Piers Anthony - Sos the Rope

"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 thrown 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."