Three Hearts and Three Lions by Poul Anderson

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