Piers Anthony - Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope

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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.

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?"

"That depends upon how good you are at training, and how good the men

are that you have to work with. How well they get along. There are many

factors."

"If you were doing it, with the men you have met in your travels."

"A year."

"A year!" Sol was dismayed.

"There is no substitute for careful preparation. A mediocre tribe could

perhaps be formed in a few months, but not an organization fit to conquer an

empire. That would have to be prepared for every contingency, and that takes

times. Time and constant effort and patience."

"I do not have patience."

The girl finished her work and returned to listen. There were no

compartments within the cabin, but she had gone around the column to the

shower stall and changed. She now wore an alluring gown that accentuated a

fine cleavage and a narrow waist.

Sol remained thoughtful, not seeming to notice the girl though she drew

her stool close to him. "Where would there be a suitable place for such

training, where others would not spy and interfere?"

"In the badlands."

"The badlands! No one goes there!"

"Precisely. No one would come across you there, or suspect what you were

doing. Can you think of a better situation?"

"But it is death!" the girl said, forgetting her place.

"Not necessarily. I have learned that the kill-spirits of the Blast are

retreating. The old books call it 'radiation, and it fades in time. The

intensity is measured in Roentgen and it is strongest in the center. It should

be possible to tell by the plants and animals whether a given area within the

markers has become safe. You would have to be very careful about penetrating

too far inside, but near the edge-"

"I would not have you go to the mountain," Sol broke in. "I have need of

a man like you."

"Nameless and weaponless?" He laughed bitterly. "Go your way, fashion

your empire, Sol of all instruments. I was merely conjecturing."

Sol persisted. "Serve me for a year, and I will give you back a portion

of your name. It is your mind I require, for it is better than mine."

"My mind!" But the black-haired one was intrigued. He had spoken of the

mountain, but did not really want to die. There were many curious things

remaining to be fathomed, many books to be studied, many thoughts to be

thought. He had employed his weapon in the circle because it was the

established method of manhood, but despite his erstwhile prowess and physique

he was a scholar and experimenter at heart.

Sol was watching him. "I offer-Sos."

"Sos-the weaponless," he said, mulling it over. He did not like the

sound of it, but it was a reasonable alternative, close to his original name.

"What would you want me to do, in return for the name?"

"The training, the camp, the building of empire you described-I want you

to do it for me. To be my fighter of the mind. My advisor."

"Sos the advisor." The notion grew on him, and The name sounded better.

"The men would not listen to me. I would need complete authority, or it

would come to nothing. If they argued, and I with no weapon-"

"Who argues, dies," Sol said with absolute conviction. "By my hand."

"For one year-and I keep the name?"

"Yes."

He thought of the challenge of it, the chance to test his theories in

action. "I accept the offer."

They reached across the table and shook hands gravely. "Tomorrow we

begin the empire," Sol said.

The girl looked up. "I would come with you," she said. Sol smiled, not

looking at her. "She wants your bracelet again, Sos."

"No." She was troubled, seeing her hints come to nothing. "Not-without-"

"Girl," Sol reminded her sternly, "I want no woman. This man fought

well; he is stronger than many who still bear weapons, and a scholar, which I

am not. You would not be shamed to wear his emblem."

She thrust out her lip. "I would come-myself."

Sol shrugged. "As you wish. You will cook and wash for us, until you

take a man. We will not be staying in a cabin always, though." He paused,

thinking of something. "Sos, my advisor-is this wise?"

Sos studied the woman, now petulant but still lovely. He tried, not to

be moved by her cleavage. "I do not think so. She is excellently proportioned

and a talented cook, but headstrong. She would be a disruptive influence,

unattached."

She glared at him. "I want a name, as you do!" she snapped. "An

honorable name."

Sol crashed his first against the table so hard the vinyl surface

flexed. "You anger me, girl! Do you claim the name I give lacks honor?"

She retreated hastily. "No, man of all weapons. But you do not offer it

to me."

"Take it, then!" He flung his golden bracelet at her. "But I need no

woman."

