Sojan the Swordsman

by Michael Moorcock

  The mercenary’s hair was long and held by a fillet of leather. At the back of his large saddle were two substantial bags, secured by straps and thongs. A long, leather container of water followed the outlines of his saddle and behind this a thick, crimson cloak. All his worldly goods were carried with him. At the left-hand side of his saddle was an intricately decorated shield which had seen much use.

  Sojan himself was tall, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, with smooth muscles rippling beneath his jerkin. He was the perfect fighting man, keen-eyed and wary. From his youth he had been trained in the arts of war. His father, a War Prince of Katt in the far West, had raised Sojan, his brothers and his sisters, in all the arts valued on Zylor as well as the art of the shield, which the people of Katt were almost alone in using.

  But when famine came to Katt and the fields refused to bear food and the rain refused to fall, the War Prince sent his children abroad to fend for themselves, for he knew Katt was doomed, all her wealth gone on buying grain to feed the people. Some of these children became teachers of writing, reading and mathematics, but most earned their living by their swords and other weapons.

  Sojan had fought under the banners of many War Kings but only leaders who brought with them justice and law. Those were the qualities he had been taught were worth fighting for. He had become a hero in the West and been offered great rank and treasure, all of which he refused, preferring the simple life of the mercenary. Now he crossed the Great Zylorian Desert with one purpose in mind.

  “And,” he thought to himself, “no petty ruffians will distract me from my determination.”

  Behind him in the distance now lay the bodies of the thieves, their swords and valuables remaining with them, for no mercenary of Sojan’s kind deigned to take wealth from the dead. Soon he had all but forgotten the fight as he rode on, thinking what lay ahead under the blue-green sky of the planet.

  Chapter Two

  The War King

  TWO DAYS LATER Sojan caught a glimpse of something on the horizon, just as Zylor’s second sun was rising. The mercenary shielded his eyes, but decided he had witnessed some kind of minor hallucination.

  Then, suddenly, Sojan again saw a distant shape glittering and pale red in the distance and knew at once what it was. He had ridden for many weeks to find the marble walls of Vermlot, the capital city of the mighty warrior nation of Hatnor, the greatest of all Zylor’s warrior states. It had to be Vermlot.

  A rich city was Vermlot; rich not merely in treasure but in fighting men and weapons of war, in her battle-fleet, her beauty and her splendour.

  Sojan had seen only roughly drawn pictures of Vermlot, heard descriptions of her but never actually looked on her fabled towers and battlements, so as he drew closer to the city he found the breath drawn from his body by the extraordinary size and colours of the capital. Red-gold marble sparkled as the small sun set, casting long, black shadows across the plain, and the large sun rose, casting shorter shadows forming a lattice which almost obscured sight of the magnificent architecture. The towers within the walls were multicoloured, seeming to sway in a wind, the effect of the competing suns which Sojan was entirely used to. The closer he got the more solid the city seemed to become until, by the time he reached the gates, Vermlot rose high above him, her walls tiered and set with dozens of openings from which defenders could aim their weapons.

  The great Yeste Gate of Vermlot was a sea of silken banners, with guards on every tier above, making Sojan gasp so that he was almost unable to answer the challenge of the armoured guards who looked down at him, bidding him to halt and state his business.

  “I am Sojan of Katt, called Sojan Shieldbearer, and I come in peace. As for my business, it is to offer my battle-skills, my sword, my loyalty and my life in service of His Majesty the great War King of Hatnor.”

  “And your trade, if not the obvious one?”

  “I am an honourable mercenary, pledged to serve an honourable master. My only possessions are the clothes I wear, the beast I ride and the weapons I carry. I have ridden half a world to offer my services to your great War King, whose courage, wisdom and moral uprightness are known even as far away as distant Katt.”

