Return to Fanglith f-2

by John Dalmas

  I got up and stretched, noticing that most of the rowing soreness was gone. And I remembered that this was, would be, the day of reckoning. I went over to where I'd left my shortsword the night before and put it back on my belt.

  That's what I was doing when I heard the distant halloos. Walking to the south side of camp, I looked in the direction the calls had come from. Two Varangians, lookouts, were trotting from the direction of the notch. Apparently the Saracens were coming up the ravine.

  Arno was standing near; now he came over to me. "Gunnlag sent men down the ravine after you came back," he said. "They found two men dead and four men down, unable to move. Apparently you used a higher setting on them than you did on me that time."

  He was grinning. I didn't feel like grinning back. A Norman might feel cheerful on a morning like this, but I was no Norman. I recalled the time he referred to- our first meeting, in Provence, on the road from the Cenis Pass. That was the first time he'd tried to take my weapons from me.

  The Varangians didn't look glum either. They weren't saying much, but mostly they looked either cheerful or grim; a few looked thoughtful. Most had been mercenaries in the Byzantine army, and the others were probably veterans of battles in other places. I suppose all of them had been close to death at times. Besides that, from what Arno and Gunnlag had said, their whole culture was warlike. That would mean they'd almost have to feel different about danger and death than I was used to.

  "Do you still have power in your stunner?" Arno asked.

  I nodded. "Enough for a few more shots, I suppose."

  Smiling, he fondled the hilt of his sword. "That is one advantage of our weapons here," he said. "They last as long as you can wield them. Unless, of course, they break. And Saracen swords are too light to break Norman blades."

  The lookouts had reached the foot of the knob now, and slowed to a walk on its steep slope. At almost the same moment, the first few Saracens rode up through the notch.

  Over the next quarter hour, something more than two hundred appeared, maybe as many as two-fifty to three hundred. They trotted their horses easily in a rough column of twos toward us, and I wondered if they'd attack us right now instead of besieging us. When their lead riders reached the foot of the knob, they separated, half of them bypassing us on the knob's steep flanks to the ridge crest on its other side. This put half of them on the south end and half on the north. None stayed on our flanks, which were too steep to ride up, but the Saracens could attack from both ends if they wanted to.

  "What now?"! asked Arno.

  He shrugged. "They'll probably wait and let us get thirstier."

  I was already thirstier than I could ever remember being.

  "And maybe try to get the Varangians to use up their arrows," he went on. "But I doubt that will work. These Varangians are no Lombard peasants called to war, scarcely knowing a sword from a spade." He gave me a friendly clap on the shoulder; it was like being hit by a club. "You have never seen a battle like this will be," he told me. "Watch well, while you still live! Breathe deeply of it! Let the sounds fill your ears! And when you go to meet God, keep the memory of it; it may help to pass the time in heaven or hell."

  I'd settle for watching the Saracens from a distance. Their horses were noticeably more lightly built and graceful than the Norman destriers, and the Saracen knights were colorful in robes that covered whatever their armor might be.

  Then four of them rode partway up the knob, stopping out of bowshot. One, apparently their commander, rode another few feet and shouted to us in a language I'd never heard before. Apparently the Varangians didn't understand it; at least none of them shouted anything back. Then he tried another, which I thought might be Greek. And it seemed to be, because Gunnlag stepped up on a boulder and called back. The Varangians laughed. The Saracen commander, after staring for a moment, turned his horse and trotted back, followed by the other three.

  Arno questioned one of the Varangians, got an answer, and turned to me with another grin. "Gunnlag told him his father eats pork." I couldn't see why Gunnlag would say that, or why the Varangians had laughed. I'd eaten pork in Normandy, and it had seemed all right. In feet, I'd liked it. Arno, seeing that I didn't get it, explained.

  "To a Saracen, that is a terrible insult. Their religion holds that eating pork is a mortal sin."

  Frankly, to me it seemed stupid to insult someone who's getting ready to kill you. But maybe Gunnlag figured it wouldn't make any difference, and that he might as well enjoy what he could while he could.

