Three Hearts and Three Lions

by Poul Anderson

  Reluctantly, he followed. The pike glided behind. His throat was almost too tight for speech, but he managed conversation: “Did you say the barbarians make you offerings?”

  “Aye.” Her laughter jeered. “Each spring they troop hither to do worship and cast into the lake that which they think will please me. Some does.” She parted a living arras. “I bring the gifts here to my treasury. The foolish ones are always good for a jest, if naught else.”

  Holger was first aware of the bones. Rusel must have whiled away many hours arranging the parts of skeletons in artistic patterns. The skulls which studded that lattice had jewels in their eyesockets. Elsewhere were stacked cups, plates, ornaments, looted from civilized lands by the heathen or not unskillfully made by their own smiths. In one corner was a disordered heap of miscellaneous objects that must also have been considered valuable by the tribesmen (if they were not simply sloughing their white elephants off on the demon)—water-ruined books from some monastery, a crystal globe, a dragon’s tooth, a broken statuette, a child’s sodden rag doll at which Holger found his eyes stinging a little, and junk less identifiable after long immersion. The nixie burrowed into the pile with both arms.

  “So they give you humans,” said Holger, very softly.

  “A youth and a maiden each year. I’ve really no use for them. I’m not a troll or a cannibal woman to enjoy such meat, but they seem to think so. And the sacrifices do wear the most beautiful costumes.” Rusel threw him a glance over her shoulder, as innocent as the look of a cat. She had no soul.

  With a surge of strength under the white skin she hauled the grindstone forth. The wooden framework appeared rotten and the bronze fittings were badly corroded; but the wheel did still respond to the crank. “Aren’t my baubles pretty?” she asked, waving her hand around the room. “Choose what you wish. Anything, my lord, just so you include myself.”

  In spite of the bones, Holger must force his words: “Let’s take care of the dagger first. Can you turn the wheel?”

  “As fast as you like. Try me.” Her look suggested he was welcome to try anything. But she planted her feet on the sand and whirled the crank till he felt a vortex in the water. More loud than through air, the drone entered his ears, and the whine as he laid the knife to the wheel.

  The pike crowded close, their gaunt heads aimed at him.

  “Faster,” he said. “If you can.”

  “Aye!” Metal screamed. The frame vibrated; green flakes drifted from the bolts. Christ, let this thing hold together long enough!

  The pike flicked themselves closer. Rusel was taking no chances while he held a weapon. Her pets could strip him of flesh in three minutes. Holger rallied what courage remained to him and narrowed his attention to the dagger. He didn’t know if his scheme would work. But even here under the lake, the blade must be heating up, and he could see the fine cloud of metal dust grow thicker around its edge.

  “Are you done?” panted Rusel. Her hair had plastered itself to shoulders and breasts and belly. The amber eyes smoldered at him.

  “Not yet. Faster!” He leaned his mass against the knife.

  The flare nearly blinded him. Magnesium will burn in water.

  Rusel shrieked. Holger guarded his face with one hand and swung the knife at the fish. One of them slashed his calf. He kicked himself free, broke through the green curtains and upward.

  The nixie circled beyond the blue-white glare, beyond the range of his own dazzled eyes. She yelled at her pike. One darted near. Holger waved the torch and it fled. Either the fish couldn’t stand the ultra-violet themselves or—more likely—Rusel’s influence over them was bounded by distance like all magic, and she couldn’t get near enough to Holger to set the water wolves on him.

  He kicked with his legs and clawed with his free hand. Would he never reach the top? As if across light-years he heard the nixie’s tone change to softness. “’Olger, ’Olger, would you leave me? You’ll ride to your doom in a barren land. ’Olger, come back. You know not what pleasures we could have—”

  He screwed his will power tight and plowed on. Her rage burst forth. “Die, then!” Suddenly he inhaled water. The spell was off him. He choked. His lungs seemed to catch fire. He almost dropped his magnesium torch. He saw Rusel dart near in a cloud of her pike. He thrust her back with the cruel light, closed his mouth and swam. Up, up, darkness roiled in his brain, strength drained from his muscles, but up.

  He broke the surface, coughed, spat, and gulped his chest full of air. A gibbous moon touched the lake with broken light. He held the torch below while he floundered toward the gray shore. It burned out just as he waded into the reeds. He ran to get well inland before he collapsed.

