Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope

by Piers Anthony

  The bones and gear of the missing hunting party were discovered three miles upriver. Suddenly everyone appreciated the menace properly, and no more grumbles about the work were heard. Sos, too, was treated with somewhat more respect than hitherto. He had proved his point.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sol arrived two weeks later with another group of fifty men. He now had a fair-sized tribe of sixty-five warriors, though the majority of these were inexperienced and untrained youths. The best men were still tied up in established tribes, as Sos had pointed out in their discussion but that situation would change in due course.

  Sos trotted out the witnesses to the execution of Nar and had them describe to Sol what they had observed. There were only two; the third had been a hunter on the day of warfare. Sos was not certain how the master of the tribe would take it, since his management of the valley group had cost five men. That was a full quarter of the complement put in his charge.

  "There were two guards?" Sol inquired.

  The witnesses nodded. "Always."

  "And the other that night did not report that the first was sleeping?"

  Sos clapped his palm to his forehead. For a man who fancied his brain, he had blundered ridiculously. Two had been guilty, not one.

  In the end Tyl had another job with the sticks, while Sos and Sol retired for a private consultation. Sos described in detail the events of the past five weeks, and this time Sol's attention never wandered. He had little patience with history or biology, but the practical matters of empire building were of prime interest to him. Sos wondered whether the man had also had some intervening experience with the problems of discipline. It seemed likely.

  "And you can form these new men into a group that will conquer other tribes?" Sol inquired, wanting the reassurance.

  "I think I can, in six months, now that we have plenty of men and good grounds. Provided they will obey me implicitly."

  "They obey Tyl."

  Sos looked at him, disturbed. He had expected to have Sol's direct backing for this longer haul. "Aren't you going to stay here?"

  "I go out tomorrow to recruit more men. I leave their training to you."

  "But sixty-five warriors! There is bound to be trouble."

  "With Tyl, you mean? Does he want to be the leader?" Sol was perceptive enough, where his empire was concerned.

  "He has never said so, and he has stood by me steadily," Sos admitted, wanting to be fair. "But he would not be human if he did not think in such terms."

  "What is your advice?"

  Now it was in his own lap again. At times Sol's faith in him was awkward. He could not demand that the master stay with his tribe; Sol evidently liked recruiting. He could ask him to take Tyl with him-but that would only require his replacement as disciplinary leader, and the next man would present much the same problem. "I have no evidence that Tyl lacks honor," he said. "I think it would be best to give him good reason to stay with your tribe. That is, show him that he stands to profit more by remaining with you than by striking out on his own, with or without any of the present group."

  "He stands to profit the loss of his head, if he moves against me!"

  "Still-you could designate him first warrior, in your absence, and put him in charge of his own group. Give him a title to sport, so to speak."

  "But I want you to train my men."

  "Put him over me and give him the orders. It will amount to the same thing."

  Sol thought it over. "All right," he said. "And what must I give you?"

  "Me?" Sos was taken aback. "I agreed to serve you one year, to earn my name. There is nothing else you need to give me." But he saw Sol's point. If Tyl's loyalty required buttressing, what about his own? Sol was well aware that the training was, in the long run, more important-than the discipline of the moment, and ho had less hold on Sos than on the others. Theoretically Sos could renounce the name and leave at any time.

  "I like your bird," Sol said surprisingly. "Will you give him to me?"

  Sos peeked sidewise at the little fellow snoozing on his shoulder. The bird had become so much a part of his life that he hardly thought about the matter any more. "No one owns Stupid. Certainly you have as much claim on him as I do-you were the one who cut down the hawk and saved him. The bird just happened to fix on me, for some reason nobody understands, even though I did nothing for him and tried to shoo him away. I can't give him to you."

  "I lost my bracelet in a similar fashion," Sal said, touching his bare wrist.

  Sos looked away uncomfortably.

  "Yet if I borrowed your bird, and he mated and fathered an egg, I would return that egg to you," Sol murmured.

  Sos stomped away, too angry to speak.

  No further words passed between them-but the next morning Sol set out again, alone, and Sola stayed at the camp.

  Tyl seemed quite satisfied with his promotion. He summoned Sos as soon as the master was out of sight. "I want you to fashion this bunch into the finest fighting force in the area," he said. "Anyone who malingers will answer to me."

  Sos nodded and proceeded with his original plan.

  First he watched each man practice in the circle, and assessed his style and strengths and weaknesses, making notes on a pad of paper in the script of the ancient texts. Then he ranked the warriors in order, by weapon: first sword, second sword, first staff, and so on. There were twenty swords in the collection; it was the most popular instrument, though the injury and death rate was high. There were sixteen clubs, twelve staffs, ten sticks (he had never discovered why the misnomer "singlestick" should apply to the pair), five daggers and a solitary star.

  The first month consisted entirely of drill within the individual groups, and continual exercise. There was much more of both than the warriors had ever had before, because contestants were readily available and there was no delay or traveling between encounters. Each practiced with his weapon until fatigued, then ran laps around the inner perimeter of the camp and returned for more practice. The best man in each weapon class was appointed leader and told to instruct the others in the fine points of his trade. The original rankings could be altered by challenge from below, so that those whose skill increased could achieve higher standing. There was vigorous competition as they fell into the spirit of it, with spectators from other weapons applauding, jeering and watching to prevent injurious tactics.

