Three hearts and three lions

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!”

Papillon neighed. Turning, Holger saw a long form of spotted yellow glide toward the lake. A leopard! His sword was out and aloft before he knew it.

“Nay, nay, hold.” Hugi tried to grab his arm, couldn’t reach far enough, and settled for his legs. “He comes in peace. He’ll no set on ye unless ye offer ill to the swan-may.”

The leopard flowed to a halt, sat down, and watched them with cool amber eyes. Holger sheathed his blade again. Sweat prickled him. Just when these wilds were becoming familiar, something like this had to happen.

Wings beat overhead. “’Tis she!” cried Hugi. He jumped about, waving his arms. “Hallo, there, hallo, come on doon!”

The swan fluttered to earth a yard away. It was the biggest one Holger had ever seen. The evening light burned gold on its plumage. He took an awkward step forward, wondering how you introduced yourself to a swan. The bird flapped its wings and backed away.

“Nay, nay, be naught afeared, Alianora.” Hugi darted between. “He’s a bra sire who’d but ha’ speech wi’ ye.”

The swan stopped, poised, spread its wings wide and stood on tiptoe. Its body lengthened, the neck shrank, the wings narrowed—“Jesu Kriste!” yelled Holger and crossed himself. A woman stood there.

No, a girl. She couldn’t be over eighteen: a tall slender young shape, lithe and sun-browned, with bronze-colored hair loose over her shoulders, huge gray eyes, a few freckles across a pert snub nose, a mouth wide and gentle—why, she was beautiful! Almost without thought, Holger slipped his chinstrap free, doffed helmet and cap, and bowed to her.

She approached shyly, fluttering long sooty lashes. Her only garment was a brief tunic, sleeveless and form-fitting, that seemed to be woven of white feathers; her bare feet were soundless in the grass. “So ’tis ye, Hugi,” she said, with more than a hint of the dwarf’s burr in her soft contralto. “Welcome. Also ye, Sir Knight, sith ye be a friend to my friend.”

The leopard crouched, switched its tail and gave Holger a suspicious look. Alianora smiled and went over to chuck it under the chin. It rubbed against her legs, purring like a Diesel engine.

“This long lad hight Sir Holger,” said Hugi importantly. “And as ye see, my fere, yon be the swan-may hersel’. Shall we sup?”

“Why—” Holger sought for words. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” He was careful to use the formal pronoun; she was timid of him, and the leopard was still present. “I hope we haven’t disturbed you.”

“Och, nay.” She smiled and relaxed. “The pleasure be mine. I see so few folk, sairly gallant knichts.” Her tone had no particular coquetry, she was only trying to match his courtliness.

“Ah, let’s eat,” growled Hugi. “Ma belly’s a-scraping o’ ma backbane.”

They sat down on the turf. Alianora’s teeth ripped the tough dark bread Holger offered as easily as the dwarf’s. No one spoke until they had finished, when the sun was on the horizon and shadows had grown as long as the world. Then Alianora looked directly at Holger and said: “There be a man seeking of ye, Sir Knicht. A Saracen. Is he friend o’ yours?”

“Ah, a, a Saracen?” Holger pulled his jaw back up with a click. “No. I’m a, a stranger. I don’t know any such person. You must be mistaken.”

“Mayhap,” said Alianora cautiously. “What brocht ye here unto me, though?”

Holger explained his difficulty, whether or not to trust the witch. The girl frowned, a tiny crease between level dark brows. “Now that, I fear, I canna tell,” she murmured. “But ye move in darksome company, Sir Knicht. Mother Gerd is no a good soul, and all know how tricksy Duke Alfric be.”

“So you think I’d best not go to him?”

“I canna say.” She looked distressed. “I know naught o’ the high ones in Faerie. I only ken a few o’ the lesser folk in the Middle World, some kobolds and nisser, a toadstool fay or two, and the like.”

Holger blinked. There they went again. No sooner had he begun to imagine he was sane, in a sane if improbable situation, than off they were, speaking of the supernatural as if it were part of everyday.

Well... maybe it was, here. Damnation, he’d just seen a swan turn into a human. Illusion or not, he didn’t think he could ever have seen that in his own world.

The initial shock and the inward numbness it brought were wearing off. He had begun to realize, with his whole being, how far he was from home, and how alone. He clenched his fists, trying not to curse or cry.

To keep his mind engaged, he asked, “What did you mean about a Saracen?”

“Oh, him.” The girl looked out across the twilit glimmer of the lake. Swallows darted and swooped out there, amid an enormous quietness. “I’ve no seen him mysel’, but the woods be full o’ the tale, moles mumble it in their burrows and the badgers talk o’ it to the otters, then kingfisher and crow get the word and cry it to all. So I hear that for many weeks now, a lone warrior, who must by his face and garb be a Saracen, has ridden about these parts inquiring after a Christian knicht he believes to be nigh. He’s no said why he wanted the man, but the aspect o’ him, as the Saracen relates, is yours: a blond giant on a black horse, bearing arms o’—” She glanced toward Papillon. “Nay, your shield is covered. The device he speaks of be three hearts and three lions.”

Holger stiffened. “I don’t know any Saracens,” he said. “I don’t know anyone here. I come from farther away than you understand.”

“May this be an enemy o’ yers, seeking ye oot to slay?” asked Hugi, interested. “Or a friend, e’en?”

“I tell you, I don’t know him!” Holger realized he had shouted. “Pardon me. I feel all at sea.”

Alianora widened her eyes. “All at sea? Oh, aye.” Her chuckle was a sweet sound. “A pretty phrase.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Holger recorded the fact for future use that the clichés of his world seemed to pass for new-coined wit here. But mostly he was busy thinking about the Saracen. Who the devil? The only Moslem he’d ever known had been that timid, bespectacled little Syrian at college. Under no circumstances would he have gone around in one of these lobster get-ups!

He, Holger, must have made off with the horse and equipment of a man who, coincidentally, resembled him. That could mean real trouble. No point in seeking out the Saracen warrior. Most certainly not.

A nihilistic mood of despair washed over him. “I’ll go to Faerie,” he said. “I don’t seem to have any other chance.”

“And a chancy place ’tis for mortals,” said Alianora gravely. She leaned forward. “Which side be ye on? Law or Chaos?”

Holger hesitated. “Ha’ no fear,” she urged. “I stand at peace wi’ most beings.”

“Law, I suppose,” he said slowly, “though I don’t know a thing of this wor—this land.”

“I thocht so,” said Alianora. “Well, I’m human too, and even if the minions o’ Law be often guzzling brutes, I think still I like their cause better than Chaos. So I’ll gang along wi’ ye. It may be I can give ye some help in the Middle World.”

Holger started to protest, but she raised a slender hand. “Nay, nay, speak no o’ it. ’Tis scant risk for me who can fly. And—” She laughed. “And it could be a richt merry adventure, methinks!”

Night was coming, with stars and dew. Holger spread his saddle blanket to sleep in, while Alianora went off saying she’d rather house in a tree. The man lay awake for a long time to watch the constellations. They were familiar, the late summer sky of northern Europe up there. But how far away was home? Or had distance any meaning?

He recalled that when Alianora changed into the human form, he had unthinkingly crossed himself. He’d never done so before in his life. Was it just the effect of this medieval environment, or part of the unconscious skills, language and riding and Lord knew what else, he had somehow gained? It was lonely, not even knowing yourself.

There were no mosquitoes here. For small blessings give praises. But he might have welcomed one, as a reminder of home.

Finally he slept.