Sojan the Swordsman

by Michael Moorcock

  Coolly Sojan fought while his opponent became more and more desperate. Slowly the warrior was forced back as Sojan’s relentless sword drove him nearer and nearer the wall.

  His madness gave him immense stamina and gradually he began to fight with more skill.

  “Heh, heh!” he cackled, “you will soon die man! Think not that you escaped death when you escaped the Cergii!”

  Sojan smiled a grim smile and said nothing.

  Suddenly the maddened warrior wrenched a spear from the wall and hurled it at Sojan. It plunked heavily into his left arm causing him to gasp with pain.

  Then his eyes hardened and the warrior read his fate in them.

  “You’ll die for that,” said Sojan calmly.

  Almost immediately the warrior went down before a blurring network of steel and sought a fresh incarnation with an inch of steel in his throat.

  Sojan returned to the main hall of the castle where his friends were finishing off the rest of the Cergii’s warriors.

  “Well,” he laughed cheerfully, “I must be off!”

  Jarg turned. He saw the wound inflicted by the madman’s spear.

  “You can’t ride in that state, Sojan!” he cried.

  “Oh, it will heal,” Sojan smiled. “It is only a superficial cut! But you have work to do, restoring your farms now that the Cergii are vanquished. I should like to stay — but this is an interesting continent with lots to see. If I hurry I might be able to see it all before I die!”

  With that he strode from the room, mounted his myat and cantered off, up the steep track which led him out of the valley of Norj. No doubt many more adventures lay ahead for Sojan, either in this incarnation or another.

  “There goes a brave and honourable man. What he promises he performs! What he cannot do he does not say he will do,” murmured Jarg as he watched him disappear over the hilltop. “Would that there were more like Sojan Shieldbearer.”

  And so he rode into the legends of Zylor, a man who lived according to that age-old code of honour which has ensured the peace and justice of all the planets Sojan’s ancestors settled: a man for whom death was no barrier and who would live for ever, ready to do battle with the forces of greed and tyranny wherever they occurred. Would he ever return to Hatnor and his friends there, to fight beside them, laugh with them and find further strange adventures in their company? That perhaps we shall never know, but we can be sure that Sojan — or one with Sojan’s brave soul — would find what it was he loved and be content if not on Zylor then on another of the many planets of our astonishingly varied galaxy.

  Together with various friends of my teenage years, I would write several other short stories set on the same planet or in the same universe as Sojan’s. These follow, with ‘The Strange Ones’ appearing in book form for the first time. I also wrote Harold Lamb-influenced historical stories for boys’ ‘annuals’ such as Searchlight: Adventure Stories for Boys and for Amalgamated Press papers in which Barry Bayley or myself were almost the sole text contributors by that time. We were both admirers of the old American pulps of every kind and this was reflected in our work. Tarzan Adventures was the nearest thing we’d ever had in England to a juvenile US pulp. Sadly, Tarzan Adventures did not last much longer after I had left and the editor who took over from me believed that fantasy stories and readers’ departments were “unwholesome” reading for boys, rejecting any further stories submitted to him in the fantasy genre and dropping most of the departments and other features. For a few years the nearest I would come to writing similar fiction would be short historical stories in Robin Hood Annual and other sister publications, as well as scripts for historical adventure strips like Karl the Viking and Olac the Gladiator. Slowly I made a transition from juvenile weeklies to adult monthlies until in 1960 I would be asked to create what is now the Elric series for the magazine Science Fantasy.

  Michael Moorcock

  KLAN THE SPOILER

  (1958)

  SCREAMING A BATTLE-CRY a blond giant, broadsword cutting an arc of steel before him, crashed through the window.

  Nizriff of Gulipht shrank back, cowering on his padded couch, terror in his eyes.

  “Where is she, you scum?” Klan roared. “By the gods, if you’ve harmed her —”

  “No, Klan, no — she’s safe enough, this I swear. She — she — lies in the lower dungeon of the castle, but she is well cared for, I promise you!”