  The cold struck his wet clothes and went on through. He lay with clattering teeth and waited for enough energy to seek the camp. He didn’t feel victorious. He’d won this round, but there would be others. And... and... oh, damn everything, why did he have to escape so soon?

  20

  AT LAST HE MADE his plashy way back. The stone lifted from the ground like a ship, black in the night, and those moon-tinged clouds that the wind whipped along behind it gave an illusion that the ship was under weigh. Through what seas? wondered Holger. The fire had burned to embers, a riding light the color of clotted blood. As he crawled up on top, he saw the horses bunched together in a shadowy mass that might have been a cabin amidships. Carahue stood at the prow, staring north. The wind that skirled as if through unseen shrouds flapped his cloak with cracking noises. Moonlight shimmered off his drawn saber.

  A furious little form seized Holger at the waist and tried to shake him. “Mon, where’ve ye been the while?” cried Hugi. “We’ve been fretted sick o’er ye. Na word or track past the lake’s edge, till ye return soaked and reeking o’ wicked places. Wha’ happened?”

  Carahue half turned, so that Holger caught the gleam of an eye under the spiked helmet. But the Saracen’s attention remained afar. Holger looked that way. The edge of this vale cut off view of the mountains beyond; he thought, though, he saw a dim wavering redness, as if a great fire burned somewhere there.

  Fear struck him. “Where’s Alianora?” he snapped.

  “Gone in search of you, Sir Rupert,” Carahue answered. His tone remained smooth. “When we could not trace you, she assumed swan guise to look from above. That blaze yonder had already been kindled, and I fear she went thither. There can be no good gathering around it, in this land.”

  “And you didn’t stop her?” Rage drove the cold from Holger. He walked stiff-legged toward the Moor. “By God’s bones—”

  “Pray enlighten me, gentle knight,” said Carahue in his most buttered voice. “How was I to stop her when she announced her intention and was airborne before I could seize her?” He sighed. “Such a seizable damosel, too.”

  “Ha’ done,” growled Hugi. “Tell us richt the noo where ye went... uh... Rupert.” As Holger hesitated, the dwarf stamped his foot and added, “Aye, well I know somehoo the enemy’s made a fool o’ ye yet again. We maun hear how ’twas this time, that we may know what t’ await.”

  The strength poured from Holger. He sat down, hugged his knees, and recited fully how he had been caught and had escaped. Hugi tugged his beard and muttered. “Och, so, so, aye, a tricksy nixie. I’m no ane to boast I tauld ye so, and thus I’ll say no word about hoo I warned this were a bad spot for us. Remember the next time, and heed me. I’m more oft richt than wrong, as nobbut ma modesty forbids me to prove wi’ many a tale oot o’ ma past, like yon time when a manticore were lurking in the Grotto o’ Gawyr and I tauld puir young Sir Turold and I tauld him—”

  Carahue ignored the background noise to drawl, “Meseems the fulfillment of your vow has more than common importance, Sir Rupert, if the way is made this difficult.”

  Holger was too tired and discouraged to head off the Saracen’s suspicion with a claim that everything had been mere coincidence. He removed his clothes and was looking about for a towel when a whirr overhead and a white flash made him b
reak all records for the resuming of soggy pants.

  Alianora landed and became human. She drew a gasp when she saw Holger, took a step toward him, and checked herself. He couldn’t read her expression in the coal-glow; she was only a supple shadow edged with red. “So ye’re safe,” she greeted him, coolly enough. “Good. I o’erflew that encampment lighting up the sky, atop a bald peak, and got news.” Her voice trailed off. She shuddered and turned toward Carahue as if seeking warmth. Teeth sparkled in his beard. He took his cloak off and threw it over her shoulders.

  “What saw you, bravest as well as fairest of maidens?” he murmured, making rather more fuss than necessary about adjusting the garment on her.

