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
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