road here, and his tires had been slashed by a knife. He looked around. Not a footprint.
Where did they come from? Maybe the people out here imported hoodlums, like oranges. Maybe somewhere in Llanfairfechan there was a company that brought gang members from Chicago or New York by the truckload, snarling and slashing at travelers to make sure the area didn't get overrun by tourists.
He leaned against the car and slid down to a sitting position. He hadn't seen a house for thirty miles, and he'd passed the last garage four hours ago.
Hell, what was he thinking about? He didn't have any money to pay for tires even if he found them. There was nothing he could do now except wait it out till morning and then carry on on foot.
Maybe it was for the best, he thought sleepily. He hadn't gotten much rest the night before, what with squandering his one evening of relaxation on a girl. It wouldn't hurt to catch forty winks. He closed his eyes.
Ping.
"Wazzat," he said, leaping to his feet. On the car's fender, just beside the place where his head had been, was a small dent. From the angle of the mark, its trajectory had been from above.
He looked up at the trees. "Okay, you little bastards," he yelled.
Ping.
He caught it with a slap of his hand. A pebble. And another, whizzing through his hair.
He stalked through the forest, crouching, moving so that his feet didn't disturb the leaves beneath them. About fifty yards away, he caught sight of a pair of short, skinny legs in ragged pants shinnying down the trunk of a tree. A little torso covered by a leather jerkin followed, and two arms, one of them clutching a homemade slingshot. The last part
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down was a tiny, dirt-smeared face, its eyes wide and alert, searching in all directions.
"Graaagh," Remo yelled, snatching the boy by the scruff of the neck.
The boy screamed and kicked, his grimy limbs dangling in midair. "Let me down, you great filthy beast."
"Look who's talking," Remo said. "They can smell you in Albuquerque."
"Fight me fair, and I'll kill you, Chinee." He looked at Remo, puzzled. "You are the Chinee, aren't you?" '
Remo lifted him until his face was level with his own. "How Chinee do 1 look?"
The boy's mouth set defiantly. "Well, you musta used magic to cover yourself up, like. Swine of a yellow Chinee, I know who y'are. Set me down and fight like a man."
"Oh, jeez," Remo said. He dropped the boy, who rolled a few feet in the moss like a dirty leather ball, then righted himself, his fists high. "Go on, fight me, villain."
Remo tapped him on the stomach with one finger.
"Oof." The boy fell backward. "Lucky punch, that was. Do it again. Dare you, pig."
Remo tweaked his leg. The boy somersaulted onto his back.
"I'm not down yet, Chinee," he panted, staggering to his feet. He blew a lock of unruly black hair off his forehead.
"Look, before we continue this fight to the death, suppose you tell me why you threw that rock into my windshield and cut up my tires."
"Fool. Had to get you to stop, didn't I?" He put up his fists.
'' You could have asked.''
The boy snorted. "And let you run away from me like the ruddy yellow coward y'are?"
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"We all have to take our chances," Remo said. "How do you think I'm going to get out of this place?"
"You're not leaving alive, if that's what you have in mind."
"Oh, that's right. I forgot. You're going to finish me off here and now."
"That's right. There's nought but one winner in the Master's Trial."
"Prepare to die."
The boy lunged. Remo swept him up under his arm. Now things had really gone too far. Fighting a dwarf had been bad enough. But if Chiun expected him to murder a ten-year-old kid, he could take his traditions and shove them up the old archives.
"You've got to be kidding," he said.
"By the gods ..." The boy was flailing for all he was worth. Remo let him wear himself out. After a long, wild bout, the boy drooped exhausted, suspended by his midsection, twitching occasionally and sniffling. "By the gods, you'll not kill my father," he squeaked.
Remo set him down.
The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve. "I will fight ya," he said, his tears cutting little white rivulets down his cheeks. "Just need a minute to get m'strength back."
"Sure," Remo said gently, putting his arm around the boy. He didn't resist. "Suppose you tell me who your father is."
"Emrys ap Llewellyn," he said, digging his fists into his eyes. "Son of Llewellyn. I'm Griffith. Griffith ap Emrys. Son of Emrys."
"So that's how it works."
"Who're you?"
"Remo ap nobody, I guess. I'm an orphan."
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The boy nodded. "I'm half an orphan. My ma's gone. Remo don't sound like a Chinee name."
"Griffith doesn't sound like the name of a killer."
"A man's got to fight, if he's a man. That's what my da says."
"Only if he's got no choice."