The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  Balin turned to return to the kitchens, and Lanceor slapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. He had drained his cup in a single swallow and held it out now to Balin.

  Balin set the tray under it. Lanceor released it with a clank.

  “Bring more. And don’t dally,” Lanceor snapped with a sloppy grin. This had not been his first cup.

  “My prince, do you still thirst truly?” Colombe said lowly.

  Lanceor wheeled on her, and Balin saw with narrowed eyes that she shrank from him, but Lanceor said, “I thirst always, my pretty, and when I am done with wine I shall thirst for something sweeter.” He brushed her soft white cheek with his knuckles and when the corners of her lips turned upward slightly, Balin had his fill and went back to the kitchens.

  Barnock was waiting with a line of cups and trays.

  “What took you so long?” The little man barked. “This for Sir Dinadan and his lady. This for Sir Griflet, and this for Sir Bedivere. And this…”

  “Sir Lanceor asks for another cup,” Balin said, setting down Lanceor’s tray and lifting up two others.

  “That comes as no surprise,” quipped the dwarf, waddling off to refill the empty goblet.

  Balin went to the hall and served Sir Dinadan and his lady, then made his way across the hall to Sir Bedivere and Griflet. It was strange to see the mud-caked boy he had last seen polishing Bedivere’s helm wearing a skin of steel himself now. Bedivere’s missing hand had been replaced by a wrought one of iron.

  Griflet took no notice of Balin as he took his cup, but Bedivere paused.

  “It is good to see you again, Balin,” the one-handed knight said.

  Griflet blinked, realizing who Balin was, and lowered his cup.

  “And you, Bedivere,” Balin murmured.

  “Do not lower your glass, Griflet,” Bedivere said, lifting his own. “Pray raise it instead, to the man who shed blood beside me at Aneblayse.”

  Balin shook his head, embarrassed. It warmed him to know Bedivere had not forgotten him after all.

  “No, no, no, sirs.”

  But Bedivere would not be dissuaded. “To one who was dead and has returned.”

  Bedivere looked expectantly at Griflet, but the younger man’s gaze was at the edge of the hall and thousands of miles away. Bedivere looked, and so Balin turned and looked too.

  The woman making her way down the scarlet carpet was lovely.

  She wore a red robe trimmed in lustrous ermine, and a silver circlet about her black hair, which was bound and plaited with silver chord. Her skin was alabaster white, and the eyes that shone in her face bright as clean steel.

  All eyes in the court watched her advance on the throne, as the previous petitioner bowed and took his leave.

  ***

  Nimue’s broken heart fluttered in the vicinity of her hated enemy, like the illusory contraction of a limb lost and forgotten.

  King Arthur was young. Barely more than a boy. Too young and unassuming to have wiled Culwych from her side. Yet here stood this palatial hall, so bright and open compared to Rience’s dreary fire-lit keep. The sun shone through the windows and illuminated the fine ladies and their bright knights, the flowing gowns and brimming silver cups. And this boy-king sat, the lord of it all, as though he were its keystone, as if it were all there solely because of him, and would crumble with his removal.

  There at his side was Excalibur in its magic sheath. The Lady Lile had given it to him, the ultimate endorsement of Avalon. Could the weapon she carried match it? Pilfered from Avalon’s armory with the aid of the Gwenn Mantle, it was a dark sister sword of Excalibur, forged by the god-smith Gofannon under the direction of the Lady Sebile during Alexander the Great’s time, to bring about his fall.

  She said nothing to the page’s enquiry as to her business.

  Her only answer was to unfasten her cloak and let it fall to the floor, revealing the ancient blade girded about her slim waist, just as she had to Rience and his daughter. She heard the gasps and exclamations of the men and women all about her, but her eyes remained on Arthur.

  He leaned forward, screwing up his face.

  “What does this mean? A lady with a blade?”

  “It is unseemly!” some overwrought woman in the court exclaimed.

  “It is indeed,” Nimue said. “More so because it is my curse, your Majesty.”

