Neq the Sword

by Piers Anthony

  glanced at the rotating transparent door, noting that it was

  dark outside. "Tomorrow."

  Mok and Neq exchanged glances. Both were stuck.

  "Tomorrow," Mok agreed. "For mastery." Then as an

  afterthought: "But you will see my weapon is not for

  games."

  The girl smiled at Mok. He smiled back, stroking his

  bracelet. And that night Sol and Neq pulled down bunks

  from the wall on the east side, while Mok took the woman

  to the west side, putting his bracelet on her wrist.

  Neq lay in the dark, listening, feeling guilty for it. But

  he couldn't really tell anything from the sounds.

  Sol had a barrow filled with weapons. "What would

  you face in the circle?" he asked Mok.

  "You really use them all? Let's have the star, then."

  Sol brought out his ball and chain. Neq was fascinated.

  He had never seen a star in action, and had never heard

  of a star-star encounter in the circle. The weapon was

  unreliable but terrifying, as it could not be used defen-

  sively. Either the heavy spiked ball connected or it didn't,

  and the outcome of the battle depended on that. Serious

  injury was a probability, in this match,

  The two men entered the circle on opposite sides, each

  whirling his deadly steel ball over his head so rapidly that

  the short chains were blurs. Now the stars were beautiful,

  flashing the sunlight in rings of fire as the men's torsos

  flexed rhythmically. The fight had to be short, for the out-

  ward pulling weight of the ball would rapidly tire the arm.

  It was short. The two bright arcs intersected, the chains

  crossed, the balls spun about each other fiercely, striking

  sparks. Both Mok and Sol jumped as their chains yanked—

  but it was Sol who hung on to his star. Mok's handle slipped

  from his grasp, and he was disarmed.

  Neq realized that this was exactly what Sol had in-

  tended. He had deliberately engaged the other weapon, not

  trying for the man at all, and had jerked sharply the

  moment contact was made. Mok had expected the entangle-

  ment to interfere with both warriors, so that he could use

  his weight to advantage in the clinch. Sol's strategy and

  timing had been superior.

  Or could it have been sheer luck?

  "What would you face?" Sol asked Neq.

  Already! Not the star, certainly! Was it courtesy or con-

  fidence the man showed? What to answer!

  A sword or dagger in a skilled hand could hurt him

  severely, like Hig. The sticks were blunt, but the pair of

  them could rattle his brain. The club was blunt and slow,

  but a real mauler when it connected. The staff—

  'The staff!" One piece, slow, no edges, safe.

  Sol calmly brought out his staff.

  They entered the circle and sparred. Neq felt guilty for

  his cowardice. A real warrior would have chosen to oppose

  his own weapon, so the threats were equal. The quarterstaff

  was safe, but hard to circumvent. Neq feinted—

  When he came to, his head was throbbing. He was on

  a bunk in the hostel. The woman wearing Mok's bracelet—

  Moka—was sponging his face.

  Neq refrained from asking what had happened. Obvi-

  ously he had been felled by a blow he had never seen.

  Could Mok have struck him from behind? No—that would

  have been a gross violation of the circle code, and there

  had been no evidence that either Sol or Mok were the type

  to practice or tolerate such dishonor. The staff must have

  passed his guard—

  He touched his head. The welt reminded him. An

  astonishingly deft maneuver, the staff avoiding his sword

  as if it were fog, whipping in—ouch!

  Well, he was a member of Sol's tribe now. The badlands

  tribe. If there were kill-spirits there, they hadn't hurt Sol

  much! On balance, it wasn't such a bad outcome. Nem

  had always said there were advantages to serving a strong

  leader. What a man lost in independence he gained in

  security. Provided he joined a good tribe.

  Neq wasn't quite confident he had joined a good one,

  for there remained some doubt whether Sol was an excel-

  lent warrior or merely lucky. But Neq put the best face

  on it: would he have let himself be taken by a fluke?

  He traveled with Mok, following instructions, while Sol

  continued in the opposite direction. Mok had reclaimed

  his bracelet after the second night, and Neq didn't ques-

  tion him. Maybe the man just didn't care to take a wife to

  the badlands, though Sol said the kill-spirits—he called

  them roents—had gone back beyond the camp. They were

  on the trail several days.

  Sol's tribe, or at least the portion of it they joined,

  seemed to consist of about thirty men encamped in and

  about another hostel under the general eye of his wife

  Sola. She was a sultry beauty of about sixteen, inclined to

  sharpness when addressed and brooding silence at other

  times. But she wore her gold bracelet proudly.

