Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope

by Piers Anthony

  "So did we," he said reminiscently. "But I can only remember one song now."

  "Sing it for me."

  "I can't," he protested, embarrassed. "My notes are all off-key."

  "So are mine. What's the song?"

  "'Greensleeves.'"

  "I don't know it. Sing it."

  "I can't sing lying on my side."

  "Sit up, then. There's room."

  He floundered into an upright posture, facing her across the length of the tent, Sol's still form stretched out diagonally between them. He was glad, now, that it was dark.

  "It isn't suitable," he said.

  "A folk song?" Her tone made the notion ridiculous.

  He took a breath and tried, having run out of objections:

  Alas, my love, you do me wrong

  To cast me out discourteously

  When I have loved you so long

  Delighting in your company.

  "Why that's beautiful!" she exclaimed. "A love ballad."

  "I don't remember the other verses. Just the refrain."

  "Go ahead."

  Greensleeves was my delight

  Greensleeves was all my joy

  Greensleeves was my heart of gold

  And who but my lady Greensleeves?

  "Does a man really love a woman like that?" she inquired meditatively. "I mean, just thinking about her and being delighted in her company?"

  "Sometimes. It depends on the man. And the woman, I suppose."

  "It must be nice," she said sadly. "Nobody ever loaned me his bracelet, just for company. That kind, I mean. Except-"

  He saw her eyes move to Sol, or thought he did, and spoke to cut off the awkward thought. "What do you look for ma man?"

  "Leadership, mostly. My father was second-ranked in the tribe, but never the master, and it wasn't much of a tribe. He finally got wounded too bad and retired to the crazies, and I was so ashamed I struck out on my own. I want a name everyone will admire. More than anything else, I want that."

  "You may have it already. He is a remarkable warrior, and he wants an empire." He refrained again from reminding her what that name could not provide.

  "Yes." She did not sound happy.

  "What is your song?"

  "'Red River Valley.' I think there was such a place, before the Blast."

  "There was. In Texas, I believe."

  Without further urging she began singing. Her voice, untrained, was better than his.

  Come and sit by my side if you love me

  Do not hasten to bid me adieu

  But remember the Red River Valley

  And the girl who has loved you so true.

  "How did you get to be a scholar?" she asked him then, as though retreating from the intimacy of the song.

  "The crazies run a school in the east," he explained. "I was always ,curious about things. I kept asking questions nobody could answer, like what was the cause of the Blast, and finally my folks turned me over to the crazies for service, provided they educated me. So I carried their slops and cleaned their equipment, and they taught me to read and figure."

  "It must have been awful."

  "It was wonderful. I had a strong back, so the work didn't bother me, and when they saw that I really wanted to learn they put me in school full time. The old books they contained incredible things. There was a whole history of the world, before the Blast, going back thousands of years. There used to be nations, and empires, much bigger than any of the tribes today, and so many people thee wasn't enough food to feed them. They were even building ships to go into space, to the other planets we see in the sky.

  "Oh," she said, uninterested. "Mythology."

  He gave it up as a bad job. Almost nobody, apart fron the crazies, cared about the old times. To the average person the world began with the Blast, and that was as far a curiosity extended. Two groups existed upon the globe: the warriors and the crazies, and nothing else that mattered The former were nomad families and tribes, travelling from cabin to cabin and camp to camp, achieving individual status and rearing children. The latter were thinker and builders who were said to draw their numbers from retired or unsuccessful warriors; they employed great pre Blast machines to assemble cabins and clear paths through the forests. They distributed the weapons and clothing and other supplies, but did not produce them, they claimed; no one knew where such things came from, or worried par ticularly about it. People cared only for the immediacies so long as the system functioned, no one worried about it Those who involved themselves with studies of the past and similarly useless pursuits were crazy. Hence the "crazies" men and women very like the nomads, if the truth were known, and not at all demented.

