The Ainu wife was a shock at first. She was a portly, kindly woman, but her lips were grotesquely tattooed. Purple stain extended all about her mouth like a reverse whiteface clown’s makeup. This was the Ainu female’s sign of marriage-ability, probably quite painful to apply, outlawed by the more civilized Japanese but obviously still practiced in remote colonies such as this.

  Supper consisted of conventional rice in bowls, eaten with pointed Japanese chopsticks—a real hazard for me—hot soup, tea, and pickled white radish. I was so relieved that it wasn’t chocolate covered ants that I ate with all the gusto my inept sticks permitted. My bearded host apologized for being out of bearmeat, the Ainu staple—a huge bear hide stretched on the wall—but I assured him by gesture and example that what he had was fine with me.

  After the meal, the husband settled crosslegged on the floor to rock the baby to sleep, while the wife played her mukkuri—a musical instrument like a jew’s-harp, with a thread to make it vibrate properly. The infant was tied by cords onto a wooden hammock suspended from the ceiling, so that the whole thing swung gently. The older child was like any American little girl, alert and eager to play. She possessed a pair of homemade wooden stilts that she used in summertime.

  It was a pleasant night. I wished I had the education to appreciate the significance of the intricate decorations on their clothing, and the curved sticks that were thrust into the ground near the fire pit, and all the other oddities of their unique way of life. I knew these were all symbols of a vanishing culture, for only a few thousand Ainu remained on Hokkaido, and most of these were not pure blooded. Soon this primitive village would be absorbed by the reaching Japanese culture, and the Ainu, the “hairy ones” of Asia, would be gone. They had no written language, and had to transmit their history and teachings through story and song. But they were cheery people, and hospitable. This, despite the fact that for centuries they had been harried out of their homeland by the Japanese, just as the American Indians had been ousted by the European immigrants.

  In the morning Makato amazed our host-villagers with his demonstrations of board-breaking and ice-breaking. He placed several blocks of ice one over the other, first shattering them with his hand, then his elbow, and finally with his forehead. The Ainu reciprocated by doing an intriguing bear-hunt dance. That may seem minor, but after sharing the hospitality of these friendly people, I found their parting gesture meaningful.

  When we separated, the men raised and lowered their hands and bowed. The women uttered mournful whining sounds of sorrow at the parting. It was all exaggerated, yet expressive and touching. It was strange to think that all my life until yesterday I had known virtually nothing of these people—and had been content in my ignorance.

  *

  We plodded all the remainder of the morning through the deepening snow, seeming to make little progress. It would have been better to have a native guide, but no professional had been willing to enter this region, and the Ainu stayed well clear. The ninja, or whatever menace inhabited the mountain, had inspired fear throughout the area.

  Diago stopped abruptly, cocking his head. His hearing was acute, for he could extend his ki into that sense. “Animals!” he said.

  “Here in the snow?” I asked. But predators were hardly confined to the jungle. Bear abounded in this region, the totem beast of the Ainu.

  Before he could answer the pack was upon us. Five huge dogs, larger than German Shepherds and with more fur, silent and swift. No barking, no snarling, no baying; just wolflike muscle and teeth and single-minded mayhem. We were on the steep slope of the mountain, unable to maneuver freely or form a defensive circle; we had to fight where we stood.

  I stepped to the side, where there was a brief level spot—and my footing gave way. It was a concealed pit, bridged over by sticks and straw and hidden by subsequent snow. A ninja trap! My arms windmilled, but I was falling.

  Jim grabbed my arm and hauled me back. But in the process he yanked himself into the deadfall, his boots skidding on a sheet of ice, hidden beneath the snow. I was falling away from him to-ward safety now, but could not get hold of him. And the great dogs were charging.

  The first canine leaped at Pedro, striking his chest and bowling him over, for the man’s legs remained uncertain. The two rumbled down the slope, the animal going for his throat, but Pedro got one hand up and rammed it far into the beast’s mouth. He got bitten on the arm, but his thick jacket protected him and the penetration of the teeth was slight. He crossed his legs over the dog’s lower abdomen where the ribs did not extend, and squeezed. Pedro felt weak, and his legs were tired, but with a desperate effort he crushed the dog until it expired.

