Anthony Piers - Through the Ice.pdf - ENG - Chlorella

by P iers Anthony and Robert Kornwise

Dedicated to seven friends of the author, Robert Ian Kornwise: Andrew Linovitz, Daniel Bree, Marc

Rosenblatt, David Krivan, Josh Turetsky, David Siebert, Kevin Bigman

And to his English Teacher, who encouraged this novel: Mrs. Judy Hite

And to his family: Sanford Kornwise, M.D., Maureen Kornwise, Jill Kornwise

Chapter 1 Trouble | Chapter 2 Reincarnation | Chapter 3 Rame | Chapter 4 The Chosen | Chapter 5

| Chapter 11 Ice | Chapter 12 Nefarious | Author's Note

One Trouble

The punkers were high and the jocks were drunk. Periodically a couple would walk upstairs. Every so

often the police would drive by, causing a brief nervous hush that dissipated the moment the car departed.

It was a typical New Year's Eve party.

Seth Warner leaned back on the black leather couch, mildly interested in the night's events. Drinking and

drugs were not his thing, but his friend Rian had wanted them to join the "in" crowd for this occasion, so

Seth had done so against his better judgment. He put his feet up on the table in front of him, feigning

nonchalance—and accidentally kicked over a can of beer. It was half full, and the liquid spilled across the

table in a frothy stream and dripped to the floor before Seth could do anything about it.

Oops. Seth quickly put his feet down and stood up. "I'm sorry about that," he said without much

enthusiasm.

"Jerk!" the girl snapped, though she had not shown much interest in the beer before.

Seth moved around the table and walked away, not eager to get into a dialogue that might arouse the girl's

rather large punker boyfriend. Avoidance was almost always the better part of valor. This was one good

lesson he had learned in the course of his training in martial arts: not to look for trouble.

"Hey, stupid!" It was the boyfriend, who had evidently not had such training. Seth continued walking, not

acknowledging the words or the tone. He had after all been at fault; the punker was entitled to his

irritation. To an extent. There was, after all, litter and spilled food everywhere; the punkers weren't much

on housekeeping.

"Hey, pin-brain," the punker called, stirring. There was a sound that sent a shiver up Seth's back.

He turned, realizing that he was not going to get out of this cleanly. Sure enough, there was a knife thrust

into the table: a clear challenge.

The buzz of conversation in the room faded. The others moved with seeming casualness toward the walls,

clearing a space. They knew what was coming. The slightest of offenses was enough to provoke a fight,

when the liquor was flowing. That was why Seth had tried to get away promptly, hoping that the punker

wouldn't go out of his way to start trouble.

"Any problem?" Seth inquired. If the punker demanded an apology, he would make it; if he was requi red

to fetch another beer for the girl, he would do that. He would have offered before, but had feared that any

interaction between them would only stir up antagonism. His judgment was being confirmed.

The punker heaved himself out of the chair. He took a moment to get his balance; he was pretty far gone

on beer or worse. Not much chance to reason with someone in that condition. He stepped heavily around

the table.

Seth slowly brought one foot behind the other in an almost casual fighting stance, feeling his muscles

tensing. He had done his honest best to avoid a confrontation; his conscience was clear about that, at

least. He was seventeen, stood six-two, and was in excellent physical condition. He was sure he could

handle anything this jerk could throw at him, but he still hoped he wouldn't have to.

The punker walked up, scowling. Seth stood his ground. The punker lunged. Seth brought up his right

hand and caught his adversary's arm. He then brought his own left arm up over his attacker, pivoted

powerfully, and threw him to the floor. It was a basic technique, and he had used it in an attempt to stop

the fight without seriously injuring his attacker. Even a drunk could catch on to the fact that the pickings

were not as easy as he had supposed. This should be the end of it.

Seth turned and walked away, but from the corner of his eye he saw movement. He had known better

than to turn his back on an opponent without caution. The punker was getting up and grabbing at the

table, cursing under his breath. He was, unfortunately, a slow learner.

Seth spun around as the punker snatched up the knife and charged him. This time, he knew, he could not

afford to take it easy; he had to finish it quickly and get away.

He kicked the man's hand and sent the weapon spinning across the floor. Then he threw a side-foot kick

into the oncoming attacker's chest. The force of the kick was magnified as the punker ran into his foot. He

felt the shock of solid contact. There was a splintering crack, and his adversary fell to the ground.

That had been too effective! Seth realized that he was hyped up by the menace, and had used full power

when a lesser move would have sufficed. If the punker had been moving away, or taking defensive

action, it wouldn't have been so bad. As it was, ribs had been broken.

