Sojan the Swordsman

by Michael Moorcock

  The victor stood and looked at the falling body for a few seconds, then he spun about to face a new menace. The remaining men were moving toward him. Knowing that he could never win against such odds he looked about for some way of escape; his eyes wandered to the canoes. In his mind was forming a wild plan.

  Quickly he untied the lowering rope, and pushed one of the dugouts over the cliff-edge. The creatures cried out and started into an awkward run. They were nearly upon him now. Picking up his late opponent’s axe he flung it into the oncoming faces, then dived from the cliff.

  Below he saw the sea swirling around black rocks, and being tossed about like a twig was the canoe.

  Down he plunged into the white foam, down still until his lungs cried out for air; slowly he rose to the surface — so slowly. It was with surprise that Dek felt life-giving air again surround his head.

  A few yards from him bobbed the canoe — he struck out for this and was soon climbing into its hollow bole. In this he found secured a crude paddle with which he sent the craft racing for the open sea.

  As he looked back towards those inhospitable shores which he had just, so hastily quitted, he wondered what other adventures would cross his path before he reached the Island of the Strange Ones.

  The Strange Ones

  (1957)

  AS THE ISLAND he had just fled dipped below the misty horizon, Dek of Noothar turned again toward the Place of the Strange Ones — the keepers of the Sword of Life.

  His own skiff having been wrecked, he was forced to make a halt at a nearby island so as to gather food and water with which to sustain himself over the long voyage which lay before him.

  The weather being calm, it took him but little over a week for him to reach his destination. Something rose within his throat on seeing the dark, forbidding coastline loom up ahead. The rocky shore was broken by the mouth of a small river shadowed by matted, overhanging branches, and into this he drove his craft. All about was silence, not a bird screeched, not a beast cried, only the splash of his paddle broke the deathlike silence. The river was thick with slime and rotting vegetation and he was compelled to move slowly to avoid the many decaying branches which dotted the green water. Oftimes Dek thought that he could see yellow spots of flame staring at him from the dark banks but he could never be sure.

  According to the many legends only a few miles now separated Dek of Noothar from the Place of the Strange Ones.

  Half an hour and he guessed that he had travelled two miles from the river’s mouth, so he pulled to the right bank. Heaving the canoe onto the marshy land, he looked about him. It was darker than ever for the sun had set, now only the moon lit the scene, Dek could see it through the tangled branches above.

  Now, leaving the canoe, he commenced the overland part of the journey. Not once was he molested during the time that he began the walk to the time that he collapsed, exhausted, upon a rock. He had had to cut his way through dense foliage and now his body ached under the torture that had been inflicted upon it.

  For a few minutes he rested, his body heaving, then he looked about him. He was on the edge of a large clearing, in the centre of which was a gigantic pile of rocks dotted with several small apertures. This, he knew, was the Place of the Strange Ones. He had reached his destination, now came the execution of his mission.

  Suddenly there swept over him a feeling of drowsiness. He tried to fight it and shook his head violently, but still there held him the feeling of peace and security. There filtered into his mind the sight of his gibbering father, then he lost consciousness.

  He awoke to the sound of human conversation. Slowly his eyes opened. He was lying on his back in a torchlit cave, and there, in front of him, were seated a number of men. They were talking excitedly, and from the frequent nodding toward himself, Dek gathered that he was the subject of that conversation. He saw that his sword had been removed and was resting against the rocky wall, not ten yards distant, but the men were almost directly between the weapon and himself.

  He had not been bound, to his surprise, and now he contemplated making a dash for the sword and escaping the place.

  The men were sitting with their backs toward Dek and they did not see him rise and creep toward his weapon. Now he was nearer the weapon, but could not lessen the remaining distance without certain discovery, therefore he decided to stake his hopes and life on surprise.

  With a savage cry, Dek flung himself forward, and in a second the men were on their feet with drawn swords, but Dek had accomplished his design, for he now stood ready, his own weapon grasped in his fist. “Valat!” cried one of the men, “You said he was still senseless.”