Baffled but exultant, she picked up the heavy piece am squeezed it

together to fit her wrist. Sos looked on, ill at ease.

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later they struck the red markers of warning in the open

country to the north. The foliage did not change, but they knew there would be

few animals and no men beyond the sinister line of demarcation. Even those who

chose to die preferred the mountain, for that was a quick, honorable

leavetaking, while the badlands were reputed to bring torture and horror.

Sol stopped, discommoded by the markers. "If it is safe, why are they

still here?" he demanded. Sola nodded heartily, unashamed of her fear,

"Because the crazies haven't updated their maps in fifty years," Sos

replied. "This area is overdue for resurvey, and one of these months they'll

get around to it and set the markers back ten or fifteen miles. I told you

radiation isn't a permanent thing; it fades away slowly."

Sol was not convinced, now that commitment was imminent. "You say this

'radiation' is something you can't see or hear or smell or feel, but it kills

you just the same? I know you studied the books, but that just doesn't make

sense to me."

"Maybe the books are lying," Sola put in, sitting down. The days of

forced marching had tightened the muscles of her legs but diminished none of

her femaleness. She was a good-looking woman and knew it.

"I've had doubts myself," Sos admitted. "There are many things I don't

understand, and many books I've never had the chance to read. One text says

that half the men will die when exposed to 450 Roentgen, while mosquitoes can

survive over a hundred thousand-but I don't know how much radiation one

Roentgen is, or how to spot it. The crazies have boxes that click when they

get near radiation; that's how they know."

"One click to a Roent, maybe," she said, simplifying it. "If the books

are honest."

"I think they are. A lot of it makes no sense at all, at first, but I've

never caught them in an error. This radiation-as nearly as I can make it, it

was put here by the Blast, and it's like fungus-light. You can't see the

fungus glow in the daytime, but you know that light is still there. You can

box it with your hands to shut out the sun, and the green-"

"Fungus-light," Sol said solemnly.

"Just imagine that it is poisonous, that it will make you sick if it

touches your skin. At night you can avoid it, but in the day you're in

trouble. You can't see it or feel it... that's what radiation is, except that

it fills up everything where it exists. The ground, the trees, the air."

"Then how do we know it's gone?' Sola demanded. There was an edge to her

voice which Sos put down to fear and fatigue. She had gradually lost the air

of sweet naïveté she had affected the first evening at the hostel.

"Because it affects the plants and animals, too. They get at the fringe,

and everything is dead at the center. As long as they look all right, we

should, be safe. There should be several miles clear of it beyond the markers

now. It's a risk-but a worthwhile one, in the circumstances."

"And no cabins?" she asked a little forlornly.

"I doubt it. The crazies don't like radiation any better than we do, so

they'd have no reason to build here until they survey it. We'll have to forage

and sleep out."

"We'd better pick up bows and tents, then," Sol said.

They left Sola to watch Sol's barrow while they backtracked three miles

to the last hostel. They entered its heatpump interior comfort and selected

two sturdy bows and arrow-packs from its armory. They donned camping gear:

light plastic leggings, helmets and traveling packs. Each man placed three

swift shots in the standing target near the battle circle, feeling out the

instruments, then shouldered them and returned to the trail.

Sola was asleep against a tree, hiking skirt hitched up indecorously.

Sos looked away; the sight of her body stirred him in spite of what he knew of

her bad temper. He had always taken his women as they came and formed no

lasting relationships; this continued proximity to another man's wife acted

upon him in a way he did not like.

Sol kicked her. "Is this the way you guard my weapons, woman?"

She jumped up, embarrassed and angry. "It's the same way you take care

of mine!" she retorted. Then, afraid, she bit her lip.

Sol ignored her. "Let's find a place quickly," he said, glancing at the

nearest marker. Sos gave the woman the leggings and helmet he had brought for

her; Sol hadn't thought of it. Sos wondered why they stayed together, when

they evidently didn't get along. Could sex mean so much?

He forced his eyes away from her again, afraid to answer that.

