's side. The boy continued shaking, his hands held high in a position of surrender.
"Ichi no do," Liu ordered loudly.
"Across the chest," explained the adjutant.
The cadet raised his sword and swung at the boy. A red gash appeared on the boy's chest and he fell backward screaming. As he rolled in the sand in agony, the blindfold came off. The cadet gazed at him, a stupid expression on his face.
Liu shouted something, and the cadet moved in on the boy, sword raised. Now there followed a macabre game of cat and mouse, the cadet slashing, the boy rolling to avoid the blows, sand flying, the boy screaming, the crowd on its feet yelling with delight.
Bolan bent his head to avoid the spectacle. On the way to the enclosure the adjutant had told him that if he so much as tried to disrupt the proceedings the colonel had ordered that a hundred Montagnards be executed.
"Tsuki!" shouted Liu. Thrust.
A high-pitched scream rent the air as the blade pierced the boy's heart. The crowd applauded as the cadet ran to Liu with the sword dripping blood. The colonel took one look at it and threw it down with disgust. He shouted orders and left the enclosure.
There was a stir in the crowd and faces turned to Bolan. The long nose was next. The enclosure was cleared of tables and equipment. Soldiers appeared with buckets of sand and rakes, and the bloodstains were covered over. In minutes the ring was ready for the main event.
Bolan stared at the ground between his feet in silent communion with his Creator. God, give me the right spirit.
A short while later Liu returned. He no longer wore a uniform but was dressed like Bolan in a white gi and a black hakama. In his hand he held a samurai's katana similar to Bolan's except that instead of lacquered wood, his scabbard was of gold encrusted with lapis lazuli.