  Sos had come to respect them sincerely. The past lay with the crazies-and, he suspected, the future, too. They alone led a productive existence. The present situation was bound to be temporary. Civilization always displaced anarchy, in time, as the histories had clearly shown.

  "Why aren't you a-" she cut herself off. The last light from the fire had gone and only her voice betrayed hei location. He realized that his sitting posture cut off eves more of the, heat from her, though she had not compIained.

  "A crazy?" He had often wondered about that matter himself. Yet the nomad life had its rough appeal and tender moments. It was good to train the body, too, and to trust in warrior honor. The books contained marvels-but so did the present world. He wanted both. "I suppose I find it natural to fight with a man when I choose, and to love a woman the same way. To do what I want, when I want, and be beholden to no one else, only to the power of my right arm in the circle."

  But that wasn't true any more. He had been deprived of his rights in the circle, and the woman he would have clasped had given herself to another man. His own foolishness had led him to frustration.

  "We'd better sleep," he said gruffly, lying down again.

  She waited for him to get settled, then crawled upon him without a word. She placed herself face down upon the backs of the two men. Sos felt her head with its soft hair. nestling upon his right shoulder, ticklish tresses brushing down between his arm and body suggestively, though he knew this aspect of her repose was accidental. Women were not always aware of the sexual properties of long hair. Her warm left breast flattened against his back, and her smooth fleshy thigh fell inside his knee. Her belly expanded 'as she breathed, pressing rhythmically against his buttock.

  In the dark he clenched his fist.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Next time, advisor, if you tell me to smash my own hand to pulp with the club, I will do it gladly," Sol said, acknowledging his error about the moth sting. His features were pale, but he had recovered. They had dressed him in new trunks from the pack before he woke, and let him guess what he might about the loss of the other clothing. He did not inquire.

  Sola had found small green fruit on a wild apple tree, and they made a distasteful meal of it. Sos explained about their flight from the shrews, skimping on certain details, while the woman nodded.

  "So we can't use the valley," Sol said, dismissing the rest of it.

  "On the contrary-it is a fine training ground."

  Sola squinted at' him. "With the shrews?"

  Sos turned seriously to Sol. "Give me twenty good men and a month to work, and I'll have it secure the year around."

  Sol shrugged. "All right."

  "How are we going to get out of here?" Sola wanted to know.

  "The same way we came in. Those shrews are defeated by their appetites. They can't wait around very long in any one place, and there was hardly anything for them to eat in that valley. They must have moved on to fresher pastures already, and soon they'll die off. Their life cycle is short They probably only swarm every third or fourth generation, though that would still be several times a year."

  "Where did they come from?" Sol asked.

  "Must have been mutated from the fringe radiation."

  He began his description of evolution, but Sol yawned. "At any rate they must have been changed
in some way to give them the competitive edge, here, and now they are wiping out almost every form of ground life. They'll have to range farther and farther, or starve; they can't go on indefinitely like this."

  "And you can keep them clear of the valley?"

  "Yes, after preparations."

  "Let's move."

  The valley was empty again. No trace of the tiny mammals remained, except for the matted grass flattened by their myriad feet and brown earth showing where they had burrowed for fat grubs. They had evidently climbed every stalk in search of food, bearing it down by the weight of numbers and chewing experimentally. Strange scourge!

  Sol eyed the waste. "Twenty men?"

  "And a month."

  They went on.

  Sol seemed to gain strength as he marched, little worse for wear. The other two exchanged glances occasionally and shook their heads. The man might make a good show of it, but he had been very near death and had to be feeling the residual effects now.

  They set a swift pace, anxious to get out of the badlands before dusk. Travel was much more rapid now that they knew where they were going, and by nightfall they were near the markers. Stupid remained with Sos, perched on his shoulder, and this protection encouraged them to keep moving through the dusk toward the hostel.