They stepped across the line and moved slowly into the badlands. Sos

repressed the nervous twinge he felt at the action, knowing that if he felt

it, the others were struck much more forcefully. He was supposed to know; he

had, to prove he was right. Three lives depended on his alertness now.

Even so, the personal problem preoccupied him. Sol had said at the

outset that he needed no woman. This had sounded like a courteous deferral to

the other man, since no second woman was available. But then he had given the

girl his bracelet, signifying their marriage. They had slept together two

weeks, yet she now dared to express open dissatisfaction. Sos did not like the

look of it

The leaves and underbrush of the forest and field seemed healthy, but

the rustle of wildlife faded out as they penetrated deeper. There were birds

and numerous flying insects, but no deer, groundhogs or bear. Sos watched for

the traces and found none. They would have trouble locating game for their

arrows if this were typical. At least the presence of the birds seemed to

indicate that the area was safe, so far; he did not know their tolerance, but

assumed that one warm-blooded creature should be able to stand about as much

as another. The birds would have to stay put while nesting, and would

certainly have developed sickness if they were going to.

The trees, gave way to a wide-open field leading down to a meandering

stream. They stopped to drink. Sos hesitated until he saw small fish in the

water, quick to flee his descending hand. What fish could thrive in, man could

drink.Two birds shot across the field in a silent dance. Up and around they

spun, the large one following' the small. It was a hawk running down some kind

of sparrow, and the chase was near its end. Obviously exhausted, the small

bird barely avoided the outstretched claws and powerful beak. The men watched

indifferently.

Suddenly the sparrow fluttered directly at them, as though imploring

their protection. The hawk hovered uncertainly, then winged after it.

"Stop it!" Sola cried, moved by the fancied appeal. Surprised, Sol

looked at her, then held up his hand to block off the hawk.

The predator sheered off, while the sparrow flopped to the ground almost

at Sola's feet and hunched there, unable or afraid to rise again. Sos

suspected that it was as much afraid of the people as the enemy. The hawk

circled at a distance, then made up its mind. It was hungry.

Sot reached inside his barrow so quickly that his hand was a blur and

whipped out a singlestick. As the hawk swooped low, intent on the grounded

bird, he swung. Sos knew that the predator was out of reach and far too swift

for such antics . . . but it gave a single sharp cry as the stick knocked it

out of the air and hurled its broken body into the river.

Sos stared. It had been the quickest, most accurate motion with a weapon

he had ever seen, yet the man had done it casually, in a fit of pique at a

creature who disobeyed his warning. He had thought that it was merely the luck

of the battle that had given Sol the 'victory in the circle, though the man

was certainly able. Now he understood that there had been no luck about it;

Sol had simply toyed with him until wounded, then finished it off quickly.

The little bird hopped on the ground, fluttering ineffectively. Sola

retreated from it, perversely alarmed now that the action was over. Sos donned

a gauntlet from his camping pack and reached down carefully to pinion the

flapping wings and pick up the frightened creature.

It was not a sparrow after all, but some similar bird. There were flecks

of yellow and orange in the brown wings, and the bill was large and blunt.

"Must be a mutant," he said. "I've never spotted one like this before."

Sol shrugged, not interested, and fished the body of the hawk out of the

water. It would do for meat if they found nothing better.

Sos opened his glove and freed the bird. It lay in his palm, looking at

him but too terrified to move. "Take off, stupid," he hid, shaking it gently.

Its little claws found his thumb and clenched upon it.

He reached slowly with his bare hand, satisfied that the creature was

not vicious, and pulled at a wing to see if it were broken. The feathers

spread apart evenly. He checked the other wing, keeping his touch 'light so

that the bird could slip free harmlessly if it decided to fly. Neither was

damaged as far as he could tell. "Take off," he urged it again, flipping his

hand in the air.

The bird hung tight, only spreading its wings momentarily to preserve

its equilibrium.

"As you wish," he said, He brought the glove to the strap over his

shoulder and jostled until the bird transferred its perch to the nylon.

"Stupid," he repeated, not unkindly.