Definitely time to leave! There were more punkers around, and Seth really did not like serious fighting,

though he was equipped for it. He was proficient in Ryu Kyu No Te, a form of the martial arts originating

in Okinawa, but had hoped never to use it in earnest. Why was it man's instinct to fight? The world would

be better off if people could talk out their problems. But as long as there were those who would rather

fight than talk, others had to be prepared.

He remembered when he had found a way to meet a challenge without having to fight. He hated people

who made rude remarks to or about others. He did not necessarily brood about this in silence. For

example, there was a boy who was along on some of the youth group trips he participated in. Somehow

he always managed to alienate others without meaning to. He was only a casual friend of Seth's. But

when other members of the group became too persistent about teasing him and making him miserable

(and not doing much for themselves in the process) Seth had gotten angry. He had stood up and

announced that he would have none of this. "Lay off!" They laid off, and it made all the difference in the

world for that boy.

Seth had asserted himself on behalf of what he felt was right. That was all it had taken. There had been no

violence. In retrospect, he was glad that it had happened, because it had made him realize one of his own

valu es. Every person deserved his chance, as that boy had deserved his.

Seth felt motion behind him. He had allowed himself to become preoccupied at the wrong time!

A hand grabbed around his neck. Seth spun from the hold and jumped back. His friend Rian was standing

in front of him. The fool! he thought ferociously. To grab him like that, right after he had struck a man

down hard! But that was Rian's way; he was often thoughtless, but never malicious. Rian was short,

blond and gray eyed, in contrast to Seth's tall, brown and brown, and their personalities differed more

than their appearances, but none of that mattered.

"Nice fight," Rian said, nodding toward the punker, who was down to stay, this time. The big difference

between Seth and his friend was Rian's unabashed love of fighting.

"We'd better take off before the other punkers realize what I did," Seth said as they walked away. It was

their luck that the spectators had not been punkers, or it could have gotten much uglier in a hurry.

"That's a good plan! Are you as drunk as I am?"

"Stupid question," Seth replied. He had not been drinking at all. He respected such things as legal age

limits, even if others ignored them. "I'll drive."

They emerged from the building and climbed into Rian's 4x4. Seth fastened his seat belt, started the

engine and maneuvered it out of the parking lot.

"Did you meet that girl?" Rian asked. It was evident that he really wasn't intoxicated, despite his remark;

still, he had had a few.

"No. I don't think she was there." That had been the other reason to attend this party: the hope that a

particular girl would be there, unescorted. Seth really didn't know her, but had hoped to change that. But

if she kept company with the likes of the punkers, it wasn't a good sign.

"It's just as well. I don't know what you see in her anyway...." Rian trailed off.

Seth didn't like his friend's sudden quietness. "What?"

"That van behind us is getting a little too close, don't you think?"

Seth cursed himself for not watching more carefully. He was entirely too likely to go off on some stray

thought and not watch his feet—or, in this case, his rearview mirror. If Rian was concerned, it could be

bad. He looked—and saw the headlights of the van coming up at ramming velocity.

Before he could answer, let alone get the car out of the way, the van rear-ended their vehicle, hard. Seth

fought the wheel as the jeep jolted ahead. He tried to bring it under control by braking, but the brakes

locked, making a worse jolt. Then Rian's head hit the windshield. He hadn't buckled his seat belt!

Seth jerked his foot off the brake pedal, but was still struggling for control. They swerved off the road

and smashed into a tree. All Seth could think of as he saw it coming was how glad he was that by this

time they were moving under twenty miles an hour, instead of forty.

He was shaken by the crash, but not hurt. "Rian, are you all right?" he asked, fearing the worst.

"Bru ised, battered, enraged, otherwise just fine!" Rian growled, rubbing his head. Evidently he had

braced himself against the final crash. "But those characters are dead! Hand me that bat in the back seat!"

Now Seth, peering through the broken window, saw the van pulling to a stop beyond them. The trouble

wasn't finished yet! "Maybe we'd better just get out of here on foot," he suggested. "It's getting dark; they

won't be able to see us well enough to catch us."

Rian grabbed the bat. "Not likely! They wrecked my car. I'm going to bash their lousy heads in!" He

shoved until he got the door open and scrambled out.

Seth did not care for this situation at all, but he didn't seem to have many options. He couldn't run off and

leave his friend, so he had to stay. He doubted that the van was stopping to offer apologies and assistance,

but it was possible that this stop was just to verify the damage to the jeep.

It was worse than he had feared. Figures were piling out of the van: about ten punkers, including the one

Seth had put down. There was no question about it: they were out for blood.

"Rian, I really think we'd better get out of here and let the police handle it. The bashed bumpers and skid

marks will show who's at fault, and—"

But Rian, foolhardy, was already charging; he swung his bat in a wide arc, and it smashed into the nearest

punker's skull. Not a killing blow, but the punker landed on the ground with a thud.

