Sojan the Swordsman ; Under the Warrior Sky

by Michael Moorcock

  With a hard jolt the ship touched the ground, bumped along it, and stopped. Over the side the three companions went and ran over soft moss to the sheltering shadows of some rocks as the Veronlamite searchlights began to stab into the darkness.

  But it was easy to hide in the rocks and the caves sheltered them when the Veronlamites landed and made a vain search for them.

  For the next three days, moving mostly by night, the three oddly matched people managed to stay clear of the Veronlamite searchers, hiding among the rocks and strange fern forests of the terrain. Sojan seemed to have an instinct for knowing when and where to hide.

  By the fourth morning it was evident that they had crossed the border and it was an easy matter to walk to the nearest Sengolian city and thence continue by airship to the capital, where the king gratefully took his daughter.

  “We of Sengol have always felt friendship to Hatnor,” he said, embracing the War King and the man who had become his closest friend and lieutenant, “but with this brave deed you have ensured our alliance will endure forever!”

  And on the airship home Nornos Kald echoed these sentiments when he clapped Sojan on the shoulder. “We were fated to meet, Sir Shieldbearer. Ah, what adventures we shall have together!”

  Chapter Eight

  Mission to Asno

  Motors purring, captains shouting orders, the rustle of the canvas gun-covers being drawn back, gay flags, flashing steel, flying cloaks of many hues; a Hatnorian war-fleet rose rapidly into the sky.

  On the deck of the flagship stood a tall, strong figure—that of Sojan, nicknamed “Shieldbearer,” second in command to the great War King of Hatnor himself—Nornos Kald.

  At his side was a long broadsword, upon his back his round shield; his right hand rested on the butt of his heavy air-pistol—an incredibly powerful weapon. Clad in a jerkin of sky-blue, a divided kilt of deep crimson and boots of dark leather, over his shoulders his jingling war-harness, he was the typical example of a Zylorian mercenary, whose love of bright garb was legendary.

  The great war-fleet was destined for Asno—a country far to the North of Hatnor where the king, so the spies told, was raising an army of mercenaries to attack Yundrot—a colony of the Hatnorian Empire.

  To stop a majorwar, Nornos Kald had decided to send a mighty fleet to crush the attack before it was started. Having other business, he had assigned Sojan to take his place. The War King was determined to make sure that no attack should take place against Yundrot, whose population was famous for its love of peace.

  Only too pleased at the chance to enjoy the pleasures of battle, Sojan had readily assented and was now on his way to Asno in the hope that a show of strength would stop any plans of invasion. For the first time, the entire fleet was under Sojan’s command.

  Soon the fleet was winging its way over Asno, a land of snow and ice, of fierce beasts, its great tracts of ice-fields uninhabited by any civilised beings.

  In another hour they would be over Boitil, the capital city.

  “Gunners, take your positions!” Sojan roared through cupped hands and picking up a megaphone—for there was no radio on Zylor—shouted the same orders, which went from ship to ship until every gunner was seated in his position, guns loaded and ready for firing.

  “Drop two hundred feet!” Sojan roared again to the steersman. These orders were repeated to the other captains, who in turn shouted them to their own steersmen.

  “Prepare hand weapons and fasten down loose fixtures, check gas-bag coverings, every man to position!” Sojan shouted when the ships had all dropped two hundred feet.

  “Slow speed!” The ships slowed into “second-speed.”

  In Zylorian naval terms there are five speeds: “Speed No. 1” is fastest possible, “Speed No. 2” is a fifth of this slower, and so on. When a commander gives the order to slow when travelling at Speed No. 1, the ship automatically adjusts to Speed No. 2; if going at No. 2 and told to slow, it changes to No. 3.

  Now they were over the outskirts of the city, dropping lower and lower until Sojan thought they would touch the very towers of Boitil, scanning the squares and flying-fields for signs of the army. Halfway over the city a message was passed to Sojan that a great army camp had been spotted—just on the outskirts of the city. At the same time someone yelled for him to look, and doing so he saw that a fleet almost as large as his own was rising from flying-fields all over the vast city. Somehow this fleet had been successfully hidden from Hatnor’s spies!