They resumed the march. Fields and brush alternated with islands of

trees, and as dusk came the shrilling of insects became amplified, always

loudest just a little distance away, but never from the ground. They crossed

the spoor of no larger animals. At length they camped by the bank of the

stream and netted several small fish. Sos struck a fire while Sola cleaned and

prepared the flesh. The woman appeared to have had a good education; she could

do things.

As the night advanced they opened the packs and set up the two

nylon-mesh tents. Sos dug a pit downstream for offal while Sol did isometric

exercises. Sola gathered a stock of dry branches for the fire, whose blaze

seemed to give her comfort.

The bird remained with Sos all this time, moving from his shoulder when

he had to get at the pack, but never straying far. It did not eat. "You can't

live long that way, stupid," he reminded it affectionately. And that became

its name: Stupid.

A white shape rose before him as he returned from the pit, spookily

silent. One of the great hawk moths, he decided, and stepped toward it.

Stupid squawked unmelodiously and flew at it. There was a brief struggle

in the air-the insect seemed as large as the bird, in this light-then the

white collapsed and disappeared into the outsize avian mouth. Sos understood:

his bird was a night feeder, at a disadvantage in full daylight. Probably the

hawk had surprised it sleeping and run it down while in a befuddled state. All

Stupid wanted was a safe place to perch and snooze by day.

In the morning they struck camp and advanced farther into the forbidden

area. Still there was no animal life on the ground, mammal, reptile or

amphibian, nor, be realized was there insect life there. Butterflies, bees,

flies, winged beetles and the large nocturnal moths abounded but the ground

itself was clean. It was ordinarily the richest of nature's spawning habitats.

Radiation in the earth, lingering longer than that elsewhere? But most

insects had a larval stage in ground or water.. . and the plants were

unaffected. He squatted to dig into the humus with a stick.

They were there: grubs and earthworms and burrowing-beetles, seemingly

normal. Life existed under the ground and above it-but what had happened to

the surface denizens?

"Looking for a friend?" Sola inquired acidly. He did not attempt to

explain what was bothering him, since he was not sure himself.

In the afternoon they found it: a beautiful open valley, flat where a

river had once flooded, and with a line of trees where the river remained.

Upstream the valley narrowed into a cleft and waterfall, easy to guard, while

downstream the river spread into a reedy swamp that neither foot nor boat

could traverse handily. There were green passes through the rounded mountains

on either side.

"A hundred men and their families could camp here!" Sol exclaimed. "Two,

three hundred!" He had brightened considerably since discovering that the

nemesis of the badlands had no teeth.

"It looks good," Sos admitted. "Provided there is no danger we don't

know about." And was there?

"No game," Sol said seriously. "But there are fish and birds, and we can

send out foraging parties. I have seen fruit trees, too." He had really taken

this project to heart, Sos saw, and was alert for everything affecting its

success. Yet there was danger in becoming prematurely positive, too.

"Fish and fruit!" Sola muttered, making a face, but she seemed glad that

at least they would not be going deeper into the danger zone. Sos was glad,

too; he felt the aura of the badlands, and knew that its mystery was more than

what could be measured in Roentgens.

Stupid squawked again as the great white shapes of night appeared. There

were several in sight on the plain, their color making them appear much larger

than they were, and the bird flapped happily after them. Apparently the

tremendous moths were its only diet-his diet, Sos thought, assigning a

suitable sex-and he consumed them indefatigably. Did Stupid store them up in

his crop for lean nights?

"Awful sound," Sola remarked, and he realized that she meant Stupid's

harsh cry. Sos found no feasible retort. This woman both fascinated and

infuriated him-but her opinion hardly made a difference to the bird.

One of the moths fluttered silently under Sol's nose on its way to their

fire. Sol made that lightning motion and caught it in his hand, curious about

it. Then he cursed and brushed it away as it stung him, and Stupid fetched it

in. "It stung you?" Sos inquired. "Let me see that hand." He drew Sol to the

fire and studied the puncture.

