Three Hearts and Three Lions

by Poul Anderson

Papillon attacked the crowd from behind, kicking, biting, trampling, till he reached Holger. The man’s foot found a stirrup. He vaulted up. The stallion was off in a gallop.

  Hoofs thudded behind. Turning his head, Holger saw the mounted knights bear down on him. Their animals were even faster than his. He had dropped his captured weapons and Alianora had perforce abandoned his lance. Reaching down, he got sword and shield where they hung. There was scarcely time to put on the armor bundled behind his saddle.

  The swan winged white beside him. Suddenly she swerved. An eagle struck where she had been. Holger looked up and saw more great birds descending from the sky. Oh, my God, they’re turning themselves into eagles, they’ll get her now—

  Alianora hissed, beat a way with wings and beak past two of them, and streaked for the forest. Turned human again, she could find shelter from the ornithomorphs in the dense brake. But how then could she go fast enough to escape ground pursuit?

  A horse drew alongside Papillon. Alfric himself bestrode it, a sword in one hand. His long silvery hair streamed from a face that still smiled. Loud through hoofbeats, cloven air, and the hunting horns blowing in the ear came his shout: “So let us try if indeed you are invincible, Sir ’Olger du Danemark!”

  “Gladly!” snarled the Dane. Alfric was on his unshielded right side, but he was past caring. His sword hammered down, meeting the lighter Faerie blade in mid-air. Alfric’s weapon darted aside, in past Holger’s guard. With skill he had not known was his, Holger got his edge under the crescent-shaped hilt of the enemy and threw the strength of his shoulders against Alfric’s hand. The Duke’s weapon was torn from his grasp. He snarled and pulled his horse closer, so his knee touched Holger’s as they galloped. His left hand shot out, snake-swift, closing on the Dane’s sword wrist. He couldn’t hold his bigger opponent long; but he needed little time to draw the knife at his belt.

  Holger twisted in his own seat. He couldn’t quite interpose his shield, but he brought its edge down on Alfric’s dagger hand. The Duke screamed. Smoke spurted from his skin. Holger caught the smell of singed flesh. The white horse stampeded. By Heaven, it was true what they said! The Faerie metabolism could not endure the touch of iron.

  Holger reined in Papillon so clods jumped underfoot. Turning, he reared the stallion, waved his sword and howled at the riders: “All right, come and get it! Step right up and lay right down!”

  They stopped as swiftly as he had done, milling aside. But through the twilight, Holger saw warriors who ran toward him on foot, carrying bows. That wasn’t so good. They could stand afar and fill him with arrows. Recklessly, he plunged toward them with some idea of breaking up the formation. “Rah, rah, rah!” he shouted. “Ti-i-iger!”

  The knights scattered before his charge. The bowmen stood their ground. He heard a shaft buzz nastily by his ear. “Jesu Kriste Eli Mariae—”

  The Pharisees shrieked! They spurred their horses, threw away their weapons, ran and galloped from him like an explosion. So it was also true they couldn’t stand to hear a holy name, thought Holger exultantly. He should have remembered that. Only... why had his unthinking appeal been in Latin?

  He was tempted to throw the whole hierarchy after them, but decided not to abuse his privilege. An honest prayer was one thing; taking the Great Names in vain for mere advantage was something else again, and could bring no luck. (How did he know that? Well, he did.) He settled for steering Papillon back westward and shouting, “Hi-yo, Silver!”

  After all, the story was that the Faerie folk didn’t like silver either.

  Something gleamed in the trampled grass. He stopped his horse, leaned far over, and picked up the knife Duke Alfric had dropped. It didn’t seem formidable, not very sharp, feather-light in his hand; yet the blade was inscribed The Dagger of Burning. Puzzled, vaguely hopeful that it might be a useful talisman, he thrust the weapon in his belt.

  Now, Alianora. He trotted along the fringe of the woods, calling her name, but there was no answer, His exuberance died within him. If she had been killed—hell’s fire, he thought with stinging eyes, it wasn’t that he would be alone in this world of enemies, it was that she was a grand kid and had saved his life. And how had he repaid her? he asked himself glumly. What sort of a friend was he, guzzling and swilling and making up to alien women while she lay in the cold dew and—

  “Alianora!”