  Sojan cursed the enemy. Was this a deliberate trap? He had to assume the worst.

  “Prepare for battle!” he shouted.

  As one, the safety catches of the guns were pushed off.

  “Shoot as you will!” Sojan ordered.

  There was a muffled “pop” and the hiss of escaping air as the explosive shells of the Hatnorian craft were sent on their mission of destruction. Almost at once the enemy retaliated.

  Two Hatnorian ships, one only slightly damaged, the other a mass of roaring yellow-and-blue flame, dropped earthwards. The Hatnorians retaliated, sending bursts of deadly fire into the enemy fleet.

  Meanwhile, Sojan had sent a fast air-boat speeding back to Hatnor to warn of Asno’s treachery. They had hoped to avert war but had instead found themselves fighting for their lives!

  For twelve hours the great air-battle was fought, developing into ship-to-ship duels as the opposing sides became mixed. Bit by bit the battle moved Southwards until it was over the great ice wastes.

  Sojan was astonished by the considerable numbers of craft Asno had been able to assemble. They had obviously persuaded many of the privateer fleets to throw in their lot with Tremorn, Asno’s War King. This battle had been planned for a long time. No doubt rumours of an attack on Yundrot had been deliberately seeded to lure the fleet into this fight away from their own territory. The plan had been to destroy the Hatnorian fleet, leaving the nation vulnerable and unable to resist an attack.

  But expert handling of their craft, superior marksmanship and a slightly superior weight of numbers on the part of the Hatnorian fleet was slowly but surely weakening the Asnovians. Sojan, now with a gun mounted on the officer’s platform, was taking an active part in the battle. His uncanny ability to hit almost whatever he aimed at was taking great toll and keeping Hatnorian morale high. Everywhere now the enemy’s ships were hurtling earthwards, crashing in an inferno of flame, or merely bumping gently along the ground when a gas-bag was slightly punctured.

  At last, one by one, the privateers began to slip away from the field, leaving only the Asnovians to defend their capital. The other privateer ships, seeing their companions escape, disengaged and followed them. The individual hireling ships, manned mainly by mercenaries, flew in every direction but that of Asno, while the Asnovian craft turned and headed for their home base.

  In tight formation, under Sojan’s brilliant strategy, sped the Hatnorian fleet, following a close formation and turning to No. 1 speed. Any ship they overtook was ruthlessly shot down; but half a dozen or so were lucky and escaped them.

  In three hours they were back over Asno, leaving the city unharmed but bombing the troop emplacements with incendiaries until nothing remained of the great camp but smouldering fabric and twisted steel.

  Now, through the south gate of the city, streamed forth ragged bands of hired soldiers, bent on escaping while they could. The planned attack on a Hatnorian colony had not even begun. A just reprisal on Nornos Raid’s part. A reprisal carried out in full by Sojan. But his business was not finished and, landing on part of an undamaged airfield, Sojan ordered the frightened commanding officer to take him to King Tremorn of Asno.

  “I bring a message from my Emperor!” he cried when he was in the vast chamber which housed the king’s court. All around him stood frowning nobles and servants, anxious to hear Sojan’s terms. In contrast to all the great display of royal pomp around him, the War Captain seemed almost bizarre, wearing his simple mercenary clothing, his strange shield on his back. Great pi
llars supported the roof and brilliant tapestries hung from the ceiling. Murals on the walls depicted scenes of battles, on land, water and in the air, and the proud expressions of the painted figures offered another contrast to the reality of defeat in the audience chamber.

  “Speak your message,” ordered the king. “What are your terms? I admit that I am beaten!” Almost under his breath he added: “For the present!”

  “For all time, sire, while a member of the Nornos family sits on the throne of Hatnor!” Sojan replied. “Now, do you wish to hear my terms?”

  “Speak!” The king made aweary, defeated gesture, refusing to meet Sojan’s dear gaze.