  It was true. Part of the sword’s curse was that if it were girded by one not worthy to wield it, it would not come unfastened. She had known this when she’d buckled it on after having spirited it from the Isle. For weeks, it had been a true burden to her. But she felt sure in this hall of great knights, it would be the least of her burdens to be lifted.

  Especially the weighty thirst for atonement that weighed on her so heavily in the presence of this boy-king.

  “Explain what you mean. What’s this curse you speak of?” Arthur demanded.

  “This sword may not be drawn, nor removed by me. Only a knight brave and loyal and pure of deed with truth can draw it from the scabbard. I've come from the west and visited the court of many a king. Lately, I have come from the court of the King of Snowdonia, where I was told there were to be many knights good and bold. As you see, I am yet burdened. Not even Rience could remove it.”

  Arthur’s lips parted, his eyes shining so that she could almost see the glittering sword reflected in them.

  “This is passing strange,” he said at last, then struck the arm of his throne a blow. “Who among you will try?”

  Arthur looked around the hall. Many of the knights looked from the woman to him and then at the floor or in the bottom of their cups.

  “Well?” Arthur repeated.

  A colorfully dressed knight with a head of curly hair cleared his throat. “Milord…” he said.

  “Dagonet? Will you be the first this time?”

  “No, milord,” said Dagonet, holding up his hands. “You were right to say this affair is passing strange. By her own admission, the lady claims to have come from the court of your enemy, and with a cursed sword. I should recommend…”

  Arthur fidgeted, then waved him off and stood.

  “Come come. Recommend? You’re not my counselor, Dagonet.”

  “I am, my brother,” said another well-dressed knight with close cropped yellow hair and beard. “And I agree with Sir Dagonet. Who is this lady? Where does she come from truly? Who hung this sword from her?”

  Nimue bowed her head to hide any expression of frustration.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Kay,” said Arthur. “Will you tell of how you came to bear this sword, milady?”

  “My lords, I know not. I am a maid of the Long Isles. My father gave me over to a nunnery, and it was there on my first night that I awoke to find this strange weapon about me as though by miracle. The old priest told me he had dreamed that the greatest knight in Christendom would be the one to draw it forth.”

  Arthur descended the steps as she spoke, and she had to catch her breath when she straightened and saw him standing before her. So close. He was so close. Why this elaborate plot? Why could she not now drive her thumbs into this boy-beast’s eyes, who had taken her life and love from her?

  He leaned forward and inspected the round, jeweled pommel.

  “Do you know what it says here?” he asked.

  “I cannot read the letters, milord,” Nimue lied.

  Arthur stooped and touched the pommel, tracing the golden inscription she knew so well with his fingers.

  He read aloud, “None shall take me hence but he at whose side I am to hang. And he shall be the best knight in the world.”

  She looked down at the top of his kingly head. If she could but draw a hair pin from her plaits and drive it into the base of his thin neck! She could have done with curses and magic and heartbreak. But no! He deserved more than a quick, clean death. She was here to grind the pieces of her heart into a meal to salt the fields of Arthur’s kingdom with sorrow and betrayal, in her Culwych’s name.

  He straig
htened. “Lady, will you let me try?” Arthur asked.

  It was a disarmingly boyish thing to say. Or would have been, if she did not wish his death with all her soul. “Please, your Majesty.”

  She had heard Rience’s insult to him. Now the sword was doing its work—calling to the pride all slighted boys had. If he could but draw the sword where Rience had failed, he could prove himself the greater man, the greater king.

  Her heart seized up the instant he closed his hand around the hilt.

  What if he did free it? What if he was everything Lady Lile and Merlin believed him to be? This true knight of knights, who was the only ruler intended for Albion?

  But he struggled, and righteous hatred replaced her trepidation. He grasped the woven scabbard and tried to pull it, too, but it would not come.

  “You need not strive so, dread king,” Nimue said, fighting to keep the air of triumph from her voice. “The knight who is destined to draw it will do so without effort.”

