Three Hearts and Three Lions

by Poul Anderson

  Holger submitted to having his injury washed and a poultice of herbs bound over it with an incantation. He was too tired by now to resist anything. But he remembered enough caution to decline her offer of her own pallet, and instead slept on the hay next to Papillon. No use taking more chances than he must. This was an odd house, to say the least.

  3

  WAKING, HE LAY for some time in a half doze, till he remembered where he was. Sleep drained from him. He sat up with a yell and glared around.

  A stable, yes! A crude dark shelter, odorous with hay and manure, a black horse which loomed over him and nuzzled him tenderly. He climbed to his feet, picking straws out of his clothes.

  Sunshine poured in as Mother Gerd opened the door. “Ah, good morrow, fair sir,” she cried. “In truth ye slept the sleep of the just, or what’s said to be the sleep of the just, though in my years I’ve oft espied good men tossing wakeful the night through and wicked men shaking the roof with their snores; and I’d not the heart to waken ye. But come now and see what waits.”

  That proved to be a bowl of porridge, more bread and cheese and ale, and a hunk of half-cooked bacon. Holger consumed the meal with appetite and afterward thought wistfully of coffee and a smoke. But wartime shortages had somewhat weaned him from those pleasant vices. He settled for a vigorous washing at a trough outside the cottage.

  When he came back in, a newcomer had arrived. Holger didn’t see him till a hand plucked at his trousers and a bass voice rumbled, “Here I be.” Looking down, he saw a knotty, earth-brown man with jug-handle ears, outsize nose, and white beard, clad in a brown jacket and breeches, with bare splay feet. The man was not quite three feet tall.

  “This is Hugi,” said Mother Gerd. “He’ll be your guide to Faerie.”

  “Ummm... pleased to meet you,” said Holger. He shook hands, which seemed to astonish the dwarf. Hugi’s palm was hard and warm.

  “Now be off with ye,” said the old woman cheerily, “for the sun is high and ye’ve a weary way to go through realms most parlous. Yet fear not, Sir Holger. Hugi is of the woods-dwellers and will see ye safe to Duke Alfric.” She handed him a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Herein have I laid some bread and meat and other refreshment, for well I know how impractick ye young paladins are, gallivanting about the world to rescue fair maidens with never a thought of taking along a bite of lunch. Ah, were I young again, ’twould matter naught to me either, for what is an empty belly when the world is green, but now I am aged and must think a bit.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Holger awkwardly.

  He turned to go. Hugi pulled him back with surprising strength. “What’s the thocht here?” he growled. “Would ye gang oot in mere cloth? There’s a mickle long galoots in yon woods were glad to stick iron in a rich-clad wayfarer.”

  “Oh... oh, yes.” Holger unwrapped his baggage. Mother Gerd sniggered and hobbled out the door.

  Hugi assisted him to put on the medieval garments properly, and bound leather straps about his calves while he slipped the padded undercoat over his head. The ringmail clashed as he pulled it on next, and hung with unexpected weight from his shoulders. Now, let’s see—obviously that broad belt went around his waist and carried his dagger, while the baldric supported his sword. Hugi handed him a quilted cap which he donned, followed by the Norman helmet. When gilt spurs were on his feet and a scarlet cloak on his back, he wondered if he looked swashbuckling or plain silly.

  “Good journey to ye, Sir Holger,” said Mother Gerd as he walked outside.

  “I... I’ll remember you in my prayers,” he said, thinking that would be an appropriate thanks in this land.

  “Aye, do so, Sir Holger!” She turned from him with a disquieting shrill laughter and vanished into the house.

  Hugi gave his belt a hitch. “Come on, come on, ma knichtly loon, let’s na stay the day,” he muttered. “Who fares to Faerie maun ride a swift steed.”

  Holger mounted Papillon and gave Hugi a hand up. The tiny man hunkered down on the saddlebow and pointed east. “That way,” he said, “’Tis a twa-three days’ ganging to Alfric’s cot, so off we glump.”

  The horse fell into motion and the house was soon lost behind them. The game trail they followed today was comparatively broad. They rode under tall trees, in a still green light that was full of rustlings and birdcalls, muted hoofbeats, creak of leather and jingle of iron. The day was cool and fair.

