The spaceship which the lancers had knocked over was still manned. Its crew must have recovered their wits. Suddenly its gun turrets spurted flame, no mere handweapon beam but thunderbolts that knocked down walls. A horseman and his steed, caught in that fire, were instantly gone. Vengefully, the lightnings raked around.

Red John picked up one end of a great steel beam, part of the dome shattered by those bombards. Fifty men aided him. They ran toward the entry port of the ship. Once, twice, crash! Down came the door, and the English yeomen stormed within.

The Battle of Ganturath lasted for some hours, but most of that time went merely to ferret out hidden remnants of the garrison. When the alien sun smoldered westward, there were about a score of English dead. None were badly wounded, for the flame guns usually killed if they hit the mark at all. Some three hundred Wersgorix were slain, roughly an equal number captured; many of these latter were minus a limb or an ear. I would guess that perhaps a hundred more escaped on foot. They would carry word of us to the nearest estates — which, however, were not very close by. Evidently the speed and destructiveness of our initial attack had put Ganturath’s far-speakers out of action before the alarm could go abroad.

Our true disaster was not revealed till later. We were not dismayed at having wrecked the ship we came in, for we now had several other vessels whose aggregate volume would hold us all. Their crews had never gotten a chance to man them. However, in her atrocious landing, the Crusader had burst open her control turret. And the Wersgor navigational notes therein were now lost.

At the moment, all was triumph. Red-splashed, panting, in scorched and dinted armor, Sir Roger de Tourneville rode a weary horse back to the main fortress. After him came the lancers, archers, yeomen — ragged, battered, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. But the Te Deum was on their lips, rising beneath the strange constellations that twinkled forth, and their banners flew bravely against the sky.

It was wonderful to be an Englishman.

We made camp at the nearly intact lesser fort. Our people chopped wood from the forest, and as the two moons rose, their blazes leaped up. Men sat close, faces picked out of darkness by the homely unrestful light, waiting for the stewpots to be ready. Horses cropped the native grass without enjoying its taste. The captured Wersgorix huddled together under guard of pikemen. They were stunned; this did not seem possible. I felt almost sorry for them, godless and cruel though their dominion was.

Sir Roger summoned me to join his captains, who were camped near one of the gun turrets. We manned what defenses were available, against expected counterattack, and tried not to wonder what new frightfulness the foe might have in their armory.

Tents had been erected for the more wellborn ladies. Most were abed, but Lady Catherine sat on a stool at the edge of the firelight. She listened to our talk, and her mouth was drawn into bleak lines.

The captains sprawled, weary, on the ground. I saw Sir Owain Montbelle, idly thrumming his harp; scarred, fierce old Sir Brian Fitz-William, the third of the three knighted men on this voyage; big Alfred Edgarson, the purest of Saxon franklins; gloomy Thomas Bullard, fingering the naked sword on his lap; Red John Hameward, shy because he was the lowest born of them all. A couple of pages poured wine.

My lord Sir Roger, the unbendable, was on his feet, hands clasped behind his back. Having removed his armor like the others, while leaving his clothes of pride in their chest, he might have been the humblest of his own sergeants. But then one saw the sinewy jut-nosed face and heard him talk. And spurs jingled on his boots.

He nodded as I came into view. “Ah, there, Brother Parvus. Sit down and have a stoup. You’ve a head on your chine, and we need all good redes tonight.”

A while longer he paced, brooding. I dared not interrupt with my dreadful news. A medley of noises in the dark deepened its twin-mooned otherness. These were not frogs and crickets and nightjars of England: here was a buzz, a saw-toothed hum, an inhumanly sweet singing like a lute of steel. And the odors were alien, too, which disturbed me even more.

“Well,” said my lord. “By God’s grace, we’ve won this first encounter. Now we must decide what to do next.”

“I think—” Sir Owain cleared his throat, then spoke hurriedly: “No, gentles, I am sure. God aided us against unforeseeable treachery. He will not be with us if we show undue pride. We’ve won a rare booty of weapons, with which we can accomplish great things at home. Let us therefore start back at once.”

Sir Roger tugged his chin. “I’d prefer stay here,” he answered, “yet there’s much in what you say, my friend. We can always come back, after the Holy Land is freed, and do a proper job on this fiend’s nest.”

“Aye,” nodded Sir Brian. “We’re too alone now, and encumbered with women and children and aged and livestock. So few fighting men against a whole empire, that were madness.”

“Yet I could like to break another spear against these Wersgorix,” said Alfred Edgarson. “I haven’t won any gold here yet.”

“Gold is no use unless we bring it home,” Captain Bullard reminded him. “Bad enough campaigning in the heat and thirst of the Holy Land. Here, we know not even what plants may be poisonous, or what the winter season is like. Best we depart tomorrow.”

A rumble of assent went up among them.

I cleared my throat miserably. Branithar and I had just spent a most unpleasant hour. “My lords—” I began.

Yes? What is it?” Sir Roger glared at me.

“My lords, I do not think we can find the way home!”

“What?” They roared it out. Several leaped to their feet. I heard Lady Catherine suck a horrified breath in between her teeth.

Then I explained that the Wersgor notes on the route to our sun were missing from the shattered control turret. I had led a search party, scratching about everywhere in the attempt to find them, but had no success. The interior of the turret was blackened, melted in places. I could only conclude that a stray fire-beam had come through the hole, played across a drawer burst open by the violence of our landing, and cindered the papers.

“But Branithar knows the way!” protested Red John. “He sailed it himself! I’ll wring it out of him, my lord.”

“Be not so hasty,” I counseled. “’Tis not like sailing along a coastline, where every landmark is known. There are uncounted millions of stars. This scouting expedition zigzagged among them looking for a suitable planet. Without figures which the captain wrote down as they sailed, one might spend a lifetime in search and not happen on our own sun.”

“But doesn’t Branithar remember?” yelped Sir Owain. “Remember a hundred pages of numbers?” I responded. “Nay, none could do that, and this is the more true since Branithar was not the captain of the ship nor the one who kept track of her wanderings and heaved the log and performed other navigational duties, rather our captive was a lesser noble whose task was more among the crewmen and in working with the demonic engines than—”

“Enough.” Sir Roger gnawed his lip and stared at the ground. “This changes things. Yes… Was not the Crusader’s route known in advance? Say by the duke who sent her out?”

“No, my lord,” I said. “Wersgor scoutships merely go off in any direction the captain likes and look at any star he deems promising. Not till they come back and report does their duke know where they have been.”

A groan went up. Those were hardy men, but this was enough to daunt the Nine Worthies. Sir Roger walked stiffly over to his wife and laid a hand on her arm.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he mumbled.