Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope

by Piers Anthony

  He closed his eyes and saw the staff, blindingly swift, blocking him, striking him, meeting him everywhere he turned, no instrument of defense but savage offense; the length of it across his body, the end of it flying at his face, fouling his rope, outmaneuvering him, beating down his offense and his defense....

  And now the mountain, the only honorable alternative. He had lost to the better man.

  He slept, knowing that even victory would not have been the solution. Hehad been in the wrong not totally, but wrong on balance.

  On the third day the snows began. He wrapped the last of the protective clothing around him and kept moving. Stupid clung to him, seemingly not too uncomfortable. Sos scooped up handfuls of the white powder and crammed them into his mouth for water, though the stuff numbed his cheeks and tongue and melted grudgingly down into almost nothing. By nightfall he was ploughing through drifts several inches deep and had to step carefully to avoid treacherous pitfalls that did not show in the leveled surface.

  There was no shelter. He lay on his side, facing away from the wind, comfortable enough in the protective wrappings. Stupid settled down beside his face, shivering, and suddenly he realized that the bird had no way to forage anymore. Not in the snow. There would be no living insects here.

  He dug a handful of bread out of the pack and held a crumb to Stupid's beak; but there was no response. "You'll starve," he said with concern, but did not know what to do about it. He saw the feathers shaking, and finally took off his left glove, cupped the bird in his bare warm palm, and held his gloved right hand to the back of the exposed one. He would have to make sure he didn't roll or move his hands while sleeping, or he would crush the fragile body.

  He woke several times in the night as gusts of cold snow slapped his face and pried into his collar, but his left hand never moved. He felt the bird shivering from time to time and cupped it close' to his chest, hoping for a suitable compromise between warmth and safety. He had too much strength and Stupid was too small; better to allow some shivering than to....

  Stupid seemed all right in the morning, but Sos knew this could not last. The bird was not adapted to snow; even his coloration was wrong. "Go back down," he urged. "Down. Where it is warm.- Insects." He threw the tiny body into the air, downhill, but to no avail; Stupid spread his wings and struggled valiantly with the cold, harsh air, uphill, and would not leave.

  Yet, Sos asked himself as he took the bird in hand again and continued climbing, was this misplaced loyalty any more foolish than Sol's determination to retain a daughter he had not sired? A daughter? Or Sos's own adherence to a code of honor already severely violated? Men were irrational creatures; why not birds too? If separation were so difficult, they would die together.

  A storm came up that fourth day. Sos drove onward, his face mImbed in the slashing wind. He had goggles, tinted to protect his eyes, and he put them on now, but the nose and mouth were still exposed. When he put his hand up he discovered a beard of ice superimposed upon his natural one. He tried to knock it off, but knew it would form again.

  Stupid flew up as he stumbled and waved his hands. Sos guided the bird to his shoulder, where at least there was some stability. Another slip like that and the bird would be smashed, if he continued to carry it in his hand.

  The wind stabbed into his clothing. Earlier he had been sweating, finding the wrappings cumbersome; now the moisture seemed to be caking into ice against his body. That had been a mistake; he should have governed his dress and pace so that he never perspired. There was nowhere for the moisture to go, so of course it eventually froze. He had learned this lesson too late.

  This, then, was the death of the mountain. Freezing in the blizzardly upper regions or falling into some concealed crevasse. . . he had been watching the lay of the land, but already he had slipped and fallen several times, and only luck had made his errors harmless. The cold crept in through his garments, draining his visibility, and the eventual result was clear. No person had ever returned from the mountain, if the stories were true, and no bodies had ever been discovered or recovered. No wonder!

  Yet this was not the kind of mountain he had heard about elsewhere. After the metal jumble near the base- how many days ago?-there had been no extreme irregularities, no jagged edges, sheer cliffs or preposterous ice bridges. He had seen no alternate ranges or major passes when the sky was clear. The side of this mountain tilted up fairly steadily, fairly safely, like that of an inverted bowl. Only the cold presented a genuine hazard.

