Sos the Rope

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Two men moved out, one with his arm in cast and sling. They marched as far as the broken arm and loss of blood permitted, and settled into a hostel for the' evening, without company.

"Why?" Sav inquired as Sos fixed supper. `

"Why the arm?"

"No. I understand that. Why you?"

"I have been assigned to take over Sol's empire. He will hardly meet me in the circle until I bring down his chief lieutenants."

Sav leaned back carefully, favoring the arm. "I mean why you-Sos?"

First man, second day. He had betrayed himself already. "You can trust me," Sav said. "I never told anyone about your nights with Sola, and I wasn't bound by the circle code then, not to you, I mean. I won't tell anyone now. The information belonged to me only if I won it from you, and I didn't."

"How did you know?"

"Well, I did room with you quite a spell, remember. I got to know you pretty well, and not just by sight. I know how you think and how you smell. I was awake some last night-little ache in my arm-and I walked by your tent."

"How did you know me' sleeping when you did not know me awake?"

Sav smiled. "I recognized your snore."

"My-" He hadn't even known he snored.

"And one or two other things fit into place," Sav continued. "Like the way you stared at the spot on the ground where our little tent used to be-and I know you weren't remembering me! And the way you hummed `Red River Valley' today while we marched, same way Sola used to hum `Greensleeves,' even if you do carry a tune even worse than you did before. And the way you took care to make me look good in the circle, make me lose like a man. You didn't have to do that. You were taking care of me, same way I took care of you before."

"You took care of me?"

"You know-keeping the gals away from your tent all winter, even if I had to service `em myself. Sending a man to bring Sol back when it was time. Stuff like that."

Sol had stayed away...until Sola was pregnant!

"You knew about Sol?"

"I'm just naturally nosy, `I guess. But I can keep my mouth shut."

"You certainly can!" Sos took a moment to adjust himself to the changed situation. The staffer was a lot more knowledgeable and discreet than he had ever suspected. "All right, Sav. I'll tell you everything-and you can tell me how to keep my secrets so that nobody else catches on. Fair enough?"

"Deal! Except-"

"No exceptions. I can't tell anyone else."

"Except a couple are going to know anyway, no way to stop it. You get within a hundred feet of Sol, he'll know you. He's that way. And you won't fool Sola long, either. The others-well, if we can fake out Tor, no problem."

Sav was probably right. Somehow the thought did not disturb Sos; if he did his honest best to conceal his identity, but was known by those closest to him anyway, he could hardly be blamed. The word would not spread.

"You asked `why me? That's the same question I asked myself. They put pressure on me, but it wouldn't have been enough if I hadn't had internal doubts. Why me? The answer is, because I built the empire, though they didn't know that. I started it, I organized it, I trained it, I left men after me who could keep it rolling. If it is wrong, then I have a moral obligation to dismantle it-and I may be the only one who can do it without calamitous bloodshed. I am the only one who really understands its nature and the key individuals within it-and who can defeat Sol in the circle."

"Maybe you better start at the beginning," Sav said. "You went away, then I heard you came back with the rope, and Sol beat you and you went to the mountain-"

It was late at night by the time the complete story had been told.

Tyl's camp was much larger than Sav's had been. This was an acquisition tribe, contrasted to the training tribe, and by itself numbered almost five-hundred warriors. This time there was no stupidity at the entrance; Sav was a ranking member of the hierarchy, and there was the unmistakable ring of command in his normally gentle voice as he cut through obstacles. Ten minutes after they entered the camp they stood before Tyl himself.

"What brings you here unattended, comrade?" Tyl inquired cautiously, not commenting on the mending arm. He looked older, but no less certain of himself.

"I serve a new master. This is the nameless one, who sought me out and defeated me in the circle. Now he offers me and my tribe against you and yours."

Tyl contemplated Sos's tunic, trying to penetrate to the body beneath it. "With all due respect, ex-comrade, my tribe is more powerful than yours. He will have to meet my subchiefs first."

"Of course. Post a third of your tribe to correspond to mine. After the nameless one defeats your man, he will match both sections against the remainder. You can study' him today and meet him tomorrow."