  “Ha, but he was wrong,” laughed Dek, “now tell me, is this the Place of the Strange Ones or a nest of robbers?”

  “‘The Strange Ones’, as you call them, are our masters, but who are you that dare to tread this forbidden soil?”

  “I am Dek of Noothar, and I search for the Sword of Life.”

  The men stepped forward at this statement, and at last Dek could see their features. Everyone of them had wide, staring eyes, and hair that stood at right angles to their heads. These were subjects of the Strange Ones’ cruel power, these were all maniacs.

  “You are — servants of the Strange Ones; but why have you brought me here?”

  The men smiled at each other.

  “We brought you here,” spoke one, “at the orders of our masters, we are to hold you here until they arrive and make you one of us.”

  A maniac, thought Dek, they intend to make me a maniac.

  The Nootharian swore there and then that he would die before becoming one of them.

  “I do not wish to be a servant, and I am leaving this place,” cried Dek, “or dying in it.”

  With that simple statement the solitary man sprang at the maniacs. So surprised were they at the courage of the intruder that they fell back before the onslaught.

  Dek ploughed through them, swinging his weapon to left and right, and two lay dead as he emerged from their midst. Knowing that to stand and fight would be futile, he took to his heels. Directly in front of him was the dark opening of a corridor which appeared to have been hewn from the solid rock and was very low and narrow, but it presented an avenue of escape and into it he plunged, holding his sword before him. A few paces and he turned a bend, from there on the corridor was lit by blazing torches. Tearing one of these from its bracket, he sped on. Behind he could hear footsteps and the heavy panting of men.

  Suddenly he burst into a chamber. Against its far wall was a dais, and upon this was his goal, a sword — The Sword of Life.

  In a semicircle around the dais were the ghostly forms of men, each wearing a hooded cloak, but for these Dek had but a glance, for with a glad cry he sprang forward towards the Sword.

  At the noise, the shrouded figures spun about. Suddenly Dek felt that strange feeling of drowsiness again, then he knew that which he had guessed, those which he faced were none other than the Strange Ones. Gritting his teeth against the powers which were directed at him, Dek sped on. The dark ranks opened before him and so left a clean avenue to the Sword. Springing up onto the dais, he wrenched the weapon from its fixtures. Immediately he touched the hilt, an invisible barrier seemed to have been created about him, no longer was he subject to the Strange Ones’ mystic powers.

  It was then that the servants ran, panting into the chamber, they stopped as soon as they saw their sacred emblem in the hands of the intruder, but the Strange Ones ran silently toward them, and with their strange powers forced them to advance upon the lone man. As the silent, cloaked figures melted from the hall, the men launched themselves at Dek.

  Dek met them with the Sword of Life which seemed to have taken command of his arm, he could scarcely see the weapon as it whirled before him, and he pitied those who were now facing it. Not five minutes after they had entered the chamber the men were all lying dead upon its floor with Dek standing over them staring at the bloody Sword.

  Shaking himself in
to alertness, Dek looked about him, not a soul was to be seen. He walked slowly from the chamber and into the corridor through which he had come.

  At last he found an exit from the terrible place, and he walked into the clearing from which he had first seen the Place of the Strange Ones. The sun was just rising and all about him he could see the servants running hither and thither with no certain destination; the power of their masters appeared to have been broken, and now they had none to think for them.

  “Hold,” shouted Dek, climbing onto a small boulder, ‘listen to me. Your masters are no more, I am your new leader. Do you understand? You will all now obey me.”

  Dek waited for the response of the wild horde.

  “We will follow, master,” cried one. He was followed by a chorus of agreements, and every man fell to one knee in supplication.

  Dek was satisfied, and with a cry of “Come”, he paced through them and into the jungle.

