The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  The belt about the lady’s waist unfastened of its own accord and dropped to the floor.

  Balin held the sword aloft to the ceiling, letting it catch the window light.

  He could not help but smile beneath his prodigious beard at this great acknowledgement from God above. His spirit rose, filling his heart to the brimming.

  He lowered it slowly, admiring its every angle and facet. The blade was not without flaw, apparently. There was an obscuring scuff over the flat where the head of the maiden whose feet he had seen etched into it should have been. The subsequent effect was of a headless maiden bearing a bushel of apples. He turned it over in his hands and held it out to Arthur, genuflecting at the base of the dais.

  “My lord and king,” Balin said. “Here is a sword I may swear upon, if you’ll have me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Unseen trumpets sounded as the gates of the castle at the center of the apple orchard of Avalon groaned open and the Lady Lile rode forth on her white mare, a wild, shining flutter of pale hair, gown, and waving horsehair.

  Through the evergreen meadow she raced, the hooves of her mount kicking up white petals of fallen apple blossoms.

  She bent low over the horse’s neck and gripped its braided mane as it made straight for the misty bank that ringed the island.

  It should have plunged straight into the half-glimpsed water, but she was the Lady of The Lake, and all waters were hers to command. The horse bounded across the unbroken, clouded mirror of the water, cutting only the swirling mists, and crossed to the distant shore in no time.

  No map could chart the lay of Avalon. All still waters were its entryway, and so the Lady emerged from the boiling fog onto the bank of a nameless green pond south of Astolat.

  She slowed her panting mount to a trot and led it through the underbrush till its hooves clattered on the beaten road that led to Camelot.

  Then she dug in her heels and headed once more into the rushing wind.

  ***

  Much was made of the winning of the Adventurous Sword by Sir Balin. He was cheered by those who knew him, by Bedivere and Dagonet, Lucan, Kay, and Griflet, while many of those who did not know him locked their teeth behind their smiles and envied him in their hearts, none more than Lanceor, who loudly demanded more drink and went thirsty because Balin was not there to run for it.

  King Arthur heard Balin’s oath renewed on the Adventurous Sword and embraced him, and Lucan had his armor and his old sword found and returned to him. Arthur bade Sir Lucan lead him to the stables to choose a horse and saddle for his own. There was talk of giving him a squire, and many of the court boys looked earnest to serve the best knight in the world, but Balin begged off. He did not wish anyone to serve him in any capacity.

  While Balin was off in the stables, King Leodegrance’s daughter, Guinevere, came to court with her maidens, and Arthur took her hand in his and announced to the joy (but not to the surprise) of the gathering that once the Snowdonian rebellion was put down and the Saxons dealt with, he and the Princess of Cameliard would be wedded.

  In this joyous din, only Dagonet noticed that the mysterious lady who had borne Sir Balin’s sword was gone, and none would hear his concerns when Barnock hobbled out of the kitchens and announced in a strident voice the commencement of dinner in the hall.

  ***

  Nimue stole from the gates of Camelot unperceived. It had been small magic, barely worthy of the term, to remove herself from the attention of the court and pass between the guards and down the outer hall.

  The sun had begun its slow descent, and she found her horse where she had left it tied in the shadow of the Black Cross. She would have been long gone but for the figure that stepped from the depths of that shade and grabbed her bridle, startling her and her mount.

  “Nimue,” intoned the wild looking face, as if her name were a particularly improper oath. “You virago! What have you done?”

  She overcame her initial surprise and let her lip curl.

  “Tell me what I’ve done, Merlin, you all-seeing owl. Yes, tell me what you see. Do you see your precious boy king with the Adventurous Sword through his heart? Slain by one of his adoring knights?”

  The horse shuddered between her thighs, but Merlin laid a hand on its forehead and it whinnied and calmed.

  “Who put you up to this? Rience? The Queen of Norgales?” he asked, shaking his head in disapproval.

