Return to Fanglith f-2

by John Dalmas

  "Now here's what I'm going to do. I'll put Tarel and Moise down with you, each with a blast rifle, pistol, and stunner. And one of each for you. Then I'll get to the island again as quickly as I can, and shut down for a few days. We can not afford to get ourselves stranded."

  "Just a second," I said. "No rifles. They'll make us too conspicuous. Or just one. Make it one, in case we need some longer range firepower. And a pistol and stunner for Arno, and belt magazines with spare charges."

  "All right…" she began, but I interrupted.

  "And we've had no water for nearly twenty-four hours. Or any food. None of us. Put down a hose; there's one in a locker in the machine room. And send down any food you can spare, if there's enough of it to share among thirty men."

  "Right. I'm leaving the pilot's seat to do it."

  "Got ya. Larn holding."

  A bunch of the Varangians were staring at me, including Gunnlag, who, like Arno and me, seemed unwounded.

  "The Angel Deneen is going to Set two other holy monks out of the sky ship," I told them, "with special protection for us, to help keep us safe to Christian territory. She has to go back to the heavens."

  I figured she'd land and let them out, but she had a better idea-one that would help keep up our image. She lowered to about fifty feet and let Tarel down in a harness. When he was down, she winched the harness back up and let down another guy, who had to be Moise. I realized then who'd been talking on the loud-hailer. Like Tarel, Moise wore a marine jump suit. He was tall for a Fanglithan; I suspect it was from a decent diet when he was a kid.

  Deneen's voice spoke in my ear again. "There's some emergency food concentrate in Moise's musette bag," she told me. "All we've got left of it. And Tarel's musette bag has extra cells for your communicators. Water's coming next."

  A minute later a hose came down, with a pail taped to it. On my cue, Deneen would release some water, a few quarts at a time. I'd catch it in the pail and pass it around among the Varangians. I drank last, which I'm darn sure the Varangians noticed. It tasted like hose, but it was good!

  When all of us had drunk a bit, I got some of the cubes of food concentrate from Moise's pack and passed them around, two per man. That wasn't much, but any more might have made us sick on such empty stomachs. After that everyone drank again. Then I retaped the pail to the hose and told Deneen we were done. The hose drew back up into the hatch and disappeared.

  The hatch closed behind it, and in a minute or so the Jav started to rise, rose till we couldn't see it anymore.

  "That's it, brother mine," said Deneen in my ear. "Gqod luck. And wish me the same."

  I raised the communicator to my mouth. "Thanks. You've got my best wishes, for whatever they're worth." And she did. Not getting stranded here might not be as important to me as staying alive, but it ran a close second.

  Luck! It occurred to me that, everything considered, we hadn't done too badly on Fanglith, luck-wise. So far. Not for a world like this one. Things had gone wrong, but we were still alive. And that was more than I could say for a lot of Varangians and Saracens.

  PART SIX

  TREACHERY AND CLIMAX

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Actually there were thirty Varangians able to walk reasonably well. Five others could hobble with help. We'd take them with us to the nearest water and leave them there on their own. The Varangians killed the more severely wounded, then all the dead were prayed over.

  It had occurred to Gunnlag that I should do the praying. After all, I was the holy monk, the chief of the holy monks. But I told him I wanted him to do it because he was our war chief. I also told him that the Angel Deneen would want him to, over the Saracens and all. And just now what the Angel Deneen wanted was what we did.

  I could have pretended to pray, of course, but these guys were dead, and they deserved the real thing. And while he was praying, I found myself feeling really solemn. If there actually was some kind of heaven, the way the Christians thought, and maybe the Saracens, then I wanted them to go there, all of them. That's when I realized that I didn't hate the Saracens, even though we'd just been chopping at one another with swords, trying to kill each other. I only hated the Empire. Interesting.

  After the praying, Tarel gave me my weapons and Arno's. I blessed Arno in Evdashian while holding up my crucifix. Actually, what I recited was part of the acceptance formula for initiates into the middle school honor society, modified a little for the circumstances. I

  didn't know any Christian formulas. Then I gave Arno a pistol and stunner, and a belt magazine of replacement charges for each.

