Legacy book 6, p.1
Legacy, Book 6, page 1
LEGACY, Book 6: Laughing Matter
Gerald Welch
Warren Murphy
LEGACY, BOOK 6: LAUGHING MATTER
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By Warren Murphy & Gerald Welch
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© 2017 Warren Murphy Media LLC.
All Rights Reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ overactive imaginations or are used fictitiously.
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All rights reserved including, but not limited to, the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof, in any form or by any manner, with the exception of reviews or as commentary.
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Requests for reproduction or interviews should be directed to: destroyerbooks@gmail.com
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Official website: www.facebook.com/LegacyBookSeries
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Cover and other artwork by Gerald Welch
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Published by Destroyer Books/Warren Murphy Media LLC
Edited by Devin Murphy
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First released January 2017
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Gerald Welch
Something mystical happens when you open the pages of a good book. You find yourself in the shoes of a person who never existed, teleported to a place constructed solely of words and imagination. A skilled author can take you on dangerous and exciting adventures, and can show you worlds invisible to the naked eye. We call some of them ‘fairy tales,’ but all good writing is a form of magic.
I first remember feeling that magic when I was about five or six while reading The Boxcar Children series. By that time, I had already been reading comic books, Frog and Toad, and similar books, but there was something about The Boxcar Children that placed me in that boxcar with Henry and his siblings. I saw through their eyes. I felt what they felt. And I realized that, one day, I wanted to write my own books.
Flash forward to 1985. I was looking for something to do and passed by a small theater. Of the four posters displayed, I chose the one with the guy hanging off the tip of the Statue of Liberty’s crown. Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins was certainly worth the dollar I spent, but the only thing I remember really liking was the quirky character of ‘Chiun.’ A casual mention of the movie to my brother-in-law revealed that the movie was based on a series called The Destroyer.
He let me borrow a few books, but I was hesitant to read them, because a few years earlier I had tried other “men’s action” series like The Executioner and The Butcher. I even tried a few Dirty Harry books, but they just didn’t hook me.
The first Destroyer I read was Book #30, Mugger Blood. It was the most blatantly politically incorrect thing that I had ever read. I remember thinking, “They can’t publish stuff like this, can they?” I read two or three more…and I was hooked. When I joined the Army, I chose to serve in Korea, despite my recruiter’s assertion that I was crazy.
“No one wants to go to Korea. That’s why it’s only a one-year tour,” he explained. “With your scores, you could get a posh job at the Pentagon.”
He could not understand my decision, but I knew someone from Korea — his name was Chiun. While serving in the Land of the Morning Calm and devouring more Destroyers, I wrote a fan letter to Warren and Dick and thought nothing more of it until the end of my tour, when I received a typed letter (complete with hand-written corrections) from Warren himself. Wow! Warren was a human, and a gracious one at that. He let me know that Dick had just died and that he did not know if the series was going to continue.
Now, put this in context. I had just read Destroyer #70: The Eleventh Hour. For those who don’t know the book, it ends in a way that makes it seem like the series has just ended. That was when I first decided to get serious at writing. If there was not going to be another Destroyer, then someone had to write a good book, and I figured that it might as well be me. I had written a 120-page monstrosity called Born a Warrior a few years earlier, so I dug it up and started re-writing. And re-writing.
Then came the internet. I found out that Warren had his own webpage. We began emailing back and forth, and he found out that I was trying to write my own series, now called The Last Witness. Warren offered to read it and call me with some tips. I mailed him a copy and bought a large yellow legal pad and a bajillion pens, ready to jot down everything he said.
Warren called and first warned me that he had lost some good friends over the years by giving honest reviews of their work, but I assured him that I was serious; I wanted the truth.
His first words?
“You suck.”
I wrote down “You suck” at the top of the legal pad.
“But it’s something you can fix,” he continued, and then specifically spelled out what was wrong and gave me advice on how to fix it.
Another flash forward — this time, to 2011. Warren called and said that the fourth book in my series, Gods of War, was his favorite book of the year and congratulated me on my progress. I remember that it was hard to sleep that night.
That’s when I became brave enough to pitch two series to him, Masters of Sinanju and Young Destroyers. While he had no interest in Masters, he said that he would like to work with me on Young Destroyers. I think I replied YES in the boldest font I could find. (For some reason, Warren always used brown Comic Sans. I think it was mostly to annoy people).
