They ran to the bridge, unhitching their nets of pressure spheres, inside which minute measures of pikon and halvell had already been combined. Toller positioned himself beneath the ship’s doorway and extended his hands to Sondeweere, who came to him immediately. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her to his shoulders, a process which she aided with a kind of scrambling movement of her feet. She straightened up, standing on him, and became steady as she got her hands on to the sill of the doorway.
Concurrently, the first groups of Farlanders racing down the slope were coming within musket range and the defenders were opening fire. The first volley of shots appeared to bring down only one of the attackers, but the musket reports—magnified by the natural amphitheatre—threw them into disarray. They slid and skidded into each other in their efforts to check the downward rush.
Toller turned away from the scene to get his hands under Sondeweere’s feet and as he was straightening his arms to propel her into the ship’s doorway he was acutely aware of a nerve-thrumming pause before the muskets could be fired again. The delay, caused by the need to unscrew each expended sphere and replace it, was the main reason he had scant regard for firearms.
By the time Sondeweere was safely into the ship it was beginning to dawn on the Farlanders that, no matter how terrifying the psychological impact of the unfamiliar weapons, the actual casualties inflicted by them had been light. They were surging forward again, short swords in hand. A fresh volley of shots, this time at shorter range, knocked over at least three more of the aliens, but failed to check their general advance.
“Find a rope,” Toller shouted up to Sondeweere.
“Rope? The ship has no need of ropes.”
“Then find something*.” Toller turned towards the bridge in time to see a knot of Farlanders press across it.
liven Zavotle, fighting his own war against a private enemy, ran to meet them with a musket in his left hand and sword in his right. He fired the musket at point blank range through a Farlander’s out-thrust belly and almost at once was lost in a flailing confusion of arms and swords. Toller sobbed aloud as he saw that his oldest friend, the patient eroder of problems, was being hacked to death.
Within seconds there came a fresh round of musket fire and this time, on the narrow front of the bridge, the effect on the Farlanders was considerable. They fell back, leaving their dead and convulsing wounded, but retreated no farther than the opposite bank, where one who seemed to be a commander began to harangue them in the staccato alien tongue. Facing them across the bloodied bridge, the three remaining Over-landers were feverishly recharging their guns.
Toller ran towards his companions, at the same time glancing back at the ship. Sondeweere was visible in the dark rectangle of the doorway, helplessly watching the fighting.
I’ll be with you soon, he vowed inwardly, repulsing a new enemy, an enemy of the mind which could wreak even greater havoc than an external foe by implanting the idea that defeat was inevitable. Nearing the bridge from the side, he confirmed his first impression that it was simply an arrangement of thick timbers resting on a masonry shelf on each side of the moat.
“Berise,” he shouted, “take the muskets and try to use all of them. Bartan and Dakan, help me with these boards!”
He knelt beside the bridge, got his hands under the nearest timber and used all the power of his back and thighs to stand up with it. Bartan and Wraker lent a hand, and together they turned the massive waterlogged timber and hurled it down into the moat. There was a shout from the Farlanders and a fresh surge on to the remaining five boards. Berise fired four muskets in rapid succession, during which time Toller and his helpers, working with panic-boosted strength, lifted and disposed of four more timbers, sending bodies—living and dead—down into the brown water. Toller did not look at the curious white-and-crimson thing which had been Zavotle.
He picked up his sword as desperate Farlanders streamed on to the last timber. Wraker, already facing them, caught the leading alien with a lateral blow to the neck which cart-wheeled him into the moat. Berise shot the next Farlander in the throat, propelling him back against the one behind. They both swayed and began to fall sideways, but in the instant of parting company with the bridge the uninjured one hurled his sword. The short heavy weapon flew with freakish accuracy and buried itself almost to the hilt in Wraker’s stomach. He emitted a terrible bubbling belch, but stood his ground.
Toller pounced past him, dropping to his knees, and grasped the last timber. It was slimed with algae and the extra weight of the Farlanders moving on to it defeated even his vein-corded muscles. He was vaguely aware of another musket shot and of Bartan taking up a protective stance over him. He pushed the timber to one side, this time aided by its slippery surface, and got it almost off the shelf. Two Farlanders reached him as he was making the final effort which sent the timber tilting down and away, and he heard the impact of blows just above him as Bartan engaged the aliens. The tip of a sword sliced through Toller’s right ear as he threw himself back and scrambled to his feet.
One of the Farlanders had disappeared with the timber, but the other had leapt on to the paving and his arms were circling as he strove to regain his balance. Wraker, still on his feet in spite of being transfixed, disposed of him by driving the point of his sword into the alien’s face, sending him backwards over the edge.
Bartan, looking pale and introspective, was standing close by, clutching a wound in his left shoulder. Blood was flowing copiously through his fingers. Berise was on her knees, her diminutive figure bowed over the muskets, fingers flying as she changed pressure spheres.
Toller looked beyond the milling group of Farlanders on the far side of the moat and saw a much greater force of them pouring through the gateway on the crater’s rim. The action at the bridge had bought the defenders some time, but a miserly amount, a period which could conveniently be measured in seconds—and they were going to be at their most vulnerable while trying to enter the ship.
Toller turned his attention to Wraker, wondering if the soft-spoken young pilot understood that he was dying, that his history book would never be written. Bloodstains were spreading swiftly in his rain-soaked clothing, from around the protruding handle of the Farlander sword, and he was becoming unsteady on his feet, but he managed to speak clearly.
“Toller, why are you wasting valuable time?” he said. “Go while the going is good. I’m sorry I am unable to join you—but I have some unfinished business with our unprepossessing little friends.”
He turned at once and sank to his knees at the edge of the moat, placing his sword in readiness on the masonry beside him. Berise stood up, carried three loaded and charged muskets to Wraker and laid them with his sword. He looked around as if to say something to her, his eyes seeking hers, but she had already retrieved the fourth musket and had run to Bartan. She pushed Bartan, rousing him from his bemused state, and they both ran towards the waiting ship.
Toller hesitated. He saw two Farlanders leap out from the other side of the moat, their short legs pedalling the air as they strove for maximum distance. Even if the aliens were inept swimmers they would soon be able to make use of the strewn timbers of the bridge to cross the water barrier—all the more reason to abandon Wraker, who was already doomed, and get on board the spacecraft. Still unable to shake off the feeling that he was betraying a comrade, Toller turned and ran to where Berise and Bartan were waiting for him below the huge, enigmatic sphere.