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.

    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."