  There they collapsed for a night and a day, basking in its controlled temperature, safe sleeping and ample food. Sola slept beside her man, no longer complaining. It was as though their experience of the last night in the badlands meant nothing to her-until Sos heard her humming "Greensleeves." Then he knew that no victor stood in this circle yet. She had to make her choice between opposing desires, and when she came to her decision she would either give back Sol's bracelet-or keep it.

  Stupid seemed to have no problem adapting to a diet of lesser insects. The white moths were a phenomenon of the badlands only, but the bird elected to stick with the empire even at the sacrifice of his favorite victual.

  They traveled again. Two days out they met a single warrior carrying a staff; He was young and fair, like Sol, and seemed to smile' perpetually. "I am Say the Staffer," he said, "in quest of adventure. Who will meet me in the circle?"

  "I fight for service," Sol replied. "I am forming a tribe."

  "Oh? What is your weapon?"

  "The staff, if you prefer."

  "You use more than one weapon?"

  "All of them."

  "Will you take the club against me?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm very good against the club."

  Sol opened his barrow and drew out the club.

  Sav eyed him amiably. "But I'm not forming any tribe myself. Don't misunderstand, friend-I'm willing to join yours if you beat me, but I don't want your service if I beat you. Do you have anything else to put up?"

  Sol looked at him baffled. He turned to Sos.

  "He's thinking of your woman," Sos said, keeping it carefully neutral. "If she will accept his bracelet for a few nights, as forfeit-"

  "One night is enough," Sav said. "I like to keep moving." Sol turned to her uncertainly. He had spoken truly when he said he was a good bargainer. Standard terms were fine, but a variable or three-person arrangement left him hanging.

  "If you beat my husband," Sola said to the staffer, "I will accept your bracelet for as many nights as you desire." And Sos understood her nostalgia for attentions other than sexual; this commitment was routine. She paid a penalty for her beauty.

  "One night," Sav repeated. "No offense, miss. I never visit the same place twice."

  Sos said nothing more. The staffer was disarmingly frank, and whatever Sola was, she was no hypocrite. She went to the best man, wanting his name. If she had to put herself on the line to promote a settlement, she would. There was little room in her philosophy for a loser, as he had learned.

  Or did she have such confidence in Sol that she knew she risked nothing?

  "Agreed then," Sol said. They trekked as a party to the nearest hostel, several miles down the trail.

  Sos had his private doubts as the two men stepped up to the circle. Sol was exceedingly swift, but the club was basically a power tool, not given to clever maneuvering. Even if it didn't show in ordinary travel, Sol's recent illness was bound to have its effect upon his strength and endurance in battle. The staff was a defensive weapon, well suited to a prolonged encounter, while the club rapidly sapped the strength of the wielder. Sol had committed himself foolishly and given himself the very worst chance.

  Yet what did it matter to him? If Sol won, the tribe had its first real member. If he lost, Sola would take another bracelet and become Sava, and likely be free shortly thereafter. Sos could not be certain which alternative would benefit him personally, if either did. Best to let the circle decide.

  No! He had agreed to serve Sol, in exchange for a name. He should have seen to it that Sol's chances were good. As it was, he had already let the man down, when he should have been alert. Now he could only hope that his lapse did not cost Sol the victory.

  The two men entered the ring, and the contest began immediately. There were no manners in the battle circle, only victory and defeat.

  Sav sparred, expecting a fierce attack. It did not come. The staff was about six and a half feet long and the same diameter as a singlesticlc, with square-cut ends; it flexed slightly when put under strain, but otherwise was nothing more or less than a rigid pole. It was one of the easiest weapons to use, though it seldom led to a quick decision. It readily blocked any other instrument, but was as easily blocked itself.

  Sol feinted four times with the heavy club, watching the defensive posture of his opponent, then shrugged and lashed out with a backhand blow to the chest that neatly bypassed the horizontal shaft.

  Sav looked surprised, fighting for the wind and steam that had been knocked out of him. Sol placed his club gently against the staff and pushed. The man fell backwards out of the circle.