"You seem to have confidence in him," Tyl observed.

Sav turned to Sos. "Master, if you would remove your dress-"

Sos obliged, finding it easy to let Sav handle things. The man certainly had talent for it. This early acquisition had been most fortunate. -

Tyl looked. "I see," he said, impressed. "And what is his weapon?" Then, "I see," again.

That afternoon Sos knocked out the subchief sworder with a single hammerblow of one fist to the mid-section. He had the sword by the blade, having simply caught it in midthrust and held it. A slight crease showed along the callus covering the metallic mesh embedded in his palm where the edge had cut; that was all. He had closed upon the blade carefully, but the witnesses had not been aware of that. They had assumed that he had actually halted' the full thrust with an unprotected hand.

Tyl, like Sav, was quick to learn. He, too, employed the sword, and he fenced with Sos's hands as though they were daggers, and with his head as though it were a club, and he kept his distance. It was wise strategy. The singing blade maintained an expert defense, and Tyl never took a chance.

But he forgot one thing: Sos had feet as well as hands and head. A sharp kick to the kneecap brought temporary paralysis there, interfering with mobility. Tyl knew he had lost, then, for even a narrow advantage inevitably grew, but he fought on, no coward. Not until both knees were dislocated did he attempt the suicide plunge.

Sos left the blade sticking in his upper arm and touched his fingers to the base of Tyl's exposed neck, and it was over.

Then he withdrew the blade and bound the wound together himself. It had been a stab, not a slash, and the metal reinforcement within the bone had stopped the point. The arm would heal.

When Tyl could walk, Sos added him to the party. They set out for the next major tribe, getting closer to Sol's own camp. Tyl traveled with his family, since Sos had not guaranteed any prompt return to the tribe, and Tyla took over household chores. The children stared at the man who had defeated their father, hardly able to accept it. They were too young yet to appreciate all the facts of battle, and had not understood that Tyl had been defeated at the time he joined Sol's nascent group. There were no frank conversations along the way Tyl did not recognize the nameless one, and Sav cleverly nullified dangerous remarks.,

They caught up to Tor's tribe after three weeks. Sos had determined that he needed one more leader in his retinue before he had enough to force Sol into the circle. He now had authority over more than six-hundred men-but eight tribes remained, some very large. Sol could still preserve his empire by refusing to let these tribes accept the challenge and by refraining from circle combat himself. But acquisition of a third tribe should make Sos's chunk of empire too big to let go.

Tor's tribe was smaller than Tyl's and more loosely organized, but still a formidable spread. A certain number of doubles teams were practicing, as though the encounter with the Pits had come out about even. Sos expected competent preparations for his coming, and was not disappointed. Tot met him promptly and took him into private conference, leaving Sav and Tyl out of it.

"I see you are a family man," he said.

Sos glanced at his bare wrist. "I was once a family man."

"Oh, I see." Tor, searching for weakness, had missed. "Well, I understand- you came out of nowhere,' defeated Sav and Tyl and mean to challenge Sol for his empire, and that you actually enter the circle without a weapon."

"Yes."

"It would seem foolish for me to meet you personally, since Tyl is a better fighter than I."

Sos did not comment.

"Yet it is not in my nature to avoid a challenge. Suppose we do this: I will put my tribe up against yours if you will meet my representative."

"One of your subchiefs? I will not put up six-hundred men against a minor." But Sos's real concern was whether Tor recognized him.

"I did not say that. I said my representative, who is not a member of my group, against you, alone. If he beats you, you will release your men and go your way; Sol will reconquer them in time. If you overcome him, I will turn over my group to you, but I will remain in the service of Sol. I do not care to serve any other master at this time."

"This is a curious proposition." There had to be a hidden aspect to it, since Tor was always clever.

"Friend, you are a curious proposition."

Sos considered it, but discovered nothing inherently unfair about the terms. If he won, he had the tribe. If he lost, he was still free to try for Sol at a later date. It did not matter whom he fought; he would have to defeat the man sooner or later anyway, to prevent resurgence of the empire under some new master.