  The Nootharian with his fifty or so followers gained the river, where he was shown several large boats, which, at his instruction, were immediately manned. Dek, standing in the leading craft, steered the company clear of the many obstructions, and finally reached the open sea where he could again breathe the clean, sweet air of freedom.

  And so Dek of Noothar returned to his country, his quest completed. He had faced many terrible dangers but had served his people well. He had secured the Sword of Life…

  The Siege of Noothar

  (1958)

  “IT’S HOPELESS, DEK,” sighed Saroc, uncle to Dek, ruler of Noothar. “The Tarsorian legions surround the city and it is but time before our food supplies are exhausted. What is there to do but surrender to that tyrant Foona and trust to his mercy?”

  “No! By the gods, I’ll never surrender, ’twould be better to die of hunger than to agree to his terms. The people of Noothar, slaves! No. Never.”

  “What other alternative is there? You could never surrender Tarli, your sister, to that wretch as he asks, even if it would mean the deliverance of Noothar.”

  “No, the people wouldn’t let her go any more than I would.”

  Suddenly, there broke into the candlelit chamber a warrior, whose trappings denoted a high position in the Princess Tarli’s retinue.

  “What is it, Garl? Why, you look even more worried than I feel,” smiled Dek dryly.

  “Sir, I have good reason for worrying. The princess has disappeared.”

  The two men were on their feet, eyes wide.

  “Disappeared,” gasped Saroc, “where, man?”

  “Sir, a horse bearing a hooded rider was sighted leaving the city, a while ago.”

  “Gods!” cursed Dek. “Yes, she said she would sacrifice anything for Noothar, and this is what she meant. The little fool! Does she think that Foona will keep his word and retreat?”

  He thought for a minute, then snatching down his harness, which held the fabulous Sword of Life that he had rescued from the Place of the Strange Ones a year or so back, he barked a command to the warrior.

  “Have my horse and ten of my best men ready at the main gate in two minutes.”

  The man turned and sprinted from the room to do his ruler’s bidding.

  “What is your plan, my son?” queried Saroc.

  “My plan,” came the reply, “I have none, other than to rescue Tarli from that heathen cur.”

  Buckling on his weapons, Dek left the room and ran down the well-worn steps to the torchlit courtyard where his orders had been carried out. Ten bronze-skinned men sat astride ten black horses.

  Dek outlined his scant plan to the men who nodded approvingly. Then, with a clatter of hoofs on the flagging, the little party cantered through the gate.

  Dek knew the surrounding terrain by heart and he led his men through a narrow gully which completely hid them from the alien forces. He could have escaped the city at any time during the last week but he could never have deserted his people.

  The little group emerged from the gully behind the Tarsorian lines and looked over the ranks which encircled the beleaguered city.

  A yellow moon lit the scene and shone on silver helmets and sharp steel.

  Below the ridge on which the riders sat there was erected a large tent which stood behind the main line — the headquarters of the force. In the tent there probably rested Foona of Tarsor. Dek gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and cursed beneath his breath.

  He called his men about him and spoke in low tones.

  “From here I go alone. You will stay. If I need you I will sound my horn.”

  Saluting his men, he swung his mount towards the encampment and the two thousand men that constituted the Tarsorian legions.

  Having tethered his horse twenty yards away he moved cautiously forward until he was at the back of the tent. He heard the sounds of voices within but could not make out the words. Drawing his dagger from its sheath, he made a slit in the canvas large enough for him to look through and hear the conversation.

  The tent had two occupants. One of these was Foona. Although Dek had never seen the man before, he knew that it could be no other. Often he had been told about the cold, slanting eyes and cruel mouth surmounting a pointed beard.

  The other person was well known to Dek. It was Tarli, his sister. Tarli was speaking.

  “Are you saying that you will not call off the siege as you said if I was delivered to you?”

  “Exactly, my dear. However much I may have wanted to meet you, I wanted the riches which are within those walls even more.”

  Tarli loosed a stream of abuse at the man. She raised her hand to strike but he was too quick and a powerful hand gripped her wrist.

