Sword of Camelot

by Gilbert L. Morris

  “The melee? What's that?”

  “Well, it's actually a mock battle. You see down there—those are the red knights. They represent the king. And there, down the other side”—Reb looked to where she was pointing and saw a group of knights dressed in black—“those are the black knights.”

  “Well, what are they going to do?”

  “As I said, they are going to have a pretend sword battle. You see, they are lining up, and when my father gives the signal they will charge down the field toward each other.”

  Reb saw that the knights had drawn their swords. All were clad in full armor. “It does look pretty dangerous, doesn't it?”

  “Yes. See, there is Loren, my brother, at the head of the red knights. This is his second tournament. He did very well last year.” She looked down at the knights dressed in black. “These are the best knights of the kingdom. Do you see the man in front on the big black horse?”

  “Yep. He's not as big as a horse—but he ain't much littler either!”

  “His name is Sir Melchior.” A troubled look came into Elaine's eyes. “He's a troublesome man. My father says he's very ambitious.”

  “Well, he's a big one.”

  Reb was impressed with the chief of the black forces. Melchior was dressed from head to foot in gleaming armor, but over it he wore black. His helmet had a black ostrich plume, and he clasped a long sword that caught the gleam of the sunlight.

  At that moment a rider came out and announced, “Now, all will bear witness that honor must be maintained. Any man who falls from his horse must not be attacked. The king has commanded that mercy be shown the wounded.” The herald continued to give the regulations of the melee, then rode back to where King Dion sat on a platform.

  The king looked fondly at his son, then at the black forces, and raised his scepter. All the horsemen held their reins tightly ready for the signal. Then King Dion lowered the scepter, and the two forces, with a loud shout, began to gallop toward each other.

  Reb's eyes were wide as he watched. He blinked when the opposing riders came together with a crash. He saw Prince Loren parry a blow and knock one knight to the ground with a skillful thrust of his sword. The air was filled with the clanging of steel blades against blades, of the cry of pain as men were driven from their saddles, and the crash of armor as they fell to the ground.

  “Look! Melchior's going to strike that man who fell!” Elaine cried.

  Melchior, indeed, had knocked from his horse one of the chieftains wearing the colors of King Dion, and he raised his sword to strike the helpless man.

  Then a trumpet sounded. Melchior glanced up swiftly and saw the king glaring at him. He spoke to the wounded man. “Leave the arena.” Then he turned to enter the battle again.

  The melee went on for a long time. Man after man fell to the ground and limped off the field. The stable men came and led away their horses, some of them wounded as well.

  Finally, when the two sides had almost the same number of survivors, the king stood. “Enough! I declare a tie.”

  Both Melchior and Prince Loren began to protest.

  “Let us finish the melee,” the prince said.

  “No, we have had enough. You have proved your courage, my son. You and all of the men.”

  Melchior raised his visor. His eyes were hot with battle as he rode up to the platform where King Dion and the queen were sitting.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “you are wise to call off the melee.” He smiled, and his white teeth gleamed against his dark skin. He was not a man without charm, this Melchior, and he knew how to draw men to him and how to hold them. He was a strong man as well, in every way, and now he said, “Sire, let us have one more contest. That will settle the winner of the tournament.”

  A mutter ran around, and Loren said, “Yes, you and me, Sir Melchior, in a joust.”

  The two had jousted before, with Loren losing twice to the older, stronger man. He seemed anxious to redeem himself, but Melchior shook his head. “We are your guests, Your Majesty, and since the melee has been inconclusive, as a guest I ask you to put forth a man to joust with me, and I ask you also to let me choose that man.”

  King Dion stared at the tall form cloaked in black. The king was not a man to know fear—but if he were, this was the man he would have feared. He knew Melchior had gathered to himself discontented men, knights who had grudges against the crown and against the kingdom. He knew that daily Melchior's power grew. The king was suspicious, and yet he could sense the crowd's approval.

  “Very well, let it be so. Who do you choose as your opponent—Sir Gwin, perhaps?”

