It took Orfil less than a second to take stock of the situation and with a curse, he bore down upon the group, yelling a blasphemous battle-shout so full of evil that it made Sojan’s hair tingle. His men followed him. They were hardened sea-wolves. All of them by rights were fodder for the executioner’s axe. Scarred, wild-eyed men in exotic clothes of many hues and lands. Black, green, white and red. From every nation on Zylor, they bore weapons which were equally varied: battle-axes, maces, pikes, hooked swords and broadswords, vilthors and blades resembling scimitars. All were there, and many so strange they could not readily be identified as weapons.
Sojan blocked Orfil’s lance thrust with his own long sword and unslung his shield from his back in a hurry. But not soon enough, for Orfil’s lance stabbed again and flung the mercenary backward against a wall. Luckily, the lance-tip broke on Sojan’s breastplate and Orfil swore to his dark gods as he wheeled his steed about and attempted to cut at Sojan with his broadsword. But now Sojan stumbled to his feet again, back pressed to the wall, shield up and blade screaming as he cut past Orfil’s guard.
But Orfil was swept away as the fight eddied back and forth across the courtyard. There, a blue-green man of Poltoon went down with a lancer on top of him, stabbing again and again. Near him a huge red man, bearded, with one of his small horns broken and splintered, staggered towards his tethered steed spitting blood from a punctured lung — he never made the myat. A lancer was crushed by sheer weight of numbers as four howling, long-haired black men from Shortani bore him down and almost tore him to pieces.
Everywhere was chaos and Sojan hardly knew who it was he fought, there were so many of them. Finally he singled out another red giant who whirled a shrieking twin-bladed axe around his head and laughed through his black beard all the time. He bled from a flesh wound on his left arm and his face streamed blood from a superficial sword cut, but he never seemed to tire. Sojan caught a blow of the axe on his shield which dented it so much that it almost broke his arm. Discarding the shield he skipped nimbly away from the arc of bloodstained steel, ducked beneath it and ripped upwards with a thrust that caught the giant in the throat and threw him groaning to the cobbles before Sojan lost sight of him as a fresh wave of sea-spoilers pushed towards him.
The war-shout of his people was upon Sojan’s lips and it rose above the screams and curses of the men, spurred Red and his men on to greater feats of magnificent swordsmanship until the sailors were driven back. Slowly, very slowly, they gave ground and just as victory seemed in the hands of Sojan and his allies, from the courtyard walls dropped scores of well-armoured axemen.
It was impossible to defend themselves against this sudden onslaught and the last thing Sojan heard as an axe haft fell on his helmet and blackness followed blinding light was:
“Take them alive. They will suffer more tonight!”
Chapter Fourteen
Sojan at Sea!
SOJAN AWOKE WITH a piercing pain in his head which quickly disappeared. Looking about him, he found that he was lying on a comfortable couch in a well-furnished room which seemed to have an indefinable ‘something’ wrong with it.
Then he realised what it was. Every article of furniture was clamped to the floor and the windows were small square openings in the walls, just below eye-level.
He was in a ship’s cabin! Obviously one of the ships in the harbour. That was why the men who had attacked him had worn seafaring garb. Which ship though? He didn’t know. Doubtless he would find out soon enough. Could it be the purple ship of death which swayed at anchor in Minifjar Harbour? It was likely. This business was mysterious enough for anything.
He walked over to the porthole and looked out. No, the purple ship could be seen from there. Then what ship was this?
He went back to the couch after trying the door which he found locked as he had expected.
He waited an hour — a long hour — until the bar on the door was lifted with a creak and the door swung open.
To his surprise, he found himself staring into the face of Parijh, the Uffjirian who said:
“Welcome aboard the Sea Crinja, my friend!”
But the man who stood behind Parijh caught the adventurer’s attention most of all. It was his War King’s son, Nornos Rique of Hatnor!
