Grinning, Remo turned toward Chiun, and his jaw dropped-
A second volley had been fired at the Master of Sinanju. Remo hadn't been aware of the fate of the first. Only that if he could so easily dodge lead musket balls, so could Chiun.
Four balls came at the Master of Sinanju so slowly they all but announced their arrival.
The Master of Sinanju simply stood there. Remo's grin widened. Chiun was playing, too. But as the balls converged on his frail black-clad form, the old Korean did not move.
Remo's smile froze.
Then Remo was moving in on an interior line-an attack line. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. The Master of Sinanju was not defending himself.
Remo would have to intercept those suddenly deadly spheres himself. Intercept and deflect-even if it cost him his hands.
Chapter 5
Remo Williams had both arms extended, with hands open to their fullest, to capture the hurtling lead balls before they could impact upon the sweetly wrinkled features of the unmoving Master of Sinanju. Then Remo felt a stinging sensation in the center of his chest that knocked his legs out from under him, along with the wind from his powerful lungs.
I'm hit, he thought wildly, even as his brain told him that was impossible. No slow-moving lead ball could strike a full Master of Sinanju without warning.
But his body told him he was in great pain.
Flat on his back, through the pain, Remo stared up in surprise.
And beheld the Master of Sinanju withdraw the extended arm that had struck Remo in the chest to calmly bat the musket balls back at those who had the effrontery to hurl them at his awesome presence.
Chiun used the heels of his palms. He had formed the kind of half fists most often used for striking short blows, fingers curled high and tight against themselves so that the palm flesh lay exposed.
With quick, sharp motions, Chiun struck glancing blows at the unmoving balls. Two blows per hand, four balls in all.
Caroming off his palms with meaty smacks, they careered back toward the muskets that had loosed them. Not with quite the velocity of the black powder explosions that had sent them winging out of their musket barrels, but still with enough energy to sting mightily when they struck flesh.
A smoking musket shattered along its barrel. A man was thrown back from the bone-breaking impact of a lead ball hitting his shoulder. Another went down with a shattered kneecap. The fourth received his ball back square in the breastbone and flew backward as if mule-kicked.
"That was how Kang fended off the flying teeth when boom-sticks were first inflicted on civilization," said Chiun as Remo climbed to his feet.
"Fine," Remo said tightly. "But that doesn't mean you had to knock me flat."
"You were about to throw away your thick fingered hands for nothing, thick one. Observe and you, too, will be able to duplicate a feat infant masters in training achieve in their first week. Korean masters in training, of course."
"Bull," said Remo, who nevertheless watched closely as a third volley came whistling toward the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun pressed his hands together before his face in an attitude of prayer. Two balls made for his face. Remo had to hold himself back, because Chiun stood completely immobile, with no body vibration warning that he was prepared to dodge or strike back.
Instead, when the lead balls were a scant three inches before his unblinking eyes, the Master of Sinanju made his hands fly apart, knocking the balls away at right angles with dull smacks. They flew toward two other musketeers who were aiming their weapons at them.
The pair yelped and stumbled to the ground, severely chastised.
"Let me try it," said Remo as another small volley was loosed.
He had to restrain himself from moving in to meet the spinning balls. They were just too slow in coming. But when they did arrive, Remo used the heels of his hands to redirect them.
Technically, flesh never touched hot ball. Instead, Remo drove a cushion of compressed air ahead of his fast-moving hands. The balls struck the air pillows, made hard as steel by the blinding speed of his hands, and rebounded off so that he felt their heat but not their impact.
Remo's redirection technique was good, but the return arc was off. Both attackers went down after each took a ball in the top of his head. They might not wake up for another day or three. But they would wake up.
Until he had a handle on what the hell was really going on, Remo didn't feel like taking anyone out permanently.
"Let's address the troops," he told Chiun.
As they approached, the still-standing Louisiana Costume Zouaves were busily ramming lead balls down their musket barrels. It looked like hard work. Most were sweating.
One soldier had the ramrod jammed down the gun barrel and set the muzzle against an oak tree. He kept trying to force the musket into the tree so the ramrod would go in. Instead, the ramrod snapped clean in two.
"I broke it," he sobbed as Remo tapped him on his blue silk shoulder.
"You won't be needing it."
"But it cost me a month's pay."
"That's the biz," said Remo, extracting the musket from the man's unresisting hand and plunging the barrel into the ground until he hit hard stone. Remo pulled the trigger, and the musket barrel split from sight to stock. Then he threw the foully smoking pieces away.
The man screamed in horror.
"It's only a rifle," Remo pointed out.
"It's my hobby."
"Let me get this straight," said Remo. "You came all the way from Louisiana to fight the Yankees because it's your freaking hobby?"
"That ain't it at all," he said. "I ain't come to fight Yanks."
"Then who?"
"I come to battle the First Virginia Recreational Foot."
"Aren't they from the South, too?"
"They are," the Zouave soldier admitted.
"Then they're on your side, aren't they?"
"Not in this sacred conflict!"
"You're siding with the North?"
"Never! My heart belongs to Dixie."