“Good journey to ye, Sir Holger,” said Mother Gerd as he walked outside.
“I... I’ll remember you in my prayers,” he said, thinking that would be an appropriate thanks in this land.
“Aye, do so, Sir Holger!” She turned from him with a disquieting shrill laughter and vanished into the house.
Hugi gave his belt a hitch. “Come on, come on, ma knichtly loon, let’s na stay the day,” he muttered. “Who fares to Faerie maun ride a swift steed.”
Holger mounted Papillon and gave Hugi a hand up. The tiny man hunkered down on the saddlebow and pointed east. “That way,” he said, “’Tis a twa-three days’ ganging to Alfric’s cot, so off we glump.”
The horse fell into motion and the house was soon lost behind them. The game trail they followed today was comparatively broad. They rode under tall trees, in a still green light that was full of rustlings and birdcalls, muted hoofbeats, creak of leather and jingle of iron. The day was cool and fair.
For the first time since waking, Holger remembered his wound. There was no ache. The fantastic medication had really worked.
But this whole affair was so fantastic that— He thrust all questions firmly back. One thing at a time. Somehow, unless he was dreaming (and he doubted that more and more; what dream was ever so coherent?) he had fallen into a realm beyond his own time, perhaps beyond his whole world: a realm where they believed in witchcraft and fairies, where they certainly had one genuine dwarf and one deucedly queer creature named Samiel. So take one thing at a time, go slow and easy.
The advice was hard to follow. Not only his own situation, but the remembrance of home, the wondering what had happened there, the hideous fear that he might be caught here forever, grabbed at him. Sharply he remembered the graceful spires of Copenhagen, the moors and beaches and wide horizons of Jutland, ancient towns nestled in green dales on the islands, the skyward arrogance of New York and the mist in San Francisco Bay turned gold with sunset, friends and loves and the million small things which were home. He wanted to run away, run crying for help till he found home again—no, none of that! He was here, and could only keep going. If this character in Faerie (wherever that might be) could help him, there was still hope. Meanwhile, he could be grateful that he wasn’t very imaginative or excitable.
He glanced at the hairy little fellow riding before him. “You’re kind to do this,” he ventured. “I wish I could repay you somehow.”
“Na, I do ’t in the witch’s service,” said Hugi. “No that I’m boond to her, see ye. ’Tis but that noo and oftimes some o’ us forest folk help her, chop wood or fetch water or run errands like this. Then she does for us in return. I canna say I like the old bat much, but she’ll gi’ me mickle a stoup o’ her bra bricht ale for this.”
“Why, she seemed... nice.”
“Oh, ah, she’s wi’ a smooth tongue when she wills, aye, aye.” Hugi chuckled morbidly. “’Twas e’en so she flattered young Sir Magnus when he came riding, many and many a year ago. But she deals in black arts. She’s a tricksy un, though no sa powerful, can but summon a few petty demons and is apt to make mistakes in her spells.“ He grinned. “I recall one time a peasant in the Westerdales did gi’ her offense, and she swore she’d blight his crops for him. Whether ’twas the priest’s blessing he got, or her own clumsiness, I know na, but after long puffing and striving, she’d done naught but kill the thistles in his fields. Ever she tries to curry favor wi’ the Middle World lords, so they’ll grant her more power, but thus far she’s had scant gain o’ ’t.”
“Ummm—” That didn’t sound so good. “What happened to this Sir Magnus?” asked Holger.
“Oh, at the last, crocodiles ate him, methinks.”
They rode on in silence. Eventually Holger asked what a woods dwarf did. Hugi said his people lived in the forest—which seemed of enormous extent—off mushrooms and nuts and such, and had a working arrangement with the lesser animals like rabbits and squirrels. They had no inherent magical powers, such as the true Faerie dwellers did, but on the other hand they had no fear of iron or silver or holy symbols.
“We’ll ha’ naught to do wi’ the wars in this uneasy land,” said Hugi. “We’ll bide our ain lives and let Heaven, Hell, Earth, and the Middle World fight it oot as they will. And when you proud lairds ha’ laid each the other oot, stiff and stark, we’ll still be here. A pox on ’em all!” Holger got the impression that this race resented the snubs they had from men and Middle Worlders alike.
He said hesitantly, “Now you’ve made me unsure. If Mother Gerd means no good, why should I follow her advice and go to Faerie?”
“Why, indeed?” shrugged Hugi. “Only mind, I didna say she was always evil. If she bears ye no grudge, she micht well ha’ ta’en the whim to aid ye in truth. E’en Duke Alfric may help, just for the fun in such a new riddle as ye seem to offer. Ye canna tell wha’ the Faerie folk will do next. They canna tell theirselves, nor care. They live in wildness, which is why they be o’ the dark Chaos side in this war.”
That didn’t help a bit. Faerie was the only hope he had been given of returning home, and yet he might have been directed into a trap. Though why anyone should bother to trap a penniless foreigner like himself—
“Hugi,” he asked, “would you willingly lead me into trouble?”
“Nay, seeing ye’re no foe o’ mine, indeed a good sort, no like some I could name.” The dwarf spat. “I dinna know what Mother Gerd has in mind, nor care I overmuch. I’ve told ye what I do know. If ye still want to gang Faeriewards, I’ll guide ye.”
“And what happens then is no concern of yours, eh?”
“Richt. The wee uns learn to mind their ain affairs.”
Bitterness edged the foghorn bass. Holger reflected that it might be turned to his own ends. He wasn’t altogether a stranger to people with overcompensated inferiority complexes. And surely Hugi could give more help than simply guiding him into he knew not what.
“I’m thirsty,” he said. “Shall we stop for a short snort?”
“A short what?” Hugi wrinkled his leathery face.
“Snort. You know, a drink.”
“Snort... drink... Haw, haw, haw!” Hugi slapped his thigh. “A guid twist, ’tis. A short snort. I maun remember ’t, to use i’ the woodsy burrows. A short snort!”
“Well, how about it? I thought I heard something clink in that bundle of food.”
Hugi smacked his lips. They reined in and untied the witch’s gift. Yes, a couple of clay flasks. Holger unstoppered one and offered Hugi the first pull, which surprised the dwarf. But he took good advantage of it, his Adam’s apple fluttering blissfully under the snowy beard, till he belched and handed the bottle over.
He seemed puzzled when they rode on. “Ye’ve unco manners, Sir Holger,” he said. “Ye canna be a knicht o’ the Empire, nor e’en a Saracen.”
“No,” said Holger. “I’m from rather farther away. Where I come from, we reckon one man as good as the next.”
The beady eyes regarded him closely from beneath shaggy brows. “An eldritch notion,” said Hugi. “Hoo’ll ye steer the realm if commons may sup wi’ the gentle?”
“We manage. Everybody has a voice in the government.”
“But that canna be! ’Tis but ane babble then, and naught done.”
“We tried the other way for a long time, but leaders born were so often weak, foolish, or cruel that we thought we could hardly be worse off. Nowadays in my country the king does little more than preside. Most nations have done away with kings altogether.”
“Hum, hum, ’tis vurra strange talk, though in truth—why, this makes me think ye maun be o’ the Chaos forces yerselves.”