It was lonely, now that Sav was gone, and sleep did not come readily. He kept thinking of Sav, passing his bracelet around, embracing yielding and willing flesh, there in the main tent. Sos could have done likewise; there were women who had eyed his own clasp suggestively even though he carried no weapon. He had told himself that his position required that he remain unattached, even for isolated nights. He knew that he deceived himself. Possession of a woman was the other half of manhood, and a warrior could bolster his reputation in that manner as readily as in the circle. The truth was that he refused to take a woman because he was ashamed to do so while weaponless.
Someone was approaching his tent. Possibly Tor, wanting to make a private suggestion. The beard had a good mind and had taken such serious interest in group organization and tactics that he outstripped Sos in this regard. They had become good friends, as far as their special circumstances permitted. Sometimes Sos had eaten with Tor's family, though the contact with plump good-natured Tora and precocious Tori only served to remind him how much he had wanted a family of his own.
Had wanted? It was the other way around. He had never been conscious of the need until recently.
"Sos?"
It was a woman's voice-one he knew too well. 'What do you want, Sola?"
Her "hooded head showed before the entrance, black against the background snow. "May I come in? It's cold out here."
"It is cold here, too, Sola. Perhaps you should return to your own tent." She, like him, had maintained her own residence, pitched near Tyl's. She had developed an acquaintance with Tyla. She still wore Sol's bracelet, and the men stayed scrupulously clear of her.
"Let me in," she said.
He pulled open the mesh with one bare arm. He had forgotten to let down the solid covering after shutting off the lamp. Sola scrambled in on hands and knees, almost knocking over the lamp, and lay down beside his bag. Sos now dropped the nylon panel, cutting off most of the outside light and, he hoped, heat loss from inside.
"I get so tired, sleeping alone," she said.
"You came here to sleep?"
"Yes."
He had intended the question facetiously and was set back by her answer. A sudden, fierce hope set his pulses thudding, seeming more powerful for its surprise. He had deceived himself doubly: it was neither his position nor his lack of a weapon that inhibited him, but his obsession with one particular woman. This one.
"You want my bracelet?"
"No."
The disappointment was fiercer. "Get out."
"No."
"I will not dishoner another man's bracelet. Or adulterate my own. If you will not leave yourself, I will have you out by force."
"And what if I scream and bring the whole camp running?" Her voice was low.
He remembered encountering a similar situation in his diverse readings, and knew that a man who succumbed to that ploy the first time could never recover his independence of decision. Time would only make it worse. "Scream if you must. You will not stay."
"You would not lay your hands on me," she said smugly, not moving.
He sat up and gripped her furry parka, furious with her and with his guilty longing. The material fell open immediately, wrapped but not fastened. His hand and the filtered light still reflecting in from the snow told him quickly that she wore nothing underneath. No wonder she had been cold!
"It would not look very nice, a naked man struggling in his tent with a naked woman," she said.
"It happens all the time."
"Not when she objects."
"In my tent? They would ask why she came naked to it, and did not scream before entering."
"She came dressed, to inquire about a difficult problem. An error in fractions." She fumbled in the pocket and drew out a pad with figures scrawled upon it-he could not see them, but was sure she bad done her homework in this respect. Even to the error, one worthy of his attention. "He drew her inside-no, tricked her there-then tore off her clothing."
He had fallen rather neatly into her trap after all. She was too well versed. His usefulness to the group would be over, if the alarm were given now. "What do you want?"
"I want to get warm. There is room in your bag for two."
"This will gain you nothing. Are you trying to drive me out?"
"No." She found the zipper and opened the bag, letting the cold air in. In a moment she was lying against him, bare and warm, her parka outside and the zipper refastened.
"Sleep, then." He tried to turn away from her, but the movement only brought them closer together.
She attempted to bring his head over to hers, catching at his hair with one hand, but he was rigid. "Oh, Sos, I did not come to torment you!"
He refused to answer that.
She lay still for a little while, and the burning muliebrity of her laid siege to his resistance. Everything he desired, so close. Available-in the name of dishonor.
Why did she choose this way? She had only to put aside Sol's emblem for a little while...
Another figure detached itself from the shadow of the main tent and trod through the packed snow. Sos could see it, though his eyes were closed, for be recognized the tread. Tor.
"You have your wish. Tor is coming."
Then her bluff stood exposed, for she shrank into the bag and tired to hide. "Send him away!" she whispered.
Sos grabbed the parka and tossed it to the foot of the tent. He drew the lip of the bag over her head, hoping the closure wouldn't suffocate her. He waited.
Tor's feet came up to the tent and stopped. No word was spoken. Then Tor wheeled and departed, evidently deciding that the dark, closed tent meant that his friend was already asleep.
Sola's head emerged when it was safe. "You do want me," she said. "You could have embarrassed me.. .
"Certainly I want you. Remove his bracelet and take mine, if you want the proof."
"Do you remember when we lay against each other before?" she murmured, this time evading the direct refusal.
"'Greensleeves.'"
"And 'Red River Valley.' And you asked me what I wanted in a man, and I told you leadership."
"You made your choice." He heard the bitterness in his tone.
