"That seems to be the way love is," Jones agreed regretfully. "But if I understand the situation correctly, she will go with you, after her commitment to Sol is finished. I would call this a rather mature outlook on her part."
"She won't just 'go' with me! She wants a name with prestige, and I don't even carry a weapon."
"Yet she recognized your true importance in the tribe. Are you sure it isn't your own desire, more than hers? To win a battle reputation, that is?"
"I'm not sure at all," Sos admitted. His position, once stated openly, sounded much less reasonable than before.
"So it all comes down to the weapon. But you did not swear to quit all weapons-only the six standard ones."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
"By no means. There have been hundreds of weapons in the course of Earth's history. We standardized on six foi convenience, but we can also provide prototype non standard items, and if any ever became popular we couk negotiate for mass production. For example, you employec the straight sword with basket hilt, patterned after medieva models, though of superior grade, of course. But there ü also the scimitar-the curved blade-and the rapier, foi fencing. The rapier doesn't look as impressive as the broad• sword, but it is probably a more deadly weapon in con fined quarters, such as your battle circle. We could-"
"I gave up the sword in all its forms. I don't care to temporize or quibble about definitions."
"I suspected you would feel that way. So you rule out any variation of blade, club or stick?"
"Yes."
"And we rule out pistols, blowguns and boomerangs- anything that acts at a distance or employs a motive powet other than the arm of the wielder. We allow the bow and arrow for hunting-but that wouldn't be much good in the circle anyway."
"Which pretty well covers the field."
"Oh, no, Sos. Man is more inventive than that, particu. larly when it comes to modes of destruction. Take th€ whip, for example-usually thought of as a punitive in strument, but potent as a weapon too. That's a long fine thong attached to a short handle. It is possible to stand back and slash the shirt off a man's back with mere flicks of the wrist, or to pinion his arm and jerk him off balance, or snap out an eye. Very nasty item, in the experienced hand."
"How does it defend against the smash of the club?"
"Much as the daggers do, I'm afraid. The whipper just has to stay out of the club's way."
"I would like to defend myself as well as to attack." Bul Sos was gaining confidence that some suitable weapon foi him did exist. He had not realized that Jones knew sc much about the practical side of life. Wasn't it really foi some such miracle he had found his way here?
"Perhaps we shall have to improvise." Jones tugged piece of string between his fingers. "A net would be fine defensively, but-" His eyes continued to focus on the string as his expression became intent. "That may well be it!"
"String?"
"The garrote. A length of cord used to strangle a man. Quite effective, I assure you."
"But how would I get close enough to a dagger to strangle him, without getting disemboweled? And it still wouldn't stop a sword or club."
"A long enough length of it would, Actually, I am visualizing something more like a chain-flexible, but hard enough to foil a blade and heavy enough to entangle a club. A-a metal rope, perhaps. Good either offensively or defensively, I'm sure."
"A hope." Sos tried to imagine it as a weapon, but failed. "Or a bolas," Jones said, carried away by his line of thought. "Except that you would not be allowed to throw the entire thing, of course, Still, weighted ends-come down to the shop and we'll see what we can work up."
Miss Smith smiled at hhn again as they passed her, but Sos pretended not to notice. She had a very nice smile, and her hair was set in smooth light waves, but she was nothing like Sola.
That day Sos gained a weapon-but it was five months before he felt proficient enough with it to undertake the trail again.
Miss Smith did not speak to him at the termination, but Jones bid him farewell sadly. "It was good to have you back with us, if only for these few months, Sos. If things don't work out-"
"I don't know," Sos said, still unable to give him a commitment. Stupid chirped.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As he had begun two years before, Sos set out to find his fortune. Then he had become Sol the Sword, not suspecting what his alliteratively chosen name would bring him to; now he was Sos the Rope. Then he had fought in the circle for pleasure and reputation and minor differences; now he fought to perfect his technique. Then he had taken his women as they came; now he dreamed of only one.
Yet there were things about the blonde Miss Smith that could have intrigued him, in other circumstances. She was literate, for one thing, and that was something he seldom encountered in the nomad world. True, she was of the crazies' establishment-but she would have left it, had he asked her to; that much had become apparent. He had not asked . . . and now, briefly, he wondered whether he had made a mistake.
He thought of Sola and that wiped out all other fancies.
Where was Sol's tribe now? He had no idea. He could only wander until he got word of it, then follow until he caught up, sharpening his skill in that period. He had a weapon now, and with it he meant to win his bride.
The season was early spring, and the leaf-buds were just beginning to form. As always at this time of year, the men brought their families to the cabins, not anxious to pitch small tents against the highly variable nights. The young single girls came, too, seeking their special conquests. Sos merged with these groups in crowded camaraderie, sleeping on the floor when necessary, declining to share a bunk if it meant parting with his bracelet, and conversing with others on sundry subjects: Sol's tribe? No-no one knew its present whereabouts, though some had heard of it. Big tribe-a thousand warriors, wasn't it? Maybe he should ask one of the masters; they generally kept track of such things.
