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.

TWENTY-SIX

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?"

"With a holy amulet."

Gunnlag's brows knotted, so I went on. "There were three Saracens in the first scouting party. I caused the first two to fall from their horses unable to move. They should still be lying there, alive. The third I caused only to go numb, and let him ride away to his army. I was hidden in shadows, and they were unable to see me. All he could tell his commander was that two men had fallen from their horses without the twang of any bowstring, and that he had gone numb and nearly fallen from his saddle without being struck a blow. And that there had been a terrible sound, as of a soul in torment."

I said all that a sentence or two at a time, so that Arno could translate. After the last sentence, Gunnlag said something and Arno turned to me again.

"He says his lookouts at the notch reported a sound like that."

I nodded. "Then, a while later, about eight more came. I caused four of them to fall; I'm afraid I killed one of them. The rest fled."

When Arno had repeated this in Norse, Gunnlag frowned again and said something more. Again Arno turned to me. "He wants to know why you didn't kill them all."

I shrugged. "I am a holy monk." Arno's eyebrows raised at that, of course, before he passed it on to the Norseman. "And besides," I went on, "when the Saracens find them, their commander will be confused and mystified. All the Saracens will be. Dead men they would understand about, especially if I'd killed them with arrows, or sword or knife. And from what I've heard, Saracen knights have no great fear of death or other men. But what could it be that paralyzes them, and makes such a terrible sound? That will put fear in their hearts, at least while it's dark."

When Arno had finished interpreting, Gunnlag stood, peering intently at me.

"Then," I went on, "I climbed the side of the ravine, and at the top was attacked by another Saracen knight. I regret that I had to kill both him and his horse. There was no time to use more delicate magic, may God forgive me." I motioned with the shield. "I took this from him," I said. "I may want it when daylight comes.

"And Arno," I added when he'd finished interpreting, "tell Gunnlag that if he sends warriors down the ravine to see, they should not kill or rob or even touch the fallen men they find there. If any of his warriors go there, they should pretend to be mystified at what they see. The paralyzed men will remember it, and tell their commander."

Gunnlag pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then, without saying anything more, he went and woke up two of his men and talked to them. They left, carrying shields and swords. Arno and I walked over to the mass of sleeping Varangians. One of the disadvantages of going to bed late, in a situation like that, is that you have to sleep at the edge, where there's not so much body heat.

When we lay down, Arno murmured a question of his own. "Why did you do it? Tomorrow it will make little difference. We are all dead men then, unless God, through some saint, intervenes."

I hadn't even thought about that before. "I did it," I said, "because-because tomorrow some saint may intervene. Or some angel. And I want us to be alive if one does."

It struck me then that he'd asked the question as casually as if he was asking whether I thought it was going to rain. I don't think he put as much importance as I did on the matter of living or dying. Then it struck me that I wasn't making as big a deal out of it as I would have a month earlier, or a week as far as that's concerned.

I closed my eyes. It had been an extra-long day, and I'd hiked a lot of miles. Even cold, and with my stomach grumbling about no food, I went right to sleep.

The first time I awakened-just barely-was when a Varangian I was lying against got up. I was vaguely aware that it was starting to get daylight, then went right back to sleep. The next time I awakened, the rising sun was in my eyes and just about everyone was up. I thought about a drink of water, then remembered there wasn't any. The nearest water could easily be a mile away.

I got up and stretched, noticing that most of the rowing soreness was gone. And I remembered that this was, would be, the day of reckoning. I went over to where I'd left my shortsword the night before and put it back on my belt.

That's what I was doing when I heard the distant halloos. Walking to the south side of camp, I looked in the direction the calls had come from. Two Varangians, lookouts, were trotting from the direction of the notch. Apparently the Saracens were coming up the ravine.

Arno was standing near; now he came over to me. "Gunnlag sent men down the ravine after you came back," he said. "They found two men dead and four men down, unable to move. Apparently you used a higher setting on them than you did on me that time."

He was grinning. I didn't feel like grinning back. A Norman might feel cheerful on a morning like this, but I was no Norman. I recalled the time he referred to- our first meeting, in Provence, on the road from the Cenis Pass. That was the first time he'd tried to take my weapons from me.