“Shiltain!” swore Sojan when he saw him. “What —?”
“Explanation later, Sojan, we were lucky to rescue you. Right now you’re not very welcome. My fault, I suppose, for giving no hint that I would be going — but there was no time.”
“But how did I get out of Orfil’s hands?”
“It’s a long story — too long to relate here. Meanwhile, we sail for the Sea of Demons!”
“What?”
“We’re sailing dangerous waters, Sojan, for we play a dangerous game in which the whole planet is at stake. Do you want to come on deck?”
“Thanks.”
The three men climbed the long ladders to the poop deck. Nornos Rique shouted orders as sails were set and men moved to their oars. All the men were well-built fighting men.
Sojan looked back to where the huge purple galley swayed at anchor like a dead ship becalmed in the terrible weed jungle of the Black Ocean. She gave no signs of following and soon the sails were billowing, oars creaked in unison and they were on the open water, bound for the mysterious Sea of Demons.
Like all ships, there was continual movement aboard. Men scurrying up and down the rigging, guns oiled and cleaned, the shouts of the mate giving orders.
The ship comprised three decks. Two raised fore and aft and a middle deck which was little more than a raised platform over the oarsmen’s pits on port and starboard. In the centre of this deck there was another slightly raised platform measuring about thirty feet upon which was the single mast. At the base of this mast a drummer sat beating out a steady rhythm which was followed by the oars who took their timing from the drum.
On this platform, also, was the heavy artillery and something which Sojan had never seen before — harpoon guns, twelve of them, five aside and another two fore and aft.
It was obvious that peaceful trading with the tribes along the Shortani coast was not entirely the object of this particular voyage.
Suddenly, Sojan remembered his comrades.
“What happened to my friends?” he asked.
“They’re all aboard the Purple Arrow, that cursed ship of death you saw in Minifjar Harbour,” answered Rique. “You see, Sojan, we only had time to free you before we were discovered. My men and I swam across and boarded her silently last night. We finally found you and, judging by your snores, you were in a drugged sleep. There were four others with you but they were so much dead weight that we could only take you and secretly leave knives in their shirts with which to aid themselves if they have the chance. I’m sorry, Sojan, but it is too late to go back for them now even if it were practical.”
“You are right, of course, Rique,” answered Sojan, “but I would that I could help them!”
Now the tall Sea Crinja was in open waters, beyond sight of land. Bound for the terrible Sea of Demons where few ships ever sailed — and returned. And, in the days they sailed towards their destination, Sojan pieced together the ominous tale of the Old Ones and how the Priests of Rhan sought to conquer Zylor with their evil aid.
It seemed that word of the plot was brought to Uffjir first. This country lies due north of Rhan on the Shortani coast and is generally better informed about the Island of Mystery as it is sometimes called than is the rest of Zylor.
The Uffjirian monarch, King Ashniophil, had feared to make public the news as it would very likely force the Rhanian Priesthood into swifter action. Instead, he had sent a messenger to enlist Nornos Rique’s aid as, if the worst ever happened, Hatnor was the most powerful country on the whole planet. Nornos Rique, naturally, had not thought it wise to notify his father at once as he knew the other’s aptitude to make quick, but sometimes hasty decisions and this is what Uffjir was trying to prevent.
Unfortu
nately, at the time of the messenger’s coming, the Princess Sherlerna had been with Rique and had overheard everything. She threatened to betray Nornos Rique to the Rhanians unless he paid her a fabulous amount of money.
Knowing that even when she had the money, she would be dangerous, Rique decided to go into hiding. He had to kidnap the girl and ride for Rhan in an effort to come to terms with the rulers or, if this failed, destroy or capture their leaders and their strange unhuman allies.
