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, back 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.
"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.