  Surely there was no impediment to those who elected to descend again. Not all, or even most, but some must have given it up and returned to the foot, either choosing a less strenuous way to die or deciding to live after all. He could still turn about himself.

  He picked the quiet bird from his shoulder, disengaging the claws with difficulty. "How about it, Stupid? Have had enough?"

  There was no response. The little body was stiff.

  He brought it close to his face, not wanting to believe. He spread one wing gently with his fingers, but it was rigid. Stupid had died rather than desert his companion and Sos had not even known the moment of his passing

  True friendship....

  He laid the feathered corpse upon the snow and covered it over, a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, little friend," he said. "I guess a man takes more dying than a bird." Nothing utterable came to mind beyond that, inadequate as was.

  He faced up the mountain and tramped ahead.

  The world was a bleak place now. He had taken the bird pretty much for granted, but the sudden, silent loss was staggering. Now there was nothing he could do, but through with it. He had killed a faithful friend, and there was a raw place, in his breast that would not ease.

  Yet it was not the first time his folly had damaged another. All Sol had asked was friendship and, rather than grant him that, Sos had forced him into the circle. What had been so damned urgent about his own definition honor? Why had he resisted Sol's ultimate offer with such determination? Was it because he had used a limited concept of honor to promote his own selfish objectives ruthlessly, no matter who else was sacrificed? And, failing these, bringing further pain by wiping out whatever else might have been salvaged?

  He thought again of Stupid, so recently dead upon his shoulder, and had his answer.

  The mountain steepened. The storm intensified. Let it come! he thought; it was what he had come for. He cou no longer tell whether it was day or night. Ice rimmed his goggles, if they were still on. He wasn't sure and didn't care. Everywhere was whirling whiteness. He was panting his lungs were burning and he wasn't getting enough air the steep snowseape before him went on and on; there was no end to it.

  He did not realize that he had fallen until he choked on the snow. He tried to stand up, but his limbs did not respond properly. "Come on!" he heard Sola calling him, and he listened though he knew it for illusion. He did go on, but more securely: on hands and knees.

  Then he was crawling on his belly, numb everywhere except for the heartache.

  At last the pleasant lassitude obliterated even that.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Up muscles. It's better if you walk around, get the system functioning again and all that."

  Sos recovered unwillingly. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness remained.

  "Uh-uh! Leave that bandage alone. Even if you aren't snowblind, you're frostbit. Here, take my hand." A firm man's hand thrust itself against his arm.

  "Did I die?" Sos asked, bracing against the proffered palm as he stood.

  "Yes. In a manner of speaking. You will never be seen on the surface again."

  "And-Stupid?"

  "What?"

  "My bird, Stupid. Did he come here too?"

  The man paused. "Either there's a misunderstanding, you are insolent as hell."

  Sos constricted his fingers on the man's arm, bringing a exclamation of pain. He caught at the bandage on his head with his free hand and ripped it off. There was brigit pain as packed gauze came awa
y from his eyeballs, but he could see again.

  He was in a hostel room, standing before a standar bunk surrounded by unstandard equipment. He wore his pantaloons but nothing else. A thin man in an effeminat white smock winced with the continuing pressure of his grip. Sos released him, looking for the exit.

  Not a hostel room, for this room was square. The standard furnishings had given him the impression. He had never seen a cabin this-shape, however.

  "I must say, that's an unusual recovery!" the man remarked, rubbing his arm. He was of middle age with sparse hair and pale features: obviously long parted from sun and circle.

  "Are you a crazy?"

  "Most people in your situation are content to inquire 'Where am I?' or something mundane like that. You're certainly original."

  "I did not come to the mountain to be mocked," Sos said, advancing on him.

  The man touched a button in the wall. "We have a live one," he said.

