Mortal Kombat (6 page)

In this time before isolation, imprisonment, and homesickness had driven him quite mad, Ruthay had told him that not every soul could be used to open the doorway sufficiently to accommodate Shao Kahn and his hordes of demons and furies. Only some of them would work.

Why wasn't I told this before?
Shang Tsung remembered snarling at the demon.

Because only experience teaches some lessons,
Ruthay had replied.

The fool of a demon wasn't right about many things, but he'd been right about that. Even Ruthay hadn't known that only selected souls could be used. Not until Shang Tsung went ashore, waited months to find and kill a warrior, a teacher, and a holy man, and sent their souls through the doorway, did he and Ruthay know that only the souls of great fighters could be used to expand the portal.

Alas, he realized that finding them would take time. Using an explosive powder, Shang Tsung destroyed a floating kitchen that had been making its way along the coast, and captured the souls of the seven drowning cooks. Cloaking them and making them his slaves, he put the supernatural entities to work rebuilding the ancient Shaolin Temple on the island and then enlarging it to include a palace and the twin pagodas.

While they worked, using magic to excavate, cut, and place the stones, Shang concentrated on finding a means to bring the world's boldest fighters to him, to get them to Shimura Island, where their souls could be hurried, still fresh, to the temple and used to weaken beyond repair the barrier between the dimensions.

He came up with the idea for Mortal Kombat, and it should have worked.

Through dreams, Shang contacted warriors in lands both known and unknown – summoned them, guided them to the East China Sea, and pit them one against the other to find the strongest souls in the Mother Realm. The idea was that he would win and, in winning, take the life and soul of the warrior who had survived the other matches and emerged victor, the second most powerful, second only to him.

But then he met and faced the accursed Order of Light high priest Kung Lao, just as Shao Kahn intimated he would.

Just
thinking
the name, as he had now, was enough to make his heart fill with rage, his ravaged and incomplete soul to burn.

Their first match had been their fiercest. Of
course
it had been, Shang Tsung thought back. Kung Lao had not known of Shang's special powers, his ability to throw spears of flame and coils of smoke, and Shang was also younger then – thirteen years younger – and more powerful. Kung Lao had struggled his way through ten increasingly more violent and difficult matches before finally facing his host.

Shang Tsung could still vividly see the bruised but almost insufferably proud Kung Lao standing there, with his left foot facing left for support, his right foot pointed ahead, ready to strike out, his right hand fisted and cocked at his side, his left forearm angled in front of him, hand rigid.

And Shang remembered how the fight evolved in the splendid Hall of Champions, in the newly finished palace. He remembered every move and every nuance.

Kung Lao had taken a step forward, and as he did so Shang had spun and clapped his hands together. Blinding white light had exploded between the men, sizzling in the air for several long seconds.

Shang shut his eyes. Even today, thirteen years later, he could still feel the wonderful heat of the burst, the glow that was going to light his way to the championship –

Kung Lao had jump-kicked blindly, and Shang did a standing flip to the left, out of the way, his hands still smoking from the fireball. Still unable to see, Kung Lao had crossed his forearms defensively, in front of his face, but Shang had leapt above them and driven a heel into his opponent's temple. Kung Lao then fell on his back, and Shang had landed with a knee on Kung Lao's chest.

You can't block what you can't see!
he remembered laughing, confident of victory. Before his foe could recover, Shang had crooked the fingers of his right hand and drove his palm into the base of Kung's nose. The young warrior's eyes had rolled up as his precious, holy man's blood splashed onto the hard marble floor. And as he watched it spray in all directions, Shang could
feel
Kung Lao's soul coming free of its moorings.

Shang had risen then, glaring down at Kung Lao as he tried to raise his back from the ground. With a sneer, Shang then stomped once on his foe's belly, knocking the wind from him.

Don't move again,
Shang had said.
Savor the blindness so that you don't have to watch as I take your misbegotten life.

