Neq the Sword

by Piers Anthony

calmly: "It looks to me as though you are molesting a crazy

  outpost. Have you any reason?"

  The man drew his blade. "This is my reason. Got it clear

  now, shorty?"

  Neq saw that the others had been alerted, and were

  coming at a run. They were all sworders. But he held his

  ground. "Are you challenging me in the circle?"

  "Hey, this guy's a troublemaker!" the man cried, amused.

  "Cut off his balls—if he has any!" one of the others said,

  approaching with weapon drawn.

  Neq was assured by this time that these were noncircle

  outlaws: clumsy fighters who banded together informally

  to prey on whoever was helpless. Such wretches had never

  been tolerated within the crazy demesnes before, and the

  empire had systematically run them down'~and executed

  them. That is, they were forced to meet a capable warrior

  in the circle, contesting for life. There was no sense in

  having the crazies halt maintenance because of the actions

  of outlaws.

  But the empire was gone now, and the weeds were

  encroaching. He would have no compunction about cutting

  down such cowards. Still, he made sure: "Give me your

  names."

  They ringed him now. "We'll give you a bleeding gut!"

  the first man said, and the rest chuckled.

  "Then I give you mine. I am Neq the Sword." He drew

  his weapon. "The first to move against me defines the

  circle."

  "Hey—I've heard of him!" one man cried "He's danger-

  ous! Got a tribe—"

  But already the others, no students of the empire heir-

  archy, were closing in, thinking to overwhelm him by

  their dishonorable mass attack.

  Neq swung into action the moment they moved. He

  thrust ferociously at the one directly in front, driving his

  point into the man's unguarded chest and yanking it out

  again immediately. Then he whirled the bloody blade to

  the left, catching the next man at the neck before he could

  raise his sword in defense. Such tactics would never have

  worked against competent warriors—but these were com-

  bat oafs. He swung right, and this man had his guard up,

  so that sword clanged on sword.

  Neq leaped away, passing between the two bleeding men.

  Two remained, for the fifth had fled after recognizing him.

  Neq spun to face them as they looked at their fallen

  comrades, appalled. Novices frightened of blood!

  "Take your wounded and get out of here," he snapped at

  them. "If I see you again, I kill you both."

  They hesitated, but they were inept cowards and he

  knew it. He turned his back on them contemptuously and

  went to the outpost building. He knocked on the door.

  There was no answer.

  'The siege is lifted," he called. "I am Neq the Sword—

  Warrior of the circle. You have me in your records."

  Still silence. Neq knew that the crazies kept track of all

  the nomad leaders, and had duplicate dossiers.

  "Stand before the window," a voice called at last.

  Neq walked to the shattered window. He saw that the

  rough sworders were stumbling away with their comrades.

  "There is a Neq-sword listed," another voice said. "Ask

  him who his father is."

  "Nem the Sword," Neq answered without waiting for

  the question. These crazies! "And my sister is Boma; she

  took Born the Dagger's band and bore two boys by him."

  "We have no record of that here," the second voice said

  after a pause. "But it sounds authentic. Did he serve in

  the nomad empire of Sol of All Weapons?"

  "Born? No. But if you saw my action of a moment ago,

  you know / served."

  "We have to trust him," the first voice said.

  Neq returned to the door. There was the sound of

  laboriously shifting furniture. Keys. It opened.

  Two old men stood within. They were typical crazies:

  cleanshaven, hair shorn, parted and combed, spectacles,

  white shirts with sleeves, long trousers with creases, stiff

  polished leather shoes. Ludicrous apparel for any type of

  combat. Both were shaking visibly, obviously unused to

  personal duress and afraid of Neq himself.

  "How did you hold them off?" Neq asked, genuinely

  curious. A nomad in such decrepit condition would begin

  excavating his caim.

  One crazy picked up a vaguely swordlike instrument.

  "This is a power drill, operating off house current. I turned

  it on and put it against any part of the body that entered the

  building. It was sickening but effective."

  "And we do have weapons," the other said. "But we

  aren't adept at their use."

  Obviously. "How long has this been going on?"

  "For two days. We've had similar attacks recently, but

  our supply trucks were able to disperse them. This time

  the truck did not come."

  "Probably ambushed, boarded and wrecked," Neq said.

  "I found three gutted hostels too. But those jackals never

  had the nerve to attack you before. What's the reason?"

  "We don't know. Supplies have been short, and we have

  not been able to stock our hostels sufficiently. The nomads

  seem to have been making war against us."