  “Which castle, man? Am I to hunt in every castle on the planet?”

  “Urjohl of Civ — his castle, Klan. The one on the island of Civ. Urjohl’s own castle. Please, Klan, I know no more…”

  Klan ran up the long ladder onto the deck and bellowed orders through a megaphone.

  “Set a course for Civ!” he yelled. “We must get to Civ within a day!”

  “But that’s impossible, sir,” cried the mate.

  “Then make it possible, man. There’s more at stake than spoils in this voyage.”

  A day later found them nearing Civ and here Klan told the ship to anchor. Then, taking only a sword and knife, he slipped into a small skiff and rowed the remaining miles to disembark on an uninhabited part of the island.

  An hour’s walk found him within sight of the Castle of Civ, its harsh towers rising above the damp ground mist. Almost impregnable, it seemed a solid block of rock squatting on the low hills like some ancient armoured monster.

  How to enter was the thing which had been troubling Klan ever since he heard that Sherahl had been imprisoned here. These castles, though not very pleasant to look at, were so well built and guarded that few enemies, however ingenious, could gain entrance.

  Suddenly a low growl behind him caused Klan to wheel.

  A swamp cat, jaws wide, showing razor-sharp teeth, stood ready to spring.

  Instantly Klan reacted. Instead of leaping away, he jumped towards the great beast, his sword held in front of him like a spear. Straight into the beast’s mouth it slid, tearing into it like a ship into water.

  The hideous scream of the monster cat seemed to combine the ear-splitting shriek of a train whistle with the deafening roar of its engines.

  But it died, and Klan was safe for the moment. Then another thought — had the death-scream been heard by the castle? Obviously it had, for shouts reached his ears.

  “Is anyone down there?” called a voice. “What’s the trouble?”

  Klan hugged the walls of the castle and made no answer. Soon the castle gate opened a little and a wary column of armoured men crept from it, eyes staring into the gloom, seeing little but the swirling, ever-present mist.

  The last man in the column was the unlucky one. Strong arms reached out of the mist and hauled him down into the mud choking the breath from him until he lay unconscious on the swampy ground. Quickly, Klan bound and gagged him, stripped his uniform from him and donned it himself. Then he returned to the gate and banged on it until a panel was pulled back; he was inspected and finally let in.

  “What happened?” enquired the guard. “Is there an enemy out there?”

  “If there was, there isn’t now,” Klan answered truthfully. Even in the castle courtyard, the grey mist swirled so that the guard could not make out his features clearly.

  Striding to the steps leading up to the main part of the building, Klan ran up them and entered one of the dark corridors so typical of castles of this type.

  Risking everything he halted a female servant who was passing.

  “Hey, woman,” he muttered. “Where’s Urjohl now?”

  “Where he usually is at this hour,” she replied brusquely, “in the top room of the main tower!”

  Up the stairs to the top room. No time for subterfuge now, he must…

  “Stay where you are, my friend! If you move, you’ll be pitched into a bottomless well!”

  Klan looked up. There in the ceiling was a small trapdoor — and looking through it was the evil face of Urjohl of Civ. As Klan looked up, Urjohl recognised him.

  “Ah, my good friend Klan o
f Karahl calling upon me. I am very pleased to see you. Your sister is staying with us at present. No doubt you wish to join her? Well that can be arranged.” The gloating face disappeared from the trap as it closed but the voice added: “And I don’t advise you to move at all. If you attempt to shift your weight the paving stone upon which you stand will give way and you will be hurled down a shaft which, as far as we know, leads to — infinity.”

  Klan dare not risk moving. Urjohl might be bluffing but there was no way of testing apart from the obvious one.

  Soon he heard the tramp of feet on the stairway and a number of armoured guards surrounded him.

  The voice was heard again.

  “Right, you may all enter now.”

  Klan was pushed into a richly furnished room, one of the few splashes of colour in the dark castle. A huge fire reared in the grate and in one corner, her hands tied behind her but otherwise looking unharmed was:

  “Sherahl!” cried Klan. “What has the spawn of the swamps done to you?”

