SOS the Rope by Piers Anthony Page A

more than man-to-man."
        "Good fight," Sol agreed, and stepped inside.
        Sos concurred. In the headlong drive for empire, it seemed a culpable waste to chance Sol in the circle for anything less than a full tribe. Accidents were always possible. But they had already learned that their leader had other things on his mind these days than his empire. Sol proved his manhood by his battle prowess, and he could allow no slightest question there, even in his own mind. He had continued his exercises regularly, keeping his body toned.
        Perhaps it took a man withOut a weapon to appreciate just how deeply the scars of the other kind of deprivation went.
        Bog launched into his typical windmill attack, and Sol parried and ducked expertly. Bog was far larger, but Sol was faster and cut off the ferocious arcs before they gained full momentum. He ducked under one swing and caught Bog on the side of the head with the short, precise flick Sos had seen him demonstrate before. The club was not clumsy or slow in Sol's hand.
        The giant absorbed the blow and didn't seem to notice. He bashed away without hesitation, smiling. Sol had to back away and dodge cleverly to avoid being driven out of the circle, but Bog followed him without letup.
        Sol's strategy was plain. He was conserving his strength, letting the other expend his energies uselessly. Whenever there was an opening, he sneaked his own club in to bruise head, shoulder or stomach, weakening the man further. It was a good policy-except that Bog refused to be weakened. "Good!" he grunted when Sol scored-and swung again.
        Half an hour passed while the entire tribe massed around the arena, amazed. They all knew Sol's competence; what they couldn't understand was Bog's indefatigable power. The club was a solid weapon, heavier with every swing, and prolonged exercise with it inevitably deadened the arm, yet Bog never slowed or showed strain. Where did he get such stamina?
        Sol had had enough of the waiting artifice. He took the offense. Now be laid about him with swings like Bog's, actually forcing the bigger man to take defensive measures.
        It was the first time they had seen it; for all they had known until that point, Bog had no defense, since he had never needed it. As it was, he was not good at it, and soon got smashed full force across the side of the neck.
        Sos rubbed his own neck with sympathetic pain, seeing the man's hair flop out and spittle fly from his open mouth. The blow should have laid him out for the rest of the day. It didn't. Bog hesitated momentarily, shook his head, then grinned. "Good!" he said-and smote mightily with his own weapon.
        Sol was sweating profusely, and now took the defensive stance from necessity. Again he fended Bog off with astute maneuvers, while the giant pressed the attack as vigorously as before. Sol had not yet been whacked upon head or torso; his defense was too skilled for the other to penetrate. But neither could he shake his opponent or wear him down.
        After another half hour he tried again, with no better effect. Bog seemed to be impervious to physical damage. After that Sol was satisfied to wait.
        "What's the record for club-club?" someone asked.
        "Thirty-four minutes," another replied.
        The tinier Tor had borrowed from the hostel indicated a hundred and four minutes. "It isn't possible to keep that pace indefinitely," he said.
        The shadows lengthened. The contest continued.
        Sos, Tyl and Tor huddled with the other advisors. "They're going on until dark!" Tor exclaimed - incredulously. "Sol won't quit, and Bog doesn't know how."
        "We have to break this up before they both drop dead," Sos said.
        "How?"
        That was the crux. They were sure neither participant would quit voluntarily, and the end was not in view Bog's strength seemed boundless, and Sol's determination and skill matched it. Yet the