  Sos was amazed. It had looked so simple, as though a lucky blow, but he knew it was not. Sol had expertly tested his opponent's reflexes, then struck with such quick precision that no parry had been feasible. It was a remarkable feat with the crude club-and no accident. Sol, nothing special outside the circle, was a tactical genius within it. A man had been added to the group, efficiently and virtually uninjured.

  It appeared Sol needed no advice on terms of combat.

  Sav took it philosophically. "I looked pretty foolish, didn't I, after all my talk," he said, and that was all. He didn't mope and he made no further overtures to Sola.

  The law of averages Sos had read about indicated that it would be a couple of weeks before they encountered any really able warrior. That afternoon, notwithstanding, they met two men with swords, Tor and Tyl. The first was swarthy and greatbearded, the second slim and cleanshaven. Sworders often shaved, as did daggers; it was an unofficial mark of their specialty, since it subtly hinted their skill with the blade. Sos had tried to shave with his sword once and had sliced his face severely; after that he stuck to the shears and did not try for closeness. There were electric razors in the ëabins, though few men condescended to use them. He had never understood why it should be considered degrading to use the crazies' razors, while all right to eat their food, but that was the way convention had it.

  Both sworders were married, and Tor had a little girl. They were friends, but it turned out that Tyl was the master of the group of two. Both agreed to fight, Tor first, with the stipulation that what he won belonged to Tyl. That was the way of a tribe of any size.

  Against Tor, Sol took a matching sword. These were straight, flat, slashing instruments twenty inches long, pointed but seldom used for stabbing. Sword contests were usually dramatic and swift. Unfortunately, wounds were frequent, too, and deaths not uncommon. That was why Sol had taken the staff against Sos, weeks ago; he had really been sure Of his skill and had not wanted to risk injuring his opponent seriously.

  "His wife and daughter are watching," Sola murmured beside him. "Why does he match weapons?"r />
  Sos understood her question to mean Tora and Tori as spectators and Sol's matching sword to sword. "Because Tyl is also watching," he told her.

  Tor was powerful and launched. a vigorous attack, while Sol merely fended him off. Then Sol took his turn on the offense, hardly seeming to make an effort yet pressing the other man closely. After that there was a pause in the circle as neither attacked.

  "Yield," Tyl said to his man.

  Tor stepped out and it was over, bloodlessly after all. The little girl gaped, not understanding, and Sola shared this confusion, but Sos had learned two important things. First, he had seen that Tor was an expert sworder who might very well have defeated Sos himself in combat. Second, he knew Tyl was even better. This was a rare pair to come upon so casually, after going so long without meeting anyone of caliber-except that that was the way the averages worked.

  Sola had thought that sword against sword meant inevitable bloodshed, but in this situation the truth was opposite. Tor had felt out Sol, and been felt out in turn, neither really trying for a crippling blow. Tyl had watched, not his own man whose capabilities he knew, but Sol, and made his judgment. He had seen what Sos had seen: that Sol possessed a clear advantage in technique and would almost certainly prevail in the end. Tyl had been sensible: he had yielded his man before the end came, accepting the odds. Perhaps the little girl was disappointed, thinking her father invulnerable-but her education in this respect would have been rude indeed.

  "I see," Sola said, keeping her voice law. "But suppose they had been just about even?'

  Sos didn't bother to answer.

  As it was, Sol had won painlessly again, and added a good man to his roster. Only by employing a weapon Tyl knew well could he have made his point so clearly.

  Sos had maintained a wait-and-see attitude on Sol's plans for empire, knowing how much more than speed and versatility in the circle was required. His doubts were rapidly evaporating. If Sol could perform like this in the time of his weakness, there seemed to be no practical limit to his capabilities as he regained strength. He had now demonstrated superlative proficiency with staff, club and sword, and had never been close to defeat. There seemed to be no barrier to continued additions to his tribe.