  “Nothing, Klan, apart from imprisoning me in a vile cell. He expects me to marry him — faugh! I’d rather marry a swamp cat, at least they have courage!”

  “Good for you, Sherahl,” laughed Klan.

  “Laugh now, Karahl,” hissed Urjohl. “You’ll be crying for mercy, both of you, when I’m done!”

  “You seem to forget that I have a fleet of ships lying offshore, Urjohl. They have only to wait another hour before they sail for Civ and destroy your castle utterly.”

  “You bluff, Klan, you have but one ship lying off Civ — and even now my own fleet goes to sink it. Your tortures will not be made bearable by hope, my friend!”

  “Then it’s only myself I can rely upon!” yelled the spoiler and leaped for the throat of the Civite, throwing him completely off balance. The guards rushed forward to save their master but by this time Klan’s sword was out and carving an arc of blue steel around him. A guard which few could break. Down went one of the three men, his throat cut by a savage slash. Urjohl remained where he lay, stark terror replacing the gloating look of triumph he had had a few moments ago. Sherahl was helpless, her hands tied. Back towards her, Klan edged, his sword licking out to deal wounds to his opponents. Drawing the knife from his sash he called to Sherahl to turn her hands towards him. Not daring to relax his guard he slashed once — and the bonds fell away. Sherahl snatched the knife and rushed towards Urjohl.

  “That for the discomfort you caused me!” she cried as the dagger sank deep into the villain’s heart.

  Klan quickly defeated his adversaries and sheathed his bloodstained sword.

  “We must hurry now to warn the ship of their danger!” he said to Sherahl. “Quickly, out of this room and down the stairs.”

  Down the stairs they ran and out into the courtyard.

  “Hey there, stop!”

  It was the guard.

  Klan cut him down with one sword stroke and carried on to the gate, Sherahl following. Picking her up, he fled into the squelching swamplands towards his skiff.

  At last he made it. Bundling his sister into the tiny boat, he unshipped the oars and put to sea with powerful strokes.

  He was only minutes ahead of the Civite fleet.

  As he and his sister were helped aboard he gave orders for the ship to turn about.

  “There’s a fleet of Civite ships on our tail,” he yelled. “They’ll be here at any moment!”

  Quickly the ship turned and sped for open waters, and a few moments later the enemy rounded the headland and, sighting her, went all out to catch up with the fleeing vessel.

  But the Pride of Karahl was no ordinary ship and Klan soon put a comfortable distance between their ship and those of the enemy.

  “Where do we sail now, Klan?” asked Risho, the mate, a tall black-bearded man and a kinsman of Klan’s.

  “Head for the edge of the world,” exclaimed Klan. “We’ll see what new spoils can be found where no civilised man has ever been!”

  (Written c. 1955)

  DEK OF NOOTHAR

  (with John Wisdom)

  The Sword of Life

  (1957)

  ANCIENT MARS BRED many legends, the greatest of which deals with the mystic Sword of Life. This Sword had the power to render a person immune to illness and old age as well as to improve the skill in fighting on the part of the holder.

  Dek of Noothar was the son of a man who had taken it upon himself to secure this fabled Sword and bring it back to civilisation where it could do countless deeds of mercy. His father had died after returning home in the form of a gibbering maniac, his mind having been killed by the terrible powers of hypnotic suggestion held by the Keepers of the Sword — The Strange Ones.

  Now Dek had sworn to own the Sword or die as had his father. He would take none with him upon the sea journey which would bring him to the Island of the Strange Ones.

  Strapping on his own sword, a weapon in the use of which he was highly skilled, Dek embarked upon the adventure which was to bring him close to death so many times.

  The one-man skiff in which he had chosen to make the journey was propelled by a single sail which could be raised or lowered at will. In the skiff were packed several small carcasses of roasted meat, bread and gourds of water. The latter he treasured above all else.

  And so Dek of Noothar sped out into the open sea on the course that his father had taken twenty years before.