  "So I see," a feminine voice replied from nowhere. An intetcom, Sos realized. So they were crazies. "Put him in the rec room. I'll handle it."

  The man touched a second button. A door slid open beside him. "Straight to the end. All your questions will be answered."

  Sos rushed by him, more anxious to find the way out than to question an uncooperative stranger. But the hail did not lead out; it continued interminably, closed doors on either side. This was certainly no hostel, nor was it a building like the school run by the crazies. It was too big.

  He tried a door, finding it locked. He thought about breaking it down, but was afraid that would take too much time. He had a headache, his muscles were stiff and flaccid at once, his stomach queasy. He felt quite sick, physically, and just wanted to get out before any more annoying strangers came along.

  The end door was open. He stepped into a very large room filled with angular structures: horizontal bars, vertical rods, enormous boxes seemingly formed of staffs tied together at right angles. He had no idea what it all signified and was too dizzy and ill to care.

  A light hand fell across his arm, making him jump. He grabbed for his rope and whirled to face the enemy.

  The rope was gone, of course, and the one who touched him was a girl. Her head did not even reach to his shoulder.

  She wore a baggy coverall, and her hair was bound in a close-fitting headcap, making her look boyish. Her tiny feet were bare.

  Sos relaxed, embarrassed, though his head still throbbed and the place still disturbed him by its confinement. He had never been this tense before, yet inadequate. If only he could get out into the open forest.

  "Let me have this," the little girl said. Her feather-gentle fingers slid across his forearm and fastened upon the bracelet. In a moment she had it off.

  He grabbed for it angrily, but she eluded him. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

  She fitted the golden clasp over her own wrist and squeezed it snug. "Very nice. I always wanted one of these," she said pertly. She lifted a pixie eyebrow at him. "What's your name?"

  "Sos the-Sos," he said, remembering his defeat in the circle and considering himself, therefore, weaponless. He reached for her again, but she danced nimbly away. "I did not give that to you!"

  "Take it back, then," she said, holding out her wrist. Her arm was slender but aesthetically rounded, and he wondered just how young she was. Certainly not old enough to be playing such games-with a grown man.

  Once more he reached.. . and grasped air. "Girl, you anger me."

  "If you are as slow to anger as you are to move, I have nothing to worry about, monster."

  This time he leaped for her, slow neither to anger nor to motion-and missed her again.

  "Come on, baby," she cooed, wriggling her upraised wrist so that the metal band glittered enticingly. "You don't like being mocked, you say, so don't let a woman get away with anything. Catch me."

  He saw that she wanted him to chase her, and knew that he should not oblige; but the pain in his head and body cut short his caution and substituted naked fury. He ran after her.

  She skipped fleetly beside the wail, looking back at him and giggling. She was so small and light that agility was natural to her; her body could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds including the shapeless garment. As he gained on her, she dodged to the side and swung around a vertical bar, making him stumble cumbersàmely. -

  "Lucky you aren't in the circle!" she trilled. "You can't even keep your feet!"

  By the time he got on her trail once more, she was in among the poles, weaving around them with a facility obviously stemming from long experience.

  Sos followed, grasping the uprights and swinging his body past them with increasing dexterity. Now that he was exerting himself he felt better, as though he were throwing off the lethargy of the freezing mountains. Again he gained and again she surprised him.

  She leaped into the air and caught the bottom rung of a ladder suspended from the high ceiling. She flipped athletically and hooked it with her feet, then ascended as though she had no weight at all. In moments she was far out of reach.

  Sos took hold of the lowest rung, just within his range, and discovered that it was made of flexible plastic, as were the two vertical columns. He jerked experimentally.

  A ripple ran up the ropes, jarring the girl. Ropes? He smiled and shook harder, forcing her to cling tightly in order not to be shaken off. Then, certain he had her trapped, he gradually hauled down until his entire weight was suspended.

  It would hold him. He hoisted himself to the rung, unused to this type of exercise but able to adapt. He could handle a rope.