  “Sir Gwin is an opponent worthy of my steel,” Sir Melchior said. “But no.” Then he looked to the king's right where the Seven Sleepers sat on a somewhat lower platform. “I have heard of your guests the Seven Sleepers. I have especially heard of the one called ‘Reb,’ now ‘Sir Reb.’”

  Reb had been sitting loosely, watching the encounter with fascination, but now, as he saw the hard eyes of Sir Melchior fixed on him, he swallowed, and his face grew red. Everyone in the arena had turned to look at him, and he muttered, “How'd he hear about me, Princess?”

  “I don't know, but whatever he says, don't have anything to do with him. He's evil!” she whispered, her voice tense.

  Sir Melchior moved his horse, using only his knees. The huge stallion came to the front of the box where the Sleepers were sitting, and Melchior looked them over carefully. There was something sinister in the way he studied them.

  Josh's hand went to his sword instinctively. “He's up to something, Sarah,” he muttered. “I don't like the looks of it”

  Melchior held Reb's gaze for one moment, then looked at the king. “Would it not be fitting that your champion should be one whom you have just chosen for his bravery?”

  “He's but a boy!” King Dion protested.

  “I understand that he is a little more than that,” Sir Melchior stated flatly. “He has unhorsed some of your best knights, has he not?”

  “Well, that's true but—”

  “And I understand his courage is unquestioned since he saved your life by facing a wild boar. Have I heard correctly, Your Majesty?”

  “The boy is brave and a fine jouster—but I would not have him risk himself against a man such as yourself.”

  Melchior turned and looked at the Seven Sleepers. He smiled. “You are not a coward, I trust, Sir Reb?”

  Reb stood to his feet, overcome with anger. “I'll fight you,” he said. As soon as he had spoken, he knew that he had made a mistake.

  Josh's fierce whisper came, “Sit down, you fool. You can't fight a man like that!”

  But Sir Melchior had heard Reb's response. He turned to the king. “Now, there's a man with spirit! I like to see young men who take their honor seriously. When shall we have the contest, Your Majesty?”

  King Dion sought for a way to pull back. Somehow he knew this was going to be a disaster—but his honor was at stake, and the young man had accepted the challenge. Now he had no choice.

  “The joust between Sir Melchior and Sir Reb will take place at noon tomorrow.”

  The king then dismissed the crowd, and the Sleepers swarmed around Reb. All begged him to change his mind.

  Elaine was with them. She stood beside him, her eyes pleading. “Reb, you don't know what a cruel man Sir Melchior is. For some reason he hates you. I could see it.”

  “Shore, I could see it too,” Reb said slowly. “He hates all of us for some reason.”

  Josh said suddenly, “I wonder if he could be in the service of the Dark Lord?”

  His words brought a silence over the group.

  Finally Reb said, “Well, Dark Lord or not, I'm going to stop his clock! We'll just see if he can put his money where his mouth is!” His words were bold, but inside he was beginning to feel a little queasy.

  When the young men got back to their quarters, Josh and Dave tried to talk Reb into putting off the tournament. “Wait a week or two,” Dave sai
d. “You could get in some more practice, learn more about his style.”

  Josh agreed. “Yes, no one will think anything about that. After all, you're an amateur practically, and he's a professional.”

  But Reb's pride had been stirred. He shook his head, his jaw set grimly. “No, I'm going to fight that beast tomorrow or know the reason why!”

  Josh gave the boy a careful look and shook his head. “Someday, Reb, you're going to learn that sometimes wisdom is better than throwing yourself into a fight.”

  9

  The Revenge of Melchior

  The news of the contest between the young stranger Sir Reb and the mighty warrior Sir Melchior spread like wildfire. Long before noon the fields were crowded, and every knight and noble had packed himself into the stands. The gossip was that if Sir Melchior won the battle he would somehow make things hard for the king.

  “It's gotten to be kind of a symbol,” Josh said in a puzzled tone. He was standing off to one side with Sarah and the others as the three foremost knights in King Dion's service clustered around Reb, giving him advice.