  Arthur relinquished his hold on the sword and straightened. She expected to see a mask of frustration, but he just smiled.

  “I know something of what you speak,” he said, and turned to ascend his throne again, calling as he went. “Come now, my men! Which of you will succeed where your king has not? Remember your oaths and fear no ill magic. Here is a maiden in distress and perhaps a test from God above. Shall Arthur’s knights leave her dragging this sword down the lane? Step forth and try.”

  Nimue smiled thinly and turned her sad eyes on the court. The knights began to set aside their drinks and shuffle forward.

  Which of them would be the edge that cut Arthur down?

  ***

  Balin stood stricken, holding his breath as each successive knight approached the lady with the sword. He hated the secret joy he felt as each one, having tried and failed to free the miraculous weapon, returned to his place.

  He rested his bunched fist on his chest and prayed silently for his prideful thoughts to die.

  As each failed, Arthur called forth a new contestant. Balin watched them all, and put faces to names.

  Maleagrant, Tor, Aglovale, Colgrevance, Owain, Agravaine, Gaheris. None of them could budge the sword.

  When Lanceor made his try, he jerked and wrestled the blade, jostling the maiden almost to the point of putting his boot up on her hip for leverage.

  Sir Kay stepped forward laughing.

  “God’s blood, Hibernian! Would you tear the poor lady in two?”

  He took hold of the back of Lanceor’s coat and pulled him lightly aside.

  “Leave off and let men try.”

  Lanceor stared daggers at Kay, but the king’s foster brother paid him no more heed and turned to the business of freeing the sword.

  Sir Kay, too, turned away, shrugged, and offered his place to Gawaine.

  Lanceor backed away, still glaring at Kay the Seneschal, and bumped into Balin. Seeing it was Balin, a knight far below his station, he spluttered, “Be off, you lout!”

  Colombe took him lightly by the elbow and drew Lanceor aside, cooing in his ear.

  In truth, Balin barely paid him any heed. He looked over the Hibernian prince’s shoulder until he was pulled away, and watched, heart pounding under his fist, as Gawaine, Griflet, Bedivere, even Lucan and Dagonet tried their hand in quick succession.

  Dagonet excused himself from the lady with a bow, a shrug, and a roll of the eyes. Though this raised a laugh from the court, it made Balin ease. No pagan had claimed the sword. No butler, no fool.

  There was only one knight left in the hall who had not filed past the maiden now.

  Arthur had stood atop his dais throughout the strange contest, so as to better view his hall and call on each of the knights by name. Now, obviously disappointed, he sank into his seat.

  “I am heartily sorry, milady,” he said. “It appears that your liberation is not in my power to grant.”

  The woman looked equally disappointed. Desperately so. She turned, looking frantically among the faces.

  “Has every knight stepped forward?” she called plaintively.

  Her bright eyes passed over his fellows and came at last to Balin.

  He could not deny them, even though his face flushed red to answer.

  “Not every knight, milady,” he found himself saying.

  A murmuring rippled through the crowd, and Balin detected Lanceor’s harsh but unintelligible whisper foremost among the questioning voices.

  He left the crowd and came to slowly stand before the maiden, anyway.

  He had remained silent, even as something in his soul had screamed in his ear, some hateful, misplaced pride that told him the sword was his; that this woman had come for him and him alone. How could that be? How could he, in the midst of humble penance, even think to claim such a reward as that intended for the greatest knight of all? And yet a small voice deep within him answered, how could it not be? Was he not truly the better in arms of every knight here standing? Was he not a man of great faith? His father’s son? Why not think then, that God would deign to reward his humility now at his lowest hour? In truth, wasn’t imprisonment penance enough for his crime?

  “What is this?” the maiden smirked. “I’ve seen many a knight this day, in fine clothes and armor, bearing sword and cup and fine lady in hand. But this man comes in rags with a serving tray. Surely he is no knight.”

  “He is, madam,” King Arthur answered for Balin, as he lowered his head in shame.

