Neq the Sword

by Piers Anthony

  "There wasn't anything else to do with it, when you

  jumped out," she said defensively.

  "All right, Neqa. Sing out if you see anything."

  "I'll give it back!" she said. "I didn't mean—"

  "You meant. Let it stay. It's never been on a woman

  before."

  "But I still can't—"

  "Do you think / can? But I'd like to. Maybe after a few

  days." Oddly, he wasn't sweating, though of course he was

  completely wet. She was on the defensive now, not he.

  "Yes," she said. "That would be nice."

  "I'll squeeze it tight for you." He took her limp arm,

  slid the band down to her wrist, and applied his thumbs

  to the heavy metal ends. The gold gave way, and slowly

  the bracelet constricted to match her size.

  "Euphemism makes it so much easier," she murmured.

  "Thank you." She was still shivering, though it was warm

  in the cab. She was afraid, all right—of outlaw attack, of

  the meaning of a man's band on her arm, of indecision.

  She needed protecting.

  NEQ THE SWORD

  she said, as though

  "I never was kissed before . . ."

  nothing had happened in the interim.

  Had he done that? Suddenly he felt as though a sword

  had grazed his scalp, and he was weak with reaction.

  Neq lay in the back of the truck and slept, ignoring the

  continuing drizzle. He was a warrior; he could sleep any-

  where, regardless of the weather. Miss Smith—Neqa pro

  tern—needed the shelter of the cab.

  He dreamed. He had treated the transfer of his brace-

  let lightly, but it was fundamental. For the first time a

  woman had accepted it, and they were married, however

  tenuously. The rest would surely follow. That was his

  dream, and all of it: a lovely woman bearing his bracelet,

  loving him.

  "Neq!"

  He woke immediately, sword ready. She was right:

  there were men approaching the truck. In the face of his

  warning there could only be one reason, and no mercy.

  Silently he dropped from the back and flattened him-

  self against the side. He identified the marauders by then-

  sounds: they were clumsy stalkers. Six, seven, eight or

  more.

  It was dusk—bright in the sky yet, but dark under the

  trees. An advantage for him, for he could strike any-

  where, while they had to watch for each other.

  Neq wasted no time. He ran noiselessly at the nearest,

  a sworder. The man was dead before he realized the fight

  had started. Neq took his place and stalked the truck

  with the others. Nothing showed in the cab. Good—Neqa

  was staying down.

  "See anything?" a clubber whispered as they converged.

  "That guy is dangerous."

  It was the man Neq had warned before. He walked up

  as though to whisper a reply—and ran his point into the

  man's neck so that he died without a cry.

  But the group had converged too much for further

  secrecy. "That's him!" someone cried.

  Then Neq was lashing out, dancing here and there,

  cutting down whatever he could reach and jumping away

  in a fury of swordsmanship. Six men hemmed him in—

  two sworders, two clubbers, a staffer and a dagger. It

  was the staffer he was most cautious about, for that weapon

  could interfere with his action while the others closed in.

  He retreated toward the truck.

  Two more men ran out of the forest and climbed on

  the truck. "Neqa—defend yourself!" Neq cried. Beset as

  he was, he could not go to her himself.

  One man yanked open the door. "A woman!"

  He reached in, then fell back, grunting. Neq knew she

  had used the knife. In the cramped space of the cab, it

  would be more effective than a sword.

  The cab door swung closed, and the second man backed

  away from it, joining the main force. Seven warriors re-

  mained to the tribe, and now they knew the limits of their

  opposition. The element of surprise was gone. Neq had

  hoped to do more damage before it came to this. Had it

  been down to three or four functional enemies, in the

  near-dark, he could have brought them down. 'But seven

  threw the balance against him unless they were extraor-

  dinarily clumsy or unlucky. He could dodge and run, but

  he couldn't fight them long without getting hurt himself,

  and ultimately killed.

  Then the motor of the truck started. It roared, and the

  blinding headlights came on. She was going to try to

  drive it away!

  But the truck backed and turned, its rear wheels spew-

  ing up gouts of wet earth. The lights speared toward him.

  The motor roared again, like some carnivorous animal at

  bay, and the vehicle bounced toward the group of men.

  She wasn't going to stop! Neq threw himself to the

  side, out of the path of the great rubber tires. Mud and

  sand sprayed at him.

  Not all the outlaws were as quick to realize the danger.