  “I don't know about a symbol,” she said, “but somehow this joust has become more important than it should be.” She glanced toward Reb, who was looking from one knight to another, a confused expression spreading over his features. “Isn't there something we can do to talk him out of it?”

  Wash shook his head. “You know what he says about himself. He says he's stubborn as a bluenose mule—whatever that is. I tried all night to get him to change his mind. He just flat won't do it.”

  Abigail looked with apprehension down the field to where Sir Melchior was joking with one of his lieutenants. “It's just not fair,” she said, and then a light came into her eyes. “But wouldn't it be wonderful if Sir Reb beat that big bully?”

  “Not much chance of that, Abbey” Dave grunted. “From what I hear he's numero uno when it comes to jousting. I talked to Sir Gwin about him. Gwin says he wasn't sure that even he could give him a tumble.”

  * * *

  Sir Gwin was saying something like that to Reb at that very moment.

  “Now, my boy, it's not too late to back off.” He had grown to like and admire the young man, one of the finest horsemen he had ever seen and full of courage as well. “After all, it's not really right, don't you know?”

  Reb was pale, so much so that his freckles stood out. He had seen men maimed in jousts much less serious than this one. But he only shook his head stubbornly “I'm gonna do it, Sir Gwin, and that's all there is to it.”

  Sir Elbert's large, round face was gloomy. “You'd best fall off as soon as his lance touches you, my boy. No sense getting killed in a lost cause.” Sir Elbert always took the pessimistic view of things. Looking at Sir Melchior, he measured the knight and said, “You're too young to die, my boy. Better just fall off your horse.”

  Sir Nolen knew Reb the best. This small, muscular man was the best horseman in King Dion's court. “Here, you two stop pestering the lad!” he snapped. He put his hand on Reb's shoulder, having to reach up to do it. “I always say a good horse is half the joust. Right?”

  “That's right.” Reb grinned suddenly. “And Thunder here is as good a horse as that old Melchior's likely to have.”

  “Well, his is larger,” Sir Nolen said, “but he is slower too and won't respond as quick. Now, have you got your mind made up as to how to fight him?”

  “Well,” Reb said slowly, “he's bigger than I am, got more weight, so if he hits me square, he'll knock me off the horse. That's all there is to it. Somehow, I've got to make him miss.”

  Gwin nodded eagerly. “You could try the trick you used before. Aim for the head—that'll bring his lance up and make him duck. Then smack him right in the belly.”

  Reb looked across the field, thinking hard. “I don't think he's stupid, Sir Gwin. I'll bet he's heard all about that. I'll bet he'll be looking for exactly that kind of trick, and if I try it he'll nail me sure.”

  Sir Gwin scratched his head. “You may be right about that.” He looked puzzled, then defeated. “Well, I don't know what to say, my boy Just trust your good right arm and your horse. That's all a man can do anyway”

  “No, it's not.” Reb had a sudden thought that reflected in his eyes. His lips grew tight. “Somehow, in a mess like this, I always know that Goel is watching. You wouldn't believe how many awful predicaments he's gotten my friends and me out of. So I guess he'll just have to do it again.”

  “But he's not here,” Sir Elbert protested.

  “That don't seem to matter. He seems to be able to take care of things even when he's not around.”

  A silver, snarling trumpet began to chide the afternoon air.

  Sir Gwin said, “All right. Time to go. Come along. We'll put you on your horse.”

  They moved to where the horses were waiting, and, as always, Reb was a little shocked at how an armed knight got on a horse. He was accustomed to just stepping into the stirrup and throwing his other leg across. But weighed down with armor, that would be very difficult! So a hoist of sorts had been constructed.

  Now a rope was slid under his arms, and he was lifted in the air. Then Thunder was led under him by the groom. When he was lowered into the saddle, he looked down and shook his head, “Sir Gwin, I never thought I'd have to get hoisted on a horse.”

  “The best of us do it, my boy.” Sir Gwin tried to smile. “Now, here's your lance.” He handed Reb the wooden spear.

  At the same time Sir Nolen came with his shield. “Here you are, Sir Reb.” He watched as the boy secured the shield to his left arm. “Remember, you've got the best horse, and you've got the best cause.”

