He shrugged, as if amused, though his own brow was also filmed with sweat. “Scoutship 587-Zin returning,” he said. “Urgent message. Will halt above the base.”

The voice gave assent, but warned that if we came lower than a stanthax (about half a mile), we would be destroyed. We were to hover until the crews of patrol aircraft could board us.

By now, Ganturath was visible: a compact mass of domes and half-cylinders, masonry over steel skeletons as we later found out. It made a circle about a thousand feet in diameter. Half a mile or so northward lay a smaller set of buildings. Through a magnifying view screen, we saw that out of the latter jutted the muzzles of huge fire-bombards.

Even as we came to a halt, a pale shimmering sprang up around both parts of the fortress. Branithar pointed. “The defensive screens. Your own shots would spatter harmlessly off. It would be a lucky hit that melted one of those gun muzzles, where they thrust out beyond the shield. But you are an easy target.”

Several egg-shaped metallic craft, like ridges against the huge bulk of our Crusader, approached. We saw others lift from the ground, the main part of the fortress. Sir Roger’s fair head nodded. “’Tis as I thought,” he said. “Those screens stop a fire-beam, mayhap, but not a material object, since the boats pass through.”

“True,” said Branithar by way of me. “You might manage to drop an explosive missile or two, but the outlying section, where the guns are, would destroy you.”

“Aha.” Sir Roger studied the Wersgor with eyes gone pale. “So you possess explosive shells, eh? Doubtless aboard this very craft. And you never told me. We’ll see about that later,” He jerked a thumb at Red John and Sir Owain. “Well, you two have seen how the ground lies. Co back to the men, now, and be ready to emerge fighting when we land.”

They departed, nervously eyeing the screens, where the aircraft were very near us. Sir Roger put his own hands on the wheels that controlled the bombards. We had learned, with some experimentation, that those great weapons almost aimed and fired themselves. As the patrol boats closed in, Sir Roger cut loose.

Blinding hell-beams stabbed forth. They wrapped the aircraft in flame. I saw the nearest one cut in two by that fiery sword. Another tumbled red-hot, a third exploded. Thunder boomed. Then all I saw was falling metal scrap.

Sir Roger tested Branithar’s claims, but they were true: his beams splashed off that pale, translucent screen. He grunted. “I looked for that. Best we get down now before they send up a real warship to deal with us, or open fire from the outlying emplacement.” While he spoke, he sent us hurtling groundward. A flame touched our hull, but then we were too low. I saw Ganturath’s buildings rush up to meet me and braced myself for death.

A ripping and crunching went through our ship. This very turret burst open as it brushed a low lookout tower. But the battlements of that were snapped off. Two thousand feet long, incalculably heavy, the Crusader squashed half Ganturath beneath itself.

Sir Roger was on his feet even before the engines went dead. “Haro!” he bellowed. “God send the right!” And off he went, across the canted, buckled deck. He snatched his helmet from the terrified esquire and put it on as he strode. The boy followed, teeth chattering but nonetheless in charge of the de Tourneville shield.

Branithar sat speechless. I gathered up my robe and hurried off to find a sergeant who would lock up the valuable captive for me. This being done, I was able to witness the battle.

We had come down lengthwise rather than on our tail, protected by the artificial weight generators from tumbling around inside. Havoc encompassed us, smashed buildings and sharded walls. A chaos of blue Wersgorix boiled from the rest of the fortress.

By the time I got to the exit myself, Sir Roger was out with all his cavalry. He didn’t stop to gather them, but charged into the thick of the nearest enemies. His horse neighed, mane flying, armor flashing; the long lance spitted three bodies at once. When at length the spear was broken, my lord drew his sword and hewed lustily. Most of his followers had no scruples about unknightly weapons; they eked out blade, mace, and morningstar with handguns from the ship.

Now archers and men-at-arms poured forth, yelling. Belike it was their own terror that made them so savage. They closed with the Wersgonix ere our foe could unleash many lightning bolts. The battle became hand-to-hand, a leaderless riot, where ax or dagger or quarterstaff was more useful than fire-beam or pellet gun.

When the space about him was cleared, Sir Roger reared on his black stallion. He clashed back his visor and set bugle to lips. It shrieked through the din, summoning the mounted force. These, better disciplined than the foot soldiers, disengaged themselves from the immediate fray and joined the baron. A mass of great horses, men like steel towers, blazoned shields and flying plumes and lances aloft, formed behind my lord.

His gauntleted hand pointed to the outlying fort, where the skyward bombards had ceased their futile shooting. “That we must seize, ere they rally!” he cried. “After me, Englishmen, for God and St. George!”

He took a fresh shaft from his esquire, spurred his charger, and began to pick up speed. The earthquake roll of hoofs deepened behind him.

Those Wersgorix stationed in the lesser fort poured out to resist the attack. They had guns of several kinds, plus small explosive missiles to be thrown by hand. They picked off a couple of riders. But in that short distance there was no time for more long-range shooting. And they were unnerved in any event. There is no sight more terrifying than a charge of heavy cavalry.

The trouble of the Wersgorix was that they had gone too far. They had made combat on the ground obsolete, and were ill-trained, ill-equipped, when it happened. True, they possessed fire-beams, as well as force shields to stop those same fire-beams. But they had never thought to lay down caltrops.

As it was, the frightful blow struck their line, rolled over it, stamped it into mud, and continued without even being slowed.

One of the buildings beyond gaped open. A small spaceship — though big as any seagoing vessel on Earth — had been trundled forth. It stood on its tail, engine growling, ready to take off and flame us from above. Sir Roger directed his cavalry thither. The lancers hit it in a single line. Shafts splintered; men were hurled from the saddle. But consider: a charging cavalryman may bear his own weight of armor, and have fifteen hundred pounds of horse beneath him. The whole travels at several miles per hour. The impact is awesome.

The ship was bowled over. It fell on its side and lay crippled.

Through and through the lesser fort, Sir Roger’s horsemen ramped, sword, mace, spurred boot, and shod hoof. The Wersgorix died like swatted flies. Or say rather, the flies were the small patrol boats, buzzing overhead, unable to shoot into that melee without killing their own folk. To be sure, Sir Roger was killing their own folk anyway; but by the time the Wersgorix realized that, they were too late.

Back in the main section where the Crusader lay, the fight sputtered down into a question of slaying bluefaces or talking them prisoner or chasing them into the nearby forest. It was still one vast confusion, though, and Red John Hameward felt he was wasting the skill of his longbowmen. He formed them into a detachment and quick-stepped across open ground to aid Sir Roger.

The patrol boats swooped low, hungrily. Here was prey they might get. Their thin beams were intended for short ranges. On the first pass, two archers died. Then Red John yelled an order.

Suddenly the sky was full of arrows. A cloth-yard shaft with a six-foot yew bow behind it will go through an armored man and the horse beneath him. These little boats made matters worse by flying directly into the gray goose flock. Not one of them escaped. Riddled, their pilots quilled as hedgehogs, they crashed. The archers roared and ran to join the fray ahead.