  They hadn't ridden this machine for three days, and didn't

  respect its potential. They stared, confused.

  The front bumper caught two, not striking them hard

  enough to kill at this slow speed, but knocking them

  down. One screamed horribly as the wheel went over

  him. The other scrambled to safety, only getting clipped

  on the foot.

  In the confusion Neq clove a sworder across the face,

  and one more was down. Two more, counting the one

  under the wheel. He retreated again, but did not go far

  from the truck.

  The huge machine crashed into a tree, shattering a

  headlight. The wheels spun, digging holes. The gears

  growled. Then it backed, lifting out of its own trench in

  one mighty contortion.

  Neq ran to it and jumped on the back. A clubber,

  catching on, tried to follow him. A backhand slash dis-

  patched that one.

  Back across the road they went, slowing in the deepen-

  ing mud, and the remaining outlaws scattered. The single

  headlight caught one; the gears howled again, and the

  truck jumped forward toward that man. He fled to the

  side, waving his two sticks. The bright beam followed

  him.

  Neq had not until that moment appreciated the fact

  that the truck was a weapon. A terrible one, for no man

  could stand against it, even though its footing was treacher-

  ous in this rain. Miss Smith—Neqa—was making it a

  living, ravening monster, spreading terror and carnage

  within its limited domain.

  Back and forth the one-eyed creature went, hurling mud

  behind, lurching at any moving thing its light caught,

  bumping over the bodies in the road. One man was buried

  face-down in that dark pudding of mud, only his legs

  clear. To and fro endlessly, as though hungry for more.

  And the enemy was gone. Five of the tribe's number

  were dead, and Neq knew that others were wounded, the

  rest intimidated. The battle was won.

  The truck stopped. The motor died, the headlight went

  off. Neq climbed down and went around to the cab.


  "Is that you, Neq?" she called. He saw the small glint

  of her blade in the lingering light of the dashboard.

  "Me." He climbed in.

  "Oh God!" And she was sobbing like any jilted nomad

  girl. Neq put his arms about her and pulled her across the

  seat to his chest, and she clung to him in her sudden misery

  of relief.

  "I was so afraid they'd attack the tires!" she said.

  "No, they only attacked me."

  "Oh!" she cried, beginning to laugh. It was stupidly

  funny, somehow.

  She had his bracelet, she was in his arms, she was over-

  flowing with reaction and need . . . but that was as far as

  it went. This was not the time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following day he sang again, as the sun same down

  and steamed the forest floor into solidity. He pretended

  to sing to his weapon, but it was really to her, and she

  knew it.

  I know my love by her way of walking

  And I know my love by her way of talking

  And I know my love by her suit of blue—-

  But if my love leaves me, what will I do?

  "You sing very well," she said, reddening a bit.

  "I know it. But it isn't all real. When I sing of battle, I

  know what it means. But love—those are words I don't

  understand."

  "How do you know?" It was as though she were afraid

  to ask, but was fascinated anyway.

  He looked at his bare wrist. "I never gave my—"

  She held up her own wrist with the heavy gold bracelet

  clasped about it. "You gave. I accepted. Is that love?"

  "I don't know." But he was breathing jerkily.

  "Neq, I don't know either," she admitted. "I don't feel

  different—I mean I'm still me—but the gold seems to

  burn, to lead me along, I don't know where. But I want

  to know. I want to give—everything. I'm trying to. But

  I'm old, and crazy, and afraid. Afraid I have nothing to

  give." —•

  "You're beautiful, and warm, and brave. That business

  with the truck—"

  "I hate that! Being a killer, I mean. But I had to do it. I

  was afraid for you."

  "That must be love."

  "I like the sound of that. But I know better, Neq. I

  could hate you and still need you. If anything happens to

  you, I have no way home."

  That was the wonder of it: she was as afraid of him as

  he was of her. She fought rather than see him hurt—yet

  she could not come to him in peace. She had to impose

  practical reasons to justify what needed no justification.

  As he did, too. "Show me your breast," he said.

  "What?" She was not shocked, only uncomprehending.

  "Your knife. Your—when you put away your knife,

  you—"

  "I don't understand." But she did.

  "Show me your breast."

  Slowly, flushing furiously, she unwrapped her shoul-

  der, exposing her right breast.

  "It is nineteen," he said. "It excites me. A breast like

  that—it can't be old, or crazy, or afraid, or have nothing

  to give. It has to be loved."

  She looked at herself. "You make me feel wanton."