The second day out Sos engaged in a status match with a sticker. The man had questioned whether a simple length of rope could be seriously considered a weapon, and Sos had offered to demonstrate, in friendly fashion. Curious bystanders gathered around as the two men entered the circle
Sos's intensive practice had left his body in better condition than ever before. He had thought he had attained his full growth two years ago, but the organs and flesh of his body had continued to change, slowly. Indeed, he seemed to be running more and more to muscle, and today was a flat solid man of considerable power. He wondered sometimes whether he had been touched by radiation, and whether it could act in this fashion.
He was ready, physically-but it had been a long time since he took the circle with a weapon. His hands became sweaty, and he suddenly felt unsure of himself, a stranger in this ring of physical decision. Could he still fight? He had to; all his hopes depended upon this.
His rope was a slender metallic cord twenty-five feet long, capped and weighted at either end. He wore it coiled about his shoulders when traveling, and it weighed several pounds.
Stupid had learned to watch the rope. Sos loosened several feet of it and held a slack loop in one hand as he faced the other man, and Stupid quickly made for a nearby tree. The two sticks glinted as the other attacked, the right beating at his head while the left maintained a defensive guard. Sos jumped clear, bounding to the far side of the circle. His nervousness vanished as the action began, and he knew he was all right. His rope shot out as the man advanced again, entangling the offensive wrist. A yank, and the sticker was pulled forward, stumbling.
Sos jerked expertly and the cord fell free, just as he had practiced it, and snapped back to his waiting hand. The man was on him again, directing quick blows with both sticks so that a single throw could not interfere with the pair. Sos flipped a central loop over the sticker's neck, ducked under his ann and leaped for the far side of the ring again. The loop tightened, choking the man and pulling him helplessly backward.
Another jerk and the rope fell free again. Sos could have kept
it taut and finished the fight immediately, but he preferred to make a point. He wanted to prove, to other and to himself, that the rope could win in a number of guises-and to discover any weaknesses in it before he had a serious encounter.
The sticker approached more cautiously the third time keeping one arm high to ward off the snaking rope. The man knew now that the coil was an oddity but no toy; a weapon to be wary of. He jumped in suddenly, thinking to score a blow by surprise--and Sos smacked him blindingly across the forehead with the end.
The man reeled back, grasping the fact of defeat. A red welt appeared just above his eyes, and it was obvious that the rope could have struck an inch lower and done terrible damage, had Sos chosen so. As it was, his eyes watered profusely, and the sticker had to strike out almost randomly.
Sos let down his guard, looking for a kind way to finish the encounter-and the man happened to connect with hard rap to the side of his head. The singlestick was no club, but still could easily knock out a man, and Sos was momentarily shaken. His opponent followed up with the other stick immediately, raining blows upon head and shoulders before Sos could plunge away.
He had been away from the circle too long! He should never have eased his own attack. He was fortunate that the other was operating on reflex rather than calculated skill and had struck without proper aim. He had his lesson, and he would not forget it.
Sos stayed away until his head was clear, then set aboul finishing it. He wrapped the rope about the man's legs, lassoing them, and yanked the feet from under. He bent over the sticker, this time bunching his shoulders to absorb the ineffective blows, and pinioned both arms with a second loop. He gripped the coils with both hands strategically placed, lifted, and heaved.
The man came up. hogtied and helpless. Sos whirled him around in a complete arc and let go. The body flew out of the ring and landed on the lawn beyond the gravel. He had not been seriously hurt, but was completely humiliated.
The rope had proven itself in combat.
The following weeks established Sos as a reputable fighter against other weapons as well. His educated rope quickly snared the hand that wielded sword or club, defending by incapacitating the offense, and the throttle-coil kept the flashing hands of the dagger away. Only against the staff did he have serious-trouble. The long pole effectively prevented him from looping the hands, since it extended the necessary range for a lasso enormously and tended to tangle his rope and slow alternate attacks. Wherever he flung, there was the length of rigid metal, blocking him. But the staff was mainly a defensive weapon, which gave him time to search out an opening and prevail. He made a mental note, however: never tackle the quarterstaff when in a hurry.
Still there was no positive word on Sol's tribe. It was as though it had disappeared, though he was certain this was not the case. Finally he took the advice offered the first night and sought the nearest major tribe.
This happened to be the Pit doubles. He was not at all sure that their leader would give information to an isolated warrior merely because he asked for it. The Pit master had a reputation for being surly and secretive. But Sos had no partner to make a doubles challenge for information, and none of the men he had met were ones he cared to trust his life to in the circle.
He gave a mental shrug and set course for the Pit encampment. He. would dodge that obstacle when he came to it.
Three days later he met a huge clubber ambling in the opposite direction, tossing his weapon into the air and humming tunelessly. Sos stopped, surprised, but there was no doubt.
It was Bog, the indefatigable swinger who had battered Sol for half a day, for the sheer joy of fighting.
"Bog!" he cried.
The giant stopped, not recognizing him. "Who you?" he demanded, pointing the club. . -
Sos explained where they had met. "Good fight!" Bog exclaimed, remembering Sol. But he did not know or care where Sol's tribe had gone.
"Why not travel with me?" Sos asked him, thinking of the Pit doubles. To team with such a man-! "I'm looking for Sol., Maybe we can find him together. Maybe another good fight."
