“I’ll accompany you into the hill,” she said. “I’ve no mind to let some elvish hussy steal you.”
“Why, isn’t everyone coming?” he asked.
“Presently. You and I are to go in first. The others will follow later. You shall see how ’tis planned.”
Holger thought of death traps and dismissed the notion, since one of their own would be with him.
The procession wound out of the gates, over the bridge, across the lawns toward Elf Hill of the roses. Behind him curveted warriors on horseback, banners flying from their lances, musicians playing horns and harps and lutes, a hundred lords and ladies of Faerie, who danced as they neared the mound. And now Holger heard music which rose to answer theirs, a skirling sweetness that entered his blood and roiled in his head. He smiled down at Meriven, all at once eager, and she laughed back and hung close on his arm. Her loose pale hair blew up across his face, half blinding him, the perfumes like a taste of strong wine. The hill opened. Through Meriven’s tresses he glimpsed wavering lights, against which tall figures stood black. The music hurried his feet for him, he couldn’t wait.
Hoofbeats hammered in the earth. A horse neighed, loud and angry. Holger whirled to see Alianora on Papillon, galloping out of the woods. Her face was distorted with terror.
“Holger! Nay, Holger, not in there!”
9
BEHIND HIM ALFRIC SHOUTED a curse. A spear flashed through the air, hardly missing the girl. Holger stood locked in amazement. “Get him in the hill!” yelled Alfric.
Meriven pulled at his arm. Three Pharisee men plunged forward like football tackles. A sudden rage snapped up into Holger. He launched himself to meet them. The nearest he stiff-armed, letting him drop with a grunt and lie quietly. His right fist swung around, trailing Meriven, and smashed another handsome face. The third warrior he dodged. A horseman loomed before him, lance almost in his ribs. He tore the grimly clinging Meriven loose, lifted her above his head, and pitched her at the rider’s midriff. Both went over the horse’s crupper.
Three chevaliers had closed in on Alianora. Papillon reared, struck out with his forefeet, and sent one clattering from the saddle. Whirling, the huge black stallion bit a chunk out of the next Faerie horse, which screamed and bolted. The third rider slashed at Alianora. She ducked his sword and sprang to the ground.
“Hai!” She had leaped almost into the arms of a velvet-clad Pharisee lord. He grabbed her, grinning as she tried to writhe free. But then he held a swan. And swans have vicious tempers.
“Yi!” he shouted as she pecked at his eyes. “Yee!” he added as a wing-buffet nearly broke his jaw. “Help!” he finished when she nipped off a finger, and dropped her and fled.
The Faerie lords boiled around Holger, hewing and thrusting at his unarmored body. He was too excited to feel any hurts. A remote part of him wondered at the incredible luck which was letting him by with minor flesh wounds. Could it be luck? He fed the nearest enemy a mouthful of knuckles, snatched the fellow’s sword, and hacked around him. The blade was lighter than iron, he could swing it one-handed, but the edge was keen. An axman cut at his bare head. He caught the haft with his free hand, wrenched it loose, and waded into the Pharisees with ax and sword.
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 gathering 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.”