  “Milady,” Balin said, so quietly that all had to strain to hear, “I am grievously aware that I do not fit the ideal of a knight, but those virtues you spoke of…truth and loyalty and bravery, they are not woven into the fabric of a garment, but into the heart of a man.”

  He looked into her eyes then.

  “Will you permit me?”

  The lady stared and nodded slowly.

  “You are well spoken, sir. Please.”

  There was real entreaty in the last.

  He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. On the surface, it was a simple prayer to free the maiden of her burden. Beneath that, it was a prayer to claim the sword and serve God’s king. He set his mind to these pure aspirations and hoped to bury the base ambition that roiled like a serpent beneath. He hoped that if he filled his mind with just prayers, he might stifle the nagging demon that sought to claim, not the sword, but what it represented—greatness. Inarguable, undeniable greatness, such as he had always strived for. More than the greatness of his father, a true, everlasting, all-surpassing glory. Above Sir Ballantyne. Above Sir Segurant. Above even…no, even in his secret mind he forced that thought down. How could he hope to claim the prize with such a despicable, arrogant notion in his heart?

  No mere knight could compare himself to God’s chosen king.

  He cursed his own black heart for bringing forth such a contemptible notion. His hubris had surely sealed his fate, and it could not now be bound to that which he so sorely wanted.

  But when he opened his eyes, the sword was in his hand, and a sliver of the bright blade shone between hilt and scabbard. He knew he could draw it easily, and thrilled, catching his own breath.

  The maiden laid her soft, cool hand over his and stopped him. She drew close, as intimate as a lover. She whispered close, and her sweet breath was hot and reddened the very porch of his ear.

  “God save you, Sir…?”

  “Balin,” he whispered.

  “Sir Balin. You hold in your hand the sword of destiny. The Adventurous Sword. It is yours to claim. Draw it. But then, I pray you, return it to me.”

  Balin stiffened.

  “Return it?”

  “Or keep it. But if you keep it, know this. For every glory you gain you will pay a price, just as for every crest there must be a trough. For every triumph, equal failure. Return it to me and avoid its many fortunes and its misfortunes. Live your life as you will, a good knight. Strive. Die. And never know to what heights you might have ascended. Keep it and you shall be the greatest knigh
t in Albion. But in the end, you will fight to the death with the man you hold most dear.”

  Balin blinked. He stared down at the sword, quarter drawn at her waist, at the gilded, red-jeweled hilt and the golden cording which encircled the handle in his palm, but more so at the hint of the flawless blade tragically obscured by the sheath. There were etchings there on the mirror surface, and he drew it half an inch further, offering a more tantalizing glimpse at the wondrous craftsmanship. There was a fanciful image etched into the steel, of what appeared to be the dainty feet of a maiden in an embroidered gown. There was yet more to the design. It seemed to continue on down the length of the blade, and he sought to peek further, but the lady’s hand arrested him, surprisingly strong.

  “Make your choice!” She hissed.

  “The sword…is cursed?” Balin whispered. “It is not…of the Lord?”

  “Was Christ cursed to die on his cross? Or did he perish to attain a greater triumph?”

  This reminded Balin of something Brother Gallet had told him once. Brother Gallet had said that the greatest of Satan’s temptations did not end in the wilderness but remained with Christ all his days. Jesus Christ could have refused his cross at any time and lived and died the life of an ordinary mortal man. Even in the garden of Gethsemane, mere hours before his doom, he had wrestled with this. But in the end, he had chosen the cross.

  The sword called to him, very like a cross itself.

  “Choose,” the woman urged.

  Balin nodded.

  “Choose it knowingly. Say it,” she said, breathless.

  “By my body, I will keep this sword. Nothing will part me from it.”

  She withdrew from him and smiled strangely.

  “Then be you bound of your own will.”

  She released his hand.

  He slid the sword reverently from its sheath, the sunlight gleaming off the perfect blade, more beautiful even than he had imagined it. Though the sheath was woven, it rang out in steel song as it cleared, and the gasps uttered by the court were like an answering chorus.