"Okay!" Bog agreed heartily. "You come with me."
"But I want to inquire at the Pit's. You're going the wrong way."
Bog did not follow the reasoning. "My way," he said firmly, hefting the club.
Sos could think of only one way to budge him-a dangerous way. "I'll fight you for it. I win, we go my way. Okay?"
"Okay!" he agreed with frightening enthusiasm. The prospect of a fight always swayed Bog.
Sos had to backtrack two hours' journey to reach the nearest circle, and by that time it was late afternoon. The giant was eager to do battle, however.
"All right-but we quit at dusk."
"Okay!" And they entered the circle as people rushed up to witness the entertainment. Some had seen Bog fight before, or heard of him, and others had encountered Sos. There was considerable speculation about the outcome of this unusual match. Most of it consisted of estimates of the number of minutes or seconds it would require for Bog to take the victory.
It was fully as bad as he had feared. Bog blasted away with his club, heedless of obstructions. Sos ducked and weaved and backpedaled, feeling naked without a solid weapon, knowing that sooner Or later the ferocious club would catch up to him. Bog didn't seem to realize that his blows hurt his opponents; to him, it was all sport.
Sos looped the arm with a quick throw-and Bog swung without change of pace, yanking the rope and Sos after him. The man had incredible power! Sos dropped the garrote over his head and tightened it behind the tremendous neck-and Bog kept swinging, unheeding, the muscles lining that column so powerful that he could not be choked.
The spectators gaped, but Bog was not even aware of them. Sos saw a couple of them touch their necks and knew they were marveling at Bog's invulnerability. Sos gave up the choke and concentrated on Bog's feet, looping them together when he had the chance and yanking. The big man simply stood there, legs spread, balanced by the backlash of his own swings, and caught the taut rope with a mash that ripped the other end from Sos's hands painfully.
By the time he recovered it, Bog was free, still swinging gleefully. Sos has managed to avoid anything more serious than grazing blows-but these were savage enough. It was only a matter of time, unless he retreated from the circle before getting tagged.
He cou'd not give up! He needed this man's assistance, and he had to ascertain that his weapon was effective against a top warrior as well as the mediocre ones. He decided upon one desperate stratagem.
Sos looped, not Bog's arm, but the club itself, catching it just above the handle. Instead of tightening the coil, however, he let it ride, keeping the rope slack as he ducked under the motion. As he did so, he dropped the rest of the rope to the ground, placed both feet upon it, and shifted his full weight to rest there.
As the club completed its journey the rope snapped taut. Sos was jerked off his feet by the yank-but the club received an equal shock, right at the moment least expected by the wielder. It twisted in Bog's hand as the head flipped over-and flew out of the circle.
Bog stared at the distant weapon openmouthed. He did not understand what had happened. Sos got to his feet and hefted his rope-but he still wasn't sure he could make the giant concede defeat.
Bog started to go after his club, but halted as he realized that he could not leave the circle without being adjudged the loser. He was baffled.
"Draw!" Sos shouted in a fit 'of inspiration. "Tie! Food! Quit!"
"Okay!" Bog replied automatically. Then, before the man could figure out what it meant, Sos took his arm in a friendly grasp and guided him out of the arena.
"It was a draw," Sos told him. "As with Sol. That means nobody won, nobody lost. We're even. So we have to fight together next time. A team."
Bog thought about it. He grinned. "Okay!" He was nothing if not agreeable, once the logic was properly presented.
That night no women happened 'to be available for a bracelet. Bog looked around the
cabin, circled the center column once in perplexity, and finally turned on the television. For the rest of the evening he was absorbed by the silent figures gesticulating there, smiling with pleasure at the occasional cartoons. He was the first person Sos had seen actually watch television for any length of time.
Two days later they found the large Pit tribe. Twin spokesmen came Out to meet them. Sos's suspicions had been correct: the master would not even talk to him.
"Very well. I challenge the master to combat in the circle."
"You," the left spokesman said dryly, "and who else?'
"And Bog the club, here."
"As you wish. You will meet one of our lesser teams first!"
"One, two, three a'time!" Bog exclaimed. "Good, good.!"
"What my partner means," Sos said smoothly, "is that we will meet your first, second and third teams-consecutively." He put a handsome sneer into his voice. "Then we will sell them back to your master for suitable information. They will not be able to travel, in their condition."
"We shall see," the man said coolly.
The Pit's first team was a pair of swords. The two men were of even height and build, perhaps brothers, and seemed to know each other's location and posture without looking. This was a highly polished team that had fought together for many years, he was sure. A highly dangerous team, better than any he had trained in the badlands camp . . . and he and Bog had never fought together before. As a matter of fact, neither of them had fought in any team before, and Bog hardly understood what it was all about.
But Sos was counting on the fact that the rope weapon would be strange to these men-and Bog was Bog. "Now remember," Sos cautioned him, "I'm on your side. Don't hit me."
"Okay!" Bog agreed, a little dubiously. To him, anything in the circle with him was fair game, and he still wasn't entirely clear on the details of this special arrangement.
Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope Page 9