"But I did not know then what he wanted." She shifted position, placing her free arm under his and around his back and Sos was unable to control the heat of his reaction and knew she knew it.
"You are the leader of this camp," she said. "Everybody knows it, even Tyl. Even Sol. He knew it first of all."
"If you believe that, why do you keep his bracelet?"
"Because I am not a selfish woman!" she flared, amazing him. "He gave me his name when he didn't want to, and I must give him something in return, even if I don't want to. I can't leave him until we are even."
"I don't understand."
It was her turn for bitterness. "You understand!"
"You have a strange system of accounting."
"It is his system, not mine. It doesn't fit into your numbers."
"Why not pick on some other man for your purpose?"
"Because he trusts you-and I love you."
He could offer no rebuttal to that statement. Sol had made the original offer, not her.
"I will leave now, if you ask me," she whispered. "No screaming, no trouble, and I will not come again."
She could not afford the gesture. She had already won. Wordlessly he clasped her and sought her lips and body.
And now she held back. "You know the price?"
"I know the price."
Then she was as eager as he.
CHAPTER NINE
In the spring Sol reappeared, lean and scarred and solemn, toting his barrow. More than two hundred men were there to greet him, tough and eager to the last. They knew his return meant action for them all.
He listened to Tyl's report and nodded matter-of-factly. "We march tomorrow," he said.
That night Sav came to share his tent again. It occurred to Sos that the staffer's departure and return had been re
markably convenient, but he did not comment directly. "Your bracelet got tired?"
"I like to keep moving. 'Bout run out of ground."
"Can't raise much of a family that way."
"Sure can't!" Say agreed. "Anyway, I need my strength. I'm second staff now."
Yes, he thought forlornly. The first had become second, and there was nothing' to do but abide by it. The winter had been warmer than the spring.
The tribe marched. The swords, fifty strong, moved out first, claiming their privilege as eventual winners of the point-score tournament. The daggers followed, winners on index, and then the sticks, staffs and clubs. The lone morningstar brought up the rear, low scorer but not put out. "My weapon is not for games," he said, with some justice.
Sol no longer fought. He stayed with Sola, showing unusual concern for her welfare, and let the fine military machine Sos had fashioned operate with little overt direction. Did he know what his wife had been doing all winter? He had to, for Sola was pregnant.
Tyl ran the tribe. When they encountered a single man who was willing to come to terms, Tyl gave the assignment to the group corresponding to the man's weapon and let the leader of that group select a representative to enter the circle. The advantage of the extended training quickly showed: the appointed warriors were generally in better physical shape than their opponents and superior strategists, and almost always won. When they lost, more often than not the victor, perceiving the size and power of the tribe, challenged the group leader in order to be incorporated into it. Tyl allowed no one to travel with the tribe who was not bound to it.
Only Sos was independent-and he wished he were not. A week out they caught up to another tribe. It contained about forty men, and its leader was typical of the crafty oldsters Sos had anticipated. The man met Tyl and surveyed the situation-and agreed to put up just four warriors for the circle: sword, staff, sticks and club. He refused to risk more.
Disgruntled, Tyl retired for a conference with Sos. "It's a small tribe, but he has many good men. I can tell they are experienced and capable by the way they move and the nature of their scars."
"And perhaps also by the report-of our advance scouts," Sos murmured.
"He won't 'even send his best against us!" Tyl said indignantly.
"Put up fifty men and challenge him yourself for his entire group. Let him inspect the men and satisfy himself that they are worth his trouble."
Tyl smiled and went to obtain Sol's official approval, a formality only. In due course he had forty-five assorted warriors assembled.
"Won't work." Tor muttered.
The wily tribemaster looked over the offerings, grunting with approval. "Good men," he agreed. Then be contemplated TyL "Aren't you the man of two weapons?"
"Sword and stick."
"You used to travel alone and now you are second in command to a tribe of two hundred."
"That's right."
"I will not fight you."
"You insist upon meeting our master Sol?"
"Certainly not!"
Tyl controlled his temper with obvious difficulty and turned to Sos. "What now, advisor?" he demanded with irony.
"Now you take Tor's advice." Sos didn't know what the beard had in mind, but suspected it would work.
"I think his weak spot is his pride," Tor said conspiratorily. "He won't fight if he thinks he might lose, and he won't put up more than a few men at a time, so he can quit as sqon as the wind blows against him. No profit for us there. But if we can make him look ridiculous-"
"Marvelous!" Sos exclaimed, catching on. "We'll pick up four jokers and shame him into a serious entry!"
"And we'll assign a core of chucklers. The loudest mouths we have."
"And we have plenty," Sos agreed, remembering the quality of heckling that had developed during the intense intergroup competition.
Tyl shrugged dubiously. "You handle it. I want no part of this." He went to his tent.
"He really wanted to fight himself," Tor remarked. "But he's out. He never laughs."
They compared notes and decided upon a suitable quartet for the circle. After that they rounded up an even more special group of front-row spectators.