  Arno asked some more questions. It turned out that the Saracen commander had offered surrender terms. If we surrendered, we wouldn't be killed. I suppose that anyone who wasn't ransomed would be sold into slavery. They didn't attack though. Not for hours. The morning wore on, and the afternoon, and I kept expecting it. I hardly noticed how hungry I was. The thirst was something else; it I noticed. A few times some Saracens rode near enough to shoot arrows into camp, and I was glad to have a shield. But that was it. The Varangians didn't even shoot back, They were waiting for the Saracens to get closer, I suppose.

  Judging by the sun, it was mid-afternoon when, signalled by trumpets, Saracens at both ends of the knob grouped to attack. Again trumpets blew, and horsemen formed ranks of ten. They blew again, and the ranks started toward us at a walk. There seemed like an awful lot of them. The Varangians nocked arrows. At about a hundred yards, the Saracens spurred their horses to a trot, and at about eighty yards, at Gunnlag's shout, the Varangians sent a flight of arrows at them, followed by another. A few horsemen and horses fell, some to be ridden over. The Saracens had spurred to a heavy, uphill gallop. The Varangians dropped their bows, drew swords and picked up shields, or raised two-handed battle-axes, then moved out together to meet the charging enemy. Several held huge swords that took two hands to use. I stayed where I was, leaving my shortsword in its scabbard, waiting with my shield on my left arm and my stunner in my right hand.

  The Saracens hit.

  It would have been a lot worse if they hadn't been riding uphill. As it was, they didn't have a lot of momentum, and the Varangian swords and axes cut down horses and men in a melee of violent motion and spraying blood, impacts and bellows. Brown dust billowed; men and horses screamed and fell. Three Saracens broke through, and I zapped each of them before he could wheel to hit the Varangians from behind. After brief minutes, maybe only one, the charge broke. A trumpet blared, and the Saracens in front of us wheeled and rode back down the slope. Some of the Varangians picked up bows and sent arrows after them.

  I turned. At the other end of camp the fight was over, too. Gradually, in the relative stillness, my eyes registered the shambles all around. Dead horses, dead men, bloody dirt. Quite a few of the bodies were Varangians, dead or dying, while some of those on their feet bled from slashes. Arno's hauberk was smeared with crimson, but apparently the blood wasn't his.

  He looked around until he saw me, then grinned in spite of his thirst. "I saw what you did," he called to me. His voice was hoarse and raspy. "Your 'holy amulet' is a valuable weapon."

  I looked at my stunner. The indicator was on red; at the most it was good for three more shots-one, at least. "It's almost used up," I told him.

  "In that case," he said, "I suggest you find a sword to your liking-something longer than that." He gestured at my shortsword.

  I wasn't sure how much good a sword would do me-any sword-but I hefted a few dropped by the dead. Most of them had blood on the hilts, but I made myself pick them up. The Varangian swords I tried felt heavier than I could handle properly. My arm was strong enough, but not my wrist and hand. The Saracen swords were lighter. I played with one of them, testing; this one I could handle easily.

  Then a hand gripped my shoulder, and I turned around. It was Gunnlag. He beckoned me to follow, then led me to the body of a fallen Varangian. Arno came along, curious. Gunnlag picked up the man's sword-one of the big, two-handed ones-and husked earnestly at me in dry-throated Norse.

  "He's te
lling you to use that one," Arno said. "For someone with little skill, the two-handed sword is better. It is for berserkers, or for those who are strong but inept."

  I didn't know what a berserker was, or whether I was strong enough to handle a weapon like that one. But inept fitted me pretty well, so I took it and tried a few practice swings. Big as I was by Fanglithan standards, and strong, it was too heavy for me to use effectively, even with two hands. Gunnlag saw that, and looked around at the bodies, then went to one of the largest. The sword he picked up was single-handed but big, with a hilt long enough that I had no trouble gripping it with both hands. I swung it high and then low, and then in figure eights.

  Gunnlag was grinning and nodding now, and said something to Arno. Other Varangians were looking on, most of them grinning too. "He says," Arno told me, "that he wishes you'd come to him earlier, when you were a boy, or even a year ago. He says you'd have made a fine Varangian."

