Neq the Sword Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  "But you are too young for the circle?" Nemi cried.

  "If I am, then you are too young for that bracelet you've

  been eying! You're fourteen—the same as me." His name

  was the same as hers, too, for she was his twin sister. He

  refused to use that name now, for he no longer considered

  himself to be a child.

  In fact he had already chosen his manhood name: Neq.

  Neq the Sword—as soon as he proved himself in the battle

  circle.

  Nemi bit her lip, making it artfully red. She was full-

  bodied but small, like him, and could not term herself adult

  until she had borrowed the bracelet of a warrior for at least

  a night. After that she would shed her childhood name and

  assume the feminine form of the warrior she indulged. Be-

  tween bracelets she would be nameless—but a woman.

  And twice a woman when she bore a baby.

  "Bet I make it before you do!" she said. But then she

  smiled.

  He tugged one of her brown braids until she made a

  musical trill of protest. He let go and walked to the circle

  where two warriors were practicing: a sticker and a staffer.

  It was a friendly match for a trivial point. But the metal

  weapons flashed in the sunlight and the beat of the weap-

  ons' contacts sounded across the welkin.

  This was what he lived for. Honor in the circle! He had

  taken a sword from the rack in a crazy hostel four years

  ago, though it was so heavy he could hardly swing it, and

  had practiced diligently since. His father, Nem the Sword,

  had been pleased to train him, and it was excellent train-

  ing, but he had never been allowed in a real circle.

  Today he was fourteen! He and his sister were no

  longer bound by parental conventions, according to the

  code of the nomads. He could fight; she could borrow a

  bracelet. Whenever either was ready.

  The sticker scored on the staffer, momentarily stunning

  him, and the two stepped out of the circle. "I'm hot today!"

  the sticker cried. "Gonna put my band on someone. That

  girlchild, maybe—Nem's kid."

  They hadn't noticed Neq. His sister's challenge, "Bet I

  make it before you do," meant nothing. But though they

  were close as only twins could be, their rivalry was also

  strong. Neq had a pretext to act.

  "Before you put your band on Nem's girlchild," he said

  loudly, startling both men, "suppose you put your stick on

  Nem's boychild. If you can."

  The sticker smiled to cover his embarrassment. "Don't

  tempt me, junior. I wouldn't want to hurt a nameless

  child."

  Neq drew his sword and stepped into the circle. The

  weapon looked large on him, because of his small stature.

  "Go ahead. Hurt a child."

  "And have to answer to Nem? Kid, your dad's a good

  man in the circle. I don't want to owe him for roughing

  up his baby. Wait till you're of age."

  "I'm of age today. I stand on my own recognisance."

  That silenced the sticker, because he wasn't familiar

  with the word. "You aren't of age," the staffer said, look-

  ing down at him. "Anybody can see that."

  At this point Nem approached, trailed by his daughter.

  "Your boy is asking for trouble," the staffer told him.

  "Hig don't want to hurt him, but—"

  "He's of age," Nem said regretfully. He was not a large

  man himself, but the assurance with which he wore his

  sword suggested his size in the circle. "He wants his man-

  hood. I can't deny him longer."

  "See?" Neq demanded, smirking. "You prove your stick

  on me, before you prove anything on my sister."

  All three men stiffened. That had been a nasty jibe.

  Now Hig the Stick would have to fight, for otherwise

  Nem himself might challenge him to keep Nemi chaste.

  It was no secret that the sworder was protective toward

  both his children, but particularly toward his pretty

  daughter.

  Hig approached the circle, drawing his stocks. "I gotta

  do it," he said apologetically.

  Nemi sidled near. "You idiot!" she whispered fiercely at

  Neq. "I was only fooling."

  "Well, / wasn't!" Neq replied, though now he felt shaky

  and uncertain. "Here is my weapon, Hig."

  Hig looked at Nem, shrugged, and came to the white

  ring. He towered over Neq, handsome and muscular. But

  he was not an expert warrior; Neq had watched him fight

  before.

  Hig stepped inside. Neq came at him immediately,

  covering his nervousness with action. He feinted with his

  blade in the manner he had practiced endlessly, emulating

  the technique of his father. The sticker jumped away, and

  Neq grinned to show greater confidence than he felt. It

  had actually worked!

  He drove at Hig's middle while the man was catching

  his balance. He knew that thrust would be blocked, and

  the next, but it was best to maintain the offensive as vigor-

  ously as possible. Otherwise he'd be forced to the defen-

  sive, which did not favor the sword. Especially against the

  quick sticks.

  But he scored.