The first match began at noon. The opposing sworder strode up to the circle, a tall, serious man somewhat beyond the first flush of youth. From Sol's ranks came Dal, the second dagger: a round-faced, short-bodied man whose frequent laugh sounded more like a giggle. He was not a very good fighter overall, but the intense practice had shown up his good point: he had never been defeated by the sword. No one quite fathomed this oddity, since a stout man was generally most vulnerable to sharp instruments, but it had been verified many times over.
The sworder stared dourly at his opponent, then stepped into the circle and stood on-guard. Dal drew one of his knives and faced him-precociously imitating with the eight-inch blade the formal stance of the other. The picked watchers laughed.
More perplexed than angry, the sworder feinted experimentally. Dal countered with the diminutive knife as though it were a full-sized sword. Again the audience laughed, more boisterously than strictly necessary.
Sos aimed a surreptitious glance at the other tribe's master. The man was not at all amused.
Now the sworder attacked in earnest, and Dal was obliged to draw his second dagger daintily and hold off the heavier weapon with quick feints and maneuvers. A pair of daggers were generally considered to be no match for a sword unless the wielder were extremely agile. Dal looked quite unagile-but his round body always happened to be just a hair out of the sword's path, and he was quick to take advantage of the openings created by the sword's inertia. No one who faced the twin blades in the circle could afford to forget that there were two, and that the bearer had to be held at a safe distance at all times. It was useless to block a single knife if the second were on its way to a vulnerable target.
Had the sworder been a better man, the tactics would have been foolhardy; but again and again Dal was able to send his opponent lumbering awkwardly past, wide open for a crippling stab. Dal didn't stab. Instead he flicked off a lock of the sworder's hair and waved it about like a tassel while the picked audience roared. He slit the back of the sworder's pantaloons, forcing him to grab them hastily, while Sol's men rolled on the ground, yanked up their own trunks and slapped each other on shoulders and backs.
Finally the man tripped over Dal's artful foot and fell out of the circle, ignominiously defeated. But Dal didn't leave the circle. He kept on feinting and flipping his knives as though unaware that his opponent was gone.
The opposite master watched with frozen face.
Their next was the staffer. Against him Tor had sent the sticks, and the performance was a virtual duplicate of the first. Kin the Sticker fenced ludicrously with one hand while carrying the alternate singlestick under his arm, in his teeth or between his legs, to the lewd glees of the scoffers. He managed to make the staffer look inept and untrained, though the man was neither. Kin beat a tattoo against the staff, as though playing music, and bent down to pepper the man's feet painfully. By this time even some of the warriors of the other tribe were chuckling. . . but not their chief.
The third match was the reverse: Sav met the sticks. He hummed a merry folksong as he poked the slightly bulky belly of his opposite with the end of his staff, preventing him from getting close. "Swing low, sweet chariot!" he sang as he jabbed. The man had to take both sticks in one hand in order ,to make a grab for the staff with the other. "Oh, no John, no John, no John, no!" Say caroled as he wrapped that double hand and sent both sticks flying.
It was not his name, but that man was ever after to be known in the tribe as Jon.
Against their club went Mok the Morningstar. He charged into the circle whirling the terrible spiked ball over his head so that the wind sang through the spikes, and when the club blocked it the chain wrapped around the hand until the orbiting ball came up tight against the dubber's hand and crushed it painfully. Mok yanked, and the club came away, while the man
looked at his bleeding fingers. As the star had claimed; his was not a weapon for games.
Mok caught the club, reversed it, and offered the handle to his opponent with a bow. "You have another hand," he said courteously. "Why waste it while good bones remain?" The man stared at him and backed out of the circle, utterly humbled. The last fight was over.
The other master was almost incoherent. "Never have I seen such-such-"
"What did you expect from the buffoons you sent against us?" a slim, baby-faced youngster replied, leaning against his sword. He had been foremost among the scoffers, though he hardly looked big enough to heft his weapon. "We came to fight, but your cavorting clowns-"
"You!" the master cried out furiously. "You meet my first sword, then!"
The boy looked frightened. "But you said only four-"
"No! All my men will fight. But first I want you-and that foul beard next to you. And those two loud mouthed clubbers!"
"Done!" the boy cried, standing up and running to the circle, It was Neq, despite his youth and diminutive stature the fourth sword of fifty.
The beard, of course, was clever Tor himself, now third sword. The two clubbers were first and second in their group of thirty-seven.
At the end of the day Sol's tribe was richer by some thirty men.
Sol pondered the matter for a day. He talked with Tyl and thought some more. Finally he summoned Sos and Tor: "This dishonors the circle," he said. "We fight to win or lose, not to laugh."
Then he sent Sos after the other master to apologize and offer a serious return match, but the man had had enough. 'Were you not weaponless, I would split your head in the circle!" he said.
So it went. The group's months in the badlands camp had honed it to a superb fighting force, and the precise multiweapon ranking system placed the warriors exactly where they could win. There were some losses-but these were overwhelmingly compensated by the gains. Upon occasion Tyl had the opportunity to take the circle against a master, matching a selected subtribe equivalent to the other tribe, as he had wanted to do the first time. Twice he won, bringing a total of seventy warriors into Sol's group, much to his pride.. . and once he lost.
Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope Page 7
