Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope

by Piers Anthony

  The two sworders functioned beautifully. Both were expert. While one slashed, the other parried, and while the first recovered, his partner took the offense. Every so often with no apparent signal they lunged together, twin blades swinging with synchronized precision just inches apart.

  This, at any rate, was the way it was during the brief practice they engaged in prior to the formal battle. The, situation changed somewhat when Bog and Sos 'took the circle against them.

  Bog, turned on by the circle in the usual fashion, blasted away at both opponents simultaneously, while Sos stood back and twirled the end of his rope and watched, only cautioning his partner when Bog began to forget who was on which side. The devastating club knocked both swords aside, then swept back to knock them again, to the consternation of the Pit team. They didn't know what to make of it and couldn't quite believe that it was happening.

  But they were neither cowardly nor stupid. Very soon they split apart, one attempting to engage Bog defensively from the front while the other edged to the side for an angled cut.

  That was when Sos's rope snaked out and caught his wrist. It was the only move Sos made, but it sufficed. Bog smashed them out of opposite sides of the circle, and Sos was right: they were not in fit condition to travel

  The second team consisted of two clubs. A good idea, Sos thought, giving the Pit director due credit, but not good enough. Bog mowed them both down zestfully while Sos continued to stay out of harm's way. The contest was over even more quickly than the first.

  The Pit strategist, however, learned from experience. The third team consisted of a staffer and a netter.

  Sos knew immediately that it meant trouble. He had only learned of the existence of non-standard weapons after returning to gain the advice of his mentor, Principal Jones. The very fact that a man had a net and knew how to use it in the circle meant that he had had crazy training-and that was dangerous.

  It was. The moment the four were in the circle, the netter made his cast-and Bog was hopelessly entangled. He tried to swing, but the pliant nylon strands held him in. He tried to punch the net away, but did not know how. Meanwhile the netter drew the fine but exceedingly strong mesh closer and closer about him, until Bog tripped an crashed to the ground, a giant cocoon.

  All this time Sos was trying savagely to reach and help his partner-but the staff held him at bay. The man mad no aggressive moves; he only blocked Sos off, and at that simple task he was most effective. The staffer never looked behind him, having full confidence in his partner, and as long as he concentrated on Sos and refused to be draw out, Sos could not hurt him.

  The netter finished his job of wrapping and began rollin the hapless Bog out Of the circle, net and all Sos could guess what was coming next: the netter deprived of his own weapon, would grab for the rope, taking whateve punishment he had to to get a grip on it. Then he would keep pulling while his partner took the offensive. All the netter needed was an opening, with the staffer's distractions and two men against one. The netter would naturally be good with his bare hands on anything flexible.

  "Roll, Bog, roll!" Sos shouted. "Back in the circle! Roll! For once in his life Bog understood immediately. He wrapped body flexed like a huge grub, then countered the netter's efforts to manipulate him over the rim. Bog was hefty hunk of man and could hardly be moved against his will; Bog grunted, the staffer looked-and that was his mistake.

  Sos's rope whipped around the man's neck and brough him down choking, while the Pit spectators groaned. Sos hurdled his hunching body and landed on the back of the straining netter. He clasped the man in his anus, pickei him up and threw him down on top of his rising partner. A quick series of loops, and both men were bound to gether, the staff crosswise between them. Sos did not fool ishly approach them again. They could still maneuve together, or grab him and hang on. Instead he bent to th net, searching out the convolutions and ripping them 'awa: from Bog's body. "Lie still!" he yelled in Bog's ear as the cocoon continued to struggle. "It's me! Sos!"

  Untended, the two Pit' men rapidly fought free. Now they had possession of both staff and, rope, while only Bog's legs were loose from the complicated, tenacious net Sos had lost his play for time.

  "Roll, Bog, roll!" he shouted again, and gave his partner a vigorous urge in the right direction. Bog kicked his legs and tried, but the motion was clumsy. The two opponents hurdled him easily-and were caught at waist height by Sos's flying tackle.