  “You're right about that, Nolen,” Sir Gwin said. His jaw tightened. “I wish I were riding against that villain. I'd like to see him tumbled in the dirt!” He looked back to Reb and said, “Give it the best you've got.”

  “You can bet on it!” Reb muttered. Guiding Thunder with his knees, he guided the strong animal to the south end of the tilting field, turned him around, and marveled at the horse's obedience.

  Lifting his eyes, he saw the black horse of Sir Melchior and then the man himself. A flash of sunlight touched the dark knight's visor, and Reb murmured, “Well, if Goel don't help me, I'm sure in a mess.”

  He had been over and over that matter all night long. It was true that the men of Camelot were small, smaller than the average men of Oldworld. He himself was taller than most of them—was as tall as Melchior for that matter. But Melchior was thick and strong and had years of training. He could do this sort of thing in his sleep.

  A worried frown crossed Reb's face as he pulled down his visor. Now he could see only through the slits in the armor, but he heard the words of the warden announcing the battle and the rules that governed it. Reb paid no attention to this. He had heard it before. Sir Melchior, he knew, would probably smash him from his horse with all the force he could muster.

  “How can I do it?” he muttered desperately. “I can't let everybody down. They're all expecting me to do something to pull this thing out.” Then, as the warden's voice fell away, he waited for the signal, another blast on the trumpet. “Got to think of something!” he said desperately.

  And just as the trumpet sounded, a thought came to him. He did not have time to analyze it. Only for one blinding moment did the idea flash into his head. But in that instant he knew exactly what he could do—and he realized that the thought had come from Goel!

  At the trumpet blast Thunder lunged forward. Down the field Sir Melchior leaned over his saddle, making himself a smaller target, his lance leveled.

  It was for that brief time as though everything else had faded away. Reb could not hear the cheering crowd or the crying trumpets as he raced toward his opponent. All he heard was the sound of Thunder's hooves and the creaking of his armor, and all he saw was Sir Melchior. It was as if he were looking through a tunnel, and there, facing him, eyes blazing through his visor, Melchior seemed to be laughing at him.

 
Reb suddenly felt that the whole world had stopped and that he and Melchior alone were moving, and slowly at that. The horses were galloping, galloping, closing the distance, but all seemed to be happening very, very slowly. He was now close enough to see the fine scrollwork on Melchior's armor. He saw also the tip of the lance that was aimed directly at him.

  “No time.” he gasped. “This will have to work!” Shutting out all thoughts of failure, he got ready to perform a movement that he never would have dreamed of and that no one in the arena had ever seen.

  The point of jousting, he knew, was to put the tip of your lance into the shield of your opponent—before he put the tip of his lance into yours. Theoretically, if one man had a ten-foot lance and one man had a twelve-foot lance, the man with the longer lance would win the joust because his lance would arrive a split second sooner. However, the art of jousting had evolved to such an extent that all lances were practically the same length.

  Reb had already decided that he would have no chance whatsoever in a head-on crash, even if his lance reached the shield of Sir Melchior at the same instant that Sir Melchior's touched him. He knew that the heavier weight and skill of the older man would topple him. So he did what had come to him in his brief, flashing thought.

  A split second before Sir Melchior threw himself forward—a shout in his throat and victory in his eye, with his lance piercing the air, headed straight for Reb's shield—Reb touched Thunder with his left knee.

  Now jousting horses knew to keep straight on the track, but at Reb's touch the fiery stallion abruptly swerved to the right.

  Melchior was not prepared for that—nor was he prepared for what Reb did next. At the same instant Thunder veered right, Reb moved his lance across his body—pointing directly to the left. The point was not aimed at Sir Melchior's shield or head at all.

  What happened then was almost inevitable. Reb felt Melchior's lance graze his arm. Six inches farther and he would have been knocked off the horse. A split second later, as Reb braced himself, Sir Melchior ran into the lance Reb held in his path. It caught him right under the chin, and the force of his horse and the force of the blow worked together. Sir Melchior pitched backward and hit the ground with a clanging clash. His horse ran wildly on.