After several detours, he finally reached Minifjar but not before the princess had escaped and fled to Orfil who had promptly ridden for Minifjar himself where a ship (one of the purple fleet of the Rhanian Theocracy — or Priest Rulers) awaited him in case just such an emergency as this should occur. The mercenary’s questions had aroused his interest when he had overheard them at the inn and he had taken Sojan prisoner. Only to be foiled by the Uffjirian messenger who was acting as rearguard for Nornos Rique.
The rest Sojan knew.
Now it was a race to get to Rhan first.
Chapter Fifteen
The Sea of Demons
IT WAS A race to get to Rhan first. The Purple Arrow would take the comparatively safe way there by sailing down the coast of Poltoon until quieter waves were reached (namely the Poltoonian Ocean) and back to Rhan via these waters.
The Crinja, however, would attempt to sail through the Demon Sea, cutting off a considerable part of the distance. They knew little of what they had to fight against. The Arrow did not know of their plan and was relying on the greater speed to catch the Crinja and either destroy her or beat her to Rhan and have her destroyed there. If the Crinja could reach Rhan first, she would have several days’ start and the fate of the world would be decided in those days. Why the Arrow had sailed later, they knew not, but guessed that they were waiting for someone.
It was a day’s sail until they would reach the Demon Sea and in that time, Sojan got to know his companions better.
Parijh, the Uffjirian, proved to be a humorous man. Cheerful in the face of every danger they had had to meet. When necessary, he was an excellent swordsman but preferred to keep out of what he called “unnecessary brawling”. This often gained him a reputation of cowardliness but, as he said, it was an asset rather than otherwise, for what better opponent is there than the one who underestimates you?
Sojan had to agree with this statement and a strong feeling of comradeship and mutual respect grew between them as they sailed ever nearer to the Sea of Demons.
Nornos Rique himself captained the Crinja. Rique was a tall man with a face that, though not handsome, had a dependable and rock-hard ruggedness and eyes of steel-grey.
The mate was, as is usual on Zylorian naval craft, either privateer or part of an authorised navy, a cavalry captain by the name of Andel of Riss who, although inclined to make independent decisions without consulting anyone first, was a good man in any kind of fight, and worth four of any one in the crew, who were all fine hands and who admired him and respected him as only seamen can respect a man. They would also prove this in a fight with man or the elements.
The custom of placing cavalry men as seconds in command of ships is not as strange as it seems and the custom evolved thus:
At one time in the not-so-ancient history of Zylor a strong rivalry developed between seamen and landsmen. It became so bad that if a war came, the land forces could never rely on the naval forces — and vice versa.
It was the idea of assigning landsmen to learn the ways of the sea and naval officers to get to know the cavalry and infantry that saved them from chaos, and nowadays the two forces worked together in perfect harmony.
Later, on the evening of the third day out of Minifjar they were sailing a sea which was similar to any other sea but which, according to the maps, was the feared Sea of Demons.
“We’d better anchor here and sail on at daybreak,” Nornos Rique decided, and he gave the order to drop anchor. The anchor chain rattled down for several minutes before stopping with a jarring clank.
“Water’s too deep, sir! Anchor won’t take!” yelled Andel.
“Then we daren’t drift. Ship oars and set sail on your course.”
“Yes, sir!”
Night fell bringing an atmosphere of decay and death which could almost be smelled or touched. But apart from this, nothing happened save a faint scraping from time to time along the side of the boat which was attributed to some heavy seaweed or a piece of driftwood.
The twin suns rose and the green dawn came, sending shadows and streamers of cloud scurrying over the horizon. The sea was green and shone like dark jade with some of jade’s intangible qualities.
Oars smashed into it, ploughing it in bright foam-flecked furrows, and the monotonous beat of the drum began.
Sojan and his comrades ate breakfast in an atmosphere of gloom.
“It’s this confounded sea!” suddenly roared Andel, rising from his chair and crashing his fist into his open palm. “Vit! By the time this voyage is over, there’ll be men’s lives lost and most likely we’ll all be on the bottom!”