  No answer. No sound whatsoever. The wind had laid itself to rest, the castle was hidden in swiftly rising mists, the forest was a wall of night. Nothing save the fog moved, nothing spoke, he was the only thing alive in all this dimness. He thought uneasily that he couldn’t linger here. The Pharisees would soon figure out some way to get at him. They could summon allies who were not bothered by iron or God. Morgan le Fay, for instance. If he meant to escape, he’d better do so at once.

  He rode westward along the forest calling for Alianora. Still the fog deepened, lifting from the ground in white banks and streamers, muffling the sound of Papillion’s hoofs, seeming almost to smother his own breath. Drops glistened in the horse’s mane; his shield glimmered wet. The world closed in till he could hardly see two yards—

  A Faerie stunt, he thought with a gulp of fear. They could blind him this way; thereafter he should be easy to overcome. He urged Papillon into a canter. Despite the dank chill, his mouth was dry.

  Something loomed ahead, vague and pale in the curling grayness. “Hallo!” he yelled “Who’s there? Stand or I’ll have at you!’’

  Laughter answered, not the wicked snack of Faerie but clear and young. “’Tis only me, Holger. I had to mount myself. We could scarce ride double the long way we must gang, and my wings would grow weary.”

  She came into sight, a brown slim figure in white feather-tunic. Dewdrops twinkled in her hair. She was riding a unicorn bareback, doubtless the same one he had spied earlier. It regarded him with wary onyx eyes and wouldn’t come near. Mounted before the girl was the hunched form of Hugi.

  “I doubled back to fetch this lad,” she explained, “and then we went into the woods again and I whistled up my steed. But ye’ll have to take him now, for ’twas all I could do to make Einhorn carry anyone but me even so small a way.

  Holger felt thoroughly ashamed. He had quite forgotten Hugi. And a peeved Duke Alfric would probably have made short work of the dwarf. He took the little man from Alinora’s arms and set him on his own saddlebow.

  “Now what should we do?” he asked.

  “Noo we maun galumph quick’s may be oot o’ this ill realm,” grunted Hug “Sooner we’re in honest lands, better oor chances be o’ living to brag about this dunce’s trip.”

  “Hm, yes. Though I’m afraid we’ll get lost in the fog.”

  “I’ll fly above from time to tine to get bearings,” Alianora said. “Thus we’ll outtrick them who conjured it up.”

  They trotted on through the wet soundless murk. Holger began to feel the reaction to battle. It took the shape of a conviction of his own worthlessness. What was he good for, except to drag fine resourceful people like Alianora into peril of their lives? What had he done, even, to earn the food he’d eaten so far? He was the merest pensioner, a bumbling idiot kept alive by charity.

  He remembered a question that had touched his mind. “Hugi,” he asked, “why was it dangerous for me to go into that hill?”

  “Know ye na this?” The dwarf raised his thick brows. “So yon’s why they lured me from ye! So I couldna give warning... Well, then, know that time is strange inside Elf Hill. They’d ha’ held ye there wi’ one nicht o’ merrymaking, and when ye came oot again, a hundred years would ha’ passed here. In the meanwhile the Middle Worlders would ha’ been able to do whate’er ’tis ye noo stand in the way o’.”

  Holger shuddered.

  But this did throw a new light on his own status. It was unthinkable that Alfric and Morgan could have continued to mistake him for some champion whose arms he bore. Therefore he himself, Holger Carlsen, orphan and exile, he was in some way a focal point of the ga
thering crisis. How, he couldn’t imagine. Possibly his coming from another universe gave him—what? An aura? At any rate, the forces of Chaos had to win him to their side or, failing that, get him out of their way.

  The lavish hospitality, including Meriven, had obviously been an essay at the first. It had also served to hoodwink him while Alfric summoned Morgan le Fay and conferred with her. Evidently they had decided to take no chances, but use his ignorance to shelve him in Elf Hill for the next century or two.

  But why hadn’t they just slipped a knife in his ribs? That should have been easy enough to do. Indeed, the attack of the hollow knight must have been such an attempt. When that failed, Alfric had changed tactics and used guile. How had the Duke known about him in the first place? Mother Gerd, of course. The demon she raised must have told her something about Holger which made her direct him to her powerful acquaintance in Faerie. No doubt she sent the news of him ahead by magical means. She must have hoped Alfric could take care of him.

  But what had the demon said? And, murder and trickery having failed, what would the Middle World try next?