  There was a pause as the guards scrutinised him and conferred briefly amongst themselves, then the massive platinum-bound gates opened wide enough to admit him and Sojan rode into the busy wonder of the city, gasping at the vast variety of everything he saw. There were merchants of every sort shouting their wares, people dressed in every manner of styles and colours. There were beautiful women looking down from galleries and balconies, proud warriors swaggering with hands on sword hilts, drovers leading dray-myats who drew great carts piled high with the produce of distant farms. Nobles, commoners and slaves from every part of the great Hatnorian Empire.

  Sojan had never seen such richness and variety and dismounted to ask the way to a decent inn where he might rest and find refreshment. As he walked the great boulevards and twisting streets of Vermlot his strange protective weapon, the shield his father had given him, aroused much interest, most of it polite but, as he neared his destination, one braggardly warrior chose to step in his path and mock him, apparently challenging him.

  Sojan was surprised by the warrior. He was unused to such rudeness once within the walls of a friendly city. He tried to pass on, but the warrior continued to block his path, pointing at his shield and guffawing. The man had obviously overheard the exchange between Sojan and the guards.

  “Oh,” he bellowed, “what a brave mercenary he is indeed! He has travelled half a world to give us his protection, for, with his great piece of metal in front of him, which he can hide behind, he will be able to withstand all Hatnor’s enemies! Perhaps he cannot fight without it? That’s so, is it not, Sir Mercenary?”

  This was clearly a challenge. Weary as he was from his long ride, Sojan drew himself up. At which the other, watched by a curious crowd, climbed a few steps and stood leaning on a pillar, looking down at him now from a balcony. His bearded face bore an unpleasant sneer. “Eh, mercenary? Is that not the truth?”

  Sojan looked up to meet the other’s greenish eyes. The mercenary spoke grimly and quietly but his tone was cold and his words were acid.

  “I do not like your attitude,” he said. “And I like your words less. I am a guest in this city and would expect the politeness normally offered a guest, but if you would fight me, then I suppose I must accommodate you. Draw your sword — if you know how to use it! And defend yourself! Perhaps it is you who will be cowering behind this shield before I have finished with you!”

  The warrior stiffened and his face flushed: he put one hand on the balcony rail and vaulted into the street below, drawing his long vilthor as he did so. Sojan unslung his round shield and drew his own long blade.

  The warrior struck first, aiming a wicked slash at Sojan’s legs, but the mercenary jumped high in the air, using his shield to block the blow. The warrior thrust this time and again the shield met his sword. Another thrust, similarly parried. Another. And still Sojan blocked him, without once making use of his own sword. As they fought back and forth along the narrow street, a thin smile appeared on Sojan’s features. The warrior lunged, lunged again. And Sojan sheathed his own vilthor now, using only the shield to parry the warrior’s thrusts while carrying the attack with his weapon’s rim. The warrior looked astonished and his sword-thrusts became increasingly vicious and wild. Yet still not once had Sojan resorted to his own vilthor, making the warrior look ridiculous to the watching crowd who were now laughing and applauding, clearly on the mercenary’s side.

  Sojan paused. His adversary saw his chance and slashed at the mercenary’s exposed limb. Sojan dodged with an almost dancing agility and brought his shield down with a bang on the warrior’s head, stunning him. Still the warrior came on, however, and there was a dull thud as his sword connected with the shield’s boss. At this, Sojan stepped back, slung his shield onto his saddle and drew his sword, taking the attack to his opponent.

 
; The Vermlotian slowly lost ground until with an almost contemptuous flick of the wrist Sojan disarmed him.

  Then, from a second-storey window a figure dropped, first to the balcony of the first storey and from there to the ground. The figure removed his cloak with a flourish and with an echoing smile on his handsome face came forward with drawn sword.

  “I fancy you’ll not take my blade from me so easily, Sir Mercenary!”

  This time Sojan had found an opponent he could, indeed, not readily defeat. The man was as quick as the proverbial cobra. His sword wove an invisible circle around Sojan’s guard. Sojan accounted well for himself but not once could he find a chance to reach his shield. The newcomer had him at his mercy! Before he knew it the mercenary’s sword flew from his hand to land ten feet away and he was defenceless!

  “Yield?” questioned the victor.