  I kept the blast rifle. It would be my symbol as chief monk.

  Next I turned to Moise and asked him in Norman French if he spoke Greek.

  "Yes, sir," he said, in Evdashian at that. "I also speak your language. Your sister had me learn it with the learning program, and we have practiced it ever since to develop my fluency."

  "Good. I'm assigning you to speak it with Arno. He needs the practice. But first I want you to tell Gunnlag Snorrason something for me, in Greek." I pointed. "He's the older Varangian with the red hair. It's best that Arno not tell him, because I'm appointing Arno the leader of this expedition for now. And Gunnlag should get the word from someone else, not from Arno.

  "And another thing: As far as these people are concerned, Deneen is an angel of God. D'you understand?"

  He nodded soberly.

  "Good. And she came down from heaven to bring you to us. You and Tarel. So while you should be courteous to the Varangians, always act as if you're their superior. Is that clear?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Fine. Now I want you to tell Gunnlag that Arno is a Norman of importance, a liege man of the great leader, Roger of Sicily. And that we will soon be in Norman land. Tell him."

  We were the center of the watching and listening Varangians, Gunnlag the nearest of them. Moise turned to him and spoke in Greek. When he was done, he turned back to me for further instructions.

  "Tell him that because of that, Arno will be our leader on the march. Gunnlag will still be the chief of the Varangians, but Arno will be the march leader-the march leader of all of us, including us holy monks. Got that?"

  Moise nodded. "Yes sir," he said again, and again he talked to Gunnlag in Greek. Gunnlag nodded with no sign of resentment.

  I looked at Arno. "Did you get that too?" I asked in Norman French.

  "Yes," he said. "And I shall treat the old Viking like a Norman knight. I have seen him fight, and I love him like a brother."

  It seemed to me that things just might go right for a while. For a change.

  Progress was slow because of the wounded. As we hiked, Tarel told me what they'd learned about fuel crystallization, and approximately what Moise had said on the loud-hailer. He'd spoken in Arabic, the Saracen language, telling them that the vessel from Allah-Allah was the name the Saracens gave to Fanglith's god- that the vessel from Allah bore the Angel Deneen. And the Saracens were not to molest any further these people they'd been attacking. They should let them leave in peace, or risk Allah's further wrath.

  "Was that Deneen's idea?" I asked. "Or Moise's?"

  "Deneen knew he speaks Arabic. She does too now, but hasn't practiced it much. She told him to say whatever it would take to keep them from attacking you any more, and he took it from there."

  "Umm. You guys get along all right? You and Moise?"

  "Oh sure. We're good friends."

  I was glad to hear it. I'd wondered if maybe they'd developed some rivalry-if maybe Moise had gotten interested in Deneen, too.

  Dusk was settling when we reached a creek in a small valley, another valley with abandoned huts in it. Gunnlag agreed with Arno that we shouldn't camp there though- that we needed to reach a high place. So we drank our fill again, then left the five who needed help to walk, and started up the next ridge. Two of the Varangians keeled over when the going got steep, and three others couldn't make it, so we waited while they were helped back to the hut where we'd left t
he other five. Then we went on again-twenty-five Varangians, Arno, and three "holy monks from India." It was black night when we got to the top, chewed and swallowed the last of the food concentrate, and bunched up to sleep. The cubes didn't quiet our stomachs, which growled and grumbled, but they'd help us keep going.

  The next morning, Arno and Gunnlag sent our four best hunters out ahead, after pointing out the course we'd be taking. Then, after about an hour of lying around, the rest of us started out. The muscles in my forearms had gotten surprisingly sore overnight, and my hands stiff-from using the sword I suppose.

  The hunters would be moving slowly, so we moved slowly too. An hour or so later we came to one of them who'd killed and dressed out a half-grown goat. There wasn't any firewood nearby, so we ate most of it raw, keeping enough to share with the other hunters in case they hadn't gotten anything. Goat is tough chewing, especially raw, and bloody raw is the opposite of appetizing for me. But when you're hungry enough…

  Maybe two hours later we came to another hunter with another goat. This was near the mouth of a ravine where there was scrub, with dead branchwood to burn. So we took a break, half-cooked the goat, and ate some of it, wrapping the rest in the hide. A third hunter saw the smoke and hiked over. He hadn't seen anything near enough to shoot at.