  For two weeks they tarried there, their numbers aug-

  mented by other converts Sol sent back. A number of

  men had families, so that the drain on the supplies of the

  hostel was considerable. They hunted with bow and arrow

  in the forest to supplement those waning rations, though

  twice the crazy van came to restock them.

  The crazies were as funny in person as their name indi-

  cated: strangely garbed, unarmed, almost devoid of muscle,

  and ludicrously clean. Yet their truck was a monster,

  capable of crushing many warriors if misdirected. Why

  should they act like servants to the nomads, when they

  could so easily assume power? Some thought it was because

  the crazies were weak and foolish, but Neq doubted that

  it could be that simple.

  Eventually Sol returned with another fifteen men, swell-

  ing the tribe to over fifty. Then the whole group marched

  —to the badlands. Neq viewed the red crazy warners with

  alarm, knowing they marked the boundaries of the kill-

  spirits as surveyed by the crazy click boxes. But nothing

  happened.

  A camp had been established in the wilderness beside

  a river, with a flooded trench around it. The leader of this

  camp was Tyi of Two Weapons; but the man who really

  ran it was Sos the Weaponless. Sos drilled the men merci-

  lessly, setting up subtribes for each weapon and ranking

  each man according to his skill. Neq began as the bottom

  sworder of twenty, chagrined, but he prospered under the

  training and rose eventually to fourth of fifty. The camp

  was growing all the time, as Sol traveled and sent more

  warriors. There was no doubt of the tribe's power now;

  he had never seen such discipline.

  Strange that it was all the doing of a man who would

  not fight in the circle himself. Sos obviously had an

  enormous store of information about combat, and he was

  no weakling physically. Yet he kept a stupid little bird on

  his shoulder, the ridicule of all the tribe, and obviously

  loved Sola with
out admitting it. Neq once saw her go to

  his tent in winter and stay there until dawn. The whole

  situation was incredible.

  When spring came, the tribe was ready to move out as

  a unit, and Neq was a ranking member. He was eager for

  the promised conquest.

  Only one thing marred his success: he had not yet had

  the' courage to offer his bracelet to a girl. He wanted to,

  but he was not yet fifteen, and looked thirteen, and a live

  naked woman was just too much for him to contemplate.

  The mistakes he might make!

  Sometimes he dreamed of Sola. It wasn't that he loved

  her, or even liked her; it was that she was a lusciously

  constructed female who stayed in another man's tent though

  her husband was master of the tribe. Dishonor . . . but .

  excruciatingly tantalizing! She was the kind to keep a

  secret....

  That was one reason he had improved so much as a

  sworder: he spent almost all of his free time practicing,

  while others allowed themselves to be diverted by romantic

  concerns. They thought him dedicated, but he was tor-

  mented.

  Some day—some day he would really be a man!

  Neq prospered in battle, too, winning his matches easily.

  His first match was against the first sword of a smaller

  tribe. The other master had not wanted to fight, and Neq

  had been one of the carefully picked hecklers who taunted

  him into a commitment. His opponent in the circle was

  good, and Neq was so nervous he feared his weapon

  would quiver—but incredibly his intensive winter's train-

  ing had made him better. Sos had drilled him until he was

  furious, not only against swords but against all other

  weapons, and had matched him in pairs with others to

  fight other pairs. It had been tedious, hard work, and since

  the practice sessions were never for blood he had only

  Sos's opinion to certify his actual skill. But that opinion

  was justified; as Neq saw the little crudities of the other

  man's technique he knew it was all true. Clumsy victories

  and confused losses were no longer Neq's lot. He really was

  a master sworder, not far behind Tyi himself, who was

  first.

  Then, suddenly, Sos the Trainer left. It was an ironic

  question who mourned his departure more: Sol or Sola.

  Had Sol found out? But the tribe continued operating as

  Sos had organized it. Sola birthed a baby girl, though

  nine months before her husband had been away a great

  deal....

  The tribe became so large through conquests that it

  had to be broken up into ten subtribes formed into an

  empire. One was under Sol and the others under his major

  lieutenants: Tyi of Two weapons, who had the finest

  warriors; Sav the Staff, who took over the badlands camp

  as a training area and was the other songsinger of the

  empire; Tor the Sword, with his great black beard . . . and,

  gratifying, Neq himself. Each subtribe went its own way,

  acquiring more warriors, but all were subject to Sol

  ultimately.

  At first it was wonderful, for Neq's fondest dreams of

  glory had been exceeded. He was chief of a hundred and

  fifty warriors, which was more than most independent

  tribes boasted. He visited his family and showed off his

  status. His sister had married and moved away, but home-

  town doubters he gladly convinced. He packed half a

  dozen of them off to the badlands camp, and even demon-

  strated his skill against his father Nem, though not for

  blood or mastery. Neq was the finest sworder this area

  had ever seen, and it was good to have it known.

