"The same way we came in. Those shrews are defeated by their appetites. They can't wait around very long in any one place, and there was hardly anything for them to eat in that valley. They must have moved on to fresher pastures already, and soon they'll die off. Their life cycle is short They probably only swarm every third or fourth generation, though that would still be several times a year."
"Where did they come from?" Sol asked.
"Must have been mutated from the fringe radiation."
He began his description of evolution, but Sol yawned. "At any rate they must have been changed in some way to give them the competitive edge, here, and now they are wiping out almost every form of ground life. They'll have to range farther and farther, or starve; they can't go on indefinitely like this."
"And you can keep them clear of the valley?"
"Yes, after preparations."
"Let's move."
The valley was empty again. No trace of the tiny mammals remained, except for the matted grass flattened by their myriad feet and brown earth showing where they had burrowed for fat grubs. They had evidently climbed every stalk in search of food, bearing it down by the weight of numbers and chewing experimentally. Strange scourge!
Sol eyed the waste. "Twenty men?"
"And a month."
They went on.
Sol seemed to gain strength as he marched, little worse for wear. The other two exchanged glances occasionally and shook their heads. The man might make a good show of it, but he had been very near death and had to be feeling the residual effects now.
They set a swift pace, anxious to get out of the badlands before dusk. Travel was much more rapid now that they knew where they were going, and by nightfall they were near the markers. Stupid remained with Sos, perched on his shoulder, and this protection encouraged them to keep moving through the dusk toward the hostel.
There they collapsed for a night and a day, basking in its controlled temperature, safe sleeping and ample food. Sola slept beside her man, no longer complaining. It was as though their experience of the last night in the badlands meant nothing to her-until Sos heard her humming "Greensleeves." Then he knew that no victor stood in this circle yet. She had to make her choice between opposing desires, and when she came to her decision she would either give back Sol's bracelet-or keep it.
Stupid seemed to have no problem adapting to a diet of lesser insects. The white moths were a phenomenon of the badlands only, but the bird elected to stick with the empire even at the sacrifice of his favorite victual.
They traveled again. Two days out they met a single warrior carrying a staff; He was young and fair, like Sol, and seemed to smile' perpetually. "I am Say the Staffer," he said, "in quest of adventure. Who will meet me in the circle?"
"I fight for service," Sol replied. "I am forming a tribe."
"Oh? What is your weapon?"
"The staff, if you prefer."
"You use more than one weapon?"
"All of them."
"Will you take the club against me?"
"Yes."
"I'm very good against the club."
Sol opened his barrow and drew out the club.
Sav eyed him amiably. "But I'm not forming any tribe myself. Don't misunderstand, friend-I'm willing to join yours if you beat me, but I don't want your service if I beat you. Do you have anything else to put up?"
Sol looked at him baffled. He turned to Sos.
"He's thinking of your woman," Sos said, keeping it carefully neutral. "If she will accept his bracelet for a few nights, as forfeit-"
"One night is enough," Sav said. "I like to keep moving." Sol turned to her uncertainly. He had spoken truly when he said he was a good bargainer. Standard terms were fine, but a variable or three-person arrangement left him hanging.
"If you beat my husband," Sola said to the staffer, "I will accept your bracelet for as many nights as you desire." And Sos understood her nostalgia for attentions other than sexual; this commitment was routine. She paid a penalty for her beauty.
"One night," Sav repeated. "No offense, miss. I never visit the same place twice."
Sos said nothing more. The staffer was disarmingly frank, and whatever Sola was, she was no hypocrite. She went to the best man, wanting his name. If she had to put herself on the line to promote a settlement, she would. There was little room in her philosophy for a loser, as he had learned.
Or did she have such confidence in Sol that she knew she risked nothing?
"Agreed then," Sol said. They trekked as a party to the nearest hostel, several miles down the trail.
Sos had his private doubts as the two men stepped up to the circle. Sol was exceedingly swift, but the club was basically a power tool, not given to clever maneuvering. Even if it didn't show in ordinary travel, Sol's recent illness was bound to have its effect upon his strength and endurance in battle. The staff was a defensive weapon, well suited to a prolonged encounter, while the club rapidly sapped the strength of the wielder. Sol had committed himself foolishly and given himself the very worst chance.
Yet what did it matter to him? If Sol won, the tribe had its first real member. If he lost, Sola would take another bracelet and become Sava, and likely be free shortly thereafter. Sos could not be certain which alternative would benefit him personally, if either did. Best to let the circle decide.
No! He had agreed to serve Sol, in exchange for a name. He should have seen to it that Sol's chances were good. As it was, he had already let the man down, when he should have been alert. Now he could only hope that his lapse did not cost Sol the victory.
The two men entered the ring, and the contest began immediately. There were no manners in the battle circle, only victory and defeat.
Sav sparred, expecting a fierce attack. It did not come. The staff was about six and a half feet long and the same diameter as a singlesticlc, with square-cut ends; it flexed slightly when put under strain, but otherwise was nothing more or less than a rigid pole. It was one of the easiest weapons to use, though it seldom led to a quick decision. It readily blocked any other instrument, but was as easily blocked itself.
Sol feinted four times with the heavy club, watching the defensive posture of his opponent, then shrugged and lashed out with a backhand blow to the chest that neatly bypassed the horizontal shaft.
Sav looked surprised, fighting for the wind and steam that had been knocked out of him. Sol placed his club gently against the staff and pushed. The man fell backwards out of the circle.
Sos was amazed. It had looked so simple, as though a lucky blow, but he knew it was not. Sol had expertly tested his opponent's reflexes, then struck with such quick precision that no parry had been feasible. It was a remarkable feat with the crude club-and no accident. Sol, nothing special outside the circle, was a tactical genius within it. A man had been added to the group, efficiently and virtually uninjured.
It appeared Sol needed no advice on terms of combat.
Sav took it philosophically. "I looked pretty foolish, didn't I, after all my talk," he said, and that was all. He didn't mope and he made no further overtures to Sola.
The law of averages Sos had read about indicated that it would be a couple of weeks before they encountered any really able warrior. That afternoon, notwithstanding, they met two men with swords, Tor and Tyl. The first was swarthy and greatbearded, the second slim and cleanshaven. Sworders often shaved, as did daggers; it was an unofficial mark of their specialty, since it subtly hinted their skill with the blade. Sos had tried to shave with his sword once and had sliced his face severely; after that he stuck to the shears and did not try for closeness. There were electric razors in the ëabins, though few men condescended to use them. He had never understood why it should be considered degrading to use the crazies' razors, while all right to eat their food, but that was the way convention had it.