Then, as Shang had come toward him, Kung Lao reached out suddenly, grabbed his adversary's left leg behind the shin, and thrust his left palm hard into Shang's right knee. The attacker's leg had buckled and he went down, Kung Lao simultaneously rolling to one side, throwing both legs into the air, and catching Shang in a scissor-lock as he fell. Kung Lao then hooked his feet together and squeezed as Shang hit the ground and tried to pry him loose.

Shang Tsung winced as he relived the pain –

The faces of both men turned red as they lay there, locked together.

Shang Tsung shuddered, now, as he recalled the words Kung Lao had uttered.
Some men with sight are still blind,
he'd said, crushing them tighter.
There are always things one doesn't anticipate.

Kung Lao was a little goldfish who enjoyed swimming in the pool of his own piety and righteousness, but he hadn't been wrong about that. After what Shang had thought would be a quick victory, he lost as that amulet – the damned moon-sun trinket – sapped his strength while he lay trapped in that hold. And it
was
a quick victory... though not for Shang.

Kung Lao and Shang Tsung had met in each of the succeeding twelve tournaments. Shang Tsung would sit on his throne in the Hall of Champions, watching each match as Kung Lao progressed to the inevitable showdown. And then, fresh from not having to participate, Shang Tsung would face his tired foe. Each year, Shang Tsung was confident of victory, for he had used herbs and roots to make his magic stronger, had worked hard to toughen his flesh and sinew, had given himself a
reason
to win by assuring Shao Kahn that this year, at long last, the great soul of Kung Lao would be used to widen the breach.

But each year, Kung Lao defeated him. Sometimes swiftly, as he had in their first match; sometimes in battles that lasted fully a day and night, plucking victory from what seemed like certain defeat. The amulet helped, of course, yet Shang Tsung knew it was more than that. Though both had the will to win, Kung Lao had the heart of a god. Shang was on a mission for one, which wasn't the same thing.

Clearly, it was not.

Though for thirteen years it
had
been a matter of pride, it wasn't any longer. This year, with his soul in remarkable disrepair, his body weaker than ever, Shang Tsung had decided not to fight. This year, someone – more properly, some
thing
– would fight for him, and defeat the accursed Kung Lao. And with their champion beaten, Rayden and even T'ien himself would have to partake in the tournament. And when they fell, their souls would –

But you get ahead of yourself, incautious dog!
Shang Tsung chastised himself.

He felt tired as he stood here for the first time since the last Mortal Kombat one year before. Each time he lost, Shang Tsung had come to this very spot and surrendered a portion of his soul to keep the portal from closing.

It had occurred to him, of course, to disobey Shao Kahn's command – to allow the portal to shut and then reopen it when he had collected enough souls. But in a panic that had started him on the road to insanity, Ruthay had pointed out that if the rift were to shut while Ruthay was still on this side, the Mother Realm would be destroyed, along with everyone in it – including them.

How can that be?
Shang Tsung had asked.

It is in the nature of matter,
Ruthay had said,
that the demon can leave the egg, or the soul the human, but neither the shell nor the flesh can cross over. If they do, and the spiritual root of the home world is severed, then the particles that comprise all matter will be torn asunder and obliterate all.

While he was here, trapped atop the circle, Ruthay was still rooted in the Outworld. But if the doorway were shut, he would be nothing more than an unctuous smear. Only if a god were to cross from one realm to the other, redefine the nature of the life and matter there, could the two worlds be mixed.

So Shang Tsung would stand there while a wind from the other side of the rift pulled at him, drawing him down like a whirlpool. He would resist the pull, and only when he felt a sharp snap or a slow rip or long, twisting agony – for it was different every time – did he know that he had given part of himself in order for the doorway to stay open, and that he was free to go... until the next loss.

The matter of pride had been that
he
be the one to defeat Kung Lao, to claim the high priest's singularly mighty soul and use it to enlarge the rift between the worlds. But that was not to be, so with Ruthay's help he had come up with an alternate plan and had presented that to their sovereign lord. And as he knelt with his spread palms to the floor, and prepared to face Shao Kahn once more, Shang Tsung was confident that what they were going to do was the right thing. Shao Kahn didn't care about means so much as he cared about results.