And that’s how this all began: the Legend gave the new guy a chance at bat. We discussed what the series should be about. We agreed about most things, and disagreed about a few. Looking back now, though, even when I “won” an argument, I wish I would have listened more carefully.
During that time, through all of the calls, emails and visits to Virginia Beach, I began to realize that Warren had become much more than my favorite author and mentor.
Warren Murphy was my friend.
Sure, he cultivated a public persona of being curmudgeonly, but if you really knew him, you realized that he truly cared about people. When we first met at his favorite hangout, he bragged to the waitresses that I was a big up-and-coming writer. They oohed and aahed over me, and they didn’t have any idea that the guy they served every day had sold tens of millions of books. Warren was that kind of guy.
Even though this is the last Legacy book that Warren and I directly collaborated on, we discussed plots and storylines for several books to come, so the Legacy series will continue. Sinanju will continue. The worlds and people that Warren created will never die, because, as we know, good writing is a form of magic. The magic lives on.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Jerry Welch
2016
To Warren Murphy —
Your Legacy continues.
Prologue
1518 A.D.
One.
Deep.
Breath.
Master Nonga leaned against the chilled stone of the mountainside and steadied himself. The icy wind tore at his lungs, which strained to draw in oxygen from the thin mountain air. Though his body was cold, his senses remained alert. He looked up to the summit of the mountain, where he heard the faint sound of laughter.
One deep breath. Then another. Like all Masters of the ancient House of Sinanju, Nonga’s power resided in his ability to breathe properly.
His assignment had been easy: assassinate an acolyte priestess from a rival Indian temple. They spent a considerable amount of time trying to justify her death. Nonga nodded, even though their gold was all the justification he needed.
With fear in their eyes, the devotees had warned him of mountain gods. Nonga nodded intently in concern, though he privately scoffed. Even though gods had been mentioned in the scrolls of Sinanju, he had always believed they were used to hide the failures of previous Masters. After all, who could be blamed for losing to a god?
Nonga waited where the devotees told him the procession would pass; a long valley connecting their two territories. It was not long before three ornate white carriages appeared on the horizon, surrounded by a small entourage of soldiers on horseback. Nonga noted the men carried ceremonial swords, giving him plenty of time to strike.
When the entourage entered an area darkened by shadow, he struck, dispatching the soldiers in front. Their screams animated the soldiers in the back, but they fell as quickly as those in the front.
Of the three carriages, Nonga only detected heartbeats in the center wagon. As he approached, a cleric burst from the door, armed with a curved dagger. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Nonga called out, and a girl exited the carriage. Her face was plastered with a thick, white paste, making it difficult to determine her age. That was the only part of the contract that had troubled Nonga. Despite their assurances that the target was not a child, Nonga had been lied to before, and Sinanju never harmed children.
The girl slowly exited, seeing the men who had sworn to protect her sprawled dead on the ground. Upon seeing the dragon on Nonga’s robe, the girl began screaming warnings in her native tongue.
Secure in the fact that she was not a child, gently rendered her unconscious and placed her on the back of his horse. The acolytes who had hired him said that the girl had to be killed at a specific river in the east of the Himalayas, but winter had come early and the river had frozen. Nonga instead carried her to the top of a nearby mountain. None of the superstitious acolytes would ever find her body.
“Leave while you still can!” the young girl pleaded upon regaining consciousness. She strained at the ropes binding her to the horse.
“Do not fear,” Nonga said. “Your end will come swiftly and without pain.”
“You don’t understand!” the girl yelled, continuing to struggle. “You are in danger!”
Nonga ignored her screams, but when they reached the top of the mountain, the air grew colder, compressing around him like a shroud. It became difficult to breathe. Nonga stepped back from the girl as an unnatural feeling swept across his body.
“Who has awakened Kali?” the young girl asked in a deep, ancient voice.
Nonga knew that vocal tricks were commonly used by amateurs to distract the weak-minded. But the girl sat up, snapping the ropes that had bound her like thread. It was no amateur foot that connected with Nonga’s mid-section, sending him sprawling back into the mountain wall. The girl’s foot moved faster than his own defenses — faster than he had ever seen a human move. Nonga landed on his feet and returned to attack the acolyte, only to find himself knocked onto his back. The girl walked toward him, a grin stretching across her face.
“I have heard of your kind, Master of Sinanju,” the ancient voice said. “I thought you would be more formidable.”
It only took a moment for Nonga to notice the thin layer of air that surround the girl’s skin like vaporous armor. Then, beneath the jasmine perfume worn by all acolytes, he noticed a scent that had not been there before: death.
