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. Alianora 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?
No, that didn’t make sense. It was much the most reasonable to keep on supposing this was another universe, a complete space-time continuum with its own laws of nature. Given a large enough number of such universes, one of them was bound to fit any arbitrary pattern, such as that of pre-Renaissance European legendry.
Though matters couldn’t be quite that simple. His irruption had not been into any random cosmos, for no reason whatsoever; too many elements of his experiences were too appropriate to something or other. So: between his home world and this, some connection existed. Not only the astronomy and geography showed parallels, the very details of history did. The Carl of this world could not be identical with the Charlemagne of his, but somehow they had fulfilled corresponding roles. The mystics, dreamers, poets, and hack writers of home had in some unconscious way been in tune with whatever force linked the two universes; the corpus of stories which they gradually evolved had been a better job of reporting than they knew.
Doubtless more than two continua were involved. Perhaps all were. All the uncounted stellar universes might be separate facets of one transcendental existence. Holger didn’t pursue that idea. He had more immediate questions. What else could he identify in this world?
Well, Hugi had spoken of Morgan as King Arthur’s sister. The Arthur! Holger wished he had read the old tales more closely; he had only a dim childhood recollection of them.
As for the rest, let’s see, Carl’s paladins had included Roland and Oliver and Huon and—whoa. Where did he remember Huon from? The dark strange face rose in his mind, the sardonic humor which had so often irritated the others: Huon de Bordeaux, yes, he had finally gone off and become a king or duke or something in Faerie. But how do he know that?
Hugi’s grumble broke his train of thought. Half-grasped memories scurried back down into hiding. “’Twill na be a funnish trip, this, if each nicht we maun list to they long-legged beasties howl beyond the firelicht.”
“Nay, I think no they’ll keep that up,” answered Alianora. “’Tis o’ no use to them, sairly now when they must be busied gathering their hosts for war.” She frowned. “Yet belike they’ll try summat else. Alfric’s no one to surrender a prey.”
That idea was scarcely pleasant company.
They scrambled higher into the hills, bearing northwest at the girl’s direction. By noon they were far up. Here the land was cliffs and crags and boulders, wiry grass, an occasional tree twisted and stunted. They could see widely on each side, from the receding darkness of Faerie to the stark heights they must cross, and straight down into canyons which rang with the noise of glacial rivers. The sky was pale, ragged streamers of cloud hurrying across it, the light chill and brilliant.
They took shelter behind a bluff when they stopped for lunch. Holger, gnawing away at a slab of stone-hard bread and a hunk of rubbery cheese, could not resist griping. “Is Denmark the only land in creation where they know how to make a decent sandwich? Now if you gave me some thin-sliced pumpernickel, baby shrimp, eggs and—”
“Ye cook too?” Alianora looked at him with awe.
“Uh, not exactly, but—”
She snuggled close against him. He found that a bit disconcerting, having grown up with the idea... or illusion... that the man takes the initiative. “Come the chance,” she murmured, “I shall fetch what ye require, and we shall ha’ us a feast, the two o’ us alone.”
“Hm,” said Hugi. “Methinks I’ll go squint at the weather.”
“Hey, come back!” yelped Holger, but the dwarf had already gone around the bluff.
“He’s a good little man,” said Alianora. She laid her arms around Holger’s neck. “He kens when a lass needs comforting.”
“Now, wait a minute. Look here, I mean, you’re awfully nice and I like you a lot. But. I mean— Oh, hell. Never mind.” Holger gathered her in.
Hugi landed almost in their laps. “A dragon!” he screamed. “A dragon flying hither!”
“Huh?” Holger jumped up, spilling Alianora. “What? Where?”
“A firedrake, och, och, ’tis been sent by Alfric and noo we’re done!” Hugi clung to the man’s knees. “Save us, Sir Knicht! Is ’t no yer business to slay dragons?”
Papillon snorted and shivered. The unicorn was already off. Alianora ran after it, whistling. It stopped long enough for her to spring on its back, and then leaped from sight. Holger snatched Hugi, mounted, and galloped on her trail.
As he topped the bluff, he could see the monster. It came from the south, still half a mile away, but already the thunderclap wingbeats hit his ears. Fifty feet long, he thought in a vortex of panic. Fifty feet of scale-armored muscle, a snake head which could swallow him in two bites, bat wings and iron talons. He didn’t need to spur Papillon. The horse was crazed with fear, running almost as fast as the unicorn. Sparks flew from his shod hoofs. The noise of them on rock was lost in the nearing roar of dragon wings.