Sojan the Swordsman ; Under the Warrior Sky

by Michael Moorcock

  Not only men made up the barbarian army, their womenfolk rode beside them, armed with knife, sword, shield and spear. In their left hands they carried charm sticks to keep their men and themselves from harm. Most of these women were extremely beautiful and the armour they wore did not detract from their good looks in anyway, rather it enhanced them.

  No longer under cover of the trees, the horde moved chiefly at night. Sojan did not want Trewin to suspect anything until they were as close as possible to the Hatnorian border.

  At last they reached the outer boundaries of the Empire and found little opposition here. But Sojan did not relax. It would be later, when news of their invasion reached the city of Iklon, that the fighting would begin. Sojan was finding it difficult to keep the barbarians in order; they had decided that anyone was an enemy who was not fighting with them and they were confused by Sojan’s forbidding them to loot the settlements. But after a council meeting with the chiefs he was sure that they would be reliable, at least for a time.

  Two days later found them at the gates of Iklon. Gates which were securely locked and guarded.

  The barbarians were all for laying violent siege to the place, but Sojan realised that Iklon could hold out against such tactics for an eternity.

  “You are forgetting our ships,” he said, “we have the rest of the Hatnorian airforce under our control. The people of Iklon will not last as long as they hope!”

  A few hours later Sojan’s flagship sailed gracefully down for him and, with the pilot’s skilful manipulation of his gas canister, climbed up again when he was aboard. Then the flagship returned to where the rest of the fleet waited.

  Sojan raised his megaphone and called instructions to the nearest ships. Soon orders were shouted from ship to ship and the fleet set its engines in motion.

  A few hours later the flagship and a dozen or so of the larger battlecraft broke from the main fleet and dipped downwards towards the great city square. Aboard were hundreds of soldiers, the most reliable of the barbarian horde, and as soon as the ships reached the ground, not without some opposition, they swarmed out across the square to engage the rather frightened militia who barred their way.

  Next the streets surrounding the square were filled with wild cries. Strangely woven banners were raised against a background of flashing steel. The ships overhead could hear the muffled poppings of air-pistols and rifles. It was impossible to use the heavier artillery against the troops below and it became quickly obvious that they were not needed.

  Into the square the barbarians poured. Soon it was impossible to tell friend or foe as the fighting surged back and forth, spreading outwards into the streets, into the very houses themselves. Meanwhile more of Sojan’s troops were landing outside the city. Attacked from the inside as well as at their walls, the tyrant’s men were uncertain where to concentrate their forces and while they wavered, the barbarians took the opportunity to batter in one of the minor gateways and clamber over the inner wall.

  With a huge roar the Poltoonians burst into the city and met the halfhearted defences of Trewin’s men.

  The streets were slippery with blood, echoing with the ring of steel and the cries of the wounded.

  Sojan was in front, hewing and hacking with his great blade, his strange shield held before his face and upper body, his long hair streaming behind him and a grim smile upon his lips. “To the Palace, to the Palace,” he cried. “Take the Palace and the battle’s won!”

  But before they were forced to fight for the final prize, Iklon’s ruler, a mild-featured little man whom Trewin had forced to join him, came rushing down the steps of his residence screaming for the end of conflict, throwing himself to his knees and begging Sojan for his life.

  Much to the surprise of the barbarians, Sojan laughed and raised the little man up. “You broke your oath to your War King whose only crime against his people was to bring them peace! What should your punishment be?”

  “I—it—it’s for you to determine, great War Prince. I had no choice but to obey the Usurper. He holds my daughter in prison. It is how he made so many of the Empire’s nobles obey him. I do not ask you to spare my life but I beg you to save hers.”

  “If I save her, will you swear another oath, to follow the orders of Nornos Kald or, until he is free, to follow mine?”

  “I will great prince.”

  “You must also pay a tribute to my allies, the Poltoonian Horde. I will instruct them to cease from violence if you will agree.”

  “I do so agree!”