  For the first time since waking, Holger remembered his wound. There was no ache. The fantastic medication had really worked.

  But this whole affair was so fantastic that— He thrust all questions firmly back. One thing at a time. Somehow, unless he was dreaming (and he doubted that more and more; what dream was ever so coherent?) he had fallen into a realm beyond his own time, perhaps beyond his whole world: a realm where they believed in witchcraft and fairies, where they certainly had one genuine dwarf and one deucedly queer creature named Samiel. So take one thing at a time, go slow and easy.

  The advice was hard to follow. Not only his own situation, but the remembrance of home, the wondering what had happened there, the hideous fear that he might be caught here forever, grabbed at him. Sharply he remembered the graceful spires of Copenhagen, the moors and beaches and wide horizons of Jutland, ancient towns nestled in green dales on the islands, the skyward arrogance of New York and the mist in San Francisco Bay turned gold with sunset, friends and loves and the million small things which were home. He wanted to run away, run crying for help till he found home again—no, none of that! He was here, and could only keep going. If this character in Faerie (wherever that might be) could help him, there was still hope. Meanwhile, he could be grateful that he wasn’t very imaginative or excitable.

  He glanced at the hairy little fellow riding before him. “You’re kind to do this,” he ventured. “I wish I could repay you somehow.”

  “Na, I do ’t in the witch’s service,” said Hugi. “No that I’m boond to her, see ye. ’Tis but that noo and oftimes some o’ us forest folk help her, chop wood or fetch water or run errands like this. Then she does for us in return. I canna say I like the old bat much, but she’ll gi’ me mickle a stoup o’ her bra bricht ale for this.”

  “Why, she seemed... nice.”

  “Oh, ah, she’s wi’ a smooth tongue when she wills, aye, aye.” Hugi chuckled morbidly. “’Twas e’en so she flattered young Sir Magnus when he came riding, many and many a year ago. But she deals in black arts. She’s a tricksy un, though no sa powerful, can but summon a few petty demons and is apt to make mistakes in her spells.“ He grinned. “I recall one time a peasant in the Westerdales did gi’ her offense, and she swore she’d blight his crops for him. Whether ’twas the priest’s blessing he got, or her own clumsiness, I know na, but after long puffing and striving, she’d done naught but kill the thistles in his fields. Ever she tries to curry favor wi’ the Middle World lords, so they’ll grant her more power, but thus far she’s had scant gain o’ ’t.”

  “Ummm—” That didn’t sound so good. “What happened to this Sir Magnus?” asked Holger.

  “Oh, at the last, crocodiles ate him, methinks.”

  They rode on in silence. Eventually Holger asked what a woods dwarf did. Hugi said his people lived in the forest—which seemed of enormous extent—off mushrooms and nuts and such, and had a working arrangement with the lesser animals like rabbits and squirrels. They had no inherent magical powers, such as the true Faerie dwellers did, but on the other hand they had no fear of iron or silver or holy symbols.

  “We’ll ha’ naught to do wi’ the wars in this uneasy land,” said Hugi. “We’ll bide our ain lives and let Heaven, Hell, Earth, and the Middle World fight it oot as they will. And when you proud lairds ha’ laid each the other oot, stiff and stark, we’ll still be here. A pox on ’em all!” Holger got the impression that this race resented the snubs they had from men and Middle Worlders alike.

  He said hesitantly, “Now you’ve made me unsure. If Mother Gerd means no good, why should I fo
llow her advice and go to Faerie?”

  “Why, indeed?” shrugged Hugi. “Only mind, I didna say she was always evil. If she bears ye no grudge, she micht well ha’ ta’en the whim to aid ye in truth. E’en Duke Alfric may help, just for the fun in such a new riddle as ye seem to offer. Ye canna tell wha’ the Faerie folk will do next. They canna tell theirselves, nor care. They live in wildness, which is why they be o’ the dark Chaos side in this war.”

  That didn’t help a bit. Faerie was the only hope he had been given of returning home, and yet he might have been directed into a trap. Though why anyone should bother to trap a penniless foreigner like himself—

  “Hugi,” he asked, “would you willingly lead me into trouble?”

  “Nay, seeing ye’re no foe o’ mine, indeed a good sort, no like some I could name.” The dwarf spat. “I dinna know what Mother Gerd has in mind, nor care I overmuch. I’ve told ye what I do know. If ye still want to gang Faeriewards, I’ll guide ye.”