  All four men landed in a heap, entangled by rope and net. But the net was spoken for while the rope was loose. Sos quickly wrapped it around all three men and knotted it securely about the' striving 'bundle. Bog, finding the netter similarly bound, grinned through the mesh and heaved his bulk about, trying to crush the man.

  Sos extracted the staff and aimed its blunt tip at the head of its owner. "Stop!" the Pit spokesman cried. "We yield! We yield!"

  Sos smiled. He had not really intended to deliver such an unfair blow.

  "Tomorrow the Pits will speak with you," the spokesman said, no longer so distant. He watched the three men work their way out of the involuntary embrace. "Our hospitality, tonight."

  It was good hospitality. After a full meal, Sos and Bog retired to the nearest hostel, that the Pit tribe had vacated for their use. Two pretty girls showed up to claim their bracelets. "Not for me," Sos said, thinking of Sola. "No offense."

  "I take both!" Bog cried. Sos left him to his pleasures; it was the rope's turn to watch television.

  In the morning Sos learned why the Pits were so secretive about their persons-and why they had formed the doubles tribe. They were Siamese twins: two men joined together by a supple band of flesh at the waist. Both were swords, and Sos was certain that their teamwork, when they fought, was unexcelled.

  "Yes, we know of Sol's tribe," the left one said. "Tribes, rather. Two months ago he split his group into ten subtribes of a hundred warriors each, and they 'are roving about the country, expanding again. One of them is coming to meet us in the circle soon."

  "Oh? Who governs it?"

  "Tor the Sword. He is reputed to be an able leader."

  "So I can believe."

  "May we inquire your business with Sol? If you seek to join a tribe yourself, we can offer you and your partner an advantageous situation-"

  Sos politely declined. "My business is of a private nature. But I am sure Bog will be happy to remain for a few days by himself to give your teams practice, so long as your men, women and food hold out.. ."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Is this the tribe of Sol of all weapons?" Sos inquired. He had not waited for the arrival of Tor's subordinate at the Pit camp, much as he would have enjoyed being on hand for the contest of wits between Tor and the perceptive Pit strategist. It would probably be a standoff. It was Sol he was after, and now that he knew where to find him no further delay was tolerable.

  As it happened, he had met Tor on the way, and obtained updating and redirection-but it was hard to believe, even so, that this was the proper camp.

  Warriors were practicing everywhere, none of them familiar. Yet this was the only major group in the arena, so the directions had not been mistaken. Had he traveled a month only to encounter Sol's conqueror? He hoped not. The camp was well disciplined, but he did not like its atmosphere.

  "Speak to Vit the Sword," the nearest man told him.

  Sos searchedout the main tent and asked for Vit. "Who are you?" the tent guard, a swarthy dagger, demanded, eying the bird on his shoulder.'

  "Step into the circle and I will show you who I am!" Sos said angrily. He had had enough of such bureaucracy.

  The guard whistled and a man detached himself from practice and trotted over. "This intruder wishes to make himself known in the circle," the dagger said contemptuously, "Oblige him."

  The man turned to study Sos.

  "Mok the Morningstar!" Sos cried.

  Mok started. "Sos! You have come back-and Stupid, too! I did not recognize you, in all that muscle!"

  "You know thi
s man?" the guard inquired.

  "Know him! This is Sos-the man who built this tribe! Sol's friend!"

  The guard shrugged indifferently. "Let him prove it in the circle."

  "You nuts? He doesn't carry a-" Mok paused. "Or do you, now?"

  Sos had his rope about him, but the man had not recognized it as a weapon. "I do. Come, I'll demonstrate."

  "Why not try it against the staff or sticks?" Mok suggested diplomatically. "My weapon is-"

  "Is dangerous? You seem to lack faith in my prowess."

  "Oh, no," Mok protested, obviously insincere. "But you know how it is with the star. One accident-"

  Sos laughed. "You force me to vindicate myself. Come- I'll make a believer out of you."

  Mok accompanied him to the circle, ill at ease. "If anything happens-"

  "This is my weapon," Sos said, hefting a coil of rope. "If you are afraid to face it, summon a better man."

