Stupid had learned to watch the rope. Sos loosened several feet of it and held a slack loop in one hand as he faced the other man, and Stupid quickly made for a nearby tree. The two sticks glinted as the other attacked, the right beating at his head while the left maintained a defensive guard. Sos jumped clear, bounding to the far side of the circle. His nervousness vanished as the action began, and he knew he was all right. His rope shot out as the man advanced again, entangling the offensive wrist. A yank, and the sticker was pulled forward, stumbling.
Sos jerked expertly and the cord fell free, just as he had practiced it, and snapped back to his waiting hand. The man was on him again, directing quick blows with both sticks so that a single throw could not interfere with the pair. Sos flipped a central loop over the sticker's neck, ducked under his ann and leaped for the far side of the ring again. The loop tightened, choking the man and pulling him helplessly backward.
Another jerk and the rope fell free again. Sos could have kept it taut and finished the fight immediately, but he preferred to make a point. He wanted to prove, to other and to himself, that the rope could win in a number of guises-and to discover any weaknesses in it before he had a serious encounter.
The sticker approached more cautiously the third time keeping one arm high to ward off the snaking rope. The man knew now that the coil was an oddity but no toy; a weapon to be wary of. He jumped in suddenly, thinking to score a blow by surprise--and Sos smacked him blindingly across the forehead with the end.
The man reeled back, grasping the fact of defeat. A red welt appeared just above his eyes, and it was obvious that the rope could have struck an inch lower and done terrible damage, had Sos chosen so. As it was, his eyes watered profusely, and the sticker had to strike out almost randomly.
Sos let down his guard, looking for a kind way to finish the encounter-and the man happened to connect with hard rap to the side of his head. The singlestick was no club, but still could easily knock out a man, and Sos was momentarily shaken. His opponent followed up with the other stick immediately, raining blows upon head and shoulders before Sos could plunge away.
He had been away from the circle too long! He should never have eased his own attack. He was fortunate that the other was operating on reflex rather than calculated skill and had struck without proper aim. He had his lesson, and he would not forget it.
Sos stayed away until his head was clear, then set aboul finishing it. He wrapped the rope about the man's legs, lassoing them, and yanked the feet from under. He bent over the sticker, this time bunching his shoulders to absorb the ineffective blows, and pinioned both arms with a second loop. He gripped the coils with both hands strategically placed, lifted, and heaved.
The man came up. hogtied and helpless. Sos whirled him around in a complete arc and let go. The body flew out of the ring and landed on the lawn beyond the gravel. He had not been seriously hurt, but was completely humiliated.
The rope had proven itself in combat.
The following weeks established Sos as a reputable fighter against other weapons as well. His educated rope quickly snared the hand that wielded sword or club, defending by incapacitating the offense, and the throttle-coil kept the flashing hands of the dagger away. Only against the staff did he have serious-trouble. The long pole effectively prevented him from looping the hands, since it extended the necessary range for a lasso enormously and tended to tangle his rope and slow alternate attacks. Wherever he flung, there was the length of rigid metal, blocking him. But the staff was mainly a defensive weapon, which gave him time to search out an opening and prevail. He made a mental note, however: never tackle the quarterstaff when in a hurry.
Still there was no positive word on Sol's tribe. It was as though it had disappeared, though he was certain this was not the case. Finally he took the advice offered the first night and sought the nearest major tribe.
This happened to be the Pit doubles. He was not at all sure that their leader would give information to an isolated warrior merely because he asked for it. The Pit master had a reputation for being surly and secretive. But Sos had no partner to make a doubles challenge for information, and none of the men he had met were ones he cared to trust his life to in the circle.
He gave a mental shrug and set course for the Pit encampment. He. would dodge that obstacle when he came to it.
Three days later he met a huge clubber ambling in the opposite direction, tossing his weapon into the air and humming tunelessly. Sos stopped, surprised, but there was no doubt.
It was Bog, the indefatigable swinger who had battered Sol for half a day, for the sheer joy of fighting.
'Bog!' he cried.
The giant stopped, not recognizing him. 'Who you?' he demanded, pointing the club. . -