  I nodded. Not that I was agreeing with him. I was just being courteous, and maybe appreciating the compliment. I wasn't the kind of warrior who would get kicks out of hacking people up. If I was any kind of warrior at all, it was the kind that just wanted to overthrow the Empire and then retire to something more peaceable.

  So far I hadn't been paying attention to what the Varangians were doing. Now I did. Some were bandaging the wounds of their buddies with pieces of Saracen robes. A few were killing the badly wounded of both sides, sticking them in the neck with their knives. I could understand that; otherwise they'd lie there and die slowly. But it was something I didn't ofier to help with.

  Something else the Varangians did was look for any water bags the dead Saracens might have carried. There weren't any; they'd probably left them behind on purpose. After that the Varangians started dragging dead horses to form a crescent-shaped barricade at each end of camp, a little below the brow of the knob. I went out and helped them. It was heavy work. Even as cool as the day was, and as dry as we were, I was soon sweating from it. After the dead horses were all in place, we sort of leveled it off on the uphill side with the dead humans, Saracens and Varangians both.

  When we'd finished, Gunnlag prayed over the dead at both ends of camp. Then we sat around and stood around, watching. I felt really bushed, and wondered if we had enough strength to fight oif another attack, even behind the barrier we'd built. There were plenty of Saracens left, but only fifty-three Varangians fit to fight. The Saracens didn't seem in any hurry.

  It felt like an hour or more that nothing happened. I wondered if the Saracens even planned to attack again. Maybe they'd just sit down there and wait for us to die or come to them. Then some of them made a big show of riding toward us to drink from their water bags, so some of the Varangians started cutting the heads off dead Saracens and throwing them down the hill. Every time they threw one, the rest would cheer, though not as loudly as they would have if their throats hadn't been so dry.

  If only Deneen would show up, I thought. Then I realized with a shock that I hadn't tried to call her since early the evening before! Of course she could be expected to call me-but I'd taken the remote out of my ear in the ravine! Fumbling it out of my belt pouch, I seated it in my ear again. Then I spoke into the communicator, my voice rasping over dry throat membranes.

  "Rebel Javelin, this is Larn," I said. "Rebel Javelin, this is Larn. Over."

  Nothing. How many days had it been? "Damn it, Deneen, I need you guys! We're in big trouble here! Tomorrow will be too late!"

  Her voice in my ear was the most welcome sound I'd ever heard in my life! "Larn! What's happening?"

  It's amazing how much calmer I got, right away. "We're somewhere in Sicily," I told her, "inland, in the mountains."

  Amo was staring at me, and I switched the sound from the remote to the hand unit so he could hear.

  "Arno and I and a bunch of Varangian warriors are on the top of a mountain, and a bunch of Saracen knights have us surrounded. We haven't had anything to drink since yesterday. They charged us once, and a lot of guys are already dead. And the rest of us will be pretty darned soon. Like maybe in an hour or maybe five minutes."

  "We're on our way," she snapped. "Keep talking, and I'll get a read on your location."

  "Right," I said. "We've got a great view from up here. Mountains all around. I can't see the sea, though; we're too far inland. The flies are starting to gather around the bodies. The Varangians have been throwing Saracen heads down the hill, and it looks as if the Saracens are getting ready to attack again."

  It must have been the head-throwing that got to them. They were forming ranks again, one behind the other, and I got the notion that this time they wouldn't quit. There were about ten in each rank, and I counted nine ranks at our end. I suppose the guys at the other end of camp were looking at the same sort of thing.

  I switched the receive switch back to remote, so I'd have my hands free to fight and still be able to hear.

  "Hold on!" I shouted to the Varangians. "The Angel Deneen is coming to help us! Hold on until she gets here!"

  The first Saracen rank was starting our way at a slow trot. Then the second. Then the third, the fourth… The Varangians were fitting arrows to their bowstrings. I hefted the heavy sword.