  “Then I will take what are left of your men and fleet and add it to my own. I will instruct the Horde to leave you in safety.”

  And so it was with each of the cities and nations Sojan reconquered. Like a tidal wave, the army surged over their enemies in the direction of Hatnor.

  So swiftly did armies and cities fall that it soon became apparent that Trewin the Usurper was holding most of his nobles to ransom in one way or another. By the time they reached the Empire’s capital, they received almost no resistance. Leading his men up the great steps of the Imperial Palace Sojan raised his sword in triumph. “Soon Nornos Kald will be free to take his place at the head of his War Council!” cried the mercenary-turned-Prince.

  His men cheered and surged forward. But the doors would not open to their thunderous knocking. Sojan ordered the battering rams brought up.

  Once—twice—thrice—the battering rams crashed against the ancient timbers. There was a cheer as the main door flew open, but the cheer was suddenly stifled. Sojan and his men drew back in horror.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Warrior’s Justice

  There stood Nornos Kald, their War King, worn and in rags, a filthy stubble on his face. And surrounding him, a body of Trewin’s personal guard. Behind them stood Trewin himself, stroking his blue-black beard. “Come another step closer, Sojan, and I’ll be forced to kill your precious War King!” he called.

  Sojan and his men were in a quandary, what were they to do? It was cheek, if not checkmate, for them.

  An idea sprang into Sojan’s mind.

  Aiming a pistol at Nornos Kald, he pulled the trigger. The Emperor fell to the ground with a moan and lay still.

  “There, dog, I’ve done your dirty work for you!” Sojan laughed.

  In a rage Trewin fired blindly at Sojan. The Swordsman flung himself to the ground and the bullet whistled by to catch one of his men in the shoulder.

  Lifting his own pistol, Sojan fired twice. Trewin, in the act of fleeing up the staircase, flung out his arms and toppled down the great stairway, blood trickling from his mouth. He landed with a thud at the feet of his guards.

  With a cry, Sojan, his sword glistening in the light of the torches suspended around the hall, charged for the astounded guards who, without thinking, threw down their weapons and fled.

  Nornos Kald picked himself up from the floor with Sojan’s help.

  “A clever move, Sojan,” he grinned, “but it took some clever shooting, too.” He examined the hole which Sojan’s bullet had made in his coat.

  “It was a minor risk, sir. If I had not taken it, the city would even now be in the hands of Trewin.”

  “At the moment it seems to be in the hands of your Poltoonian barbarians,” lulled the War Lord. “Let us go to the rescue of our fellow countrymen.” Peace had come once more to Hatnor.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Purple Galley

  To describe accurately the shining pageantry, the gorgeous fabrics, the colours, the varieties of people and the myriad flashing weapons in that great hall would be near-impossible. The gleaming white stones of the mighty chamber, hung with vivid tapestries of red, black, gold, yellow, orange, green and purple, reflected the equally scintillating colours of the uniforms and dresses of the men and women who stood before the throne of Nornos Kald, Chief Noble of the Empire and elected War King.

  But there was one uniform missing, one tall figure which should have been there was not, one sword did not flash in the gr
eat hall.

  And the faces of the nobles were sad—for the missing man was Nornos Rique, prince of Hatnor—the War King’s son.

  “My people,” said Nornos Kald, softly and very sadly, “my son has been missing for thirteen days now and still no news of him or the Princess Sherlerna. Has anyone anything to report—you, Sojan, have you found any traces of my son?”

  “No, sire, although I have searched the whole empire. We have agents everywhere attempting to glean news. If there were as much as a rumour it would help us but I can only conclude that your son is not in the Hatnorian Empire!”

  “Then we must seek him elsewhere. Find him, Sojan! Take the men you require—and return with my son! If it is possible then you are the man to discover where he is!”