  “A coven was met.” She stared past them, into the darkness that streamed and whimpered under the moon. “I’ve never seen the like erenow, but it must have been a coven. Thirteen men stood about the balefire that was kindled before a great altar stone where a crucifix big as life lay broken. Most o’ the men were savage chiefs, to judge from their plumes and skin garb. A few must ha’ flown hither from the south... old they were, old, wi’ sic evil writ on their faces in the firelicht that the sight nigh blasted me from the air. Beyond the licht, where I could scarce see them, waited creatures. Och, glad I am they were in the darkness, for I fear that wha’ little I saw will stand ’fore me in dreams. Yet the coven watched the altar stone, where bled a—” She gulped and must force the words out—”a wee babe, slaughtered like any pig. And a blackness were forming atop the altar, taller nor a man... I turned and fled. That were an hour or more agone. Not e’en for ye could I bring myself down again, ’twere no possible, ere the clean winds had blown some o’ the grue out o’ me.”

  She sank to her knees and covered her face. Carahue stooped over her, but she pushed him aside. Hugi’s gnarled shape approached, laid an arm over her back, and took her hand. She clung to the dwarf. The breath hissed between her lips.

  Carahue went to Holger and said grimly, “So ’tis true what I heard in Huy Braseal and what has been rumored among men since my return. Chaos arms for war.”

  He stood a while longer, silent among shadows, before he raised his sword a trifle and said, “My last time on earth, hundreds of years agone, I once wandered into these same marchlands. In those days the hillmen were heathen too, but a clean sort of heathen. They did not worship devils nor eat human flesh. They’ve been corrupted, to be the instruments of man’s enemy. Their chiefs have been received into the coven, and the coven gives those chiefs orders to lead the tribesmen against the valley folk. Mayhap this meeting tonight was the last of many. The cannibals may start gathering their hosts tomorrow.”

  “I think so,” Holger answered mechanically.

  “You think much you do not choose to relate,“ Carahue said.

  He thrust his blade into its sheath. “No matter. We need sleep worse than we need talk. Another time I shall take up certain questions with you.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Holger.

  He hadn’t expected he could sleep at all, and certainly his slumber was not restful, an uneasy half-consciousness crawling with visions. He was glad when Hugi roused him to take his watch, gladder still when day broke.

  They bolted their rations, saddled their horses, and were off. Holger did not look back at the lake, where it glimmered beneath white vapors, and soon it was far behind. The weather had turned chill, a scud of gray clouds under a leaden overcast. The mountain slopes up which the party rode grew ever more barren, until nothing covered them but clumps of harsh silvery grass. Pinnacles thrust eroded outlines across a horizon dominated in the north by a sheer scarp. Alianora said they must climb this, through a gap she had spotted from the air, to get out on the wold. There were easier passes, but those lay too close to the savage towns. Nobody dwelt near this one.

  Hugi wrinkled his nose and spat. “Aye, well micht they folk shun these parts,” he rumbled. “Each step forward strengthens the troll stench. Yon cliff maun be riddled wi’ his caves and burrows.”

  Holger stole a glance at Alianora’s troubled face, where she rode between him and Carahue. “We’ve overcome quite a variety of creatures thus far,” he said, hoping to cheer her. “Witches, Pharisees, a dragon, a giant, a werewolf. What’s a troll among friends, except a Christmas song?”

  “Eh?” Startled, she blinked at him.

  “Sure.” But he discovered that the Romance language would not render the English phrase: “Troll, the ancient Yuletide carol. “

  Hugi said dourly, “Methinks I’d liefer face all oor past playmates rolled into ane, than the haunter o’ yon pass. Like a wolverine to a bear, so be a troll to a giant. Not so big, mayhap, but fierce beyond measure, cunning, and gripsome o’ life. Many giants ha’ been killed by mortal men, this way or that, but the tale is that no knicht ha’ ever come off victor against a troll.”

  “So?” Carahue lifted his brows. “Are they not pained by iron?”

  “Aye. That is, iron will burn ’em, as a red-hot poker’ud burn ye. Yet ye micht easily overcome a man who fought ye wi’ sic a weapon, and soon recover from what wounds ye got. Trolls are akin to the ghouls, and thus may gang near holiness if it be not too great. Yer cross will give scant help unless ye be a saint. More I dinna know, for few who saw a troll ha’ e’er returned to describe habits nor habitat.”

  “It would be a famous exploit to slay one,” said Carahue on a note of chivalrous ambition. Me, I’ll stay obscure if I may, Holger thought.

  They plodded on. It was near noon when they emerged from a rocky defile and spied the hillmen.