  Dek’s eyes widened in rage at this. He plunged his knife into the fabric and slashed a hole large enough to admit his body. At the noise the Tarsorian spun about to find himself facing a naked blade in the hand of the man whom he had imagined to be still within the marble walls of Noothar.

  With a cry of terror, he fled from the tent, shouting for his warriors.

  “Come,” said Dek, grasping his sister by the arm, “this is no place for you.”

  Once outside the tent, he loosened a horn from his trappings and sent three blasts towards the ridge. A few seconds later, the warriors of Noothar galloped up. Dek lifted Tarli onto the back of one of his captains’ horses as if she weighed nothing.

  “Take the princess back to Noothar,” he said. “I go to settle a score.”

  With that he sprang onto his own mount and galloped back towards the encampment.

  Looking through the foliage of a tree, he saw his quarry issuing hasty orders to a group of about twenty warriors. A minute later they spurred their horses onto the trail that the Nootharians had taken.

  Foona was alone. Dek smiled grimly as he slid from his mount. Brushing the leaves aside he stepped into the clearing.

  Foona stepped back a pace in surprise.

  “Your men have gone, sifla,” spat Dek, “and you are about to die.”

  “I think not, Nootharian, none has bested Foona with a sword.

  Dek advanced slowly, his weapon held at the ready. Foona drew his blade and stood his ground. For half a minute, the two master swordsmen circled each other cautiously, each looking for an opening. Foona straightened suddenly and swung a vicious cut at his opponent’s head. Dek parried skilfully and returned the cut.

  There ensued a battle of cautious, well thought-out moves, neither dared to take risks, for both respected the other’s skill.

  As the minutes rolled by, the fighting became slower on the part of Foona. Dek, being the stronger, hardly felt the exhaustion that was overcoming the other.

  Both, by this time, were covered in blood from the multitude of minor cuts that had been inflicted.

  It was after thirty minutes that Foona made the biggest and last mistake of his life. He decided that he could not hope to prevail using plain swordsmanship, so he resorted to one of those tricks for which he was famous. After a wicked thrust at his opponent’s body, he d
rew a knife from his harness with his left hand. Carefully he slipped it backwards until it rested in his palm. Then he flicked it forward straight for Dek’s chest. But the Nootharian had seen the other’s move and as it flew towards him, he swung his blade and struck it to the ground.

  With a bellow of rage and disappointment, Foona flung himself into one final assault. He sprang forward with upraised blade. As he brought it down with a force that would have split his opponent from head to chest had it hit him, Dek stepped to one side, then he lunged.

  Foona stopped in mid-stride. He straightened up, gave one choked cry and plummeted forward, three inches of cold steel protruding from his back.

  Dek leaned against a tree, gasping for several minutes, then he heard the sounds of the returning Tarsorian warriors. Weak from exhaustion and loss of blood, he stumbled forward to the corpse and jerked his blade from it. Replacing this in its scabbard, he staggered to where his horse stood, peacefully cropping the greenery in the soil. Painfully he pulled himself onto its back.

  At a command from its master, the animal cantered off, over the ridge, back to Noothar.

  The following day the force, which had previously surrounded the city, withdrew back to Tarsor, for the heart was gone out of the men. Only their late ruler’s promises and threats had made them embark upon the siege which none of them had wished for.

  Again the people of Noothar were free, thanks to the courage and sword-arm of Dek of Noothar…

  RENS KARTO OF BERSNOL

  (1958, with Richard W. Ellingsworth)

  “WHAT DO YOU make of this, Skortan?” asked the tall, dark-haired man of his centaurlike companion.

  “I dare not think,” answered the Chieftain of Darsik in almost a whisper, “unless we’re dead and we’re in Frejh, the Dark Land!”

  Rens Karto, Leader of the Hosts of Bersnol had been discussing a plan of campaign with his great friend and ally when suddenly, with no warning of any kind, they had found themselves on an alien planet under a strange, unfamiliar sun.