Three hearts and three lions

6

THEIR DESCENT next morning was rapid, if precarious. Often Hugi yelped as Papillon’s hoofs slipped on the talus and they teetered over a blowing edge of infinity. Alianora stayed far overhead. She had a hair-raising sport of turning human in midair and going back to swan shape just in time to break her fall. After watching this Holger needed a steadying smoke quite badly. He couldn’t light the pipe until Hugi showed him how to use the flint and steel he now carried in the pouch at his belt. Damnation, why couldn’t they have matches in this world?

As they went through the pine wood, the twilight closed in like stormclouds. It deepened with every muffled step. Holger wondered whether they would be able to see at the end of the trip. His scalp prickled at the thought of groping blind through a country of trolls and werewolves and God knew what else.

The air grew warmer as they descended. When at length they emerged from the forest, the atmosphere was balmy, laden with incense-like odors of blossoms unknown to Holger. They entered an open, rolling valley, and Hugi gulped. “Noo we be within Faerie,” he muttered. “Hoo we gang oot again be another tale.”

Holger swept the landscape with a wondering look. Though the sun was hidden, the night he had feared was not fallen. He could identify no source of light, but saw almost as clearly as by day. The sky was a deep dusky blue, and the same blueness pervaded the air as if he rode under water. Grass grew long and soft, with a silvery hue overlying its pale green; white flowers starred the earth. Asphodels, Holger thought. But how did he know? Here and there he saw bushes of white roses. Trees stood alone and in copses, tall, slim, milky of bark, their leaves the color of the grass. The slow wind blew through them with a tiny ringing sound. He couldn’t gauge their distances well in this tricky shadowless light. A brook ran close by which did not tinkle but played, an endless melody on an alien scale. Phosphorescence eddied white and green and blue over the water.

Papillon snorted and shuddered. He didn’t like this place.

But where have I seen it before, just such a cool calm blue over wan trees and hills that melt into sky, where else has the wind blown thus singingly and the river chimed like bells of glass? Was it in a dream once long ago, half sleeping and half waking in the light summer night of Denmark, or was it in a year older and forgotten? I do not know. I do not think I wish to know.

They rode on. In that changeless luminance, time seemed fluid and unstable, so that they might have traveled for a minute or a century, but the vague landscape slipped past them and still they rode. Until the swan came rushing down again, landed with a thunder of wings and became Alianora.

There was fear on her face. “I saw a knicht bound hither,” she said breathlessly. “A knicht o’ Faerie. What he would, I canna tell.”

Holger felt his heart begin a heavy thumping, but he held his outward appearance calm. “We’ll find out.”

The stranger came over a ridge. He bestrode a tall horse, snowy white, with flowing mane and proudly arched neck; yet the beast was subtly wrong to look at, too long of leg, too small of head. The rider was in full plate armor, his visor down so that he showed no face; white plumes nodded on the helmet, his shield was blank and black, all else shimmered midnight blue. He halted and let Holger approach him.

When the Dane was close, the knight lowered his lance.

“Stand and declare yourself!” His voice had a resonant, metallic quality, not quite human.

Holger reined in. Papillon whickered on a defiant note. “I was sent by the witch Mother Gerd with a message for Duke Alfric.”

“First let me see your arms,” called the brass voice. “Hither come none unknown.”

Holger shrugged, to disguise his own unease. Reaching down, he unbuckled the shield where it hung and slipped it on his left arm. Hugi pulled off the canvas cover. “Here you are.”

The Faerie knight reared back his horse, spurred, and charged.

“Defend yersel’!” shrieked Hugi. He tumbled off the saddle. “He’s after yer life!”

Papillon sprang aside while Holger still gaped. The other horseman went past with a dull drumming of hoofs. He wheeled and came back, the spearhead aimed at Holger’s throat.

Blind reflex, then. Holger lowered his own lance, kicked Papillon, and lifted his shield to guard himself. The black stallion sprang forward. The enemy shape grew terribly close. His lance dipped toward Holger’s midriff. The Dane brought his own shield down and braced feet in stirrups.

They hit with a bang that sent echoes from hill to hill. Holger’s shield was jarred back against his stomach. He almost lost his lance as it caught the opponent’s visor. But the other shaft splintered, and the Faerie knight lurched in the saddle. Papillon pressed ahead. The stranger went over his horse’s tail.

He was on his feet at once, incredible that he could do so in full armor, and his sword hissed free. There was still no time to think. Holger had to let his body act for him, it knew what to do. He hewed at the dismounted enemy. Sword belled on sword. The Faerie knight hacked at Holger’s leg. The Dane turned the blow just in time. He himself crashed blade down on the plumed helmet. Metal rang aloud, and the foeman staggered.

Too clumsy, striking from above. Holger leaped to the ground. His foot caught in a stirrup and he went flat on his back. The stranger sprang at him. Holger kicked. Again that brazen clash; the warrior fell. Both scrambled up. The newcomer’s glaive clattered on Holger’s shield. Holger cut at the neck, trying to find an open joint in the plates. The Faerie warrior chopped low, seeking his unprotected legs. Holger skipped back. The other rushed at him, sword blurred with speed. Holger parried the blow in mid-air. The shock jarred in his muscles. The Faerie blade spun free. At once the stranger drew a knife and leaped close.

The broadsword wasn’t meant for thrusting, but Holger saw a crack above the gorget before him and stabbed inward. Sparks poured forth. The metal form reeled, sank to its knees, fell to the grass with a last rattle, and lay still.

Dizzily, a roar in his ears, Holger looked about. He saw the white horse fleeing eastward. Off to tell the Duke, he thought. Then Hugi was dancing and cheering around him, while Alianora clung to his arm and sobbed and exclaimed how splendidly he had done battle.

I? he thought. No, that wasn’t me. I don’t know a thing about swords and lances.

But who, then, won this fight?

Alianora bent over the fallen shape. “’He’s no bleeding,” she said huskily. “Yet belike he is slain, for the Pharisees canna endure touch o’ cold iron.”

Holger took a long breath. His mind began to clear. He saw his mistakes; yes, he should have stayed mounted and used his horse as a secondary weapon. He’d take better care next time. Briefly he wondered what the Faerie dwellers—Pharisees, as they seemed to be called, doubtless because an illiterate human population had gotten its Biblical references confused—he wondered what they used in place of steel. Aluminum alloys? Surely magic could extract aluminum from bauxite. Beryllium, magnesium, copper, nickel, chromium, manganese—

While doubtless correct, the idea of an elvish wizard with a spectroscope was funny enough to restore a balance in Holger. He startled his comrades by laughing aloud. “Well,” he said, a bit astonished at his own callousness, “let’s see what we’ve got.”

He knelt and opened the visor. Hollowness gaped at him. The armor was empty. It must have been empty all the time.