  She peeked down, alarmed, but he climbed steadily, watching her. In a few seconds he knew he would be able to grab her foot and haul her down with him.

  She threaded her legs through the top of the ladder and leaned out upside down, twisting her body and touching it with her freed hands. The coverall came away from her shoulders and to her hips-up or down, depending upon perspective-then she caught one arm in the ladder and stripped herself the rest of the way. She wore a slight, snug two-piece suit underneath that decorated little more than her bosom and buttocks. Sos revised his estimate of her age sharply upward; she was as well rounded a woman as he had seen.

  She contemplated him with that elfin expression, spread out the coveralls, and dropped them neatly upon his raised face. -

  He cursed and pawed it away, almost losing his grip on the ladder. She was shaking it now, perhaps in belief she could dislodge him while he was blinded, and he felt her strike his clutching hand.

  By the time he had secured his position and cast off the clinging, faintly scented cloth, she was standing on the floor below him, giggling merrily. She had gone right by him!

  "Don't you want your bracelet, clumsy?" she teased.

  Sos handed himself down and dropped to the floor, but she was gone again. This time she mounted the boxlike structure, wriggling over and under the bars as though she were a flying snake. He ran to the base, but she was amidst it all and he could not get at her from any direction without climbing into it himself. He knew by this time that he could never catch her that way; she was a gymnast whose size and weight made her entirely at home here.

  "All right," he said, disgruntled but no longer angry. He took the time to admire her lithe and healthy body.

  Who would have suspected such rondure in so brief a package? "Keep it,"

  A moment and several gyrations and she stood beside him. "Give up!"

  He snapped his fingers over her upper arm, using the trick of his rope throw to make the motion too quick to elide. "No." -

  She did not even wince at the cruel pressure. She sliced her free hand sidewise into his stomach, just below the rib cage and angling up, fingers flat and stiff.

  He was astonished at the force of the blow, coming as it did with so little warning, and he was momentarily paralyzed. Still, he maintained his grip and tightened it until her firm young flesh was crushed against the bone. -

  Even so, she did not s
hrink or exclaim. She struck him again with that peculiar flat of the hand, this time across the throat. Incredible agony blossomed there. His stomach drove its content up into his mouth and he could not even catch his breath or cry out. He let go, gagging and choking.

  When he became aware of his surroundings again he was sitting on the floor and she was kneeling astride his legs and resting her hands upon his shoulders. "I'm sorry I did that, Sos. But you are very strong."

  He stared dully at her, realizing that she was somewhat more talented than he had guessed. She was a woman, but her blows had been sure.

  "I really would like to keep your bracelet, Sos. I know what it means."

  He thought about the way Sol had given his bracelet to Sola. The initial carelessness of the act had not signified any corresponding laxity in the relationship, though its terms were strange. Was he now to present his own bracelet even more capriciously, simply because a woman asked for it? He tried to speak, but his larynx, still constricted from the knock, did not permit it.

  She held out her wrist to him and did not retreat. He reached up slowly and circled it with his fingers. He remembered that he had fought for Sola and lost, while this woman had, in more than a manner of speaking challenged him for the bracelet and won.

  Perhaps it had to be taken from him. Had he been ready to give it away, he should have given it to blonde Miss Smith, knowing that she wanted it. Sola, too, had forced her love upon him and made him respond. He did not like what this,seemed to indicate about his nature, but it was better to accept it than to try to deny it.

  He squeezed the bracelet gently and dropped his hand.

  "Thank you, Sos," she murmured, and leaned over to kiss him on the neck.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When he woke again, he suspected that it had been a fantasy, like the oddities visible on the silent television, except that his bracelet was gone and his left wrist was pale where it had rested. This time he was gone, in another squared-off cabin, and feeling fit. Somehow he had been taken from the mountain and revived and left here, while his little friend Stupid had died. He could not guess the reason.