“Calm down, Andel, we’ll deal with any danger when we get to it,” Nornos Rique said.
Andel grunted sullenly and subsided.
Two depressed hours followed until:
“Vit take us!”
This oath was followed by a piercing scream which tailed off into a choking gasp.
The four men rushed on deck. Most of the crew were at the starboard rail, staring downwards to where red foam was flecked with white.
“Turn back, sir, you must turn back!” One hysterical seaman turned from the rail and rushed towards Nornos Rique screaming.
“Calm down, and tell me what happened!”
Fear was in the man’s eyes. A terrible fear bordering on madness. He babbled out his tale.
“A — a thing, sir — it crept up on Mitesh and — oh, sir — it grabbed him by the throat and jumped overboard!”
“Is that all?”
“It’s enough, sir!” murmured another of the men.
“What did this ‘thing’ look like? Who saw it clearly?”
“I did, sir.”
It was the man who had commented a second before.
“Well?”
“It was a kind of green and brown. Scaly. By Vit, sir, it looked as a man might look if his mother had been a fish!”
“You mean this animal was — human?”
“Not human, sir. But it had a man’s body sure enough. And his face was pointed, like, sir. And his eyes — his eyes were green, like the rest of him, and seemed to rot you when he stared at you!”
“All right. Thank you. Take this man below and give him something to drink!”
“Yes sir. Do we turn back?”
“No! You all knew there was danger!”
“Danger, yes sir, but not from — from devils!”
“Get below — we sail on!”
Back in their cabin, Sojan spoke.
“I’ve heard old folktales, Rique, about occurrences such as this one. Now I know why the ancients called this the ‘Sea of Demons’.”
“Do you think they are organised in any way?”
“I’ve never heard of them being anything but in large numbers! If they’re intelligent they’ll almost certainly be organised in tribes of some kind.”
“Perhaps this was a warning, then?”
“I think it might have been.”
“We’d better set all guns in readiness. Those harpoons will come in useful. I had them mounted in case of meeting any of those large saurians that inhabit the Poltoonian Ocean. But it looks as if they’ll be needed for a different ‘game’ now!”
The ship’s oars began to creak again. But was the beat of the drum less sure? Were the oars a heartbeat slower? It seemed to the men standing on the poop deck that this was so.
Towards the middle of the day, the atmosphere of death grew and suddenly from the sea on four sides of the vessel the weird inhabitants of the Sea of Demons rose, squeali
ng and hissing. Once more they attempted to board.
But this time the sailors were ready and the guns sent forth a steady stream of deadly missiles, driving the shrieking horde into the sea.
“They went quickly enough!” yelled Andel jubilantly.
“Too quickly. They’ll be more wary next time and they’ll be back at night for sure!”
And night did fall and with it strange sounds which rose from the water and chilled the blood of the men on board.
But again this time the crew were prepared and their searchlights stabbed the gloom, picking out the grotesque inhabitants of the Sea of Demons.
The crew moved forward, their yells mingling with the strange hissing cries of the sea-people. Sabres flashed in the searchlight glare and the blood of seamen and the manlike monsters mingled on the deck, making it difficult to get a footing.
The ship was a contrast of glaring light and total blackness. Men leaped from shadow into blinding glare or disappeared into murky darkness. Men’s breath was steaming in the cold night air. Men’s battle-cries pierced the shadows where light failed. And Sojan and his companions were in the thick of it, their swords lashing this way and that at their unhuman adversaries. Sojan’s war-cry spurred on the men and slowly, then swiftly, they pushed them back and the body of the last monster to invade their ship crashed over the rail to splash into the murky waters below.
There was an audible sigh from the sweating men.
“We’ve pushed ’em back once, lads, and by Vit, we’ll push them back from here to Rhan if needs be!” cried Sojan. With the thrill of victory still in their hearts, their pulses tingling with conquest, the men’s voices rose in assent.
Sojan the Swordsman Page 7