Seth knew that any chance at all to avoid mayhem was gone. His friend's recklessness and the punkers'

meanness were combining to guarantee disaster. The two of them would be lucky to get out of this

conscious, let alone healthy—and even if they did, the mess wouldn't look good at all on their records.

What a situation—because of one spilled can of beer!

More cautious, now, the punkers took out weapons: knives, chains, nunchucks, and metal pipes. These

were mostly homemade devices, looking crude, but Seth knew how deadly any of them could be. The

blades were adapted from carving knives, with special handles. The pipes had tape wrapped around one

end for a better grip. A chain was especially effective against an opponent's knife or club, because it

could wrap around the hand and disable it. The nunchucks, in the hands of a skilled operator, could be

worst of all. They consisted of two short lengths of wood or pipe, connected by a short cord. The attacker

held one club, and whipped the other about on its tether, greatly increasing its striking force. This weapon

had long since been outlawed, but street gangs still used it, and Seth was frankly afraid of it.

A short punker made a pass with his knife at Rian. Rian dodged the knife and brought the stiffened side

of his hand down against the man's wrist, causing the knife to drop. But meanwhile two other punkers

grabbed his arms, and then the disarmed one kicked him in the groin. Rian went down in agony, while all

three punkers started beating on him.

Seth had been surveying the situation, trying to judge how best to help his friend without merely getting

himself beaten up. He had somehow thought that the punkers would attack one at a time, so had been

caught by surprise when they piled on Rian. He should have realized that there would be no rules here!

At least that relieved him of his concern about fair play. Seth hurled himself through the air, delivering a

flying side-foot kick to the one who had kicked Rian. That one fell to the ground.

No! Seth realized with horror that the punker he had just downed was no male. It was the girl at the

party—the one whose beer he had knocked over. She was in a heavy jacket now, and had a cap on; in the

dusk he had not recognized her. No wonder her pass with the knife had been clumsy!

Still, she had attacked, and had kicked Rian. But not quite accurately; Rian was now fighting back with

the two who had held his arms, and was making an increasingly good account of himself.

So at the moment two punkers were down: one from Rian's bat, the other from Seth's kick. Two were

battling Rian. The remaining six were circling Seth, having recognized him as the more dangerous

opponent. All of these were male; apparently the girl had come along because she liked this kind of

action, or wanted to prove herself in some way. Seth still wished he hadn't kicked her.

The first of the six charged him. Seth brought his foot up in an arc and delivered a crescent kick to the

side of the punker's face. Then he spun in air and scored on a second with a flying reverse kick. The

punkers had made the mistake of depending on numbers and weapons; they were relatively clumsy, and

almost helpless against truly fast, trained strikes. Still, this was a long way from over!

"Aaaaah!"

Seth spun around and saw one of the attackers thrust a knife into Rian's hip. Blood welled out, and Rian

staggered.

Seth stood in shock. Somehow he had still had the notion that it was possible to get through this without

serious injury, though all the indications had been against it. It was that spark of faith he nurtured, the

faith that no man was truly evil and that there was always a way to come through a problem. He kept

wanting to see some redeeming thing about the punkers, even as he fought them. As if at some point they

would stop and say "Hey, it's been a good fight, you scored some points, let's quit now and go back to the

party." Sportsmanship. Now the obvious had registered: that there was no sportsmanship here, only blind

malevolence. The punkers had been primed for a fight, and had grabbed at the first pretext that offered.

The beer had hardly mattered.

There was a high-pitched noise. Suddenly he felt the whip of a cold steel chain slashing across his face.

He could hardly see, for the blood was flowing into his eyes. Yet again, he had hesitated, he had paused,

letting his mind play with concepts. That had let them take the initiative, and thrown away whatever

remaining chance he had had.

Blindly, Seth ran, not caring where he went. He heard their shouts and laughter.

Laughter? How could they laugh? They thought this horror was funny? No, of course not. There was no

humor here, only derision. They liked scoring, however brutally or unfairly, and they liked seeing their

prey hurting, fleeing. It made them feel like big men.

Seth was not a coward, yet he continued to run, not knowing what else to do. Had he been a real fighting

machine he would have struck out at the punkers the moment they were distracted by Rian's scream, and

reduced the odds. But his heart just wasn't in combat, no matter how good at it he was, and that had made

him the victim instead of the victor. Attitude—that was his great weakness. His sensei, the instructor, had

told him that, and it was true. "You could be a champ, but you think too much!" All too accurate.

He thought of Rian, surrounded, wounded, left there to face the punkers alone. Still he kept running.

What was the matter with him? This wasn't like him! It was as if someone else had taken over his body.

He slowed, stumbling in the darkness. He had to help his friend! He couldn't let himself be panicked, no

matter how bad it was. He turned.

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