Anderson, Poul - Three Hearts & Three Lions by Anderson Poul

Author:Anderson, Poul
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

13

AFTERNOON FOUND THEM still descending, but at a gentler pace and in milder air than before lunch. The woodland, oak and beech and scattered firs, revealed signs of man: stumps, second growth, underbrush grazed off, razorback shoats, at last a road of sorts twisting toward the village Alianora expected they could reach today. Exhausted by his encounter with Balamorg, Holger drowsed in the saddle. Birdsong lulled him so that hours went by before he noticed that that was the only noise.

They passed a farmstead. The thatched log house and sheep-folds bespoke a well-to-do owner. But no smoke rose; nothing stirred save a crow that hopped in the empty pens and jeered at them. Hugi pointed to the trail. ‘As I read the marks, he drave his flocks toonward some days agone,’ said the dwarf.

‘Why?’

The sunlight that poured through leafy arches felt less warm to Holger than it had.

At evening they emerged in cleared land. Ripening grainfields stretched ahead, doubtless cultivated by the villagers. The sun had gone down behind the forest, which stood black to the west against a few lingering red gleams. Eastward over the mountains, the first stars blinked forth. There was just enough light for Holger to see a dustcloud a mile or so down the road. He clucked at Papillon and the stallion broke into a weary trot. Alianora, who had amused herself buzzing the bats that emerged with sunset, landed behind the man and resumed her own species. ‘No sense in alarming yon folk,’ she said.

‘Whate’er’s their trouble, ‘twill ha’ made them shy enough.’

Hugi’s big nose snuffed the air. ‘They’re driving sheep and cattle within the walls,’ he said. ‘Eigh, how rank wi’ sic smell! And yet’s a whiff underneath... sweat smells sharper when a man’s afeared... an’ a ghost o’ summat else, spooky.’ He huddled back on the saddlebow, against Holger’s mailed breast.

The flocks were considerable. They spilled off the road and across the grain. The boys and dogs who ran about rounding up strays trampled swathes of their own. Some emergency must have forced this, Holger decided. He drew rein as several spearmen challenged him. Squinting through the dusk, he saw the peasants were a sturdy, fair-complexioned folk, bearded and long-haired, clad in rough wadmal coats and cross-gaitered pants. They were too stolid to be made hysterical, but the voices which asked his name were harsh with unease.

‘Sir Holger du Danemark and two friends,’ he said. No use explaining the long-winded truth. ‘We come in peace, and would like to stay the night.’

“Olger?’ A burly middle-aged man who seemed a leader let his spear down and scratched his head.

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