“Talk sense!” I demanded.
“Well, we are being hailed by an observer at Ganturath fortress.”
Sir Roger nodded curtly when I translated. “Voices out of thin air are little compared to what we’ve already seen,” he said. “What does the fellow want?”
I could catch only a few words of the challenge, but got the drift of it. Who were we? This was not the regular landing place for scout craft. Why did we enter a forbidden area? “Calm them,” I instructed Branithar, “and remember I will understand if you betray us.”
He shrugged, as if amused, though his own brow was also filmed with sweat. “Scoutship 587-Zin returning,” he said. “Urgent message. Will halt above the base.”
The voice gave assent, but warned that if we came lower than a stanthax (about half a mile), we would be destroyed. We were to hover until the crews of patrol aircraft could board us.
By now, Ganturath was visible: a compact mass of domes and half-cylinders, masonry over steel skeletons as we later found out. It made a circle about a thousand feet in diameter. Half a mile or so northward lay a smaller set of buildings. Through a magnifying view screen, we saw that out of the latter jutted the muzzles of huge fire-bombards.
Even as we came to a halt, a pale shimmering sprang up around both parts of the fortress. Branithar pointed. “The defensive screens. Your own shots would spatter harmlessly off. It would be a lucky hit that melted one of those gun muzzles, where they thrust out beyond the shield. But you are an easy target.”
Several egg-shaped metallic craft, like ridges against the huge bulk of our Crusader, approached. We saw others lift from the ground, the main part of the fortress. Sir Roger’s fair head nodded. “’Tis as I thought,” he said. “Those screens stop a fire-beam, mayhap, but not a material object, since the boats pass through.”
“True,” said Branithar by way of me. “You might manage to drop an explosive missile or two, but the outlying section, where the guns are, would destroy you.”
“Aha.” Sir Roger studied the Wersgor with eyes gone pale. “So you possess explosive shells, eh? Doubtless aboard this very craft. And you never told me. We’ll see about that later,” He jerked a thumb at Red John and Sir Owain. “Well, you two have seen how the ground lies. Co back to the men, now, and be ready to emerge fighting when we land.”
They departed, nervously eyeing the screens, where the aircraft were very near us. Sir Roger put his own hands on the wheels that controlled the bombards. We had learned, with some experimentation, that those great weapons almost aimed and fired themselves. As the patrol boats closed in, Sir Roger cut loose.
Blinding hell-beams stabbed forth. They wrapped the aircraft in flame. I saw the nearest one cut in two by that fiery sword. Another tumbled red-hot, a third exploded. Thunder boomed. Then all I saw was falling metal scrap.
Sir Roger tested Branithar’s claims, but they were true: his beams splashed off that pale, translucent screen. He grunted. “I looked for that. Best we get down now before they send up a real warship to deal with us, or open fire from the outlying emplacement.” While he spoke, he sent us hurtling groundward. A flame touched our hull, but then we were too low. I saw Ganturath’s buildings rush up to meet me and braced myself for death.
A ripping and crunching went through our ship. This very turret burst open as it brushed a low lookout tower. But the battlements of that were snapped off. Two thousand feet long, incalculably heavy, the Crusader squashed half Ganturath beneath itself.
Sir Roger was on his feet even before the engines went dead. “Haro!” he bellowed. “God send the right!” And off he went, across the canted, buckled deck. He snatched his helmet from the terrified esquire and put it on as he strode. The boy followed, teeth chattering but nonetheless in charge of the de Tourneville shield.
Branithar sat speechless. I gathered up my robe and hurried off to find a sergeant who would lock up the valuable captive for me. This being done, I was able to witness the battle.
We had come down lengthwise rather than on our tail, protected by the artificial weight generators from tumbling around inside. Havoc encompassed us, smashed buildings and sharded walls. A chaos of blue Wersgorix boiled from the rest of the fortress.
By the time I got to the exit myself, Sir Roger was out with all his cavalry. He didn’t stop to gather them, but charged into the thick of the nearest enemies. His horse neighed, mane flying, armor flashing; the long lance spitted three bodies at once. When at length the spear was broken, my lord drew his sword and hewed lustily. Most of his followers had no scruples about unknightly weapons; they eked out blade, mace, and morningstar with handguns from the ship.