  Anyhow, this avenue of return to his world was closed. He’d have to cast around for another way. Judging from what he had seen and heard, there were white magicians as well as black. Maybe he could consult one of them. He had no intention of mixing into the struggle here if he could avoid it. One war at a time, please! Alfric would have done best to act honestly and send him home as he asked.

  Which consideration fairly well proved Alfric was unable to.

  Something laughed in the fog, low and hideously. Holger started. Hugi clapped his hands to his ears. They heard leather wings pass overhead. Still all they could see was the dripping grayness.

  “The thing seems to be in front of us,” muttered Holger. “If we turn aside—”

  “Nay.” Alianora’s lips trembled, but she spoke gamely. “’Tis a trick to get us off the path. Once lost in these clouds, we’re indeed without hope.”

  “Okay,” said Holger out of a sandy throat. “I’ll go first.”

  That was a nerve-racking ride, where shapes went slipping and sliding on the fringe of sight, where the air was evil with slitherings and hissings, howls and laughs. Once a blind horrible face appeared before him. It hung in the vapor and mouthed. He plowed stubbornly ahead and it receded before him. Hugi shut his eyes and chanted, “I ha’ been a guid dwarf. I ha’ been a guid dwarf. I ha’ been a guid dwarf.”

  It seemed forever before the mist lifted. That was on the border of the dusk land. Papillon and the unicorn were first to scent the sun. They broke into gallop, burst out and neighed at the light.

  The time was nearing evening. They had emerged at a different point from where they entered. Long shadows of crags and conifers fell across bills rough with gorse. The wind slid thin and cold around Holger; he heard the boom of a waterfall. Nonetheless, after—how many days?—in Faerie, the natural world was a sight to catch at a man’s heart.

  “Yon Pharisees can pursue us after dark,” said Alianora. “Yet their spells be less strong out here, so we’ve better hope.” Her tone was dull with weariness. Holger began to feel how tired he was too.

  They urged their mounts forward, to get as far as possible before sundown. When they made camp, it was high on a slope overgrown with pines. Holger lopped two saplings with his sword and made a cross of them, which he planted near the bonfire they’d keep going all night. Hugi’s precautions were more pagan, a ring of stones and iron objects laid down with incantations.

  “Now,” said Alianora, “methinks we’ll last the dark hours.” She smiled at Holger. “I’ve not yet told ye how valiantly ye fought, back there at the castle. Ho, ’twas a bra sight!”

  “Why, uh, uh, thanks.” Holger looked at his feet, which dug at the ground. He didn’t really mind being admired by a pretty girl, but—he wasn’t sure what. To cover his confusion, he sat down and examined the dagger he had won from Alfric. A bone handle and a disproportionately large basket hilt were fixed to a thin blade which he decided must be magnesium. The pure metal was too soft to make a very good weapon, not to mention being inflammable; but since Alfric had evidently set store by the knife, Holger would keep it. He rummaged in his saddlebags and, besides some homely equipment like a jar of oil, turned up an extra misericord. Hugi could wear that unsheathed. Holger scabbarded the magnesium blade to his belt near his steel knife. By then, Alianora had prepared dinner from what supplies remained.

  Night stole over them. Holger, who would take the third watch, lay his length on the soft needles of the forest floor. The fire burned warm and red. One by one his nerves eased. To be sure, he couldn’t fall asleep. Not under these circumstances. Too bad. He needed his sleep...

  He woke with a jerk. Alianora was shaking him. In the restless light he saw her eyes grown enormous. Her voice was a dry whisper. “List! There’s summat out there!”

  He got up, sword in hand, and peered into the gloom. Yes, he could hear them too, the pad-pad-pad of many feet; and he saw the light gleam off slanted eyes.

  A wolf howled, almost in his ear. He leaped and slashed with his sword. Laughter answered, shrill and nasty. “In nomine Patris,” he called, and was mocked by the noises. Either those things were immune to holy names, or they weren’t close enough to be hurt. Probably the former. As his eyes adapted, he saw the shadows. They glided around and around the charmed circle. They were monstrous.

  Hugi crouched by the fire; his teeth clapped in his head. Alianora moaned and crept into Holger’s free arm. He felt how she shuddered. “Take it easy,” he said.