  The next two attackers were already in the air as the first struck Pedro. These hurtled at Makato and me. Both of us used our fists. I barely regained my feet and shot a fast blow to my dog’s nose, an especially sensitive target. The shock was hard, for about eighty pounds of dog was behind that nose, but my knuckles were tougher than that tender flesh, and the beast fell, dead. Makato flashed the karate stiffhand chop and crushed the dog’s skull in like the shell of an egg. A fighting dog is an object of terror to most people, but a trained man can readily kill a dog if he knows how.

  But the fourth dog also launched at Makato. The man turned rapidly—I remembered from painful experience just how fast he could move—and delivered a tremendous kick with the front of his boot. It connected to the chest of the dog, caving in its ribs.

  At the same time the last animal attacked Diago, who stepped nimbly aside to avoid its rush. He hit it a downward blow on the shoulder, breaking it. Then he pulled a hidden knife from his sleeve and finished the canine off with a thrust to the heart.

  The complete action had run its course in under five seconds, except for Pedro’s action. Five dead dogs lay in the snow. Pedro was the only one injured: some scratches around the arm, not deep. But already they were an angry red.

  Jim had by this time climbed out of the pit. He had managed to avoid the sharpened stakes beneath, by sliding down the side. He had saved me, and himself.

  I regretted the ugliness that stood between us but still I could not make it right. Doing good isn’t enough; a man has to avoid doing harm, also, and Jim’s impetuosity still had to be controlled.

  “Look at those teeth,” Diago said. “Filed sharp!”

  “No wild pack, then,” I said. “Someone trained those dogs to kill men!”

  Makato muttered something, shaking his head, but Diago did not translate. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Diago said to Pedro. “Blood could attract more animals.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Pedro responded. “It’ll dry soon.” But Diago spent a lot of time washing off the arms with snow until they were absolutely clean, despite his own coldness.

  We went on. We knew we were getting close to our destination, because the dogs must have been set on us by the ninjas, or whatever. Hiroshi had not said the castle was defended by ninjas, or explained why anyone should try to prevent us from visiting old Fu Antos there. But Hiroshi was a master of understatement. It was obvious now that there was malignant opposition to our mission, and we would have to be on guard at all times. Those dogs would have wiped out any ordinary party, with no chance for discussion or retreat.

  But what was the threat of death to me, when I was doomed anyway by the delayed deathblow? Diago hardly cared about life, after the betrayal of his half-adopted country, America. But Fu Antos might be able to help him, too. Pedro claimed he just wanted the adventure, having read about the ninjas a great deal. But more than that was driving him, I was sure. Makato, dissatisfied with his progress in mastering ki, thought Fu Antos might in one simple gesture present him with what he needed. I was cynical about that, too, but glad to have his powerful fist along. And Jim, well, perhaps the truth was that we all needed to get away from the world and interact with each other, coming at last to whatever accommodations we might; Fu Antos was merely the pretext.

  The mountain became steeper. We plodded on, following the tracks of the dogs. Certainly we were not going to give up after such an attack; it united us in a bond of anger. Why should such obstacles be put in our way? Was old Fu in fact being held prisoner by the ninjas?

  The trail led up a ledge hugging the side of the mountain. We went single file though there was room to go abreast. We came around a turn.

  The ninjas were there, rising up all about us in their snow white tunics. I knew their traditional garb was black, but that would only make them obvious in the snow, so they had wisely adapted to their environment. Ninjas were never fools about combat, and there was now no doubt these were ninjas. Even their weapons were white, and they carried an appalling variety. Sword, axe, pike, bow, and more devious instruments whose nature I could not grasp at first glance. They had lain in ambush despite the cold, and no wonder we hadn’t spied them sooner. They had been buried in snowdrift.

  Diago was in the lead. He looked up to see the bowman taking aim, while a little behind was another man with a contraption like a flamethrower made of bamboo. Diago recognized it as a watergun probably filled with poison or acid. Ninjas did not like to use firearms, but were ingenious in inventing devilish devices of their own.