Now archers and men-at-arms poured forth, yelling. Belike it was their own terror that made them so savage. They closed with the Wersgonix ere our foe could unleash many lightning bolts. The battle became hand-to-hand, a leaderless riot, where ax or dagger or quarterstaff was more useful than fire-beam or pellet gun.
When the space about him was cleared, Sir Roger reared on his black stallion. He clashed back his visor and set bugle to lips. It shrieked through the din, summoning the mounted force. These, better disciplined than the foot soldiers, disengaged themselves from the immediate fray and joined the baron. A mass of great horses, men like steel towers, blazoned shields and flying plumes and lances aloft, formed behind my lord.
His gauntleted hand pointed to the outlying fort, where the skyward bombards had ceased their futile shooting. “That we must seize, ere they rally!” he cried. “After me, Englishmen, for God and St. George!”
He took a fresh shaft from his esquire, spurred his charger, and began to pick up speed. The earthquake roll of hoofs deepened behind him.
Those Wersgorix stationed in the lesser fort poured out to resist the attack. They had guns of several kinds, plus small explosive missiles to be thrown by hand. They picked off a couple of riders. But in that short distance there was no time for more long-range shooting. And they were unnerved in any event. There is no sight more terrifying than a charge of heavy cavalry.
The trouble of the Wersgorix was that they had gone too far. They had made combat on the ground obsolete, and were ill-trained, ill-equipped, when it happened. True, they possessed fire-beams, as well as force shields to stop those same fire-beams. But they had never thought to lay down caltrops.
As it was, the frightful blow struck their line, rolled over it, stamped it into mud, and continued without even being slowed.
One of the buildings beyond gaped open. A small spaceship — though big as any seagoing vessel on Earth — had been trundled forth. It stood on its tail, engine growling, ready to take off and flame us from above. Sir Roger directed his cavalry thither. The lancers hit it in a single line. Shafts splintered; men were hurled from the saddle. But consider: a charging cavalryman may bear his own weight of armor, and have fifteen hundred pounds of horse beneath him. The whole travels at several miles per hour. The impact is awesome.
The ship was bowled over. It fell on its side and lay crippled.
Through and through the lesser fort, Sir Roger’s horsemen ramped, sword, mace, spurred boot, and shod hoof. The Wersgorix died like swatted flies. Or say rather, the flies were the small patrol boats, buzzing overhead, unable to shoot into that melee without killing their own folk. To be sure, Sir Roger was killing their own folk anyway; but by the time the Wersgorix realized that, they were too late.
Back in the main section where the Crusader lay, the fight sputtered down into a question of slaying bluefaces or talking them prisoner or chasing them into the nearby forest. It was still one vast confusion, though, and Red John Hameward felt he was wasting the skill of his longbowmen. He formed them into a detachment and quick-stepped across open ground to aid Sir Roger.
The patrol boats swooped low, hungrily. Here was prey they might get. Their thin beams were intended for short ranges. On the first pass, two archers died. Then Red John yelled an order.
Suddenly the sky was full of arrows. A cloth-y
ard shaft with a six-foot yew bow behind it will go through an armored man and the horse beneath him. These little boats made matters worse by flying directly into the gray goose flock. Not one of them escaped. Riddled, their pilots quilled as hedgehogs, they crashed. The archers roared and ran to join the fray ahead.
The spaceship which the lancers had knocked over was still manned. Its crew must have recovered their wits. Suddenly its gun turrets spurted flame, no mere handweapon beam but thunderbolts that knocked down walls. A horseman and his steed, caught in that fire, were instantly gone. Vengefully, the lightnings raked around.
Red John picked up one end of a great steel beam, part of the dome shattered by those bombards. Fifty men aided him. They ran toward the entry port of the ship. Once, twice, crash! Down came the door, and the English yeomen stormed within.