  On the third day he met with a great sea-monster, fully twenty feet in length. It resembled a massive snake but had the gaping head of a crocodile which held a set of dangerously sharp teeth.

  Standing precariously in the small boat he slashed at the creature’s head with his light sword, but more often than not the incredibly agile thing darted away, then came back to snap at the man’s body. Several times had Dek come near to losing his balance and being precipitated into the surrounding sea, where he would be at the mercy of the marine creature. At last by a clever move, Dek caused the thing’s body to lay across the boat. With all his mighty strength the man brought his weapon down upon the slimy neck. The head rolled to the bottom of the skiff while the body, still writhing, slid back into the sea.

  Laughing in relief, Dek tossed the remains overboard. Suddenly his laughter ceased. He looked up at the sky. Great black clouds were beginning to form, this was what he had feared most — a storm was imminent.

  The sea grew calm until not a sound was to be heard. Then came a peal of thunder from above and the wind began to freshen, small droplets of rain began to fall; these grew in size as did the wind until the craft was seemingly in the middle of a boiling cauldron. The man clung to the slender mast and cursed the elements.

  The storm seemed to grow in fury during the next few hours, yet the skiff, being exceptionally light, was never caught under a wave and did not take much water.

  Dek, hugging the bottom of the boat, did not see the raging waves renting their fury against the rocky shores of an island ahead. The first hint of this danger that he received was when a black, jagged rock ploughed its way through the hull of the boat.

  Dek, seeing the situation at a glance, and knowing what damage the rocks could still do, dived overboard into the white-flecked surf. He was rushed along toward the dark shores with the speed of a torpedo. Soon, feeling rough sand brushing his chest, he jumped to his feet and ran for the safety of the land.

  He sheltered in one of the many caves which dotted the coastline, and slept there until morning. This, he knew, could not be his destination for he had been travelling for only three days and it took at least two weeks to reach the Strange Ones’ shores.

  It was late morning when he awoke, and he felt extremely hungry and thirsty. The only access to the island’s interior seemed to be over the cliffs which surrounded the side of the island upon which fate had thrown him. His own country being mountainous, he was quite as much at home scaling precipitous heights as he was walking a level surface. Therefore it was with ease that he climbed over the edge of the clif
f and stood about two hundred feet above the surging sea.

  He stood upon a plateau, the middle of which appeared to have been scooped out. He chose to walk around the edge of this plateau, and after a few miles he found that for which he sought. A small stream trickled over the edge of the cliffs and cascaded down into the surf beneath. With this also was a large group of trees which supplied him with fruit.

  While feasting from the abundant fruits he noticed to his surprise several dugout canoes; to each was attached a long fibre rope which, surmised Dek, was used for lowering the craft into the sea below.

  During his inspection of these canoes his attention was caught by the rustle of leaves at his rear. Spinning round he faced the origin of the noise. There confronted him a party of about twenty men. Their bodies were covered in a thin coat of hair and were covered, as was Dek, with a loincloth of fur. Each held a wicked-looking hatchet.

  Dek flung himself to the ground as one of these came flying towards him. It hissed past his ear.

  Convinced of their attitude toward him, Dek drew his knife. One of these creatures, motioning the rest to remain where they were, advanced upon the stranger with upraised axe.

  With a savage yell the beast charged, head down; like a snake the other sidestepped and avoided the collision. The creature wheeled about in a frenzy, again it charged but this time it was not tricked. The two thudded to the hard ground.

  Dek found his opponent unbelievably strong, and he knew that he could never win by brute strength alone, therefore he resorted to cunning and skill. Slowly his feet crept under the other’s stomach. The creature was now trying to use its teeth on Dek and the Nootharian’s mighty biceps were quivering under the straining body.

  Suddenly the beast became aware of the man’s intentions but it was too late. Dek’s leg muscles contracted and the creature was sent flying through the air to land with a thud upon the very edge of the cliff. Not losing such a chance, Dek lunged at the rising body. With a shrill scream it was toppled from the cliff and sent spinning into the raging waters beneath.