And it seemed that Tor did not recognize him, which was a private satisfaction. Perhaps he had worried too much about that.

"Very well I will meet this man."

"He will be here in a couple of days. I have already sent a runner to fetch him. Accept our hospitality in the interim."

Sos got up to leave. "One thing," he said, remembering.

"Who is this man?"

"His name is Bog. Bog the club."

Trust wily Tor to think of that! The one warrior not even Sol had been able to defeat.

It was three days before Bog showed up, as big and happy as ever. He had not changed a bit in two years. Sos wanted to rush out and shake the giant's hand and hear him exclaim "Okay!" again, but he could not; he was a nameless stranger now and would have to meet and overcome the man anonymously.

This selection made clear why Tor had arranged the terms as they were. Bog was entirely indifferent to power in the tribal sense. He fought for the sheer joy of action and made no claims upon the vanquished. The messenger bad only to whisper "Good fight!" and Bog was on his way.

And Tar had chosen well in another respect, for Bog was the only man Sos knew of who shared virtual physical invulnerability. Others had tried to prevail over the nameless one by skill and had only been vanquished. Bog employed no skill, just inexhaustible power.

The day was waning, and Tar prevailed upon Bog to postpone the battle until morning. "Tough man, long fight," he explained. "Need all day."

Bog's grin widened. "Okay!"

Sos watched the huge man put away food for three and lick his lips in anticipation as several lovely girls clustered solicitously around him and touched the bracelet upon his wrist. Sos felt nostalgia. Here was a man who had an absolute formula for perpetual joy: enormous power, driving appetites and no concern for the future. What a pleasure it would be to travel with him again and bask in the reflected light of his happiness! The reality might have been troubling for others, but never for Bog.

Yet it was to preserve the goodness in the system that he fought now. By defeating Bog he would guarantee that there would always be free warriors for such as Bog to fight. The empire would never swallow them all.

They waited only long enough for the sun to rise to a reasonable height before approaching the circle in the morning. The men of the camp were packed so tightly Tor had to clear a path to the arena. Everyone knew what the stakes, were, except possibly Bog himself, who didn't care; but the primary interest was in the combat itself. Only twice, legend said, had Bog been stopped-once by the onset of night and once by a fluke loss of his weapon. No one had ever actually defeated him.

It was also said, however, that he never entered the circle against the net or other unfamiliar weapon.

Bog jumped in, already swinging his club enthusiastically, while Sos remained outside the ring and stripped to his trunks. He folded the long tunic carefully and stood up straight. The two men looked at each other while the audience studied them.

"They're the same size!" a man exclaimed, awed.

Sos started. He, the same size as the giant? Impossible!

Nonetheless, fact. Bog was taller and broader across the shoulders, but Sos was now more solidly constructed. The doctors had given him injections, in the underworld operatory to stimulate muscular development, and the inserted protective materials added to his mass. He was larger than he had been, and none of the added mass was fat. He probably weighed almost twice what he had when he first set out in search of adventure.

Each man had enormously overmuscled shoulders and arms and a neck sheathed in scars; but where Bog slimmed down to small hips. and comparatively puny legs, Sos had a midriff bulging with protective muscles and thighs so thick he found it awkward to run.

Now he carried no weapon: he was a weapon.

He stepped into the circle.

Bog proceeded as usual, swinging with indifferent aim at head and body. Sos ducked and took other evasive action. He had stood still to accept the blows of the staff, as a matter of demonstration, but the club was a different matter. A solid hit on the head by such as Bog could knock him senseless. The metal in his skull would not dent, but the brain within would smash itself against the barrier like so much jelly. The reinforced bones of arms and legs would not break, but even the toughened gristle and muscle would suffer if pinched between that bone and the full force of the club. Bog could hurt him.

Sos avoided the moving club and shot an arm up behind Bog's hand to block the return swing. He leaped inside and drove the other fist into Bog's stomach so hard the man was pushed backward. It was the rock-cracking blow.

Bog shifted hands and brought the weapon savagely down to smash Sos's hip. He stepped back to regain balance and continued the attack. He hadn't noticed the blow.

