Piers Anthony - Sos the Rope

CHAPTER ONE

The two itinerant warriors approached the hostel tram opposite directions. Both were garbed conventionally: dark pantaloons cinched at waist and knee, loose white jacket reaching to hips and elbows and hanging open at the front, elastic sneakers. Both wore their hair medium: cropped above the eyebrows in front, above the ears on the sides, and above the jacket collar behind, uncombed. Both beards were short and scant.

The man from the east wore a standard straight sword, the plastic scabbard strapped across his broad back. He was young and large, if unhandsome, and his black brows and hair gave him a forbidding air that did not match his nature. He was well-muscled and carried his weight with the assurance of a practicing athlete.

The one from the west was shorter and more slender, but also in fine physical trim. His blue eyes and fair hair set off a countenance so finely molded that it would have been almost womanish without the beard, but there was nothing effeminate about his manner. He pushed before him a little one-wheeled cart, a barrow-bag, from which several feet of shining metal pole projected.

The dark-haired man arrived before the round building first and waited politely for the other to come up. The3 surveyed each other briefly before speaking. A young woman emerged, dressed in the attractive one-piece wrap around of the available. She looked from one visitor to the other, her eyes fixing for a moment upon the handsome golden bracelet clasping the left wrist of each, but kept her silence.

The sworder glanced at her once as she approached appreciating the length of her glossy midnight tresses and the studied voluptuousness of her figure, then spoke to the man with the cart. "Will you share lodging with me tonight, friend? I seek mastery of other things than men."

"I seek mastery in the circle," the other replied, "but I will share lodging." They smiled and shook hands.

The blond man faced the girl. "I need no woman."

She dropped her eyes, disappointed, but flicked them up immediately to cover the sworder. He responded after an appropriate pause. "Will you try the night with me, then, damsel? I promise no more."

The girl flushed with pleasure. "I will try the night with you, sword, expecting no more."

He grinned and clapped his right hand to the bracelet, twisting it off. "I am Sol the sword, of philosophic bent. Can you cook?" She nodded, and he handed the bracelet to her. "You will, cater to my friend also, for the evening meal, and clean his uniform."

The other man interrupted his smile. "Did I mishear your name, sir? I am Sol."

The larger warrior turned slowly, frowning. "I regret you did not. I have held this name since I took up my blade this spring. But perhaps you employ another weapon? There is no need for us to differ."

The girl's eyes went back and forth between them. "Surely your arm is the staff, warrior," she said anxiously, gesturing at the barrow.

"I am Sol," the man said firmly, "of the staff-and the sword. No one else may bear my name."

The sworder looked disgruntled. "Do you quarrel with me, then? I would have it otherwise."

"I quarrel only with your name. Take another, and there is no strife between us."

"I have earned this name by this blade. I can not give it up."

"Then I must deprive you of it in the circle, sir."

"Please," the girl protested. "Wait until morning. There is a television inside, and a bath, and I will fix a fine repast."

"Would you borrow the bracelet of a man whose name has been questioned?" the sworder inquired gently. "It must be now, pretty plaything. You may serve the winner."

She bit her red lip, chastened, and handed back the bracelet. "Then, will you permit me to stand witness?"

The men exchanged glances and shrugged. "Stand witness, girl, if you have the stomach for it," the blond man said.' He led the way down a beaten side-trail marked in red.

A hundred yards below the cabin a fifteen-foot ring was laid out, marked by a flat plastic rim of bright yellow and an outer fringe of gravel. The center was flat, finely barbered turf, a perfect disk of green lawn. This was the battle circle, heart of this world's culture.

The black-haired man removed his harness and jacket to expose the physique of a giant, great sheathes of muscle overlaid shoulders, rib-cage and belly, and his neck and waist were thick. He drew his sword: a gleaming length of tempered steel with a beaten silver hilt. He flexed it in the air a few times and tested it on a nearby sapling. A single swing and the tree fell, cleanly severed at the base.

The other opened his barrow and drew forth a similar weapon from a compartment. Packed beside it were dagger, singlesticks, a club, the metal ball of a morningstar mace and the long quarterstaff. "You master all these weapons?" the girl inquired, astonished. He only nodded.

The two men approached the circle and faced each other across it, toes touching the outer rim. "I contest for the name," the blond declared, "by sword, staff, stick, star, knife and club. Select an alternate, and this is unnecessary."

"I will go nameless first," the dark one replied: "By the sword I claim the name, and if I ever take another weapon it will be only to preserve that name. Take your best instrument: I will match with my blade."

"For name and weapons, then," the blond said, beginning to show anger. "The victor will possess them all. But, since I wish you no personal harm, I will instead oppose you with the staff."

"Agreed!" It was the other's turn to glower. "The one who is defeated yields the name and these six weapons, nor will he ever lay claim to any of these again!"

The girl listened appalled, hearing the stakes magnify beyond reason, but did not dare protest.

They stepped inside the battle circle and became blurs of motion. The girl had expected a certain incongruity, since small men usually carried the lighter or sharper weapons while the heavy club and long staff were left to the large men. Both warriors were so skilled, however, that such notions became meaningless. She tried to follow thrust and counter, but soon became hopelessly confused. The figures whirled and struck, ducked and parried, metal blade rebounding from metal staff and, in turn, blocking defensively. Gradually, she made out the course of the fight.

The sword was actually a fairly massive weapon; though hard to stop, it was also slow to change its course, so there was generally time for the opposing party to counter an aggressive swing. The long staff, on the other hand, was more agile than it looked, since both hands exerted force upon it and made for good leverage-but it could deliver a punishing blow only against a properly exposed target. The sword was primarily offensive; the staff, defensive. Again and again the sword whistled savagely at neck or leg or torso, only to be blocked crosswise by some section of the staff.

At first, it had seemed as though the men, were out to kill each other; then, it was evident that each expected his aggressive moves to be countered and was not trying for bloody victory so much as tactical initiative. Finally, it appeared to be a deadlock between two extraordinarily talented warriors.

Then the tempo changed. The blond Sol took the offensive, using the swift staff to force his opponents back and Off balance by repeated blows at arms, legs and head. The sworder jumped out of the way often, rather than trying to parry the multiple blows with his single instrument; evidently the weight of his weapon was growing as the furious pace continued. Swords were not weapons of endurance. The staffer had conserved his strength and now had the advantage.. Soon the tiring sword-arm would slow too much and leave the body vulnerable.