Piers Anthony: Sos the Rope

But not quite yet. Even she, an inexperienced observer, could guess that the large man was tiring too quickly for the amount of muscle he possessed. It was a ruse-and the staffer suspected it, too, for the more the motions slowed the more cautious he became. He refused to be lured into any risky commitment.

Then the sworder tried an astonishing strategem: as the end of the staff drove at his side in a fast horizontal swing, he neither blocked nor retreated. He threw himself to the ground, letting the staff pass over him. Then, rolling on his side, he slashed, in a vicious backhand arc aimed at the ankles. The staffer jumped, surprised by this unconventional and dangerous maneuver; but even as his feet rose over the blade and came down again, it was swishing in a reverse arc.

The staffer was unable to leap again quickly enough, since he was just landing. But he was not so easily trapped. He had kept his balance and maintained control over his weapon with marvelous coordination. He jammed the end of the staff into the turf between his feet just as the sword struck. Blood spurted as the blade cut into one calf, but the metal of the staff bore the brunt and saved him from hamstringing or worse. He was wounded and partially crippled, but still able to fight.

The ploy had failed, and it was the end for the sworder. The staff lifted and struck him neatly across the side of the head as he tried to rise, sending him spinning out of the circle. He fell in the gravel, stunned, still gripping his weapon but no longer able to bring it into play. After a moment he realized where he was, gave one groan of dismay, and dropped the sword. He had lost.

Sol, now the sole owner of the name, hurled the staff into the ground beside his barrow and stepped over the plastic rim. He gripped the loser's arm and helped him to his feet. "Come-we must eat," he said.

The girl was jolted out of her reverie. "Yes-! will tend your wounds," she said. She led the way back to the cabin, prettier now that she was not trying to impress.

The building was a smooth cylinder, thirty feet in diameter and ten high, the outer wall a sheet of hard plastic seemingly wrapped around it with no more original effort than one might have applied to enclose a package. A transparent cone topped it, punctured at the apex to allow the chimney column to emerge. From a distance it was possible to see through the cone to the shiny machinery beneath it: paraphernalia that caught and tamed the light of the sun and provided regular power for the operation of the interior devices.

There were no windows, and the single door faced south: a rotating trio of glassy panels that admitted them singly without allowing any great flow of air. It was cool inside, and bright; the large central compartment was illuminated by the diffused incandescence of floor and ceiling.

The girl hauled down couch-bunks from the curving inner side of the wall and saw them seated upon the nylon upholstery. She dipped around the rack of assorted weapons, clothing and bracelets to run water in the sink set into the central column, In a moment she brought back a basin of warm water and set about sponging off Sol's bleeding leg and dressing it. She went on to care for the bruise on the loser's head, while the two men talked. There was no rancor between them, now that the controversy had been resolved.

"How did you come by that motion with the sword?" Sol inquired, not appearing to notice the ministrations of the girl though she gave him more than perfunctory attention. "It very nearly vanquished me."

"I am unsatisfied with conventional ways," the nameless one replied as the girl applied astringent medication. "I ask 'Why must this be?' and 'How can it be improved?' and 'Is. there meaning in this act? I study the writings of the ancients, and sometimes I come upon the answers, if I can not work them out for myself."

"I am impressed. I have met no warrior before who could read-and you fought well."

"Not well enough." The tone was flat. "Now I must seek the mountain."

"I am sorry this had to pass," Sol said sincerely.

The nameless one nodded curtly. No more was said for a time. They took turns in the shower compartment, also set in the central column, and dried and changed clothing, indifferent to the presence of the girl.

Bandaged on head and leg, they shared the supper the girl prepared. She had quietly folded down the dining table from the north face and set up stools, while she kept her feet and ferried dishes from range and refrigerator-the last of the fixtures of the column. They did not inquire the source of the spiced white meat or the delicate wine; such things were taken for granted, and even looked down upon, as was the hostel itself.

"What is your objective in life?" the nameless one inquired as they lingered over the ice cream, and the girl washed the dishes.

"I mean to fashion an empire."

"A tribe of your own? I have no doubt you can do it."

"An empire. Many tribes. I am a skilled warrior-better in the circle than any I have seen. Better than the masters of tribes. I will take what my arm brings me-but I have not encountered any I wish to keep, except yourself, and we did not contest for mastery. Had I known how good you were, I would have set different terms."

The other chose to ignore the compliment, but it pleased him. "To build a tribe you need honorable men, proficient in their specialties, who are capable of fighting for you and bringing others into your group. You need young ones, as young as yourself, who will listen to advice and profit from it. To build an empire you need more."

"More? I have not even found young warriors that are worthwhile. Only incompetent amateurs and feeble oldsters."

"I know. I saw few good fighters in the east, and had you found any in the west you would not have traveled alone. I never lost an engagement, before." He was silent a moment, remembering that he was no longer a warrior. To cover up the hurt that grew in him, he spoke again. "Haven't you noticed how old the masters are, and how careful? They will not fight at all unless they believe they can win, and they are shrewd at such judgments. All the best warriors are tied to them."

"Yes," Sol agreed, perturbed. "The good ones will not contend for mastership, only for sport. It makes me angry."

"Why should they? Why should an established master risk the work of a lifetime, while you risk only your service? You must have stature. You must have a tribe to match his; only then will any master meet you in the circle."

"How can I form a decent tribe when no decent men will fight?" Sol demanded, growing heated again. "Do your books answer that?"

"I never sought mastery. But if I were building a tribe, or an empire especially, I would search out promising youths and bind them to myself, even though they were not proficient in the circle yet. Then I would take them to some private place and teach them all I knew about combat, and make them practice against each other and me until they were fully competent. Then I would have a respectable tribe, and I would take it out to meet and conquer established tribes."

"What if the other masters still refused to enter the circle?" Sol was quite interested in this turn of the discussion.

"I would find some way to persuade them. Strategy would be required-the terms would have to appear even, or slightly in favor of the other party. I would show them men that they wanted, and bargain with them until they were ashamed not to meet me."

"I am not good at bargaining," Sol said.

"You could have some bright tribesmen bargain for you, just as you would have others to fight for you. The master doesn't have to do everything himself; he delegates the chores to others, while he governs over all."

Sol was thoughtful. "That never occurred to me. Fighters with the weapons and fighters with the mind." He pondered some more. "How long would it take to train such a tribe, once the men were taken?"