  "Not the nomads! Those were outlaws!"

  They peered at him dubiously. "We don't~x[uestion your

  values, but—"

  "My values aren't hurting," Neq said. "You have evi-

  dence that regular warriors are rampaging against you?"

  "It seems so."

  "But that's suicidal! We are not completely dependent

  on the hostels, but. they do make possible a special way of

  life. Their sanctity has always been honored."

  "So we thought. But as you have seen—"

  Neq sighed. "I have seen. Well, I want you to know that

  I do not condone this destruction, and I'm sure most

  nomads' agree with me. How may I help you?"

  The two exchanged timid glances. "Would you be will-

  ing to bear a message to our main depot?"

  "Gladly. But the way things are going, you need pro-

  tection here. If I go, you won't survive long."

  "We can not desert our post," one man said sadly.

  "Better that than death," Neq pointed out.

  "It is a matter of principle."

  He shrugged. "That's why you are called the crazies.

  You are crazy."

  "If you will carry the message—"

  "I'll take the message. But first I think I'd better see to

  your defenses. I can round up a few men—"

  "No. We have never worked that way."

  "Crazies, look," Neq exclaimed, exasperated. "If you

  don't work that way now, your post will surely and

  shortly be a smoking hole, and you buried under it. You

  have to take some note of reality."

  "A compelling case," the man admitted. "You have ob-

  viously had tactical experience. But if we do not function

  according to our philosophy, we have no point in func-

  tio'ning at all."

  Neq shook his head. "Crazy," he repeated, admiring

  their perverse courage. "Give me your message."

  The main post was a school. The message was for one

  Doctor Jones, an
d he meant to deliver it personally to the

  man.

  A blonde crazy girl sat at a desk as though guarding

  her master from intrusions. "And who is calling?" she

  asked, her professional eye analyzing him comprehen-

  sively. She was quite clean, and that was mildly annoying

  too.

  "Neq the Sword."

  "N E K or-N E G?"

  He merely stared at her.

  "Oh, illiterate," she said after a moment. "Dr. Jones

  will see you now."

  He entered the interior office and handed over the

  written message. The aged, balding crazy within broke

  the seal immediately and studied the scribbled sheet of

  paper. He looked grave. "I wish we had been able to

  install telephonic cables. So our trucks have not been

  getting through?" he obviously knew the answer.

  'Those two men are probably dead by now," Neq said.

  "Crazies just won't listen to reason. I offered to protect

  them, but—"

  "Our ways differ from yours. Otherwise we would be

  nomads ourselves—as many of us have been, in youth."

  "You were a warrior?" Neq asked incredulously. "What

  weapon?"

  "Sword, like you. But that was forty years ago."

  "Why did you give it up?"

  "I discovered a superior philosophy."

  Oh. "Well, those crazies at the outposts are dying by

  their philosophies. You'd better call them in."

  "I shall."

  At least the crazy master had some sense! "Why is this

  happening? Attacks on your posts, hostels—it was never

  this way before."

  "Never in your memory, perhaps. I could give you an

  answer, but not a completely satisfactory one." Dr. Jones

  sat behind his desk and made figures with his hands. He

  had long spindly wrinkled fingers. "We have been unable

  to supply the hostels properly in recent months. Normal

  attrition thus reduces some of these to virtual uselessness

  for travelers. When that happens, some men react ad-

  versely—and lacking the stability of civilization, they

  strike out senselessly. They are hungry, they want cloth-

  ing and weapons—and none are available. They feel they

  have been unfairly denied."

  "But why can't you supply them anymore?"

  "Because our own supplies have been cut off. We are

  chiefly distributors; we do not manufacture the imple-

  ments. We do have a number of mechanized farms—but

  food is only part of our service."

  "You get the weapons and things from somebody else?"

  Neq had not realized this.

  "Until recently, yes. But we have had no shipments for

  several months, and our own resources are practically

  exhausted. So we are frankly unable to provide for the

  nomads, with the unfortunate results you have noted."

  "Didn't they tell you what happened? Your suppliers, I

  mean?"

  "We have had ho contact Television broadcasts ceased

  abruptly, so there seems to have been a severe power

  loss. Our suppy trucks have not returned. I fear that now

  the very restlessness our lapse promotes is rebounding

  against us: a feedback effect. The situation is serious."

  "Your whole hostel system will break down?"