Nonga attacked the girl without pity, without mercy…and without success.
“My host warned you,” the ancient voice said. “But you only see through mortal eyes.”
Kali grabbed Nonga by the throat and slammed him against the mountainside, knocking the air from his lungs. She pulled a small curved knife from a pouch at her side. As she inched the blade toward his face, it burst into flames.
Nonga unsuccessfully tried to strike the hand holding him. Each blow bounced off the thick air surrounding her. Kali raised the blade, carving through the skin of his cheek bone. She planted the tip of the fiery blade deep into the meat of his right eye.
Then she twisted the blade.
Nonga had enough control of his body not to scream. Screaming would only waste his remaining breath, and if he were to survive, he would need every bit of air he still possessed.
Kali pulled the blade out and then slowly traced it across his face, tearing skin and scorching bone. Just before the blade pierced his left eye, Master Nonga used all of his energy in a sudden burst, striking her chest with both hands.
Kali fell back down the mountain.
Nonga looked around, blinking futilely. He could see nothing from his right eye, and the flames had badly scorched his left eye. Nonga quickly scaled the side of the mountain. From below, Kali’s roar announced her approach. He could hear her climbing ever closer to him, tearing rock from the mountainside as she ascended. Reaching the top of the mountain, Nonga knew that he did not have time to survey the mountain for a safe landing spot.
He jumped.
Kali screamed with triumph as she reached the summit. She reached out with a deadly sweep of her hand, but her fingernails only shredded the bottom of Nonga’s robes.
Nonga’s leap pushed him too far away from the mountain. He squinted, trying to find a safe place to land. He reached out, trying to slow his fall. The jagged stones tore into his hands and arms, but he was able to grab a small piece of stone jutting out from the mountain. Nonga used his momentum, twisting his body into the mountainside to slow his fall, but he was moving too fast and the rock snapped.
Nonga landed hard on an outcropping of rock, forcing out his remaining air. Glancing back up, he only heard Kali’s laughter echoing off the mountain walls. Had he really just battled a goddess?
Nonga forced air into his lungs. Tearing a strip of cloth from his robes, he wrapped it around his head, trying to staunch the blood that poured from his right eye.
After slowly making his way back to the base of Mount Kailash, Nonga entered the Temple of Shiva, where the men who had hired him sat in silent prayer. They noticed his presence too late, and soon lay dead in the central chamber. As he walked into the back of the temple, the priest of Shiva noticed the blood covering Nonga’s face.
“You did not take her to the sacred river!” the priest yelled.
“Summon your master,” Nonga said coldly.
“The Auspicious One is not so easily intimidated as we,” the priest said. “He will not respond kindly to the killing of his servants!”
The priest sat on the floor and began chanting.
This time, Nonga paid attention. He was taught some of the priest’s ancient language by his father, Master Pyo. Some of it was still confusing as the priest was using the words “creator” and “destroyer” as if they were the same.
The chamber began to groan, and a sound lower than human hearing filled the chamber. Nonga felt the same increase in air pressure he had earlier noticed and immediately bowed.
“I am created, Shiva the Destroyer!” the priest said with a bellow. “Death, the shatterer of worlds! Who is this dog meat who stands before me?”
“I am Nonga, reigning Master of the House of Sinanju.”
The air compressed around him as Shiva walked toward him. It took every bit of Nonga’s concentration to remain bowing.
“Yes,” Shiva said in recognition. “The dead night tiger shall be made whole by the Master of Sinanju.”
Nonga remained silent as he recognized one of Sinanju’s oldest prophecies. When he was still a pupil, he thought that too had been nonsense. There had not been a night tiger — the ancient, tribal fighters of Korea — since the Great Wang discovered Sinanju nearly two thousand years earlier.
“I seek your aid in defeating Kali,” Nonga said.
“What care have I what Kali does?” Shiva asked. “Mortals live and die every day. The world continues.”
Nonga stood and looked at the priest. He was no longer the feeble cleric that cowered before him only moments earlier. Where the priest once slouched and meekly shuffled his feet, his stance now was one of arrogance and power. His feet slid forward, as if to claim the ground under each step as his own. His eyes were pits of black, inviting Nonga to look deeper, but Nonga averted his gaze.
“If Kali is not stopped, she shall consume this world,” Nonga said.
“Kali only seeks the dance,” Shiva said. His laugh was like gravel. “When this world is consumed, it shall be at the hands of the Master of Sinanju.”