  Then we lay around for a while, feeling full, napping in the sun, digesting the half-raw goat meat. We never saw the fourth hunter again. He might have fallen and broken a leg somewhere. We yelled, there and later from a ridgetop, but never heard a thing.

  A couple of ridges later I wondered if maybe he'd run into hostiles. Because when we reached the top of this ridge, we could see a lot bigger valley on the other side. Arno said a valley like that was sure to have farms and hamlets, and almost surely a castle with knights.

  And these people wouldn't have heard of the Angel Deneen, though hopefully they might be under Norman control.

  We talked it over and decided that the Varangians would hike down one of the ravines. It had enough brush and trees to give cover. Tarel and Amo would stay with them to provide flrepower. Moise and I would hike along the top of one of the spur ridges that walled the ravine. From there I could provide blaster fire with my rifle, if needed. And while the two of us could be seen from a distance, the sight of two hikers shouldn't get anyone excited. Not when neither of us was visibly a warrior. Neither of us carried a shield, and I'd left my longsword on the battleground.

  Tarel turned his communicator on so we could stay in touch.

  It was a warmer day than we'd been having. Spring was coming along, and the country wasn't as high as a lot that we'd been through. I was actually enjoying the hike. We paused on a high point, from where we could see a lot of the valley. And Arno had been right: A good-sized hamlet, almost a village, was visible, with a castle nearby. I saw a dust cloud in the valley's lower end, and staring, made out a number of mounted men at the head of it. They had to be military.

  I took the communicator from my belt. "Tarel," I said, "this is Larn. Tarel, this is Larn. Over."

  "This is Tarel. Over."

  "Tell Arno there's a force of cavalry in the valley, riding toward the castle. I can't tell if they're Normans or Saracens. Ask him what he wants to do about this. Over."

  "Hold on; will do."

  It was two or three minutes before I heard anything more than faint murmuring. Then Arno answered. "This is Arno. We'll continue down the ravine as far as there's cover for us. Then we'll wait until dark. After dark I'll go out and see what I can learn."

  "Right," I answered. "Moise and I will keep hiking the ridgetop to near the end. Maybe we'll be able to see more farther on. Larn over and out."

  A moment later I heard Tarel's voice again. "Got that. This is Tarel out."

  A half-mile ahead, the ridge crest started dropping off more sharply into the valley, giving us a fuller view ahead. The cavalry had ridden to a point almost in line with it. I still couldn't make out details, except I was pretty sure they didn't wear robes. They made me think of men returning home though; they formed a fairly strung out group, about twenty of them. And they weren't making the dust they had been, as if they'd slowed from a trot to a walk. I let Arno know. Then Moise and I sat on the ground and I followed them with my eyes, wishing I had binoculars.

  After a minute, I noticed something else. Another horseman, ahead of them and off to one side, had stopped, as if he had gotten off the road for them.

  Again I called Tarel, and told Arno what I'd seen.

  Arno chuckled. "The people of the country here are Saracens. That the horseman got out of the road probably means that the cavalry are Normans, and that the fighting here is past."

  "Do you want to go on out into the valley this afternoon?" I asked.

  He didn't answer immediately, and when he did, it was slowly, thoughtfully. "No. We are fed now, and there is no great haste. We'll stay under cover till nightfall."

  Moise and I stayed where we were for a while, continuing to watch. The castle was far enough away that we couldn't see what went on when the cavalry got there. Finally we picked our way down into the ravine, and along the bottom til! we came to Arno and Tarel and the Varangians.

  It was nap time again.

  TWENTY-NINE

  We did more waking than dozing. And with danger no longer baring its teeth at us, plus the probability that we were out of enemy territory, sitting around made the Varangians restless and impatient. So Arno didn't wait till dark to go scouting; he started out when sunset was coloring the sky.

  Even no more than that made the Varangians more cheerful. They liked action-something going on. If not their action, then someone else's. At least something was happening.