  There was no warning. Holger reined in with a curse. His heart slammed against his ribs, once, before he lost fear in simple urgency. He stared ahead. Whetted, his eyes saw with the fullness of vision by lightning.

  There were perhaps a score, dogtrotting from the north, down the mountainside. They swerved as they glimpsed him and approached quickly. Their cries were like dogs barking.

  The leader was big and gaunt, his yellow hair and beard in twin braids, his face painted in red and blue stripes. A headdress of plumes and ox horns rose over him. His shoulders were covered by a mantle of badger skins, his midriff by a shaggy kilt. But he had a steel battle ax in his hand.

  The others were similar. Axes, swords, spears gleamed among them. One wore the rusty tilting helmet of some murdered knight, a horrible faceless thing to see upon his naked body. Another blew a wooden whistle as he ran; the notes trilled between wolfish voices.

  “Back!” exclaimed Carahue. “We’ll have to flee!”

  “We can’t escape them,” groaned Holger. “Men can run down horses. And we’ve got to reach St. Grimmin’s soon.”

  A javelin clattered yards before him, “Get aloft Alianora!” he shouted.

  “Nay,” she said. One hand clutched blindly for his.

  “You can fight better thus,” said Carahue. Holger wished his own wits operated that quickly. The girl nodded, kicked loose from her stirrups, and transformed. The swan rose in a thunder of wings.

  The war band stopped. A yell went up. Several covered their eyes. “Allah akbar!” exploded Carahue. “They’re terrified of magic. Merciful saints, I meant to say.”

  The swan dove toward the savages. The leader shook his ax at her, snatched a bow from one of the men and nocked an arrow. The swan veered just in time. The leader shouted at his men, uncouth noises borne faintly down the wind to his quarry. He kicked those who had fallen prostrate until they climbed to their feet.

  “Aye.” Hugi’s mouth tightened in the white beard. “That un be in the coven. He’s seen worse witchcraft nor this. He’s heartening the others to rush on against us.”

  “Their nerve is none too steady, though,” said Carahue, lightly as if he sat at a banquet. He strung his own short double-curbed bow. “Could we pull another trick or two—” He cocked an eye at Holger.

  The Dane thought wildly of parlor tricks, of urging the cannibal chief to take a card, any card... Wait! “Hugi,” he gasped, “Str
ike me a light—”

  “What is’t ye do?”

  “Light! Damn your questions! Fast!”

  The dwarf got flint and steel from his belt pouch while Holger stuffed his pipe. His fingers shook. By the time he had it lit, the hillmen were horribly close. He could see the scar on one cheek, the bone in another nose; he heard their bare feet slap the ground, almost he heard their breath. He inhaled, raggedly, to fill his mouth with smoke.

  He exhaled.

  The savages skidded to a halt. Holger fumed till his eyes smarted and his nose ran. God be praised, there was no wind just now. He guided Papillon with his knees, raising his cloak behind his head with both hands, to provide a dark backdrop for the smoke. Slowly, he rode toward the warriors. They had stopped dead. He saw them waver. Their jaws were slack and their eyes a-bug.

  Holger flapped his arms. “Boo!” he shouted.

  One minute afterward, the heathen were out of sight. The slope was littered with weapons they had dropped. Their screams drifted from the ravine into which they had bolted. The leader held his place alone. Holger drew sword. The leader snarled and ran too. Carahue shot an arrow after him, but missed.

  Alianora landed, became a girl, threw herself against the Dane and hugged his leg. “Oh, Holger, Holger,” she choked. Carahue dropped his bow to clutch his sides, for the echoes had begun to ring with his laughter.

  “Genius!” he whopped. “Sheer genius! Rupert, I love you for this!”

  Holger smiled shakily. He’d simply taken another crib from literature—the Connecticut Yankee—but there was no reason to discuss that point. Enough that it had worked.

  “Let’s get going,” he said. “Their boss may yet whip some courage back into them.”

  Alianora sprang to the saddle. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked happier than she had for some time. Hugi observed grumpily, “Aye, their guts oozed oot fast enough. Yet ’twas ne’er said yon breed are aught but bonny fighters. Why should they shy from a seeming touch o’ wizardry? Because o’ late they’ve seen so much o’ ’t, and so nasty, that their nerves are close to breaking. That’s all. We’ve no seen the last o’ them.”