The Battle of Ganturath lasted for some hours, but most of that time went merely to ferret out hidden remnants of the garrison. When the alien sun smoldered westward, there were about a score of English dead. None were badly wounded, for the flame guns usually killed if they hit the mark at all. Some three hundred Wersgorix were slain, roughly an equal number captured; many of these latter were minus a limb or an ear. I would guess that perhaps a hundred more escaped on foot. They would carry word of us to the nearest estates — which, however, were not very close by. Evidently the speed and destructiveness of our initial attack had put Ganturath’s far-speakers out of action before the alarm could go abroad.
Our true disaster was not revealed till later. We were not dismayed at having wrecked the ship we came in, for we now had several other vessels whose aggregate volume would hold us all. Their crews had never gotten a chance to man them. However, in her atrocious landing, the Crusader had burst open her control turret. And the Wersgor navigational notes therein were now lost.
At the moment, all was triumph. Red-splashed, panting, in scorched and dinted armor, Sir Roger de Tourneville rode a weary horse back to the main fortress. After him came the lancers, archers, yeomen — ragged, battered, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. But the Te Deum was on their lips, rising beneath the strange constellations that twinkled forth, and their banners flew bravely against the sky.
It was wonderful to be an Englishman.
Chapter VII
We made camp at the nearly intact lesser fort. Our people chopped wood from the forest, and as the two moons rose, their blazes leaped up. Men sat close, faces picked out of darkness by the homely unrestful light, waiting for the stewpots to be ready. Horses cropped the native grass without enjoying its taste. The captured Wersgorix huddled together under guard of pikemen. They were stunned; this did not seem possible. I felt almost sorry for them, godless and cruel though their dominion was.
Sir Roger summoned me to join his captains, who were camped near one of the gun turrets. We manned what defenses were available, against expected counterattack, and tried not to wonder what new frightfulness the foe might have in their armory.
Tents had been erected for the more wellborn ladies. Most were abed, but Lady Catherine sat on a stool at the edge of the firelight. She listened to our talk, and her mouth was drawn into bleak lines.
The captains sprawled, weary, on the ground. I saw Sir Owain Montbelle, idly thrumming his harp; scarred, fierce old Sir Brian Fitz-William, the third of the three knighted men on this voyage; big Alfred Edgarson, the purest of Saxon franklins; gloomy Thomas Bullard, fingering the naked sword on his lap; Red John Hameward, shy because he was the lowest born of them all. A couple of pages poured wine.
My lord Sir Roger, the unbendable, was on his feet, hands clasped behind his back. Having removed his armor like the others, while leaving his clothes of pride in their chest, he might have been the humblest of his own sergeants. But then one saw the sinewy jut-nosed face and heard him talk. And spurs jingled on his boots.
He nodded as I came into view. “Ah, there, Brother Parvus. Sit down and have a stoup. You’ve a head on your chine, and we need all good redes tonight.”
A while longer he paced, brooding. I dared not interrupt with my dreadful news. A medley of noises in the dark deepened its twin-mooned otherness. These were not frogs and crickets and nightjars of England: here was a buzz, a saw-toothed hum, an inhumanly sweet singing like a lute of steel. And the odors were alien, too, which disturbed me even more.
“Well,” said my lord. “By God’s grace, we’ve won this first encounter. Now we must decide what to do next.”
“I think—” Sir Owain cleared his throat, then spoke hurriedly: “No, gentles, I am sure. God aided us against unforeseeable treachery. He will not be with us if we show undue pride. We’ve won a rare booty of weapons, with which we can accomplish great things at home. Let us therefore start back at once.”
Sir Roger tugged his chin. “I’d prefer stay here,” he answered, “yet there’s much in what you say, my friend. We can always come back, after the Holy Land is freed, and do a proper job on this fiend’s nest.”
“Aye,” nodded Sir Brian. “We’re too alone now, and encumbered with women and children and aged and livestock. So few fighting men against a whole empire, that were madness.”
“Yet I could like to break another spear against these Wersgorix,” said Alfred Edgarson. “I haven’t won any gold here yet.”
“Gold is no use unless we bring it home,” Captain Bullard reminded him. “Bad enough campaigning in the heat and thirst of the Holy Land. Here, we know not even what plants may be poisonous, or what the winter season is like. Best we depart tomorrow.”