  “I yield,” answered the mercenary. “You are a great swordsman, sir! To whom have I the pleasure of admitting defeat?”

  “Perhaps you have heard of me,” smiled the other, sheathing his vilthor. “My name is Nornos Kald and I am the elected War King of Hatnor.”

  “Sir,” declared Sojan with a deep bow, “I, who came to enlist in your service and offer aid to your cause, begin by fighting you. I crave your forgiveness.”

  Nornos Kald laughed easily. “Never mind, Sojan Shieldbearer. You did very well against my warrior here. To best him as you did is a test indeed and I feel that I would do well to enlist your services.” He signed to a servant who waited in a doorway. “Come, you will be my guest until I have need of a mercenary.”

  And with that the War King of Hatnor, who, except on state occasions, lived the life of an ordinary noble until such time as Hatnor was in a position of conflict, clapped his arm around Sojan’s shoulder and smiled. “Here,” he told the servant, “Oumlat! Take Sojan to one of the best guest rooms and see that he is well looked after.”

  Dazed by this sudden turn of fortune, the mercenary allowed himself to be led away into the palace of Nornos Kald.

  Chapter Three

  The Air Pirates

  FOR A ZYLORIAN week or so Sojan enjoyed the privileges of a favoured guest. He enjoyed the best food and wine and was tended by servants who answered his every wish. He accepted this hospitality with good grace, using the days in which to relax and to practise his battle-skills while at night he rested, enjoying a deep sleep.

  Then, just as he was finishing his breakfast, a warrior arrived to tell him that Nornos Kald wished to see him. Immediately, Sojan rose and followed the man to the War King’s apartments.

  “I summoned you, Sojan,” Nornos Kald said, when they were alone, “because you are to accompany me on a journey. Our mission is to take Il-that, Princess of Sengol, back to her father’s country. I desire to bring Sengol into the Hatnorian alliance without bloodshed if possible and the king would think well of it if his daughter was personally escorted home by the War King himself. You had better prepare your weapons and be ready to move from your quarters by dawn tomorrow.”

  This news delighted Sojan. He had become bored while he awaited his War King’s orders.

  The great Royal Airship was escorted by ten aerial cruisers, heavily armed with Hatnorian air-guns which worked on the simple principle of compressed air, with a range of over half a mile. They were ready to take to the air early the next morning. The ships rose majestically, hovered for a few moments, and then, with motors purring, the great dirigibles veered off towards Sengol which lay far to the north.

  Within three or four hours they had crossed the outermost boundary of Hatnor and her satellites and were winging their way at a steady eighty miles an hour over Veronlam, a country which owed no allegiance to Hatnor and which, although fearing the mighty Empire, was constantly stirring up petty strife between the minor Hatnorian nations. They had nearly reached the border of Veronlam when the soft purr of motors was heard and a shell whistled past them and exploded in their rear air container.

  “Veronlam pirates!” yelled the fore-gunner.

  Quickly the small fleet formed a protective barrier about the Royal ship. One airship was hit a dozen times in as many different places and hurtled downwards, flames roaring from the gasbag and the crew jumping overboard rather than die in the flames.

  Nornos Kald realised at once that to fight against so many would soon end in disaster for his fleet, and he ordered them to turn about and flee back to Hatnor. He decided to rely upon his speedier engines to aid them rather than their powerful guns.

  The Hatnorian fleet circled and fled. Nornos Kald was the last to leave the battle and hastily turned about to follow his ships. But alas, it was too late, for three well-aimed shots in their main tank sent them spiralling slowly to earth to land with a sickening crash amidst a tangle of red-hot girders and flaming fabric. Being on the platform of the ship Nornos Kald, Sojan and Il-that were flung clear of the main wreckage, to lie stunned, almost as if in death.

  Chapter Four

  A Grim Welcome

  SOJAN DID NOT know how long it was he lay amidst the wreckage of the Royal Airship, but when he awoke it was dawn. He knew that none could have escaped if they had been trapped in the wreckage but nevertheless he spent a fruitless two hours searching for his companions — all he found were two or three charred corpses but none lived. Convinced that his companions were dead he took the only unbroken water bottle and set off in the direction of Hatnor.