  "I will sing to your breast," he said.

  She blushed again, and her breast blushed too, but she

  did not cover herself. "Where do you leam these songs?"

  "They go around. Some say they come from before the

  Blast, but I don't believe that." Yet he did believe it as

  much as he disbelieved it, for so many of the words made

  no sense in the nomad context.

  "The books are that old. The songs might be." Her

  flush was fading at last.

  He sang, contemplating her breast:

  Black, black, black is the color

  of my true love's hair.

  Her lips are something rosy fair.

  The prettiest face and the neatest hands

  I love the ground on where she stands.

  "Does it?" She looked hopeful.

  "No. I'd like it to fit." After a pause he added: "Neqa."

  She couldn't seem to stop blushing. "You make me all

  confused when you say that. Neqa."

  "Because of the bracelet."

  "I know. I'm your wife as long as I wear it. But it isn't

  real."

  "Maybe it will be." If only it were that simple!

  "You nomads—you just pass the bracelet and that's it.

  Instant love, for an hour or a lifetime. I don't understand

  it."

  "But you were a nomad once."

  "No. I was a wild girl. No family. The crazies took me

  in, trained me, made me like them, outside. They do that

  with anyone who needs it. I never was part of the nomad

  society."

  "Maybe that's why you don't understand the bracelet."

  "Yes. What about you?"

  "I understand it. I just can't do it."

  "Maybe that's the trouble with us. You're too gentle

  and I'm too timid." She laughed nervously. "That's funny,

  after we killed all those men. Gentle and timid!"

  "We could hold each other tonight. It might help."

  "What if the outlaws come back?"

  He sighed. "I'll stand watch."

  "You watched last night. I should do it this time."

  "All right."

  She laughed again, more easily, so that her breast moved

  pleasantly. "So matter of fact! What if I said 'take me in

  your arms, crush me, make love to me!'?"

  He considered the prospect. "I could try. If you said it

  before I got too nervous."

  "I can't say it. Even though I want to."

  "You want to do it—but you can't ask me?"

  "I can't answer that." This time she forgot to blush.

  "I want to do it," she said seriously. "But I can't just

  start. Not unless you say. And even then—"

  "It is funny, you know. We know what we want, we

  know how each feels, but we can't act. We can even speak

  about speaking, but we can't speak."

  "Maybe tomorrow," he said.

  "Maybe tomorrow." And the look of longing she gave

  him as she put away her breast made his heart pause and

  jump.

  Tomorrow was another clear day, and the ruts were

  hardened, and there seemed to be the first whiff of some-

  thing from the corpses around the truck, and so they

  moved out. Nature compensated for the day's delay by

  providing an excellent route.

  That night Neqa joined him in a double sleeping bag

  in the back of the truck and pressed her breast against

  him, but she did not ask and he did not do. They both

  were frustrated, and they talked about it, and they agreed

  the whole thing was ridiculous, but that was all.

  They had to keep alert against possible marauders, so

  they took turns sleeping even though together, and while

  she slept he tried to touch her breast with his hand but

  didn't . . . but it was against his hand when he woke after

  her turn awake.

  The next night they slept together naked, and he ran

  his hands over both her fine breasts and her firm buttocks,

  and she cried when she could not respond, and that was

  all.

  The night after that he sang to her and kissed her, and

  she ran her hands over his t
orso and did not avoid what

  she had avoided before, huge as it was, and she pressed

  against him and he tried . . . but she cried out with a pain

  that might have been physical and might have been emo-

  tional, and he stopped, chastened, and she cried quietly

  for some time.

  Meanwhile, they were making much faster progress

  toward the supplier. Their union unconsummated, they

  pulled up to a hostel near what Neq recognized with

  shock as the mountain: the place of nomad suicide. Gaunt

  rusty girders projected from it, hiding the summit; he

  knew that no man who had passed that barrier had ever

  returned ... until recently.

  Yet Tyi of Two Weapons and the Master had laid siege

  to this bastion, for there had been living men within it.

  They had-gutted it, and now it was truly dead.

  Neqa consulted her map. "Yes, this is it."

  "This—your supplier?" he demanded.

  "Helicon. But something is wrong."

  "We destroyed it," he said. "The Weaponless did, I

  mean; I was not there. I could have told Dr. Jones, if I'd

  known he was talking about the mountain!"

  "Oh, no!" she cried. "Helicon manufactured all the