John Dalmas - Return to Fanglith

If the Saracens were going to move that night, they'd probably have started by now. If they'd reached our first stopping place, chance was that they'd followed our trail down off that ridge to camp by the creek in the little valley below it; there were even some empty huts there. And if they'd done that, I told myself, I shouldn't have to wait too much longer.

So I was ready when, maybe ten minutes later, I heard faint hoof sounds. I lay down on my stomach and crept forward a couple of feet so I could look farther down the ravine, I saw movement, and seconds later a horseman rode out of the shadow of some trees fifty or sixty yards away.

There were three of them, their armor covered by robes-advance scouts I suppose. They rode one behind the other, twenty or thirty feet apart. I Set the first ride past my position before I pushed the firing stud. He slumped at once, falling without even grabbing to hold on, and while he was slumping, I shifted my aim to the second. That one was falling too, as I moved for a shot at the third, who had wheeled his horse and was spurring it back the way they'd come. I pressed the stud a third time at maybe fifty yards and saw him reel in the saddle, fall forward, and ride out of sight clinging to his horse's neck.

Then, without even thinking, I let go with my impression of the wail of a Thargonian ghost tiger. It was supposed to be the spookiest sound on the known worlds. Us kids had learned it watching holo-dramas when we were, like, ten years old. And practiced it on shadowy evenings playing "hide from the tiger," a game that's been big on Evdash for generations. Whoever was "it" would make the sound while they hunted for the other kids.

On a still night like this one, I suppose you could hear it for a quarter mile or more. I don't know what the Saracen thought of it, but I'll bet he didn't slow down. I realized I was grinning like crazy.

I didn't go down to check the guys I'd zapped. I was pretty sure the first two were unconscious but proba-ly not dead. The third one was my best product. He knew something had happened to him. He was probably half numb, and when he came out of it later he'd tingle with pins and needles. Yet he hadn't seen anything, no arrow had touched him- And there'd been this terrible noise! Meanwhile the other two horses- first one, and after a moment the other-had turned and clattered back down the ravine out of sight, apparently only buzzed a bit by the stunner.

If the Saracens sent another scouting party, it would probably be bigger, and maybe strung out farther apart. If I was the Saracen commander, that's what I'd tell them to do. But if they were nervous enough, they might bunch up anyway.

They bunched up anyway. Maybe half an hour later I heard their horses. Two had passed me, fifteen feet apart, and the third was about even with me, when I zapped them quickly, one after another, then got up in a crouch and stepped out to where I could shoot at the others. Most were in a confusion of trying to turn back, getting in each others way. But one was sitting off to one side, looking around, and his eyes locked on me. I zapped him first and he fell like a sack, till a foot caught in a stirrup. His horse was turning, and I didn't want it to drag him away so I flipped the setting to high and zapped it too. It stopped, shuddered, and I zapped it again. It collapsed. I turned the stunner on the hindmost of the others as they galloped off. He fell. The others, three at least, had disappeared, with the wail of a Thargonian ghost tiger, or a reasonable imitation, in their ears.

One thing I did not want was the Saracens to know it had been a man who had ambushed them. I wanted them worried about devils and demons. So I moved along behind the shadowed fringe of scrub to where I could plainly see the man who'd spotted me. Then, with the intensity still on high and the beam at its tightest, I zapped him again.

I didn't feel very good about it. I'd killed men before, in Normandy, but that had been in self defense, or to free Deneen. They hadn't been lying helpless.

It was time to go back to the Varangians, but it didn't seem like a good idea to go back up the ravine. The Varangian lookouts would have heard my tiger impression; they had bows, and they'd be nervous. What I did instead was clip my stunner on my belt and start up the steep slope. The top had to be a spur ridge that would slope upward to join the main ridge ahead.

The side of the ravine was almost too steep to climb; the dirt kept slipping away beneath my boots. In places I grabbed the scratchy, stiff-branched bushes to pull myself along through the dark, squinting and flinching, hoping I wouldn't get a twig in the eye.

After a while I reached the top, breathing hard from the exertion. I scrambled out of the scrub onto the open crest of the spur ridge, then heard hooves and looked up. A rider had been coming along the crest in my direction, and seeing me, had spurred his horse into a galloping attack.

He wasn't more than forty yards away, ignoring his lance, drawing his sword, leaning to strike.

My hand seemed to move in slow motion, drawing my stunner, raising it, pointing, not worrying about settings. His horse nose-dived, hitting the ground so heavily I swear I could feel it through my feet. The Saracen hurtled over its head in a billow of robe, moonlight flashing on sword, and I zapped him too as he skidded and rolled. He stopped not more than five yards from me. As I scanned around for any more riders, I was panting from excitement as much as from the climb.

There weren't any others in sight.

The rider was dead. I didn't need to check him out to know that. I hadn't thumbed the intensity back from high after killing the guy in the ravine, and at such close range, I'd really curdled his synapses.

Apparently, after the survivor had returned from the first scouting party, the Saracen commander had not only sent a strong party up the ravine. He'd also sent outriders to bypass the ravine and see what they could see. One at least, and maybe one on the opposite ridge, too.

I took the Saracen's shield; I'd probably need one when daylight came. As I started along the spur ridge toward where it connected with the main ridge, I stayed just below the rounded crest, at the edge of scrub and shadow.

When I reached the main ridge, I kept a careful eye peeled for Varangian lookouts, and called softly as I approached the notch. They didn't show themselves, but I could feel their eyes, and almost their strung bows, their nocked arrows. Nothing happened though, and before long I was at the base of the knob.

It occurred to me that I probably hadn't accomplished much except to delay the Saracens till daylight. And maybe make myself look good to the Varangians. The delay wouldn't allow us to move on farther north- not far enough to do us any good. On horseback the Saracens would catch us before another night fell, even if we moved as soon as I reported in. Where we were camped now was as good a place as any to make our stand.

Maybe I should have struck off north alone, I told myself. Maybe I should yet. But instead I started up the last slope toward camp.

Gunnlag himself was one of the lookouts on the knob, and when he saw it was me hiking up to camp, he went to Arno and woke him up. Gunnlag was curious and the boss, and he needed an interpreter to ask questions through. It turned out that when the lookouts at the notch had been relieved, they'd told him I'd passed through. And I suppose that my carrying a Saracen shield got him especially interested.

"What did you do out there?" Arno asked. He was doing more than passing on Gunnlag's questions; he was curious, too.

"I ambushed a Saracen scouting party," I told him. Arno passed the answer on to Gunnlag.

"With what weapons?"