  After some hours of steady walking, Sojan’s eye caught the gleam of white stone far to the south of his position. With a sigh of relief he began to walk quickly towards the gleam which grew soon into a patch and from that into a city, its walls towering fifty feet in places. Realising that he was still probably in Veronlam he knew that it would be useless to try to gain admission on the strength of his allegiance to Nornos Kald the War King.

  Stripping himself of his Hatnorian Navy-Cloak and also his Navy-type gauntlets Sojan stood dressed as when he had first entered Hatnor, as a mercenary swordsman.

  He easily gained admittance to the city of Quentos as mercenaries were always welcome to swell the ranks of any army.

  “By Mimuk, friend, you’re the third foreigner to pass through these gates today,” the guard said, as Sojan was allowed to enter the city.

  “The third. That’s strange, is it not, guard?” replied Sojan. “Three strangers in one day! Mimuk, you must be joking!”

  “I joke not, friend mercenary, remarkable as it seems two others have preceded you and one of them was a woman. Our warriors found them near the wreck of an airship. Some say the ones we captured were Nornos Kald himself and Il-that, daughter of Hugor of Sengol. Two prizes for good ransom indeed if it be the truth.”

  Sojan strode off in the direction indicated by the friendly guard.

  Arriving at the tavern he hired a room and ordered himself a meal. Finishing his repast, he was horrified to find that the only money he had was that of Hatnor. If he tried to pass this he knew that the suspicions of the keeper of the tavern would be instantly aroused. What should he do? He had brought nothing with him to the tavern save his sword, shield and poignard and the clothes he wore. He reasoned that the only chance he stood was to try to slip quietly out of the door before the proprietor spotted him and ordered him to pay his bill.

  As soon as the place seemed reasonably busy Sojan rose and slipped quietly towards the door.

  Just as he thought he had reached the safety of the street a hand fell on his shoulder and the leering face of the landlord was brought close to his.

  “Going so soon, my hireling blade? Methinks you would like to stay and sample some more of our victuals before you make your — er — hasty departure,” he said with ponderous sarcasm. “Now pay up or my men’ll make sure you pay for your meal — in blood!”

  “You threaten me, by Mimuk!” cried Sojan, his easily roused temper getting the better of him. “You dare threaten me! Draw your weapon!”

  “Hey, Tytho, Zatthum, Wanrim — come and save me f
rom this murdering bilker!” cried the keeper of the tavern in mock terror.

  Instantly three ruffians appeared in the narrow doorway and, drawing their blades, rushed at Sojan, causing him to release his grasp upon the unfortunate man and turn to face this new danger.

  Zatthum went down in the first minute with an inch of steel marking its path through his heart. The remaining two were not so easily defeated. Back and forth across the narrow street the three fought, sparks flying from their blades, the clang of their weapons echoing amongst the rooftops.

  Sojan was marked in a dozen places, but his adversaries were bleeding in as many as he was. With a quick thrust, a parry and another thrust the mercenary succeeded in dispatching the second man. Now only Tytho was left. Sojan allowed himself to be headed off and the man edged him completely round so that they were now retracing their path. With a mighty effort Sojan, who was still tired after his narrow escape from the airship, gathered his remaining strength together and made a vicious lunge in Tytho’s direction.

  Tytho cried out in pain when Sojan’s blade found the muscle of his left arm, but did not relax his grip upon his own sword. Again Sojan was forced further back towards the gaping crowd which had collected outside the tavern. His shield saved him from the thrust designed to end the fight but he knew he could not last longer for he was rapidly tiring. Suddenly his foot caught in the trappings of one of the dead men’s harnesses and he fell backwards across the corpse. A grim smile graced Tytho’s face as he raised his sword to deliver the final thrust.

  Chapter Five

  Sentenced to Die

  KILL HIM, TYTHO, kill him!” the crowd roared in frenzied bloodlust.