  The sun was just setting when a weary and travel-stained rider guided his myat into the small collection of stone -and-wooden buildings which was the border town of Erom. He had ridden for days, stopping only to eat and gather a few hours’ sleep when he could no longer stay awake. His clothes were good and were mainly made of durable hide. His weapons nestled in well-oiled sheaths and scabbards, his shield was covered with canvas. It was easy to see that here was the typical soldier of fortune—a Zylorian mercenary.

  He dismounted at the small tavern and called through the door which was ajar.

  “Hey there! Is there a stable for my animal and a bed for me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” came a woman’s voice from the tavern and a girl of about eighteen appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Kerk!” she called. “Fetch a blanket for this gentleman’s myat and take him to the stables!”

  “This way, my lord,” said the battle-scarred veteran who came to do the woman’s bidding. “What’s trade like?” he added with a grin as they neared the wooden building which served as a stable for the beasts of the whole village.

  “Not too bad,” the mercenary smiled. “As long as men are men and their tempers are the same then I’ll never be out of a job. There was an uprising in Hatnor some months ago. That was a good scrap if ever there was one!”

  “Aye, I heard about it from another gentleman who came this way soon after it happened. Didn’t say much, though—most untalkative type if you ask me! He wasn’t a Hatnorian—nor a Northerner for that matter, that was easy to see!”

  “What do you mean?” The mercenary was obviously interested; more than casually so.

  “He was a Shortani man, you can’t mistake ’em.”

  “Shortani’s a big continent—did you hear him say what country in Shortani?”

  “Wait a minute. I believe he did say something.” The old man paused and tugged at his grizzled beard. He frowned, thinking hard. “Yes, I’ve got it—it was raining at the time. Like it does most of the time in these parts,” Kerk laughed—“Never seems to stop it don’t . . .”

  “Yes!” the mercenary was impatient. “But what did he say?”

  “What? Oh, yes. The country. Well, he said, when he got here, that it was “never like this in Uffjir,’ Yes, that was it.”

  “Uffjir, hmmm, that’s right on the farthest side of Shortani. And even then he may not have been returning there. It probably isn’t anything but it seems strange for an Uffjirian to travel so far from his tropical lands, especially in winter. What did he look like, this man?”

  “Oh! The usual type, you know. Small, a bit fat, wore one of them fancy jewelled swords which snaps as soon as you cross it with a good bit of Turani steel. Why, I remember when I was a young ’un—that would be a bit before your time. We didn’t have none of them newfangled flying machines in those days, I can tell you. We had to do all our travelling by myat—or more likely on our feet . . .”

  “Yes!” The mercenary was almost crying with impatience by this time. “But can you describe the Uffjirian?”

  “Well, he had a beard if that’s any good. And it was curled up a bit—looked as if he’d put oil on it. Wore fancy clothes, too, no good for travelling but expensive—yes, they were certainly expensive. He was a nobleman by the look of him—hired a whole crowd of the village men and they all went off together somewhere. They ain’t back yet.”

  “Have you any idea where they went?”

  “Only the direction. They went off in the opposite direction to the one from which you came. Mounted, too, and although they wouldn’t admit it, every one of them has a sword hidden in his blankets. They can’t fool me, I have to look after their myats!”

  The myat had been rubbed down and was in his stable by this time, attended by the two men, one an aged veteran with over a hundred years of fighting behind him and the other equally a veteran with not much more than twenty years behind him. They lived short lives on Zylor for most men died of a sword thrust by the time they were seventy or eighty. Their natural life-span of 120 years was rarely reached.

  That night, the mercenary sat in the corner of the tavern, drinking and cleaning his heavy pistol. There were two other visitors at the tavern. Ayoung man of seventeen years or so and his father. They were friendly men and found mutual interests with the mercenary in that they were both veterans of the Findian/Kintonian wars. The mercenary had fought for the Findians and the man—Orfil—had fought on the side of the Kintonians. But there was no bad feeling between the men for at that time Orfil had also been a mercenary. Now he was a merchant—dealing in precious jewels—and he and his son were travelling to the Aborgmingi, a small group of islands in the Shortani Sea. The mining of precious stones was unknown there, he said, and he found it worth his while to travel the distance over land and sea to sell them as they obtained prices which were over five times as much as those in Fria, his own country.

