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!”