A rumble of assent went up among them.
I cleared my throat miserably. Branithar and I had just spent a most unpleasant hour. “My lords—” I began.
Yes? What is it?” Sir Roger glared at me.
“My lords, I do not think we can find the way home!”
“What?” They roared it out. Several leaped to their feet. I heard Lady Catherine suck a horrified breath in between her teeth.
Then I explained that the Wersgor notes on the route to our sun were missing from the shattered control turret. I had led a search party, scratching about everywhere in the attempt to find them, but had no success. The interior of the turret was blackened, melted in places. I could only conclude that a stray fire-beam had come through the hole, played across a drawer burst open by the violence of our landing, and cindered the papers.
“But Branithar knows the way!” protested Red John. “He sailed it himself! I’ll wring it out of him, my lord.”
“Be not so hasty,” I counseled. “’Tis not like sailing along a coastline, where every landmark is known. There are uncounted millions of stars. This scouting expedition zigzagged among them looking for a suitable planet. Without figures which the captain wrote down as they sailed, one might spend a lifetime in search and not happen on our own sun.”
“But doesn’t Branithar remember?” yelped Sir Owain. “Remember a hundred pages of numbers?” I responded. “Nay, none could do that, and this is the more true since Branithar was not the captain of the ship nor the one who kept track of her wanderings and heaved the log and performed other navigational duties, rather our captive was a lesser noble whose task was more among the crewmen and in working with the demonic engines than—”
“Enough.” Sir Roger gnawed his lip and stared at the ground. “This changes things. Yes… Was not the Crusader’s route known in advance? Say by the duke who sent her out?”
“No, my lord,” I said. “Wersgor scoutships merely go off in any direction the captain likes and look at any star he deems promising. Not till they come back and report does their duke know where they have been.”
A groan went up. Those were hardy men, but this was enough to daunt the Nine Worthies. Sir Roger walked stiffly over to his wife and laid a hand on her arm.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he mumbled.
She turned her face from him.
Sir Owain arose. The knuckles stood forth pale on the hand that clutched his harp. “This have you l
ed us to!” he shrilled. “To death and damnation beyond the sky! Are you satisfied?”
Sir Roger clapped hand on hilt. “Be still!” he roared. “All of you agreed with my plan. Not a one of you demurred. None were forced to come. We must all share the burden now, or God pity us!”
The younger knight muttered rebelliously but sat down again.
It was awesome how swiftly my lord rebounded from dismay to boldness. Of course it was a mask he put on for the others’ benefit; but how many men could have done that much? Truly he was a peerless leader. I attribute it to the blood of King William the Conqueror, a bastard grandson of whom wed an illegitimate daughter of that Earl Godfrey who was later outlawed for piracy, and so founded the noble de Tourneville house.
“Come, now,” said the baron with a degree of cheerfulness. “’Tis not so bad. We’ve but to act with steadfast hearts, and the day shall yet be ours. Remember, we hold a good number of captives, whom we can use as a bargaining point. If we must fight again, we’ve already proven they cannot withstand us under anything like equal conditions. I admit there are more of them, and that they have more skill with these craven hell-weapons. But what of that? ’Twill not be the first time brave men properly led have driven a seemingly stronger army from the field.”
“At the very worst, we can retreat. We have skyships enough, and can evade pursuit in the trackless deeps of space. But I’m fain to stay here, bargain shrewdly, fight where needful, and put my trust in Cod. Surely He, who stopped the sun for Joshua, can swat a million Wersgorix if it pleases Him: for His mercy endureth forever. After we’ve wrung terms from the foe, we’ll make them find our home for us and stuff our ships with gold. I say to you, hold fast! For the glory of God, the honor of England, and the enrichment of us all!”
He caught them up, bore them on the wave of his own spirit, and had them cheering him at the end. They crowded close, hands on his hands above his great shining sword, and swore to remain true till the danger was past. Thereafter an hour went in eager planning — most of it, alas, wasted, for God seldom brings that to pass which man expects. Finally all went to their rest.
The High Crusade Page 4