  “Ride with us,” he invited, “there is always a greater amount of safety if there is a greater amount of men and I would be glad of your company.”

  “I ride towards Shortani,” said Sojan, “but whether I shall for long depends on circumstances.”

  The merchant knew better than to ask what “circumstances” they were for privacy means life on Zylor and those who ask too many needless questions are liable to find themselves in an alleyway keeping close company with a knife!

  The three men retired to their respective rooms and the mercenary was glad to get some rest. Wearily he sank onto the not-so-soft bed and lay down to sleep.

  In the morning he awoke at his accustomed hour and attempted to rise. He could not, for his hands were bound. He was strapped to the bed and the only thing he could move was his head. Looking down at him with a smile on his face was—Orfil the merchant, and his son. Only his “son” had donned her skirts again and was an extremely pretty girl!

  “Well, my nosy soldier, you’ve put your nose into one game too many this time!” laughed Orfil. He seemed to be enjoying a great joke. The girl behind him was not so amused. Her whole bearing was tense and the hand that gripped the pistol at her side gleamed white at the knuckles.

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” continued the man, “my name is Orfil. I am the Captain of the Spies Guild in Rhan. This lady prefers to remain unknown, although where you’re going the gods will know it anyway!”

  “You’re going to kill me then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And am I permitted to enquire ‘why’ ?”

  “Certainly. I am afraid that I shall be forced to murder you—though I regret it, sir, for I like you. You see, you have been enquiring just a little too pointedly to be harmless. I suspect that you are more than a common mercenary—that perhaps you are in the pay of Uffjir. Should that be so, then it will be more of a pleasure to kill you!”

  “I am no Uffjirian, you oaf! And I am not involved in any intrigue. I seek my War Lord’s son who disappeared some time ago! Think not that I would sink so low as you!”

  The smile vanished from the Rhanian’s face and his right hand clenched on his long sword.

  “Then I am sorry! You see Nornos Rique is in this right up to his lance-tip!”

  And with that, he raised his sword. The girl turned awa
y, and just as Orfil was about to deal the death thrust, the door opened slowly and he saw the face of the Uffjirian nobleman. Behind him were half a dozen burly swordsmen.

  “Vit take you, Parijh!” cried the spy and then to the girl, “Quick, get behind me and open the window. I’ll hold them back. There are myats awaiting!”

  And with that he rushed upon the Uffjirian who for a moment was so taken aback that he could hardly defend himself from the furious attack of Orfil’s sword.

  “Quick men,” he yelled, “seize him, kill him, don’t let him escape!” But the narrow doorway would not permit more than one man to enter at a time and Orfil easily pushed Parijh back and swung the heavy bar into position as the door shut.

  “No time to slay you now,” he panted as he clambered over the window ledge, “perhaps some other time . . .”

  The girl had by this time scrambled from the window and was waiting with the myats. The soft thud of their hooves was drowned by the yells of the man from Uffjir and the surly answers of his companions.

  Silence fell as the men gave chase to Orfil and the girl. The mercenary still lay strapped to the bed. The door was barred from inside and he had begun to think that he would soon starve to death when someone knocked on the door.

  “Get me out of here!” he yelled.

  “Is there anything the matter, sir?”

  This was too much even for a hardened warrior. “Yes there is!” he roared. “And if you don’t let me out right now—I’ll tear the place down with my bare hands!” A rather vain boast considering his position.

  Murmurs at the door and the retracing of steps down the creaking staircase.

  He waited expectantly, hearing occasional voices. Then there were tramping feet on the stairway and in a few moments the door fell inwards, closely followed by two men with a battering log and behind them old Kerk.

  “I said there was something up!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

  It was a matter of minutes to untie the mercenary, for him to gather up his accoutrements, to pay Kerk and to find and saddle his myat. Then he was off, down the long forest track, following the trail of Orfil and his pursuers.