  Several neighboring men chuckled, and Mok had to take the circle. Sos knew the jibe had been unfair; the man had wanted to spare him from possible mutilation. Mok was no coward, and since he was still with the tribe, his skill was sufficient too. But it was important that the rope prove itself as a real weapon; men like Mok would not believe in Sos's new status as a warrior otherwise.

  Friendship ended in the circle, always. Mok lifted his morningstar and whirled the spiked ball in an overhead spiral. He had to attack, since the weapon could not be used defensively. Sos had never faced the star before and discovered that it was a peculiarly frightening experience. Even the faint tune of air passing the circling spikes was ominous.

  Sos bcked away, treating the flying ball with utmost respect. He fired a length of rope at it, caught the metal chain, fouled it, and yanked ball, chain and handle out of Mok's hand. Mok stood there staring, as Bog had done before him. The spectators laughed.

  "If any of you think you can do better, step inside," Sos invited.

  A sticker was quick to accept the challenge-and as quick to fall to the throttle-loop. This time it was Mok who laughed. "Come-you must see Vit now!"

  A group of men continued to stand around the vacated circle, murmuring as Sos left. They had never witnessed such a performance.

  "I'm glad you're back," Mok confided as they came to the tent. "Things aren't the same around here since-" he broke off as they approached the guard.

  This time there was no trouble about entry. Mok ushered him into the leader's presence.

  "Yes?' Vit was a tall slender, dour man of middle years who looked familiar. The name, also, jogged an image. Then Sos placed him: the sworder that Dal the Dagger had humiliated, back in the first full-fledged tribal encounter. Times had certainly changed!

  "I am Sos the Rope. I have come to talk to Sol."

  "By what right?"

  Mok started to explain, but Sos had had enough. He knew Vit recognized him and was simply placing difficulties in his way. "By the right of my weapon! Challenge me in the circle before you attempt to balk me!" It was good to be able to assume this posture again; the weapon made all the difference. Sos realized that he was being less than reasonable, and enjoyed the feeling.

  Vit merely looked at him. "Are you that rope who dinarmed Bog the club, five weeks ago in the east?"

  "I am." Sos was beginning to appreciate why Vit had risen to such a position of power so rapidly: he had complete command of his temper and knew his business.

  Apparently supremacy in the circle was no longer a requirement for leadership.

  "Sol will see you tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow!"

  "He is absent on business today. Accept our hospitality tonight."

  Sol away on business? He did not like the smell of that. Sol should have no reason to recruit warriors alone, any more-not with ten tribes to manage, the nucleus of his empire. He could not be inspecting any of those tribes, either; the nearest was at least a week away.

  A woman emerged from a compartment and walked slowly toward them. She was dressed in a breathtakingly snug sarong and wore very long, very black hair.

  It was Sola.

  Sos started toward her, only to be blocked by Vit. "Eyes off that Woman! She belongs to the master!"

  Sola looked up and recognized him. "Sos!" she cried then checked herself. "I know this man," she said formally to Vit. "I will speak to him."

  "You 'Will not speak to him." Vit stood firmly between them.

  Sos gripped his rope, furious, but Sola backed away and retreated into her compartment. Mok tugged his arm, and he controlled himself and wheeled about. Something was certainly wrong, but this was not the moment for action It would not be wise to betray his former intimacy with Sola.

  "All the old stalwarts are gone," Mok said sadly as the emerged. "Tyl, Tor, Say, Tun-hardly any of the ones we built the badlands camp with are here today."

  "What happened to them?" He knew already, but wanted more information. The more he saw of this tribe, the less he liked it. Was Sol still in control, or had he become a figurehead? Had there been some private treachery to incapacitate him?

  "They command the other tribes. Sol trusts no one you did not train. We need you again, Sos. I wish we were back in the badlands, the way it was before."

  "Sol seems to trust Vit."

  "Not to command. This is Sol's own tribe, and he runs it himself, with advisors. Vit just handles the details."

