Sojan the Swordsman

by Michael Moorcock

  “At the moment it seems to be in the hands of your Poltoonian barbarians,” laughed 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 great 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. A young 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!”
r />   “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 away, 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 hoofs 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.

  For three hours he followed a trail which was easily found. Once or twice he thought he heard movements in the forest but, although he kept his hand ever ready on his sword, he was not attacked.

  Then, just as he turned the bend in the trail, they were there: the Uffjirian’s men, lined across the narrow path, swords drawn and pikes at the ready.

  But the mercenary was trained to quick thinking and at the same moment as his heels dug into the myat’s flanks, he drew sword, unhooked shield and brought his lance to bear as he thundered down upon his foes, his crimson cloak flying behind him like the vast wings of the sucha bat and a blood-curdling war-shout on his lips!

  Taken aback, they wavered, but at the Uffjirian’s yells behind them, pushed forward to meet the charging lancer. Down went one with a brilliantly tufted shaft protruding from his throat. The lance was wrenched out of the mercenary’s hands and his steed reared and snorted, flailing with its cloven hoofs. His face alight with battle-lust, he ducked beneath the guard of another man and dealt him a cut which put him down shrieking and calling to some unknown god in an agony of death. He whirled his steed about, hoping to gain a little ground by retreating, but it was too late, for he was surrounded by a solid ring of pikes and blue steel. He caught blow after blow on his shield and the flat of his sword. One man lunged upwards with his heavy pike and the myat snorted in pain before his deadly hoofs beat the pikeman down.

  Leaping from the wounded myat, the lone swordsman found himself surrounded by four of Parijh’s men. He bled from a dozen superficial cuts and still he fought with the skill and ferocity of a trained crinja cat. Then there was a gap in their ranks and he was through, rushing for a tethered myat twenty yards away.

  Howling like werewolves, they followed him across the glade and reached him just as he cut the tethering rope of the myat with his sword and leaped into the high saddle. They attempted to slash at his animal’s legs but a swift arc of blue steel drove them back. As he passed the body of the man whom he had first slain, he stopped and wrenched the lance from the corpse and then he was away, down the long trail in the direction Orfil had taken. All his would-be captors heard was a grim laugh which echoed through the tall trees of the forest.

  Turning in the saddle, the mercenary saw them run to their mounts and Parijh come from behind, scolding and cursing — for amongst other things, the fine beast the mercenary had taken had belonged to the Uffjirian!

  And it soon proved its worth for he easily outdistanced them and was again following Orfil’s tracks — a trail which was to lead to the weirdest adventure in his whole career.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Sea Wolves!

  TWO DAYS AFTER his fight with the Uffjirian’s men, the mercenary rode into the port of Minifjar in the country of Barj.

  There were several ships in the harbour: merchantmen mainly, but here and there rose the tall prows of warships.

  Although their aircraft are chemical-motor powered, the Zylorians have not found an engine capable of moving their ships, or for carrying them very far and, since steam or electricity are also unknown, they still rely on sails and oars for motive power, their atmosphere being differently constituted.

  Most of the ships were equipped with both sails and oars but two of them were built for sails only. From every one of them, long barrels poked from strategic ports, for it was only a suicidal madman who would sail anything but the calm waters of the Asnogi Channel and the Shortani Sea unarmed. There was one ship, a galley, which stood out from the others. Its tall prow rose triumphantly above the rest and its sails and paintwork were predominantly purple. Purple, like black on Earth, is the colour of death on Zylor, so it attracted much attention from the inhabitants of the small town.

  The mercenary sought out the only presentable inn and bought a meal and a bed for the night.

  As he lugged his equipment, wearily ascending the flight of narrow stairs, he looked up and caught a glimpse of a familiar face — that of Orfil of Rhan’s girl companion.

  Evidently she had been watching him. The warrior kept a wary hand on his sword and resolved to make sure that his door was firmly barred that night.

  But soon after he had dumped his belongings on the dirty bed, he heard the rattle of harness and, from his small window, he saw the spy and the girl leaving the walled entrance of the inn. They had none of their possessions with them which told the mercenary a great deal. They had gone for reinforcements.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed Sojan pondered what he should do.

  He had decided that it would be wiser to leave, when there came the sound of myats’ hoofs and a squad of Barjite Cavalry, fully armed with lances, swords, long rifles and pistols, clad in uniforms of blue, red and green with shining breastplates, helmets and leg greaves of bright steel, clattered to a halt outside the inn.

  “Thank Vit!” the mercenary murmured. For he recognised the captain of the mounted men as an old friend, who had fought beside him in an ex
pedition Barj had made when bandits had been raiding their caravans of merchandise.

  “Red!” he cried, opening the window. “Red, you son of a crinja cat!”

  Red, or as his men knew him, Captain Jeodvir, Vollitt’s son of Chathja, turned. Then, as he saw who called him, a wide grin took the place of his previously astonished expression and he passed a hand through the shock of hair which gave him his nickname.

  “Sojan! What’re you doing in this particular bit of Hell?”

  “And you? One of King Vixian’s crack lancers commanding a coastal patrol?”

  “The king doesn’t like me any more, Sojan,” laughed the warrior. “Not since I pressed for better pay for the cavalry and nearly started a civil war at the last council!”

  It was Sojan’s turn to laugh. “You couldn’t plead for better conditions for the underpaid infantry, I suppose?”

  “What? And have them get the idea that they’re up to cavalry standard!”

  The rivalry between infantry and mounted divisions in Barj was very real and at times became a threat to the internal peace of that nation. The brawls between the better trained cavalry (generally inheriting the right to become an officer) and the recruited infantry were cursed in every town from Erom to Ishtam-Zhem, the capital. But Sojan was not concerned with this, he had an ally now, no need to run, he could stay and fight like a man.

  “Looking for a fight, Red?” he said.

  “Dying to be killed, why?” enquired Red, using an expression which was currently popular among fighting men.

  “Because I have a feeling that we will be in one soon!”

  “Good, I’ll tell my men to be prepared.”

  “Thanks, I’ll need some help, I think.”

  “Unusual for you to admit that!”

  “Shut up, I’m coming down.”

  In the courtyard of the inn, Sojan told Red what he knew about Orfil and what had happened to him since he left the Court of Hatnor to search for his ruler’s son.

  And as he finished, Orfil and a band of some twenty mounted men in seamen’s clothes rode into the courtyard. The captain’s squad consisted of ten men. They were outnumbered almost two-to-one. The seamen had no lances but the cavalry had left their rifles, pistols and lances with their myats’ saddles and other equipment. Now they were armed only with long vilthors and small battle-axes.