  But in a year such things palled, for administrative duties

  kept him from practicing in the circle as much as he liked,

  and there seemed to be rivalries and enemies on every side.

  He decided that he was not, at heart, a leader. He was a

  fighter.

  By the end of the second year he was heartily sick of it,

  but there seemed to be no way down the ladder. He longed

  just to run away by himself, meeting people honestly,

  without the barrier his present responsibility erected.

  And—he still wanted a woman. He was sixteen now,

  more than man enough—but the very notion of offering

  his bracelet to a girl, any girl, filled him with dread. If

  one would ask him, make it clear she was amenable . . .

  but none did.

  Neq suspected that he was the shyest man in all the

  empire—and for no reason. He could command men with-

  out qualm, he could meet any weapon with confidence, he

  could run a tribe of hundreds. But to put his bracelet on a

  woman ... he wanted to, but he couldn't.

  Then disaster came to the empire. A nameless, weapon-

  less warrior appeared—one who entered the circle and

  defeated the empire's finest with his bare hands. It seemed

  impossible—but the Nameless first took Sav's tribe, break-

  ing Sav's arm; then Tyi's tribe, shattering Tyi's knees; then

  Tor's—by killing Bog the Club, the one warrior even Sol

  had not beaten. And finally he brought Sol himself to the

  circle, and took all the empire and Sola too for his own,

  sending Sol to die with his girlchild at the mountain.

  Neq's tribe had been ranging far from the scene of that

  action, and by the time he got there the issue had been

  settled and Sol was gone. There was nothing for him to

  do but go along with the new Master. Tyie remained sec-

  ond in command, acting in the name of the grotesque

  Weaponless conqueror, who seemed to have little interest

  'in the routine affairs of empire. "Go where you will," Tyi

  advised Neq privately. "Battle where you will. But no more

  for mastery. Query your warriors and release any who

  wish to leave, asking no questions. The Nameless has so

  decreed."

  "Why did he conquer, then?" Neq demanded, amazed.

  Tyi only shrugged, disgusted. Neq knew Tyi much pre-

  ferred Sol's way—but he was a man of honor to match

  his station, and would not act against the new Master.

  So it came to pass. For six years the empire stagnated.

  Neq turned over his administrative duties to other men

  and took to wandering alone, incognito. Sometimes he

  fought in the circle—but his blinding skill with the sword

  made such encounters meaningless, and destroyed his alias.

  And still his bracelet had never left his wrist, though he

  dreamed of women, all women.

  At the age of twenty-four, with a decade of nomadic

  brilliance behind him, Neq the Sword was over the hill.

  He had no present and no future, like the empire.

  Then the Master invaded the mountain, using his own

  and Tyi's subtribes—and disappeared. Tyi returned with

  news that the mountain fortress had been gutted; that the

  men who went there in the future really would die, whatever

  had been the case in the past. But Tyi could not claim the

  leadership of the empire. No one had defeated the

  Weaponless. He might or might not return.

  The chiefs met
—Tyi, Neq, Sav, Tor and the others—

  and formally suspended the empire, pending that return.

  Each subtribe would become a full tribe, but they would

  not fight each other.

  Neq wanted only freedom, so he dissolved his own tribe

  completely. The top warriors immediately began forming

  their own tribelets and moving out. Neq, truly independent

  for the first time in his life, wandered alone again.

  * * *

  The third time he came to a lodge in a hostel and found

  it gutted and broken, Neq grew perplexed and angry. Who

  was doing this, and why? The hostels had always been

  sacrosanct, open for all travelers all the time. When one

  was destroyed, every person suffered. Too much of this

  would hurt the entire nomad society—that had supposedly

  been saved by the razing of the mountain underworld.

  There was no hope of catching the perpetrators; the

  deed was weeks past. Easier to inquire of the crazies them-

  selves, who were often knowledgeable about nomad affairs

  but who never acted positively.

  Neq, missionless until this moment, had found a mission

  of a sort.

  The local crazy outpost was under siege. Its foolish glass

  windows bad been broken in, and now fragments of wood

  and metal furniture barred them ineffectively. The flower

  beds around the building had been trampled. Two unkempt

  warriors patrolled in semicircles at a distance, one on either

  side, and three more chatted around a nearby campfire.

  Neq accosted the nearest of the marchers, a large

  sworder. "Who are you and what are you doing?"

  "Beat it, punk," the man said. "This is private soil."

  Neq was not young or impulsive any more. He replied