  While dusk settled, Tarel and I sat side by side without saying much. Being with him made me remember Jenoor, and that made me introspective. Moise had gone over to sit by Gunnlag and ask him questions in Greek; he found the Varangians intriguing. After a while, he came back and sat down by Tarel and me again. Gunnlag, he said, had told him I'd surprised him-that he hadn't thought a holy monk could fight like I had. I'd been like a berserker, Gunnlag had said, howling in battle and wielding my sword with a fury that would do credit to any warrior he'd seen.

  Neither of us was clear on what a berserker was, but apparently it was something or someone pretty wild in battle. Moise was impressed with the story, and Tarel even more. As for me, there wasn't much I could say. Even allowing for Fanglithan exaggeration, it sounded like pretty high praise by Norse standards. I couldn't remember much of the fight-general impressions, fragments of image. But I did remember hearing someone howl and realizing it was me, and that I had gone at it pretty hard.

  I was big by Norrnan standards, of course-even by Varangian standards. But the Varangians, like the Normans, had always seemed to me to be a lot stronger and a lot more formidable than I was.

  I recalled the times when one or another of them had grabbed me. Arno, on that first day in Provence, when he'd grabbed my wrist and hauled me up onto his destrier. And Varangians a couple of times. They'd seemed terribly strong. Was it because of the way they did things? With hard, abrupt force, the way a warrior might learn to do them? Did they actually think of me as physically strong-or at least fairly strong? And was I, in fact, stronger than I thought? I didn't have the hand and wrist strength to handle a Varangian sword one-handed, but maybe the rest of me compared better with Normans and Varangians than my hands and wrists did.

  One thing I knew for sure: Fighting with swords was something I'd gladly do without.

  It was sometime after dark when I woke up. How long after, I don't know. The moon wasn't up yet though, and it was really black among the scrub trees in the ravine bottom. Guys were moving, talking. Then I recognized the plod of hooves, not running or even walking, but stamping around, and not just one horse but several.

  "Larn! Gunnlag!"

  It was Arno's voice. I rolled to my feet and moved through the dark in his direction. "What is it? What did you find?
" I called.

  "You were right!" He said it in Evdashian. "We're here! They are Normans!"

  Gunnlag was beside him before I got there, asking questions in rapid Norse, and I had to wait for a minute before I could get any more information. Then the Varangian chieftain turned away and began to shout orders.

  Arno turned to me. "The baron holding this district in fief is Gilbert de Auletta," he said. "He has invited us to stay at his castle, and within a day or two he will provide us with an escort to Palermo. Which is no farther than two long days' walk. And for you and me, and perhaps a few others, he will provide horses."

  Three of the baron's men waited for us outside the darker darkness of the scrub woods, with spare horses for Gunnlag and me. I had one of the wounded ride mine-a Varangian named Ketil, from a place called Jamtland. He was a huge man, even by Evdashian standards, and one of those who used an oversized, two-handed sword. I'd noticed him early on, not only because of his size, but because of his helmet. It had a nasal on it to protect the nose, and looked to be Norman, Normans had fought Varangians at various times, and I suspected that Ketil's helmet was a trophy from some Norman he'd killed.

  Arno hoisted me up to ride with him. He was impressed that I'd give up my horse to a wounded comrade, and I was surprised that he found it admirable. It showed me another side of Arno; if I'd thought about it at all, I'd have expected him to consider my giving up my horse a weakness. The other Varangians regarded Ketil as a savage, which from them seemed to be a term reflecting admiration as well as caution. They all seemed wary of him, as if he was dangerous. Supposedly, as a youth, he'd been a member of a bandit troop in Jamtland that had preyed on trade caravans over the mountains there. He'd even broken a moose to the saddle to ride on, they said. Whatever a moose was.

  It was nearly unbelievable that Ketil had walked all the way from the battle site. His calf had a deep cut across the muscle that made it impossible to flex his ankle or push off with the ball of his foot. Try walking on hills that way sometime! And even tightly bandaged, it leaked blood off and on. Yet the only sign of pain he showed was his bad limp. His grim lack of words didn't seem part of it; he hadn't talked much before the wound, either.