  “And what happens then is no concern of yours, eh?”

  “Richt. The wee uns learn to mind their ain affairs.”

  Bitterness edged the foghorn bass. Holger reflected that it might be turned to his own ends. He wasn’t altogether a stranger to people with overcompensated inferiority complexes. And surely Hugi could give more help than simply guiding him into he knew not what.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Shall we stop for a short snort?”

  “A short what?” Hugi wrinkled his leathery face.

  “Snort. You know, a drink.”

  “Snort... drink... Haw, haw, haw!” Hugi slapped his thigh. “A guid twist, ’tis. A short snort. I maun remember ’t, to use i’ the woodsy burrows. A short snort!”

  “Well, how about it? I thought I heard something clink in that bundle of food.”

  Hugi smacked his lips. They reined in and untied the witch’s gift. Yes, a couple of clay flasks. Holger unstoppered one and offered Hugi the first pull, which surprised the dwarf. But he took good advantage of it, his Adam’s apple fluttering blissfully under the snowy beard, till he belched and handed the bottle over.

  He seemed puzzled when they rode on. “Ye’ve unco manners, Sir Holger,” he said. “Ye canna be a knicht o’ the Empire, nor e’en a Saracen.”

  “No,” said Holger. “I’m from rather farther away. Where I come from, we reckon one man as good as the next.”

  The beady eyes regarded him closely from beneath shaggy brows. “An eldritch notion,” said Hugi. “Hoo’ll ye steer the realm if commons may sup wi’ the gentle?”

  “We manage. Everybody has a voice in the government.”

  “But that canna be! ’Tis but ane babble then, and naught done.”

  “We tried the other way for a long time, but leaders born were so often weak, foolish, or cruel that we thought we could hardly be worse off. Nowadays in my country the king does little more than preside. Most nations have done away with kings altogether.”

  “Hum, hum, ’tis vurra strange talk, though in truth—why, this makes me think ye maun be o’ the Chaos forces yerselves.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Holger respectfully. “I’m ignorant of your affairs here. Could you explain?”

  He let the dwarf growl on for a long time without learning much. Hugi wasn’t very bright, and a backwoodsman as well. Holger got the idea that a perpetual struggle went on between primeval forces of Law and Chaos. No, not forces exactly. Modes of existence? A terrestrial reflection of the spiritual conflict between heaven and hell? In any case, humans were the chief agents on earth of Law, though most of them were so only unconsciously and some, witches and warlocks and evildoers, had sold out to Chaos. A few nonhuman beings also stood for Law. Ranged against them was almost the whole Middle World, which seemed to include realms like Faerie, Trollheim, and the Giants—an actual creation of Chaos. Wars among men, such as the long-drawn struggle between the Saracens and the Holy Empire, aided Chaos; under Law all men would live in peace and order and that liberty which only Law could give meaning. But this was so alien to the Middle Worlders that, they were forever working to prevent it and to extend their own shadowy dominion.

  The whole thing seemed so vague that Holger switched the discussion to practical politics. Hugi wasn’t much help there either. Holger gathered that the lands of men, where Law was predominant, lay to the west. They were divided into the Holy Empire of the Christians, the Saracen countries southward, and various lesser kingdoms. Faerie, the part of the Middle World closest to here, lay not far east. This immediate section was a disputed borderland where anything might happen.

  “In olden time,” said Hugi, “richt after the Fall, nigh everything were Chaos, see ye. But step by step ’tis been driven back. The longest step was when the Saviour lived on earth, for then naught o’ darkness could stand and great Pan himself died. But noo ’tis said Chaos has rallied and mak’s ready to strike back. I dinna know.”

  Hm. There was no immediate chance to separate fact from fancy: But this world paralleled Holger’s own in so many ways that some connection must exist. Had fleeting contact been made from time to time, castaways like himself who had returned with stories that became the stuff of legend? Had the creatures of myth a real existence here? Remembering some of them, Holger hoped not. He didn’t especially care to meet a fire-breathing dragon or a three-headed giant, interesting as they might be from a zoological standpoint.