  Adrenaline had made him swift. The sword thrust inches

  deep into Hig's abdomen. The man cried out horribly and

  twisted away—the worst thing he could have done. Blood

  welled out as the sword wrenched loose. Hig fell to the

  ground, dropping his sticks, clutching the gaping mouth

  in his belly.

  Neq stood dazed. He had never expected it to be this

  easy—or this gruesome. He had intended the thrust as

  another ploy, braced to get clipped a few times while he

  searched for a genuine opening. To have it end this way—

  "Hig yields," the staffer said. That meant Neq could

  leave the circle without further mayhem. Ordinarily the

  man who remained in the circle longest was- the victor,

  regardless what happened inside, since some were clever

  at feigning injury as a tactical ruse, or at striking back

  despite wounds.

  He was abruptly sick. He stumbled away from the circle,

  heedless of the spectacle he made. He retched, getting

  vomit in his nose. Now, calamitously, he understood why

  his father had been so cautious about the circle.

  The sword was no toy, and combat was no game.

  He looked up to find Nemi. "It was awful!" she said.

  But she was not condemning him. She never did that

  when the matter was important. "But I guess you won.

  You're a man now. So I fetched this from the hostel for

  you."

  She held out a gold bracelet, the emblem of adulthood.

  Neq leaned against her sisterly bosom, crying. "It

  wasn't worth it," he said.

  After a while she took a cloth and cleaned him up, and

  then he donned the bracelet.

  But it was worth it. Hig did not die. He was packed off

  to the crazy hosp
ital and the prognosis was favorable.

  Neq wore the invaluable bracelet clamped around his left

  wrist, proud of its weight, and his friends congratulated

  him on his expertise and assumption of manhood. Even

  Nemi confessed that she was relieved to have had her

  liaison with the sticker broken up; she hadn't liked Hig

  that well anyway. She could wait for womanhood—weeks,

  if need be!

  There was a manhood party for Neq, where he an-

  nounced his name, which was duly posted on a hostel

  bulletin board for the crazies to record. There was no

  eligible girl in this group, so he was unable to consum-

  mate his new status in the traditional fashion. But the

  truth was that he was as leary as was his sister of the actual

  plunge. Man-man in the circle was straight-forward. Man-

  woman in the bed . . . that could wait.

  So he sang for them, his fine tenor impressing everyone.

  Nemi joined him, her alto harmonizing neatly. They were

  no longer technically brother and sister, but such ties did

  not sever cleanly at the stroke of a sword.

  A few days later he commenced his manhood trek: a

  long hike anywhere, leaving his family behind. He was

  expected to fight, perfecting his craft, and to move his

  bracelet about, becoming a man of experience. He might

  return in a month or a year or never; the hiatus would

  establish the change of circumstance, so that all nomads

  would respect him as an individual. Never again would

  he be "Nem's kid." He was a warrior.

  It was a glorious moment, this ceremony of departure,

  but he had to hide the choke in his throat as he bid

  farewell to Nem and Nema and Nemi, the family he had

  set aside. He saw tears forming in his sister's eyes, and

  she could not speak, and she was beautiful, and he had to

  turn away before he was overcome similarly, but it was

  good.

  He marched. The hostels in this region were about

  twenty miles apart—easy walking distance, but not if a

  man tarried overlong. And Neq tended to tarry, for many

  things were new to him: the curves and passes of the trail,

  unfamiliar because he had never seen them alone before,

  and the alternating pastures and forests and the occa-

  sionally encountered warriors. It was dark by the time

  he found his first lodging.

  And lonely, for the hostel was empty. He made do for

  himself, using the facilities the crazies had provided. The

  crazies: so-called because their actions made no sense.

  They had fine weapons that they did not use, and excel-

  lent food they did not eat, and these comfortable hostels

  they never slept in. Instead they set these things out un-

  guarded for any man to take. If everything were removed

  from a hostel, the crazies soon brought more, with no

  word of protest. Yet if a man fought with his sword

  outside the circle reserved for combat, or slew others

  with the bow, or barred another from a hostel, and if no

  one stopped him, the crazies cut off their supplies. It was

  as though they did not care whether men died, but how

  and where. As though death by arrow were more morbid

  than death by sword. Thus there was only one word for

  them: crazy. But the wise warrior humored their foibles.

  The hostel itself was a thirty-foot cylinder standing as

  high as a man could reach, with a cone for a roof. Some-

  how the cone caught the sunlight and turned it into

  power for the lights and machines within. Inside there

  was a fat column, into which toilet facilities and food-

  storage and cooking equipment were set, j and vents to

  blow cool air or hot, depending on the need.