  “But the sendings,” she gasped. “Night-gangers on every hand, Holger! I’ve never erenow been under their siege. I canna look.” She buried her face against his shoulder. Her fingers tightened on his arm till the nails bit.

  “This is new to me also,” he said. Funny how unfrightened he was. The prowlers were horrible to see, of course, but why watch them? Especially when he had Alianora to watch instead. Thank God for a phlegmatic temperament! “They can’t get at us, dear,” he said. “If they could, they would. Therefore they can’t.”

  “But—but—”

  “I’ve seen dammed rivers that could drown a whole valley. No one worried. They knew the dam would hold.”

  Privately, he wondered what the safety factor of the camp’s charms was. No doubt magicians in this world had their equivalent of the Rubber Handbook, with tables of such data. Or if not, they jolly well ought to. He had to go by God and by guess, but somehow—another buried memory?—he felt their defenses were strong enough.

  “Just take it easy,” he said. “We’ll be all right. They can’t do more than keep us awake with that infernal racket.”

  She was still atremble, so he kissed her. She responded with an uncertain, inexperienced clumsiness. He grinned out at the hosts of the Middle World. If they were going to sit and watch him neck, he hoped they’d learn something.

  10

  BEFORE DAWN THE ENEMY departed. Hugi said they must get back to their lairs in plenty of time. Holger wondered what they couldn’t stand about sunlight. Actinic radiation? If so, he wished he had an ultraviolet lamp.

  Hoy, wait! That explained Alfric’s magnesium dagger. The thing was only incidentally a stabbing weapon. If hard pressed by his Middle World rivals, the Duke could ignite the metal. The hilt would shade his hand from the intense ultraviolet emission; no doubt he’d pull a cloak over his face with the other hand. His opponents would have to flee. Well, such an emergency aid was nice for a mortal man too.

  Having slept fitfully, Holger, Hugi, and Alianora caught a two or three hours’ nap before breakfast. When the Dane awoke, he found himself naked. His Faerie garments had vanished. That was rather petty of Alfric, he thought. Luckily, Alianora was still asleep: not that he supposed she would have been embarrassed, but he would. He scrambled into his old traveling clothes, including hauberk and helmet.

  More refreshed than he had expected, they prepared to ride on. Alianor
a still had the unicorn; he wondered what her influence over the shy beast was. “Now where should we go?” he asked.

  “I dinna know for certain,” she replied, “save that we’d best seek dwellings o’ men. ’Tis clear that Faerie is out after ye, Holger”—she used the intimate pronoun now, and smiled adoringly at him—“but the soulless ones canna go nigh a kirk, so we can at least gain a respite. Afterward, though, we must seek a shielding o’ powerful magic, white magic.”

  “Where?”

  “I ken one warlock, in Tarnberg village, with a good heart and some skill. Thither should we wend, methinks.”

  “Okay. But what if this local marvel finds he can’t bat against the big-league pitchers?” Holger saw bewilderment begin to mar her worshipful gaze and hastily explained, “I mean, supposing a country practitioner like that can’t match himself with such experts as Alfric and Morgan le Fay?”

  “Then belike ye should seek the Empire. ’Tis far to the west, a hard perilous journey, but they’d welcome a strong knicht. “She sighed, misty-eyed. “And no since Carl’s day has there been one like ye.”

  “Who was this Carl?” he asked. “I’ve heard the name before.”

  “Why, the founder o’ the Holy Empire. The king who made Christendie strong and rolled the Saracens back into Spain. Carl the Great, Carolus Magnus, surely ye’ve heard o’ him.”

  “Mmmm... maybe I have.” Holger searched his mind. It was hard to tell what part of his knowledge came from his education and what from those inexplicable memories that were rising even more often within him. “Do you mean Charlemagne?”

  “So some call him. I see his fame has reached even to your South Carolina. ’Tis said he had many bold knights to serve him, though I’ve only heard tales o’ that Roland who fell at Roncesvalles.”

  Holger’s brain went into a spin. Was he really in the past? No, impossible. And yet Charlemagne was certainly a historical figure.

  Ah, he had it. The Carolingian cycle, the Chansons de Geste, the later medieval prose romances and folk ballads. Yes, that fitted. Fairyland and Saracens, swan-mays and unicorns, witchcraft and Elf Hill, Roland and Oliver—Holy jumping Judas! Had he somehow fallen into a... a book?