  “Oh, by the bye,” said Hugi, “ye’ll have to leave yer crucifix, if ye bear one, and yer iron at the gates. Nor may ye speak holy words inside. The Faerie folk canna stand against sic, but if ye use ’em there, they’ll find ways to send ye ill luck.”

  Holger wondered what the local status of an agnostic was. He had, inevitably, been brought up a Lutheran, but hadn’t been inside a church for years. If this thing must happen to somebody, why couldn’t it have been a good Catholic?

  Hugi talked on. And on. And on. Holger tried to pay friendly attention, without overdoing the act. They got to telling stories. He dug out every off-color joke he could remember. Hugi whooped.

  They had stopped by a moss-banked stream for lunch when the dwarf abruptly leaned forward and put a hand on Holger’s arm. “Sir Knicht,” he said, looking at the ground, “I’d fain do ye a guid turn, if ye wish.”

  Holger kept himself steady with an effort. “I could use one, thanks.”

  “I dinna know wha’ the best coorse be for ye. Mayhap ’tis to seek Faerie e’en as the witch said, mayhap ’tis to turn tail richt noo. Nor have I any way to find oot. But I ken ane i’ the woods, a friend to all its dwellers, who’d know any news abroad in the land and could belike gi’ ye a rede.”

  “If I could see him, that would be a... a big help, Hugi.”

  “’Tis no a him, ’tis a her. I’d no tak’ any other knicht thither, for they’re a lustful sort and she likes ’em not. But ye... well... I canna be an evil guide to ye.”

  “Thank you, my friend. If I can ever do you a service—”

  “’Tis naught,” growled Hugi. “I do ’t for ma ain honor. And watch yer manners wi’ her, ye clumsy loon!”

  4

  THEY TURNED NORTHWARD and rode for several hours, most of which Hugi spent reminiscing about his exploits among the females of his species. Holger listened with one ear, pretending an awe which was certainly deserved if half the stories were true. Otherwise he was lost in his own thoughts.

  As they entered higher country the forest became more open, showing meadows full of wildflowers and sunlight, gray lichenous boulders strewn between clumps of trees, now and then a view across hills rolling into purple distance. Here were many streams, leaping and flashing in their haste to reach the lower dales, rainbows above them where they fell over the bluffs. Kingfishers flew there like small blue thunderbolts, hawks and eagles soared remotely overhead, a flock of wild geese rose loud from the reeds of a mere, rabbits and deer and a couple of bears were seen in glimpses. White clouds swept their shadows across the uneven many-colored land,
the wind blew cool in Holger’s face. He found himself enjoying the trip. Even the armor, which had dragged at first, was become like a part of him. And in some dim way there was a homelikeness about these lands, as if he had known them once long before.

  He tried to chase down the memory. Had it been in the Alps, or in Norway’s high saetere, or the mountain meadows around Rainier? No, this was more than similarity. He almost knew these marches of Faerie. But the image would not be caught, and he dismissed it as another case of déjà vu.

  Though if his transition here had taught him a new language, it might well have played other tricks with his brain. For a moment he had a wild idea that perhaps his mind had been transferred to another body. He looked down at his big sinewy hands and reached up to touch the familiar dent in the bridge of his nose, souvenir of that great day when he helped clobber Polytech 36 to 24. No, he was still himself. And, incidentally, in rather bad need of a shave.

  The sun was low when they crossed a final meadow and halted under trees on the shore of a lake. The water caught the light and became a sheet of fire a mile across; a flock of brant whirred from the rushes. “We can wait here,” said Hugi. He slid to the ground and rubbed his buttocks. “Oof,” he grimaced, “ma puir auld backside!”

  Holger dismounted as well, feeling a certain aftereffect himself. No reason to tether the doglike Papillon; he looped the bridle up and the stallion began contentedly cropping. “She’ll arrive soon, belike,” rumbled Hugi. “’Tis her ain nest hereaboots. But whilst we wait, laddie, we could be refreshing oorselves.”

  Holger took the hint and broke out the ale. “You still haven’t told me who `she’ is,” he said.

  “’Tis Alianora, the swan-may.” Beer gurgled down the dwarf’s throat. “Hither and yon she flits throughout the wood and e’en into the Middle World sometimes, and the dwellers tell her their gossip. For she’s a dear friend to us. Aaaaah! Auld Mother Gerd, a witch she may be, but a brewmistress beyond compare!”