  Neq took meat from the freezer and cooked it in the

  oven. He drew a cup of milk from the spout. As he ate he

  contemplated the racks of bracelets, clothing, and weapons.

  All this for the taking without combat! Crazy!

  At last he pulled down a bunk from the outer wall and

  slept, covering his head from the stillness.

  In the morning he prepared a pack with replacement

  socks and shirt, but did not bother with extra pantaloons

  or jackets or sneakers. Dirt did not matter, but the items

  that became sweatsoaked did need changing every so

  often or discomfort resulted. He also packed bread and

  the rest of the meat: waste was another thing the crazies

  were sensitive about, despite their own colossal waste in

  putting this all out for plunder. Finally he took a bow

  and a tent-package, for he intended to do some hunting

  and camping on this trek. The hostels were .fine for occa-

  sional use, but the typical nomad preferred to be inde-

  pendent.

  The second night he camped, but it was still lonely and

  he had forgotten to take mosquito repellent. The third

  night he used a hostel, but he had to share with two other

  warriors, a sworder and a clubber. It was friendly, and

  they did not talk down to him though they had to "be aware

  of his youth. The three practiced in the circle a bit, and

  both men complimented Neq on his skill: meaning he still

  was a novice. In serious combat no compliments were

  needed; the skill spoke for itself.

  The fourth night he found a woman. She prepared a

  meal for him that was immeasurably superior to his own

  makings, but did not make any other overtures, and he

  found himself too shy to proffer his bracelet. She was as

  tall as he, and older, and not really pretty. He took a

  shower in her presence so she could see he had hair on

  his genitals, and they slept in adjacent bunks, and in the

  morning she wished him good fortune in a motherly

  fashion and he went on. And cursed himself for not initi-

  ating his bracelet, at the same time knowing he was even

  more afraid of somehow mishandling it and being ridi-

  culed. How could a man feign experience in such a matter?

  The fifth day he arrived early at a hostel set near a

  beautiful small lake, and a man was there. By his fair,

  unblemished features he was not much older than Neq,

  and he was not substantially larger, but he had the bearing

  of a seasoned warrior.

  "I am Sol of All Weapons," he announced. "I contest

  for mastery."

  This set Neq back. Mastery meant the loser would join

  the tribe of the winner. Because it was a voluntary con-

  vention, it-did not violate the crazies' stricture against

  deprivation of personal freedom, but a man honor-bound

  was still bound. Neq had only fought once and practiced

  some, and didn't trust his luck in serious combat. Not so

  soon, anyway. He didn't want to join a tribe so soon, and

  had no use for a tribe of his own.

  "You use all weapons?" he asked, putting off the im-

  plied challenge. "Sword, staff, sticks—all?"

  Sol nodded gravely.

  "Even the star?" He glanced at the morning star maces

  on the weapons rack.

  Sol nodded again. It seemed he wasn't much for conver-

  sation.

  "I don't want to f
ight," Neq said. "Not for mastery. I—I

  just achieved my manhood last week."

  Sol shrugged, amenable.

  About dusk a woman showed up. She wore the sarong

  of availability, but she was if anything less young and less

  pretty than the one Neq had met before. She must have

  borrowed many bracelets in her time, yet no man had

  retained her. Sol paid her no attention; he was without

  his own bracelet, showing he was married. So it was up to

  Neq again—and again he did nothing.

  The woman prepared supper for them both, at this was

  the function of the available distaff. She had the same

  assurance about her cooking that Sol did about his weapons.

  This must be her territory, so that she was used to catering

  to any men who came here, hoping that some would prefer

  capability to beauty and would leave the bracelet on her.

  No woman ever took her bracelet directly from the rack; it

  had to come from a man.

  Before the meal was served, a third man arrived. He

  was a large warrior, paunchy, gruff, with many scars. "I

  am Mok the Star," he said.

  "Sol of All Weapons."

  "Neq the Sword."

  The girl said nothing; it was not her place. She made

  another setting at the table.

  "I contest for mastery," Sol said.

  "You have a tribe? This boy and who else?"

  "Not Neq. My tribe is training in the badlands."

  "The badlands!" Mok's surprise matched Neq's own.

  "No one goes there!"

  "Nevertheless," Sol said.

  "The kill-spirits—"

  "Do you question my word?" Sol demanded.

  Mok bridled at the tone. "Everyone knows—"

  "I have to agree," Neq said—and was immediately aware

  that he had spoken out of turn. This was not his quarrel.

  "In the circle you challenge my word!" Sol said. He