  "And, I am very much afraid, our schools and hospitals

  and farms. Yes. We cannot withstand the concerted at-

  tacks of so many armed men. Unless we are able to re-

  solve this matter expeditiously, I have grave reservations

  about the stability of our society in its present form."

  "You're saying we're all in trouble?"

  Dr. Jones nodded. "You are succinct."

  "What you need is someone to go find out what's wrong

  at the other end. Someone who can fight. If your truck

  drivers are like the men I met at the outpost—"

  Jones nodded again.

  "I'll go, if you like."

  "You are most generous. But you would not be con-

  versant with the details. We would require a written

  report—"

  "I can't write. But I could guard a literate."

  Jones sighed. "I will not claim your offer is unenticing.

  But it would be unethical for us to use you in this fash-

  ion. And you might have difficulty protecting a 'crazy'."

  "You're right. I can't help a man who won't listen."

  "So I thank you for your service in bearing this mes-

  sage." Jones stood up. "You are welcome to remain with

  us for as long as you desire. But I doubt that you are in-

  clined toward the quiet life."

  "I doubt it's quiet anymore," Neq said. "But it does

  differ from my—my philosophy." He put his hand on the

  hilt of his sword. "By this I live."

  "Doctor."

  Both men glanced over to see the blonde girl in the

  doorway. "Yes, Miss Smith?" Dr. Jones said in his

  question-statement tone.

  "I listened over the intercom," she said, looking re-

  belliously guilty. "I overheard Mr. Neg's offer—"

  "Neq," Neq said, pronouncing it carefully. "Neq the

  Sword."

  "With a Q, I'm sure," Jones said, smiling. "One of the

  most skilled of the nomad swordsmen today."

  Neq was startled, for Dr. Jones had given no hint of his

  information before. But of course an ex-sworder would

  keep track of such things, and Neq was in the crazy

  records.

  "I could go with him," Miss Smith said, and a flush

  came to her rather pretty features. "I haven't entirely

  forgotten the wild life—and I could make the report."

  Jones looked pained. He had an excellent face for it.

  "My dear, this is not the type of enterprise—"

  "Doctor, you know our whole structure will collapse if

  we don't do somethingi" she cried. "We can't go on much

  longer."

  Neq stayed out of this debate, watching the girl. She

  was young but quite attractive in her animation. Her two

  breasts were conical under her light crazy sweater and

  her skirted legs were well proportioned. She was worth a

  man's contemplation despite her outlandish attire. He

  had heard that "Miss" applied to a crazy woman signified

  her eligibility for marriage; they used words instead of

  bracelets.

  Jones faced Neq. "This is somewhat awkward—but she

  is technically correct. Our need is imperative, and she

  would seem to be equipped to do the job. Of course it is

  not incumbent on you to—"

  "I can guard a woman as easily as a crazy man," Neq

  said. "If she'll do what I say. I can't have her standing on

  'principle' when a warrior's charging us."

  "I'll do what you say," she said quickly.

  "My mind is not easy," Jones said. "But we do require

  the information. Even a negative report-^which I very

  much fear is to be anticipated—would enable us to make

  positive plans to salvage a very limited sphere. If both of

  you are amenable—"

  Neq considered more carefully. How far would he travel

  in a day, fettered to this doll-pretty crazy woman? She

  would faint at the sight of blood, surely, and collapse be-

  fore they had walked sixty miles. And the ridicule he />
  would evoke, marching with a crazy companion, any

  crazy, but particularly a female crazy—

  "It wouldn't work," he said. And felt a certain familiar

  frustration, knowing that his shyness with women had as

  much to do with it as logic.

  "It has to work," she said. "Dr. Jones can do amazing

  things, but only if he has exact information. If you're

  worried about my keeping up—we'll take a truck. And I

  don't have to look this way. I'm aware of your contempt.

  I can dress like a nomad. I'll even put on some dirt—"

  Jones almost smiled, but Neq shrugged as though it

  wasn't that important to him. If they didn't get there, they

  didn't get there. The notion of traveling with a handsome

  woman, even a crazy, had its subtle but developing appeal.

  This was business, after all; his private problem could

  not be permitted to interfere. "All right."

  "All right?" She looked surprised.

  "Put on some dirt and get your truck and we'll go."

  She looked dazedly at Jones. "All right?"

  Dr. Jones sighed. "This is against my better judgment.

  But if both of you are willing—"

  CHAPTER THREE

  The change in blonde Miss Smith was amazing. She had