Sojan the Swordsman ; Under the Warrior Sky

by Michael Moorcock

  The conflict had been going on interminably for many months, with the North Koreans and their Chinese allies neither giving nor expecting quarter, just as the Anglo-American forces remained implacably determined to win. On more than one occasion Sir John had been able to strike deep into the enemy’s territory and return with his entire squadron intact but, as the war continued and the fighting grew fiercer and fiercer, things grew increasingly desperate.

  The conflict had taken de Courcy and his squadron into a part of the battlefield seeded with land mines, an area of narrow gullies and low mountains, full of ruined buildings, torn up barbed wire, filthy mud and burned-out war machines. It had come on to rain and the mud had become so deep it was increasingly difficult to steer the Centurion tanks. Fearing for the safety of his crews and their machines, Sir John had decided that it was time to return to home base and broke radio silence to give a coded message to that effect. The driving rain had increased. What was worse, the mines were everywhere and his charts did not allow him to pinpoint their likely positions.

  The narrow canyon in which they found themselves was a natural trap. In spite of all intelligence reports, including those from the air, Sir John’s tanks found themselves under attack from a large number of enemy war machines and infantry armed with anti-tank weapons.

  Bombed from the air and bombarded from the ground the British tanks fought valiantly to extricate themselves from their position. Eventually, however, they ran out of ammunition and were reduced to just three Centurions as night came down. Sir John ordered his remaining vehicles to leave the field and return to base but they had lost radio contact with their headquarters and for the most part with each other and the last message he received from the nearest tank was that it was on fire and that the crew was having to abandon their machine. He ordered his own tank to go to the aid of the crew, his searchlights moving back and forth over the vast, desolate plain as they cautiously sought the stranded soldiers without wanting to pick them out for the enemy.

  At last Sir John caught sight of the guttering wreckage of the tank and nearby a few men sheltering in a shallow foxhole, their uniforms badly singed and one of them, the driver, evidently wounded. He ordered all lights and radio to be extinguished and, while the enemy sought them out, left the relative security of his Centurion to try to help the stranded crew to safety. Reaching their foxhole, he ordered them to board his own tank, helping the wounded man through the mud and filth of the battlefield. He had almost reached his vehicle when a squadron of MiG jets flew low overhead and from ground level enemy searchlights flooded the field with light, making him and the wounded man an easy target.

  “Come on, man,” murmured Sir John to the driver, “not much further to go!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the driver gritted, “but I’m all in! Nothing left, sir. Better go on without me, sir. I’ll just have to let the blighters capture me.”

  “Nonsense, man!” No de Courcy had ever abandoned one of his men and Sir John was determined to get the driver back to his own tank which had already turned, with its companion, and was waiting to pick them up. The problem was that his tank was overcrowded and moving very slowly through the rain-swept darkness. He and the soldier he had rescued were forced to climb onto the turret and hope for the best as they rumbled very slowly back towards base.

  Suddenly the ground became a thousand columns of spurting mud as the MiGs opened fire with rockets and machine guns. By some miracle nothing hit them and it seemed they would soon reach the relative safety of a low overhang, half-a-mile from where they were likely to pick up some covering fire from nearby American allies.

  Then, suddenly, just as they seemed to reach relative safety, Sir John’s tank hit a mine which sent it swerving to one side, rocking and lurching, knocking him clear of the turret, its wheels screaming as it reared into the muddy air, covering him with filth. He made a grab for the tank’s gun and missed it, and then he was rolling down towards the ground as a searchlight beam caught him in its glare, picking him out so that a low-flying MiG could get him in its sights and aim a stream of tracers at him. His body was on fire. He gritted his teeth against the pain and he was suddenly blind.

  Then the waves of agony faded slowly. He had the impression of sailing upwards, away from the battlefield, away from the filth and the horror, up, up into the dark velvet of the sky, through the white blaze of stars which merged one by one into a mingling of a thousand colours and he was sinking down again to a brilliant softness which embraced him like the body of a lover . . .

  Even as these sensations took him to themselves his mind became vague until he had almost forgotten his own name and had ceased to wonder at the strangeness of the smells and sights around him. What was his name? Sir John? Sar Jan? No! Now he remembered—it was So-jan. Sojan. The pain was fading. He wished he could remember where he had been. What was the nature of the conflict? Where was he now? Where were his men? What had he been doing? He screwed his eyes against the light which no longer flashed, no longer hurt him. He clambered slowly to his feet, wiping sweat from his face with his free hand. In his other hand there was an object both familiar and unfamiliar. He recognized it at last.

  A long, slender piece of slightly curved metal with a complicated guard around his hand.

  It was a sword.

  A sword such as his ancestors had borne into battle for over a thousand years! A saber? No, a vilthor.

  With a shrug, Sojan sheathed his sword and caught hold of the trailing rein of his mount which, happily, the men who had attacked him had not harmed. He was safe and so was his riding myat. It came back to him now. He was heading for a city to offer his services to its warlord. He had been attacked by a group of thieves who had given a reasonable account of themselves before he had killed them. Now he drew the beast to him and swung up into the saddle . . .

  Chapter One

  Sojan the Swordsman

  Amyat trotted peacefully across the broad, seemingly never-ending plain which made up the landscape as far as it was possible to see. No sound issued from the cloven hoofs, muffled by the moss-like substance which clothed the ground in a mantle of vivid colour—purple, green and yellow, with a trace of crimson or violet here and there. Nothing else grew upon that plain. It was a wilderness, barren and empty—the greatest desert on the planet of Zylor.

  A wandering warrior sat aside the myat’s broad back. At his steed’s side hung a shield, a virtually unknown accoutrement on Zylor, but the clan to which the rider belonged had perfected it as a valuable asset. The man’s name was Sojan and the beast upon which he rode was a big, sturdy animal. From both sides of its huge, tapering head grew long, sharp horns, curving outward. More like a reptile than a mammal, the myat’s head resembled a snake’s. Its tail was thick and it, too, tapered.

  Sojan was dressed in a bright blue jerkin reaching to his knees. His legs were bare. Tough boots of myat hide were upon his feet, reaching to about two inches from his knees. Over the jerkin was a leather harness of simple design. Two straps crossed his shoulders, coming to his waist. Attached to a broad belt were his weapons—a sword, a long, sharp dirk, and a holster containing his big, round-butted air-pistol. As he rode he recharged the pistol and fitted the ammunition into its chamber. The myat needed no guidance and its reins hung on its neck as Sojan saw to his weapon.

  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 a
ll 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 scrutinized 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 others’ 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 h
is 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 practice his battle skills while at night he rested, enjoying a deep sleep.