  Toe first is that you acknowledge allegiance to Hatnor and pay a tribute of five hundred young men to train in our armies every tenth year. The second is that you disband any army you still have, save for policing your city. On signs of attack, you will notify the Empire, who will come to your aid.

  “As a member of the Empire you will be subject to all laws and trading terms of the Empire and in times of major war shall enlist two-thirds of your fighting strength in the armies of Hatnor and the remaining third if called upon. You will not make war-ships or weapons of war, save hand weapons, for your own use, but all existing warships and larger arms shall be sent direct to the capital. Do you recognise these terms?”

  The king paused and, turning to his major-domo, whispered a few words to him. The man nodded.

  “Yes, I recognise your terms.” He sighed.

  “Then sign your name and oath to this document and seal it with your royal seal. Upon the breaking of your word, the lapse shall be punished according to the magnitude.”

  Sojan handed the paper to a courtier who carried it to the king. The act of bowing to a king is unknown upon the planet Zylor; instead the subject places his right hand upon his heart to signify complete allegiance.

  So it was that Sojan achieved his purpose. But more adventures were yet to come before he could return to his palace at Hatnor.

  Chapter Nine

  Revolt in Hatnor

  Sojan, Sojan!” the call rang across the clear Zylorian sky as a small scout-ship veered towards the larger warship, the flagship of Sojan, second-in-command to the War King of Hatnor—Nornos Kald.

  “Who are you?” Sojan’s lieutenant roared through a megaphone.

  “I bring urgent tidings from the court of Nornos Kald—the land is in turmoil!”

  “Come alongside,” the lieutenant responded.

  As the scout-ship drew alongside, an armed man jumped from it and rushed up the ladder to the platform whereon Sojan stood.

  “Sojan! While the fleet has been at war, revolution has swept through the land. It was all part of the same plan. Nornos Kald has been deposed and a tyrant sits on the throne of Hatnor. There is a price upon your head and upon the heads of all whom you command.

  “Flee now, Sojan, while you have the chance. Trewin the Upstart controls the city and half the Empire. The other half is in a state of unrest, unsure whether to support one faction or another!”

  “I cannot flee while my War King rots in chains—tell me, who still cries ‘Loyalty to the Nornos family’ ?”

  “None, openly, Sojan. A few are suspected, but they are still powerful nobles and even Trewin dare not arrest them without cause.”

  Sojan’s face became grim and he clenched his hand upon his sword hilt. “Lun!” he cried. “Order the fleet to turn about and adjust to Speed 1!”

  A look of surprise crossed his lieutenant’s face. “We’re not running, Sojan?”

  “Do as I say!”

  “Turn about and adjust to Speed 1!” Lun shouted through his megaphone. At once the great fleet turned gracefully about and adjusted, speed by speed, until it was flying at maximum velocity. There were puzzled looks in the eyes of many of Sojan’s captains, but they obeyed his order.

  “Tell them to set a course for Poltoon,” he ordered Lun. Lun did so and soon every ship was heading South—to the steaming jungles and burning deserts of the Heat Lands.

  “Why do we sail for Poltoon, Sojan?” asked Lun.

  But Sojan’s only reply was, “You will see,” and he resumed his earnest conversation with the messenger who had brought him the news.

  On the third day they were sailing at No. 1 speed over a vast belt of jungle, seemingly impenetrable. But Sojan’s eyes, less atrophied by civilised living, caught what he had been looking for—a patch of green, lighter than the dark green which predominated.

  “STOP!” he roared. “Stop and hover—no one is to drop anchor.”

  The flying machines of the Zylorian nations are usually very similar to our airships. The gondola is supported by steel hawsers depending from the main gas-bag. The propeller is adjustable and can be slung either fore or aft of the ship—it is usually slung aft. They are steered by two methods, a rudder aft plus manipulation of the propeller. A normal-sized warship usually mounts five guns—two very powerful ones fore and aft, a smaller one on the captain’s platform and two mounted on a platform on top of the huge gas-hull. The gunners reach this platform by means of ladders from the deck to the platform. This position is extremely dangerous and if ever the gas-container is hit it is rare for a gas-bag gunner ever to escape.