There was a single red-rimmed spot in the flesh at the base of the

thumb, with no other inflammation or swelling. "Probably nothing, just a

defensive bite," Sos said. "I'm no doctor. But I don't like it. If I were you,

I'd cut, it open and suck out any venom there may be, just to be sure. I never

heard of a' moth with a sting."

"Injure my own right hand?" Sol laughed. "Worry over something else,

advisor."

"You won't be fighting for at least a week-time enough for it to heal."

"No." And that was that.

They slept as they had before: the tents pitched side by side, the

couple in one, Sos in the other. He lay tense and sleepless, not certain what

it was that disturbed him so much. When he finally slept, it was to dream of

mighty wings and enormous breasts, both images dead white, and he didn't know

which frightened him more.

Sol did not awaken in the morning. He lay in his tent, fully clothed and

burning with fever. His eyes were half open but staring, the lids fluttering

sporadically. His respiration was fast and shallow, as though his chest were

constricted-and it was, for the large muscles of limbs and torso were rigid.

"The kill-spirit has taken him!" Sola cried. "The radiation."

Sos was checking over the laboring body, impressed by the solidity and

power of it even in illness. He had thought the man was coordinated rather

than strong, but another reassessment was in order. Sol usually moved so

smoothly that the muscle was hardly apparent. But now he was in grave trouble,

as some devastating toxin ravaged his system.

"No," he told her. "Radiation would have affected us as well."

"What is it then?" she demanded nervously.

"A harmless sting." But the irony was wasted on her. He had dreamed of

death-white wings; she hadn't. "Grab his feet. I'm going to try dunking him in

the water, to cool him off." He wished he had seen more medical texts, though

he hardly understood what had been available. The body of a man generally knew

what it was doing, and perhaps there was reason for the fever-to burn off the

toxin?-but he was afraid to let it rampage amid the tissues of muscle and

brain any longer.

Sola obeyed, and together they dragged the sturdy body to the river's

edge. "Get his clothing off," Sos snapped. "He may swing into chills after

this, and we'll have to keep him from strangling in wet garments."

She hesitated. "I never-"

"Hurry!" he shouted, startling her into action. "Your husband's life is

at stake."

Sos ripped off the tough nylon jacket while Sola loosened the waist cord

and worked the pantaloons down. "Oh!" she cited.

He was about to rebuke her again. She had no cause to be sensitive about

male exposure at this stage. Then he saw what she was looking at. Suddenly he

understood what had been wrong between them.

Injury, birth defect or mutation-he could not be certain. Sol would

never be a father. No wonder he sought success in, his own lifetime. There

would be no sons to follow him.

"He is still a man," Sos said. "Many women will envy his bracelet." But

he was' embarrassed to remember how similar Sol's own defence of him had been,

after their encounter in the circle. "Tell no one."

"N-no," she said, shuddering. "No one." Two tears flowed down her

cheeks. "Never." He knew she was thinking of fine children she might have had

by this expert warrior, matchless in every respect except one.

They wrestled the body into the water, and Sos held the head up. He had

hoped the cold shock would have a beneficial effect, but there was no change

in the patient. Sol would live or die as the situation determined; there was

nothing more they could do except watch.

After a few minutes he rolled Sol back onto the bank. Stupid perched on

his head, upset by the commotion. The bird did not like deep water.

Sos took stock. "We'll have to stay here until his condition changes,"

he said, refraining from discussion of the likely direction of the change. "He

has a powerful constitution. Possibly the crisis is over already. We don't

dare get stung ourselves by those moths, though-chances are we'd die before

the night was out. Best to sleep during the day and stand guard at night.

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CHAPTERONEThetwoitinerantwarriorsapproachedthehosteltramoppositedirections.Bothweregarbedconventionally:darkpantaloonscinchedatwaistandknee,loosewhitejacketreachingtohipsandelbowsandhangingopenatthefront,elasticsneakers.Bothworetheirhairmedium:croppedabovetheeyebrowsinfront,abovetheearsonthesides,an...

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Piers Anthony - Battle Circle 1 - Sos the Rope

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