Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

Yozef looked up and down the line of islanders standing behind this part of the barricade. Too few men of fighting age interspersed with older and young men, women, and even children. He thought he glimpsed eight-year-old Yonkel Miron holding a rusty sword and looking anticipatory, as if this were a game or part of some legend. Muskets and crossbows were brought to the ready. More people poured from the buildings, many without weapons, because there were no more available, ready to pick up weapons of those who fell. The abbot ran partway into the courtyard. He held a spear in one hand and traced gestures in the air in front of himself, praying and calling on God for strength, then tore back to the barricade.

I hope, Yozef prayed . God, I hope it works!

“Can you fire a musket?” graveled Carnigan at Yozef, who stared back as if Carnigan had asked him to speak in some different language. “Yozef!” Carnigan bellowed. “Can you fire one of these?”

Yozef shook his head. He’d never touched a firearm of any kind, much less a musket.

Carnigan picked up one of the shorter spears and shoved it at Yozef. “Take this. Stick anyone who gets by me. Try not to stick me.”

Yozef held the wooden shaft with both hands. The six-foot spear ended in a narrow, wicked-looking blade that gleamed in the morning sun just now shining over the main wall. He shivered, his breath coming in gasps, as he gripped the shaft with both hands held against his body. A thought rose like a hand reaching for safety, a thought he had not had for many months.

Let this be all a dream! A nightmare! I’ll wake up back home!

That all of this had been an elaborate fantasy was momentarily more plausible. He had been a chemistry major at the University of California at Berkeley. An alien spaceship had destroyed the plane he was flying in, saved him, then dumped him on another planet with humans put there by parties unknown. And now he held a spear and was about to take part in a battle where most likely he and everyone else around him would be killed?

Maybe I am crazy, and all of this is merely some complex illusion. Please let that be it!

His plea ended before it could paralyze him further, when Cadwulf and the bait party reached the gate. Yozef saw Denes say something to Cadwulf and the others. Yozef could now see the women up closer. They were all young—nineteen to twenty-two years old (fifteen to nineteen Earth years). All breathed hard, both from the run and from fear. Several had tears streaming from their eyes. Two women discarded bundles of clothing masquerading as babies, as they ran to the barricade. In one of those inane thoughts that appears at inappropriate times, Yozef predicted that the girl with the generous breasts would have back problems when she got older and had children. All such thoughts ended and were replaced by sheer terror, as the first of the raiders came through the gate.

“We’re going to make it!” Omir Abulli exulted, as he neared the gate. Not that anyone heard him over the din of almost two hundred men running, the beat of their feet on the earth, the clanking of metal from armor and weapons, and the shouts of defiance as they neared the abbey’s main gate—still open! The islander rats were stupid to worry about saving too many of their people! All that much easier for the raiders! Now, even if they tried to close the heavy gate, it’d be too late.

Abulli led the initial charge at the gate, but by now half of his men had passed him, as they all raced to get inside the abbey walls. If he had wanted, he could have stayed closer to the front, but while he needed to be seen as leading his men, he didn’t have to be in the forefront. He let a few more pass to save his wind and put himself in a less exposed position for first contact. His scars and reputation dismissed the need to demonstrate his bravery, and being leader also meant not foolishly exposing himself.

His focus on the gate and the walls caused him to almost trip over an old couple huddled on the ground. The woman knelt with her head on her knees and her arms covering her head, the gray-bearded man draped across her as if to protect her. A rusty sword lay nearby. Abulli leaped aside and slashed at the man, cursing and yelling, “We’ll deal with you later!” as he continued on.

He couldn’t see beyond the opening in the wall; too many of his men were between him and the last of the fleeing islanders. He kept glancing at the abbey masonry wall, watching for the first flash of muskets. Still no firing by the islanders. Were they so timid to be mounting no defense at all?

The first of his men passed through the open gate. Still no firing. His elation ebbed, as instinct surfaced. Alarm flags hoisted, but there was no stopping. By the time he reached the gate, sixty of his men were already inside the walls. He needed to get to the front to see what was going on!

The first raiders rushing through the gate focused only on the islander women being chased, with only yards between the fastest raider and the slowest woman. It took several seconds for the foremost Buldorians to recognize what they found in the courtyard. Instead of a chaotic panic of islanders and an abbey open for looting, on three sides they faced the hastily constructed barricades, with heads and torsos of men and women facing them. Some of the Buldorians tried to stop, and a few recognized the danger and would have retreated, if not for the press of men behind them pouring through the gate.

Denes agonized over each flaw in their desperate plan. As each flaw passed without disaster, the next took its place. Thus, the worry that the raiders wouldn’t take the bait was replaced by the fear that they’d recognize the trap and stop outside the walls, which in turn was replaced by the possibility that only a few raiders would pass through the gate before they recognized the trap and retreated or warned the others. Hope surged when the first raiders stopped in the middle of the courtyard. It was the best of all actions for the Keelanders and the worst of all for the raiders. The raiders still coming into the courtyard saw only the backs of their countrymen. Seven endless seconds elapsed between when the first raider entered the courtyard and when Denes fired his musket.

Omir Abulli could see the movement of his men slowed. Why? As he pushed through his men, he heard a single musket firing, then a flurry of muskets from three sides. He felt the whisk and sharp whine of a musket ball pass his ear.

The mass of men blocking his view thinned as men fell. In a glance, he took in their wounds from musket balls and crossbow quarrels. His elation at breaching the abbey walls disappeared in shock when he saw the barricade and the islanders. Many were older men and women, some frantically trying to reload muskets, and others holding spears and swords. A fractional second glance behind him showed more men still coming through the gate. To stand still was death. To retreat back through the gate would be chaotic, as the islanders shot at their backs. His years of experience told him their best chance was to attack and break through the barricade. The islanders were short real fighting men, so once his men engaged face-to-face, they would prevail.

These recognitions, calculations, and the resulting decision lasted no more than two seconds. Abulli rushed to the front, knocking aside shocked men and leaping over bodies of dead and wounded, raised his sword, and screamed, “Shoot at them, you idiots, then drop your muskets and draw your blades. To me, for the glory of the Benhoudi!” He turned and charged a gap in the barricade, assuming correctly that his men would follow.