  There were nine of the ghostly white figures, so they outnumbered our party almost two to one. They had assorted weapons, whereas we had, except for Diago’s knife, only our hands. They could mow us down from a distance with bow and spear and jets of poison and thrown knives. Diago knew he had to act. He gave his devastating kiai yell. The rest of us, warned by his stance, covered our ears, muffling that awful shriek to some extent. It was not completely effective in this open air, with the enemy protected by wool and armor, but it was still an extraordinary shock to the unsuspecting ninjas. Diago concentrated on the worst immediate danger: the man with the watergun. That man twisted and fell to the ground in an involuntary reaction to the kiai. His watergun discharged a stream of liquid full on the face of the archer, who was just drawing on his bowstring. The archer screamed and clawed at his eyes, his arrow driving into the snow as the bow dropped.

  But there was one ninja who was not set back by the kiai. An older man, sharp of visage and with his head enclosed in some kind of protective turban. His weapon was a kusari-gama, the chained sickle. On one end of the long fine chain was the L-shaped sickle, ready for its anchored throw. It was almost impossible to stop safely. On the other was a silver counterweight suitable for entangling the opponent’s weapon. Diago’s knife was in his hand, but before he could even lift this feeble defense the silver weight shot out and wrapped about it, pinning both knife and hand and holding Diago captive for the flying stroke of the sickle. Not even his voice could save him now.

  Pedro was familiar with the kusari-gama, however; he had several in his Nicaraguan collection of weapons. He whipped out one of his star-shaped shuriken throwing knives—actually a ninja weapon. He skated it at the sickleman’s face just as the ninja was ready to skewer Diago. But Pedro’s shot went wide, merely grazing the white turban. The man whirled around, taking aim instead at Pedro.

  Pedro swore in Spanish, ready with another metal star. He squatted to emulate the position he had practiced in the wheelchair, and fired again as the ninja’s arm flashed back for the throw. This one caught the man in the upper biceps, tearing into the muscle and making the sickle fly wild.

  “That’s the way!” Jim cried. “Good thing I practiced you up for this!” Pedro’s lip curled, half in anger, half in mirth.

  But now the ninjas had recovered from the momentary shock of the kiai, and were charging upon us in a mass. The fallen water-gunner had rolled down the slope until almost upon Diago, and now was drawing a knife. Diago blocked the thrust and kicked him on the jaw, breaking it and knocking him out more lastingly. But the first of the charge was upon him: a ninja armed with tiger’s claws. Even as Diago dispatched the knife-wielder, the metal talons raked him from forehead to jaw: four parallel gouges down the side of his face. Diago did not even exclaim with pain; he gripped that arm and threw the ninja with a ko-uchi-gari, minor inner reaping throw. He shoved the man backward while pulling down on his sleeve and reaping his heel. Even so, the ninja managed to rake him again, this time on the abdomen. Diago put a juji-gatame cross armlock on him and broke the arm at the elbow.

  Still the ninja fought, raking him with the other claw on arm and chest. Diago had to kick him repeatedly in the head until at last he was unconscious. There was no quarter given or asked here.

  Makato, meanwhile, was right at home. A ninja came at him with a battle-axe, lifting it high for a devastating downward chop. Makato stepped in and blocked the descending arm with one hand. With the other he smashed a powerful punch to the sternum bone of the chest. The man wore a mail shirt under his white tunic, but this was almost useless against the karateka’s iron fist. The ninja fell unconscious, lucky to be alive.

  The swordsman was there almost at the same time, trying to score with a rapier-thrust though it was a katana he wielded. This was because he didn’t want to decapitate his own man with a wild swing. Makato saw him and dodged swiftly to the side, letting the sword pass so close that it severed the threads of his heavy cotton jacket, then grabbing for the hand. But the ninja, no clumsy amateur, was already whipping the weapon away, and Makato caught the blade instead. It cut into his hand, but his calluses resisted enough for him to grip it anyway and use it to pull the ninja forward. With his other hand he delivered a terrible open-handed slap to the swordarm elbow.