Sos circled again, exercising the bruised hip and marveling. The man was not exactly flabby in the stomach; that blow could have ruptured the intestines of an ordinary warrior. The way he had shifted grips on his club showed that there was more finesse to his attack than men had given him credit for. As a matter of fact, Bog's swings were not wild at all, now. They shifted angles regularly and the arcs were not wide. There was no time for a sword to cut in between them, or a staff, and lesser weapons would have no chance at all. Bog had an excellent all-purpose defense concealed within his showy offense.

Strange that he had never noticed this before. Was Bog's manifest stupidity an act? Had Sos, who should certainly have known better, assumed that a man as big and strong as Bog must be lacking in mental qualities? Or was Bog a natural fighter, like Sol, who did what he did unconsciously and who won because his instincts were good?

Still, there would be weak points. There had to be. Sos kicked at an exposed knee, hardly having time to set up for the proper angle for dislocation-and had his own leg clipped by a seemingly accidental descent of the club. He parried the club arm again, leading it out of the way, and leaped to embrace Bog in a bear-hug, catching his two hands together behind the man's back. Bog held his breath and raised the club high in the air and brought it down. Sos let go and shoved him away barely in time to avoid a head blow that would have finished the fight.

Yes, Bog knew how to defend himself.

Next time, Sos blocked the arm and caught it in both hands to apply the breaking `pressure. It was no use; Bog tensed his muscles and was too strong. Bog flipped the club to the alternate hand again and blasted away at Sos's back, forcing another hasty retreat. Sos tried once more, pounding his reinforced knuckles into the arm just above the elbow, digging for nerves, but had to let go; the club was too dangerous to ignore. He could do a certain amount of weakening damage to Bog's arms that would, in time, incapacitate the man, but in the meanwhile he would be subjected to a similar amount of battery by the club, which would hardly leave him in fit condition to fight again soon.

It was apparent that simple measures would not do the job. While consciousness remained, Bog would keep fighting-and he was so constructed that he could not be knocked out easily. A stranglehold from behind? Bog's club could whip over the back or around the side to pulverize the opponent-long before consciousness departed- and how could a forearm do what the rope could not? A hammer-blow to the base of the skull? It was as likely to kill the man as to slow him down. Bog being what he was.

But he was vulnerable. The kick to the crotch, the stiffened finger to the eyeball. . . any rapid blow to a surface organ would surely bring him down.

Sos continued to dodge and parry, forearm against forearm. Should he do it? Did -any need justify the deliberate and permanent maiming of a friend?

He didn't argue it. He simply decided to fight as he had to: fairly.

Just as the club would knock him out once it connected, so one of his own blows or grips would bring down Bog, when properly executed. Since Bog didn't know the meaning of defeat, and would never give in to numbing blows or simple pain, there was no point in such tactics. He would have to end the contest swiftly and decisively-which meant accepting at least one full smash from the club as he set up his position. It was a necessary risk.

Sos timed the next pass, spun away from it, ducked his head and thrust out in the high stamping kick aimed for Bog's chin. The club caught him at the thigh, stunning the muscle and knocking him sidewise, but his heel landed.

Too high. It caught Bog's forehead and snapped his head back with force abetted by the impact of the club upon his leg. A much more dangerous blow than the one intended.

Sos dropped to the ground, rolled over to get his good leg under him, and leaped up again, ready to follow up with a sustained knuckle-beat to the back of the neck. Bog could not swing effectively so long as he was pinned to the ground, and even he could not withstand more than a few seconds of- Sos halted. Suddenly he knew what-had happened. The slight misplacement of the kick, providing added leverage against the head; the forward thrust of Bog's large body as he swung; the feedback effect of the club blow upon the leg; the very musculature constricting the clubber's neck these things had combined to make the very special connection Sos had sought to avoid.

Bog's neck was broken.

He was not dead-but the damage was irreparable, here. If he survived, it would be as a paralytic. Bog would never fight again. -

Sos looked up, becoming aware of the audience he had completely forgotten, and met Tor's eyes. Tor nodded gravely. -

Sos picked up Bog's club and smashed it with all his force against the staring head.