  It looked like a race, and I didn't see how Deneen could get there first.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  As we moved out onto the barricade to make our stand, Gunnlag grabbed me by the arm and shook his head, pointing back, snapping something in Norse. I gathered I was supposed to be a backup, along with several wounded men.

  But by standing on a rock and looking between Varangians, I could see the charge well enough from the brow of the hill, a few paces back. As the lead Saracens got closer to the barricade, they realized they couldn't ride over it, while riding uphill the way they'd had to, they wouldn't have nearly enough speed to jump it. So a little short of it. They swung down from their saddles and came at us with swords. One problem the Varangians had was standing up. Dead bodies, especially the barrel-like bodies of horses, aren't the best footing for a sword fight. But they had the advantage of elevation, and slashed at the Saracens clambering up at them. It was slaughter, and for a half minute or so I thought for sure we'd hold them, even as outnumbered as we were.

  But the Saracens weren't stupid. The sides of the knob were too steep for horses, so we hadn't extended the barricade very far around. Now, on foot, some of the rear ranks started around to flank us, and the handful of us in reserve-the wounded and myself-moved to keep them out, while a few of the men on top dropped back to help us.

  I can't describe what went on, because after that all I saw was what was close around me. We still had the advantage of position, but there were too few of us and too many of them. I didn't even think of finesse, of strike and parry. I didn't really think of anything at all. I just swung and slashed. Once, through the fog of desperation, I heard a voice howling like an animal, and realized it was me. And the howl was the Thargonian ghost tiger. Then more of the Saracens were on top with us, and more, and then…

  Then I heard screaming, and realized I was also hearing the thud! thud! thud! thud! of a heavy blaster. But there still were Saracens around us, striking with their swords. My blade half cleft a heavy shield, stuck there, and was jerked from my hands. Without even thinking, I snatched my stunner from my belt and fired, then fired again at another Saracen, and threw it at another when it failed on the third shot.

  Then Arno was beside me, striding into the melee. Varangians too, more of them now. Because, it turned out, the attacks on the barricades had melted back under blaster fire and the sight of the scout close overhead. The Saracens who'd reached the top were suddenly outnumbered.

  "Larn!" Deneen's voice spoke in my ear as I tugged my sword free of the Saracen shield.

  I straightened, ignoring her, the heavy sword in my hands, and looked around for more attackers. I wasn't about to be distracted when I needed my attention on staying alive. But I didn't, really. The Saracens were running now, b
ack down the side slope, several falling and rolling, unable to stop themselves. There weren't any left to strike.

  I blinked, shaking my head, becoming aware of things around me-other things besides Saracens. It was like coming out of some kind of bloody trance. Then I started counting. There seemed to be twenty-six Varangians left on their feet, most standing momentarily motionless, staring upward. I knew that some of them had to be wounded. I was spattered with blood myself, but as far as I knew, none of it was mine. You might not believe how much blood gets sprayed around in a fight like that.

  Gunnlag shouted a hoarse order, and we moved back to the barricade. There were a lot of dead Saracens there, but down the hill I could see a lot of live ones-a lot more than there were of us.

  And there was the scout, maybe two hundred feet overhead. I waved at it, then looked at Gunnlag. "The Angel Deneen," I told him, then crossed myself. Arno heard me, and repeated it loudly in Norse; I caught the name "Deneen" when he said it.

  A second later the loud-hailer boomed out with about a minute's worth of talk that was a total mystery to me. The language wasn't Evdashian or Standard, Norman or Provencal, or Greek. I didn't even know the voice.

  But it sure had the Saracens' attention. And when it was done, we saw them get on their horses and start rounding up the strays-the horses whose riders hadn't, or wouldn't, return. When they were done, they all left, riding along the ridge crest to the notch, where they turned off out of sight into the ravine.

  "Larn," said the voice in my ear, "I'm the one who's got a problem now." I'd never heard Deneen sound like that. Tired. More tired than I was. "I just checked the fuel system again. Using the weapons system, even less than a dozen bolts like that, has begun some pretty heavy fuel crystallization. I never imagined it would happen so fast.