"Great Lord," Shang said as he felt but could not see a hot, oppressive shadow fall over him.

"
What is it, mouse?
" Shao Kahn said.

The word stung, but Shang said, "Revered Emperor, I've come to assure you that this will be the year of Kung Lao's defeat."

"
You have promised this before.
"

"I have, Great One, it is true," Shang said. "But this year, I have renewed hope. Not only will I permit your other servant to take on the Order of Light high priest and crush him utterly, for all time, the servant who is strong where I am weak–"

"
You are weak in most ways, Shang –
"

"I deserve the rebuke, Master," Shang lied. "But after this day, you will be proud of what we have done. For not only will the Prince fight for you, but Kung Lao has come without the source of his greatest power, the enchanted amulet given to him by–"

"
Your prattle bores me, rabbit. Mastery of the Mother Realm is all that matters.
"

"And you shall have it," Shang promised. "Soon."

"
Go,
" Shao Kahn said, "
You have very little soul left, Shang, and I should hate to have to claim it. If I do,
he bellowed, "
you will hate it as well, for your eternity will be spent not as the ruler of Shokan provinces, but as a sore on the tongue of my dragon Twi'glet, one that causes her to belch fire over you for each moment of forever.
"

"I understand, Most High," Shang kowtowed. "I will not fail you."

"
Be very certain of that,
" Shao Kahn said. "
The Prince I have sent through the rift was not happy to go.
"

"I know," Shang Tsung said, bending so low that his lips touched the floor. "I had thought, sire, the souls I sent in exchange–"

"
Briefly contented me. The pirates are now floating on a fiery sea while flaming swords slice hot wounds that are instantly cauterized. How the wretches scream when the blades are yanked from their burnt flesh. But these souls did not help the Prince. They widened the portal barely enough to accommodate his form. I had to force him–
"

"My lowest apologies, lord."

"
As Ruthay will tell you when the poor fiend is lucid enough to speak, that is a most unpleasant experience.
"

"I understand, Your Highness," Shang Tsung said, "but I assure you, I have the Prince under control."

"
Control?
" Shao Kahn chuckled. "
One does not control the Prince. Once simply finds him a more appealing adversary and then gets out of his way. Had I been able to control him fully, he would have gone through long ago, instead of you.
"

And as the shadow presence of the great lord vanished, and Shang Tsung rose, he felt that he
was
certain of that. For, through a spy-hole, had had watched Kung Lao when he arrived at his room in the northern pagoda, had seen that the thirteen-time champion had come without his amulet, and had about him the chill of fear – the look of a man who was about to lose his first Mortal Kombat and suffer dumb and helpless while his soul was torn from his broken body and used as the first cobblestone in a demonic road...

On the morning of every Mortal Kombat, Kung Lao had a ritual.

The champion would rise well before the sun, pray until after dawn, and then strip to the waist and slowly drag a thorn branch over his body, a sprig torn from the shrubs in the foothills of Mt. Ifukube. The thin, superficial wounds did not weaken him, but Kung Lao knew that if his flesh were sore he would react that much quicker to protect himself from being hurt.

Adorned with this webwork of blood, Kung Lao ate none of the fruit and meat that had been left at his door, drank none of the nectars from their silver goblets. As he sat on the terrace of his spacious champion's rooms on the bottom floor, and composed his spirit as cool sea winds washed over him, he ate two humble rice cakes that had been made for him by the Order of Light monks of Ifukube. It was good to feel the claws of hunger scratching at him during the tournament. It helped to keep him alert – right there, living in the moment.

When he was finished eating, he continued to sit there, contemplating the deity in whose name he fought... and, on this day, wondering about the awful presence he had felt in the rooms somewhere above him when he'd arrived, and continued to feel in his sleep, during his deepest prayers, and even now.

And then, when the huge bell sounded in the courtyard outside the place, the site of the initial bouts, he went to the tournament dressed in his slippers, loose skirt, leggings, and the mien of a champion.