  The star, in a group of one, practiced with the clubs. The morningstar weapon was an oddity: a short, stout handle with a heavy spiked bail attached by a length of chain. It was a particularly dangerous device; since it lacked control, it was impossible to deliver a gentle blow. The devastating star-ball either struck its target, the points gouging out flesh and bone, or it didn't; it could not be used defensively. The loser of a star vs. star match was often killed or grievously wounded, even in "friendly" matches, and not always by his opponent's strike. Even experienced warriors hesitated to meet an angry staber in the circle; internecine casualties were too likely.

  So it went. The men were hardly aware of general improvement, but Sos saw it and knew that a number of them were turning into very fine artists of battle.

  By twos and threes, new men and their families arrived to join the group, sent hither by Sol. They were integrated into the specialty companies and ranked as their skills warranted; the old-timers remarked that the quality of recruits seemed to be descending. By the end of that first month the tribe had swelled to over a hundred fighting men.

  At first there were many gawky youngsters, taken only because they were available. Sos had cautioned Sol not to judge by initial skill or appearance. As the training and exercise continued, these youngsters began to fill out and learn the vital nuances of position and pacing, and soon were rising up their respective ladders. Some of the best, Sos suspected, would never have lived long enough to have become really proficient in the normal course; their incorporation into Sol's tribe was their greatest fortune.

  Gradually the dissimilar and sometimes surly individuals t
hrown together by the luck of conquest caught the spirit of the group. A general atmosphere of expectancy developed. It was evident that this was a tribe destined for greater things. Sos picked out the most intelligent men and began instructing them in group tactics: when to fight and when not to fight, and how to come out ahead when the sides seemed even.

  "If your group has six good men ranked in order, and you meet a group with six men, each of whom is just a little better than yours, how should you arrange your battle order?" he asked them one day.

  "How much better?" Tun wanted to know. He was a dubber, low-ranked because he was too 'heavy to move quickly.

  "Their first man can take your first. Their second can take your second but not your first. Their third can take your third, but not your second or first, and so on down the line."

  "I have no one who can beat their first?"

  "No one-and he insists on fighting, as do the rest."'

  "But their first will certainly not stand by and let my first overcome a lesser weapon. He will challenge my first, and take him from me. Then their second will do the same to my second. .

  "Right."

  Tun pondered the matter. "The luck of the circle should give me one victory, perhaps two-but I should do best not to meet this tribe."

  Tor, the b1ack-bearded sworder, brightened. "I can take five of their men, and lose only my poorest."

  "How?" Tun demanded. "Theirs are all better than-"

  "I will send my sixth man against their leader, as though he were my best, and keep the rest of my order the same."

  "But your first would never agree to fight below your sixth!"

  "My first will take my orders, even if he thinks they insult him," Tor said. "He will meet their second, and defeat him, and then my second will take their third, and finally my fifth will take their sixth."

  "But their first-"

  "Will conquer only my sixth-who would have likely lost to any other man. I do not need him."

  "And you will have ten men, while he is left with only two," Sos finished. "Yet his team was better than yours, before you fought."

  Tun gaped, then laughed, seeing it, for he was not a stupid man. "I will remember that!" he exclaimed. Then he sobered. "Only-what if their best refused to fight any but my best?"

  "How is he to know?" Tor demanded. "How do you know his rankings?"

  They agreed that the strategy would be effective only with advance scouting, preferably by some experienced but retired warrior. Before long they were all eagerly inventing similar problems and challenging each other for solutions. They fetched dominoes from the game-compartment of the hostel and set them up against each other as tactical situations, the higher values indicating greater proficiency. Tor soon proved to be cleverest at this, and got so that he could parlay almost any random deal into a winning effort. Sos had started this type of competition, but he lost ground to his pupils.

  He had shown them how to win with their intelligence when they could not do it by brute force, and he was well satisfied.

  The second month, with the physical rankings firmly established, the tribe began inter-weapon competition. The advisors rejoined their own ranks and conspired to overcome all enemies by means of their more subtle skills. Each subgroup now had esprit de corps and was eager to demonstrate its superiority over its fellows.

  Sos trained men to keep tally: a point for each victory, nothing for each loss. Some laughed to see grown men carrying pencil and pad, emulating scribes among the crazies, and soon the women moved in to take over this task. They prevailed upon Sos to teach them how to write identifications for each group, so that competitive scores could be posted on a public board. Instead be suggested that they learn to make symbols: simplified swords, clubs and other weapons, to be followed by lines slashed in bunches of five for ready comparison. Every day men were to be seen trekking to that board and exclaiming over their victories or bemoaning their losses of rank. As the fives grew too cumbersome with the cumulative totals, the women mastered the more versatile Arabic. numerals, and, after them, the men. This was a dividend Sos had not anticipated; the tribe was learning to figure. He walked by one day and spied a little girl adding up her group's daily total on her fingers. Then she took the pencil and posted "56" beside the sword-symbol.