  The ships stopped to hovering position as ordered and while they waited, Sojan had his ship drop downwards, nearer and nearer to the little patch of green which became a small clearing, just large enough to land one ship, but for a fleet of over fifty ships to land here was impossible. With a slight bump the ship dropped to the ground and the anchor was thrown into the soft grass. Sojan ordered that the gas-bags be deflated. They could always be inflated again as every ship carried a large supply of compressed gas-cylinders.

  Now the ship was only a third of the size and was dragged into the undergrowth which was not at all thick. Sojan told his crew of eight to get to work and chop down all the small growth but to leave the huge forest giants standing. This they did and very soon the clearing widened and as it did so a new ship dropped down until the fifty were all deflated and covering a large area of ground under the trees. The cabins made excellent living quarters so there was no difficulty about housing the men. Rations were also plentiful and a spring of fresh water was nearby.

  “I know this part of the country well,” Sojan told his men that night, “the inhabitants are for the most part friendly. While they are not civilised, they are not savages and I believe they will give us some help. But now we sleep and tomorrow we shall rouse the tribes!”

  Next morning, Sojan with a small party of his men set off for the village of his barbarian friends.

  The chief greeted him warmly and was interested in Sojan’s need for soldiers.

  “You know me and my people, Soyin,” he said, using the nearest Poltoonian equivalent of Sojan’s name. “We all love to fight—and if there’s a bit of loot thrown in, who’s to say ‘no’ ?”

  “Then I can depend on you?”

  “By all means—I shall form a council immediately and recruit as many of my fellow chiefs as possible. Between us we should muster a few thousand fighting men.”

  By Zylorian standards, where most nations are comparatively small to Earth nations, a thousand men is quite a large number.

  “Then have them ready by the third day, my friend,” Sojan replied. “Blood will stain the usurper’s robes before the month is gone.”

  Chapter Ten

  The Hordes Attack

  The day of the invasion was drawing nearer and Sojan began to work harder and harder in the training of his barbarian horde. The Poltoonians were enthusiastic, for they had been on good terms both with Hatnor and Sojan. Spies brought word that there was more and more unrest in the outlying provinces of Hatnor, whose peoples were seeing increasingly what the rule of Trewin the Upstart meant in day-to-day reality.

  “The time is ripe to strike,” Sojan told his captains and the wild chiefs. “We must invade now or our cause and our self-respect will be lost and we will
never again have the opportunity to win Hatnor back from the usurper and restore Nornos Kald to his rightful throne!”

  His airships, camouflaged by the mighty trees of the steaming Poltoonian jungle, were provisioned and ready to do battle. His captains were word-perfect in his plan of invasion. Everyone had his orders and knew how to carry them out.

  A day later a horde, consisting of thousands of mounted barbarians led by Sojan himself, moved towards the North—and Hatnor!

  Two days later, the faster-moving airships rose into the air like a swarm of hornets armed with incredibly powerful stings. As they passed the horde, the ships slowed to minimum speed and followed, flying low, just above them. In another day they would arrive at the boundaries of Hatnor—and the blood of all who opposed them would run in the gutters.

  Sojan was sure that very little innocent blood would flow as the army would be on his side. It was the criminal population, promised everything by Trewin, who had planned this revolution for years, egged on by a few evil nobles, who had risen and overthrown their elected War King while the bulk of his army was defeating those who had been persuaded to lead them into a trap in the outer province.

  There would always be unrest in any regime. Sojan knew this. But at present there was no cause for the people to grumble about their ruler. As so often happened, the unrest had been caused by a power-seeker intent on turning a nation into a blood-bath for his own selfish ends.

  Now in a few short weeks the once happy people groaned beneath the tyrant’s yoke, no man, woman or child able to count themselves safe from his oppression.

  Sojan was determined to get rid of the usurper and do everything in his power to free his friend and War King Nomos Kald. He looked back with pride from where he rode his myat at the head of the horde. They had not been hard to train, for they were magnificent fighters, but they had been harder to organise. Now they were ready.