  "Such as keeping Sola penned up?"

  "Sol makes him do it. She is allowed to see no one while he is away. Sol would kill Vit if-but I told you, everything is different."

  Sos agreed, profoundly disturbed. The camp was efficient, but the men were strangers to him. He recognized no more than half a dozen of the hundred or so he saw. It was a strange pass when the closest companion he could find in Sol's tribe was Mok-whose dealing with him had always been brief before. This was not, in fact, a tribe at all; it was a military camp, of the type he had read about, with a military martinet in charge. The esprit de corps he had fostered was gone.

  He accepted a small tent on the outskirts, alone, for the night. He was troubled, but still did not want to act until he understood the ramifications of what he had observed. Evidently the dour Vit had been put in charge because he followed orders without imagination and was probably completely trustworthy in that respect. But why the need?

  Something had gone drastically wrong, and he could not believe that his own absence could account for it. Tor's tribe was hardly like this. What had taken the spirit out of Sol's drive for empire?

  A woman came quietly to the tent. "Bracelet?" she inquired, her voice muffled, her face hidden in the dusk.

  "No!" he snapped, turning his eyes from the hourglass figure that showed in provocative silhouette against the distant evening fires.

  She tugged open the mesh and kneeled to show her face.

  "Would you shame me, Sos?"

  "I 'asked for no woman," he said, not looking at her.

  "Go away. No offense."

  She did not move. "Greensleeves," she murmured.

  His head jerked up. "Sola!"

  "It was never your habit to make me wait so long for recognition," she said with wry reproof. "Let me in before someone sees." She scrambled inside and refastened the mesh. "I changed places with the girl assigned, so I think we're safe. But still-"

  "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't-"

  She stripped and crawled into his bedroll. "You must have been exercising!"

  "Not any more."

  "Oh, but you have! I never felt such a muscular body."

  "I mean we're not- lovers any more. If you won't meet me by day, I won't meet you by night."

  "Why did you come, then?' she inquired, placing against him a body that had become magnificent. Her pregnancy of the year before had enhanced her physical attributes.

  "I came to claim you honorably."

  "Claim me, then! No man but you has touched me since we first met."

  "Tomorrow. Give back his bracelet and take mi
ne, publicly."

  "I will," she said. "Now-"

  "No!"

  She drew back and tried to see his face in the dark. "You mean it."

  "I love you. I came for you. But I will have you honorably."

  She sighed. "Honor is not quite- that simple, Sos." But she got up and began putting on her clothing.

  "What has happened here? Where is Sol? Why are you hiding from people?"

  "You left us, Sos. That's what happened. You were the heart of us."

  "That doesn't make sense. I had to leave. You were having the baby. His son."

  "No."

  "That was the price of you. I will not pay it again. This time it has to be my son, conceived upon my bracelet."

  "You don't understand anything!" she cried in frustration.

  He paused, knowing the mystery to be yet unfathomed. "Did it die?"

  "No! That's not the point. That-oh, you stupid, stupid clubhead! You-" She choked over her own emotion -and faced away from him, sobbing.

  She was more artful, too, than she had been, he thought. He did not yield. He let her run down, unmoving.

  Finally she wiped her face and crawled out of the tent. He -was alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sol was a little leaner, a little more serious, but retained the uncanny grace his coordination provided. "You came!" he exclaimed, grasping Sos's hand in an unusual display of pleasure.

  "Yesterday," Sos said, somewhat embarrassed. "I saw Vit, but he wouldn't let me talk to your' wife, and I hardly know the others here." How much should he say?

  "She should have come to you anyway. Vit knows nothing." He paused refiectively. "We do not get along. She keeps to herself."

  So Sol still didn't care about Sola. He had protected her for the sake of the coming heir and no longer even bothered with pretense. But why, then, had he kept her isolated? It had never been Sol's way to be pointlessly selfish.

  "I have a weapon now," Sos said. Then, as the other looked at him:"The rope."

  "I am glad of it."

  There did not seem to be much else to say. Their reunion, like their parting, was an awkward thing.