  That was when he realized how simple it would be to set up a training course in basic mathematics, and even in full-fledged writing. The nomads were illiterate because they had no reason to read or write. Given that need, the situation could quickly change. But he was too busy to make anything of it at the time.

  The daggers, being the smallest group, were at a disadvantage. Their leader complained to Sos that, even if all five of them won every encounter, they could hardly keep up with the swords, who could lose more than they won and still finish the day with more points. Sos decided that this was a valid objection, so he showed them how to figure on index: the number of points per man. Then he did have to start his class in maths, to teach the women how to compute the averages. Sola joined it; she was not the smartest woman available but, since she was alone, she had more time and was able to master the procedures well enough to instruct them. Sos appreciated the help, but her proximity disturbed him. She was too beautiful, and she came too close when he was explaining something.

  Strange things happened in the circle. It was discovered that the ranking swords were not necessarily the most effective against the crude clubs, and that those who could master clubs might be weak against the staffs. The advisors who first caught on to the need to shift rankings as the type of opposition shifted gained many points for their groups.

  Tyl came upon Tor setting out his dominoes in his tent and laughed. Then he saw Tor make notes and call off a marvelously effective battle strategy, and stopped laughing. Tyl, also aloof at first because of the deference he felt due his position, watched the individual progress being made and decided to participate. No one could afford to stand still, and already there were sworders rivaling his prowess. The time even came when he was seen pondering dominoes.

  The third month they began doubles drill. Two men had to take the circle against two opponents and defeat them as a team.

  "Four men in the circle?" Tyl demanded, shocked. "What charade is this?"

  "Ever hear of the tribe of Pit?"

  "A very powerful organization in the far east. They put up their swords by pairs, and their clubs and staffs. They will not enter the circle singly. Do you want them to claim a victory over us by default?"

  "No!" And the drill went on.

  The daggers and sticks had little trouble, but the staffs could entangle each other and the free-swinging clubs and swords were as likely to injure their partners as their targets. The first day's doubles practice was costly. Again the rankings were shuffled, as the teamed first and second swords found themselves ignominiously defeated by the tenth and fifteenth duo. Why? Because the top-rankers were individualists, while the lower numbers had wisely paired complementary styles: the aggressive but foolhardy offense supported by the staid but certain defense. While the two top sworders lurched against each other and held back strokes because they could not separate friend from foe, the smooth teamwork of the lesser warriors prevailed.

  Then inter-group competition again, with reshuffled rankings, and finally mixed doubles: sword paired with club, dagger with staff, until every man could pair with any other weapon against any combination and fight effectively. The scoring had to be revised to match; the women learned fractions and apportioned the sections of the victories where due. Months passed unnoticed as the endless combinations were explored, and an experienced cadre developed to break in the newcomers, naturally bewildered, and show how to improve and ascend the rankings.

  The leaves fell, then snow, and the moths and shrews disappeared, though group vigilance and action had long since reduced these menaces to comparative impotence. As a matter of fact, shrew stew had become a staple in the diet, and it was awkward to replace this bountiful source of
meat when winter came.

  The rings were swept clean each day and the interminable drill went on, in shine or snow. Additional warriors appeared steadily, but still Sol did not return.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With the cold weather, Sav elected to move into the main tent, which was heated by a perpetual fire. It had been subdivided into numerous smaller compartments, for a certain amount of privacy between families. Increasingly, eligible young women were showing up in search of bracelets. Sav was candid about passing his around.

  Sos stayed in the small tent, unwilling to mix freely with those who bore weapons. His impotence in the circle was a matter of increasing distress, though he could not admit it openly. He had not appreciated the extent of his compulsion to assert himself and solve problems by force of arms until denied this privilege. He had to have a weapon again-but was barred from employing any of the six that the crazies distributed to the cabins. These were' mass produced somewhere, standardized and stocked freely in the hostels, and alternates such as the bow and arrows were not useful in the circle.

  He had wondered often about this entire state of affairs. Why did the crazies take so much trouble to provide these things, making the nomad existence possible, then affect complete lack of concern for the use men made of them? Sometime he meant to have the answer. Meanwhile he was a member of the battle society, and it was necessary for him to assert himself in its terms. If he were able.

  He stripped his clothing and climbed naked into the warm sleeping bag. This was another item the crazies obligingly stocked in wintertime, and many more than the normal number had been provided at the local cabin, in response to the increased drain on its facilities. They all most certainly knew about this camp, but didn't seem to care. Where the men were, they sent supplies and sought no other controls.

  He had a small gas lamp now, which enabled him to read the occasional books the crazies left behind. Even In this regard they were helpful; when he started taking books from the hostel, more appeared, and on the subjects he seemed to favor. He lit the lamp and opened his present volume: a text on farming, pre-Blast style. He tried to read it, but it was complicated and his mind could not concentrate. Type and quantity of fertilizer for specified acreage; crop rotation, pesticide, applications of and cautions concerning.. . such incomprehensible statistifying, when all he wanted to know was how to grow peanuts and carrots. He put the book aside and turned off the light.