  The ninja’s arms were protected, but it made no effective difference for this blow. The arm broke. Makato had shown good judgment in not going for the neck, for that was protected by a barbed chainmail throat-guard. But the joints remained vulnerable, for too-heavy armor would have hampered the ninja’s movement.

  Without letting go the sword, Makato kicked the side of the ninja’s knee with the side of his foot. This too was vulnerable; the ligaments and inner cartilage tore, and the man fell screaming. There is nothing more painful than a broken kneecap.

  Already the warrior with the pike was going for the karateka’s unprotected back. This ninja was in full plate armor in the ancient Japanese style, with lots of gold and silver filagree, all lacquered. He was completely covered, and moved comparatively slowly. But he would be a demon to stop; blows would not hurt him and the only part of him that showed was the eye behind the tiny eyeslit.

  Pedro had saved Diago from the kusari-gama; now he did the same for Makato with the pikeman. He produced a special shuriken, like a very small, very thin knife. He squatted to gain his once normal posture, then hurled the miniature blade at the armored face. This time the range was short and his aim unerring; the metal penetrated the eyeslit and lodged deep in the eye, felling the ninja.

  Another warrior came at Makato with a knife. The thrust was low, to gut him from beneath, and the stroke was fast and sure. Not one of these devotees of the ancient discipline was weak or slow. But Makato was ready for this, having faced experienced knife fighters many times before. He stepped in and deflected the knife-arm outwards, at the same time lifting his knee to give the man a solid blow on the testes. The ninja collapsed in agony; the only thing that saved him from death was his mail crotch protection, a kind of armored underwear. In a moment he was mercifully unconscious.

  At the same time, I faced the ninja armed with spiked brass knuckles. His punch came at my face. I threw up my shoulder, but he twisted his fist as it landed, to mangle my upper arm. My heavy jacket protected me somewhat, but the sharp spikes were excruciating. Maddened, I turned and executed a throw forbidden in judo competition: yama-arashi, the mountain tempest. My leg swept both his legs from underneath him, while I lifted him high with a harai goshi hip throw, then jumped into the air myself, turning and falling on top of him with my entire weight. He managed to strike me while he was in the air, however, wounding my trapesius muscle; I could hardly believe the tenacity of these fighting men. Then the fall, and he was knocked unconscious, perhaps severely injured. That was why this throw was normally forbidden: the terrible fall, like the thrust of an avalanche down the slope of a mountain. Even as this man slid down and out of sight, making his own small avalanche.

  The kusari-gama man, wounded in the biceps by Pedro, was not out of the fray. The ninjas were hardened to suffering and trained to fight to the finish. They were professional killers, while we were amateurs. This one now went for Jim.

  Jim still did not realize what he was up against. He was much larger than the ninja, weighing two hundred pounds to the other’s hundred and twenty-five; and Jim was in the pink of condition, facing a wounded older man. So he didn’t really try, at first. Had I not been occupied myself, I would have screamed a warning at him.

  The two grappled. Jim threw the ninja with a harai goshi, the same throw I was using simultaneously. But he did not, convert it into the savage mountain tempest. He used it straight, just as I had done so foolishly against Makato in our first tournament match. Of course the ninja clung to him and brought them both to the ground. But the ninja maneuvered so that Jim was on his stomach, with the other on his back. Then the warrior seized Jim’s head with one hand on each side and, ignoring the bleeding pain of his own arm, twisted rapidly and with extreme force.

  This, and all the other action about me, I comprehended in full only later, when I had opportunity to organize and assess the diverse and simultaneous impressions of the melee. I actually turned from my execution of the yama-arashi mountain tempest throw just in time to see that ferocious wrenching of Jim’s head. His bull neck, his longstanding pride, was no protection against the savagery of this attack. I charged the ninja, kicking at his back.

  But as I reached him there was an awful snap! and Jim’s neck was broken. His head lolled awfully to one side. At the same time all his natural functions let go, and he soiled himself.