Anthony, Piers - Battle circle 01 - Sos the Rope

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2024-12-14 0 0 370.35KB 188 页 5.9玖币

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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. They 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.

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."

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

"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.

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

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

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.

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?"

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

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

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croppedabovetheeyebrowsinfront,abovetheearsonthesides,andabovethejacketcollarbehind,uncombed.Bothbeardswereshortandscant.Themanfromtheeastworeastandardstraightsword,theplasticscabbardstrappedacrosshisbroadback.Hewasyoungandlarge,ifunhandsome,andhisblackbrowsandhairgavehimaforbiddingairthatdidnotmatc...

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Anthony, Piers - Battle circle 01 - Sos the Rope

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