"Your hands are so gnarled, Jilda," he said smoothly. "How can you even use them?"
Jilda recoiled. The dagger dropped. Her fingers stiffened as if petrified. She held them up, and saw with widening eyes that they were like dried wood, as if tree limbs had grown into the rough shape of her hands.
The Dutchman turned. "Old dry wood," he mocked. "Not warrior's hands. Good for firewood only."
The fingers ignited first. The flames were blue and ethereal but they crept toward her wrists and then raced toward her elbows, which had also turned to wood.
"An illusion! It is only an illusion!" Jilda cried.
"Not the flames," corrected the Dutchman.
"Yes! Illusion!" she said, squeezing her eyes against the pain.
The Dutchman stepped back as the Master of Sinanju took Jilda and forced her to the ground, rolling her in the dirt to smother the fire.
"The flames are real," Chiun said. "It is one of his true sorceries. "
"Now watch, old man," called the Dutchman, "and you will see who is truly worthy of becoming the next Master of Sinanju." He turned his attention to Remo Williams once again.
Remo's face was warped with pain and rage. He was only yards away now, and coming like an angry arrow.
"You are looking well," said the Dutchman. "I only wish your wedding-excuse me, our wedding-had not been interrupted. I had in mind for you a most memorable honeymoon."
Remo came in with both hands held open. He grasped thin air. The real Dutchman materialized behind him. "Pitiful," said the Dutchman. "You have learned nothing. I am still your superior. Nuihc trained me as a child, while you came to Sinanju as an adult. I will always have that advantdge."
And to show his contempt, he turned his back on Remo. "Now we are equal," he said, folding his arms.
Remo sent out a sweeping kick. The Dutchman jumped in place, expertly avoiding it. He spun with the jump and sent out a stiff-fingered blow. Remo parried it with crossed wrists. Hooking the back of his enemy's knee with a toe, Remo sent the Dutchman into a spinning cartwheel. He landed on his back.
"Who's superior now?" asked Remo, placing a conquering foot on top of the Dutchman's heaving chest. Remo pressed down until he heard the crackle of straining cartilage. The Dutchman's unreal blue eyes flared.
"I underestimated you, Remo. Very well, slay me, if that is your wish."
"No, Remo," Chiun said. The Master of Sinanju leapt to Remo's side.
"Stay out of this, Chiun," Remo warned. And while he glared at Chiun, the Dutchman saw his opportunity. Steelhard fingers took Remo's ankle and twisted once. Remo cried out. He floundered away in pain, hopping on one foot.
The Dutchman pushed himself erect and said, "Your powers of concentration are pathetic. How did you survive your initial training?"
Remo found his feet. "Some people think I'm pretty good," he answered. When he leaned on his right foot, it hurt. But he felt no grinding from broken bones. The pain wasn't important.
"Mah-Li does not think so. She is in the Void now, her spirit crying out that you could not protect her. Your child, your employer, they are eternal testaments to your incompetence. "
"Get ready to join them," said Remo, advancing menancingly.
"No, Remo." It was Jilda's voice. "He knows where my Freya is, whether she is dead or alive. Do not kill him. Please."
"Listen to her, Remo," Chiun said. The Master of Sinanju stood over Jilda, his hands fluttering helplessly. He could not kill the Dutchman without killing his pupil. It was between the two white Masters of Sinanju now.
"Listen to me," cried the Dutchman. "You will only beat me by killing me. I want you to do that, Remo. I have killed those closest to you. I could kill you. I prefer that you kill yourself by killing me."
Remo said nothing. His eyes were focused on that open mocking face. Nothing else mattered now. It was just him and the Dutchman. The warning cries of Chiun were faint in his ears, as if all Remo's energies had been diverted from his surroundings to his enemy. The Dutchman was only four paces away, then three, then two, then . . .
Remo's fist blow went to the solar plexus. It would have felled a strong tree, but the Dutchman had hardened his stomach muscles in anticipation of the blow. He bounced back several feet, but retained his balance.
The Dutchman grinned at him. "A poor blow. Your elbow was bent. But that has always been your problem, hasn't it?" Remo came on, silent and purposeful. There was something in his eyes, the Dutchman saw. Something that was not anger, something that did not belong in the eyes of a human being, even one trained in Sinanju.
"You're going to tell me where Freya is, scum," Remo said levelly.
"Where?" mocked the Dutchman. "Why, she is all around us. I fed one piece to a sea gull, some to the snakes, and the rest to the crabs. I don't believe in wasting good meat, do you? Especially such tender, sweet meat."
Remo's hand was quicker than the Dutchman's eye by the merest of microseconds, but it was enough. He snared the Dutchman's long hair and twisted his head around. Remo shoved him down on one knee, his hands locking about the Dutchman's smooth neck from behind.
Remo began squeezing. "Tell-me-where-she-is," he said through grinding teeth. "Tell-me-where-my-daughter-is." Jeremiah Purcell strained for Remo's hands. His pale fingers were frantic, but it was as if they struggled with stone. Remo's death grip on his throat was unshakable. He twisted and fought in vain, and as his field of vision began to redden like boiling blood, he panicked. He hadn't expected it to end this way. Remo had cut off the oxygen flow to his lungs, disturbing his breathing rhythms. For the first time, the Dutchman felt fear. He realized he did not want to die, but Remo was squeezing the life out of him. Darkness rolled across his vision even with his eyes open wide.
The Dutchman tried to summon up an image, but the beast would not respond. Instead, there was a voice, cold and metallic.
"You can fight or you can beg," Remo was saying into his ear. "But I won't let go until you tell me where my daughter is. Can you hear me, Purcell? You'd better be serious about dying because I'm serious about killing you."
No, no, Jeremiah said wordlessly. It can't end like this. I'm not done. O beast, help me. But the beast in him was cowed, as helpless as he was before this true Master of Sinanju.
Finally, with his sight darkening like a falling curtain, Jeremiah Purcell relaxed his clawing fingers and spread them out in an unmistakable gesture of surrender.
"You giving up, huh?" demanded Remo, still squeezing. "You want me to let go. Is that it? Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I don't want to let you go at all. Maybe I want to finish the job, you scum."
"No, Remo," Chiun said. His voice was suddenly close. "If you must kill this man, do it with a clear mind. Listen to me. Should he die, he takes not only your life but also the truth of Freya's fate with him."
With a final savage shake of the Dutchman's neck, Remo let go. His hands were like claws as he stood up, his fingers clenched so tightly they could not fully open.
"Where?" demanded Remo, his chest heaving.
The Dutchman curled up like an insect that had been set afire. His hands held his throat. He coughed rackingly. It was many minutes before the coughing subsided and he was able to speak.
"She is in the House of the Masters. While you were busy chasing my images, I placed her in one of the steamer trunks. "
"You son of a bitch," hissed Remo, going for the Dutchman's throat again.
"No," Jeremiah Purcell said, cowering. "I did not kill her. Think of me what you wish, but like you, I am Sinanju. To kill a child is forbidden. The illusion of her death was only to provoke you."
"All right," said Remo. "We'll check it out. You be here when I get back."
"Why?"
"I still want a piece of you. Isn't that what you want?"
"Yes," said the Dutchman in an unconvincing voice. "It is what I want."