  “I am not your dear Morgan.” She hissed mockingly, insulted that he should think she would allow herself to be a pawn of King Rience or of the dreadful witch queen, a pernicious sensualist opposed to Avalon and in league with dark and bloody powers. Arthur’s half-sister, Morgan La Fey, a formidable sorceress in her own right, had been tempted away from Merlin’s special tutelage by the Queen of Norgales. “Do you think so little of me?”

  “Then why?” he asked, and in his face there was…what? Disappointment? Sorrow? The Merlin she had known could not possibly feel such things.

  “Revenge,” she said, savoring the word. “Revenge for my Culwych.”

  “Against Balin?”

  “Against Arthur!”

  Merlin frowned, apparently confused.

  “Arthur did not slay your prince of Celyddon.”

  “He coaxed him to his death. Away from me, where we might have both lived. When he left me to seek his fortune with Arthur, it rent my very soul! It…” She gasped, exasperated. It was no use trying to explain love to Merlin. “You can never understand me, Merlin.”

  “Then truly, it’s revenge against Culwych for leaving you that you seek,” Merlin said.

  She wanted to strike him.

  “But shooting arrows at ghosts, you always miss your target. Arthur will not die by your petty magic,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but by his puckish grin, and by the sinking feeling in her stomach, she knew it was true. Merlin would know. By the Sight he knew everything.

  But how? How could she fail?

  “Petty magic?” she exclaimed. “That knight Sir Balin bears the Adventurous Sword! I took it from Avalon’s own armory!”

  “Yes, if only you were as apt an enchantress as you are a burglar you’d have done your pilfering more selectively. That sword’s just an antique,” said Merlin, blowing out his lips dismissively and putting his chin on his staff. “Nothing more.”

  Just an antique? The Adventurous Sword?

  “If it was such a trifle, why was it kept at Avalon?”

  Merlin walked around the horse, stroking its flank.

  “Oh, the Lady Lile intended it for a champion she has been raising, a Gaulish boy given over to Avalon to be raised. Just one final gift for Arthur’s court. It is no matter. Your thievery has done nothing but usurp a boy’s destiny and accelerated a man’s meeting with his.”

  The words meant nothing to her. Was this a show he was putting on for her, to blunt her ambition and disarm her while he worked some crafty magic to undo her plot?

  “You’re a liar,” she ventured.

  “Not at all. You would’ve done better to have turned Arthur into a toad, you silly witch,” Merlin said, coming around to scratch under her horse’s chin.

  Just then, a galloping sounded on the road and a blast of cool air tinged with the conflicting smells of rosemary, apples, and horse sweat blew past them in a flash of spectral, snow white.

  Nimue watched in shock as the Lady Lile sped past them like a phantom rider. She raised her hand, and the gates of Camelot flew open to the utter terror of the sentries, who threw down their weapons and held up their hands against her terrible light.

  Nimue turned to Merlin and saw that his mouth was agape, his face an expression of naked concern, more unguarded than ever she’d seen him before.

  Just an antique. But enough of a worry to bring the Lady Lile from Avalon.

  “You’re not as certain as you were a moment ago, Lailoken,” Nimue chuckled and struck down his hand with her fist.

  Her horse reared, and she turned and
thundered away from Camelot, fading from sight as she went.

  Likely the Lady had come all in a rage seeking her. Best to be gone. Even if Merlin were right about the sword, it wasn’t the only treasure she’d lifted from Avalon.

  ***

  Balin was bathed and groomed.

  Though he had retained his beard and long hair, it was clean and braided now. Sir Lucan returned to him his suit of armor, which had been lovingly polished and now shone like quicksilver. He selected a fine young gray destrier from the stables named Ironprow.

  Lucan returned his lance and escutcheon, and Balin asked for his old sword.

  “Your sword, Sir Balin?” Lucan repeated, evidently surprised. “You mean to say you want it?”

  Balin still held the Adventurous Sword in its sheath. He had not yet girded it around his waist.

  “If you please,” Balin said quietly.

  “As you wish,” Lucan sighed. He departed, leaving Balin standing outside Ironprow’s stall.

  Balin eased the sword from its scabbard again and looked hard at his own reflection in the clear finish. He had not seen his own face in two years. But for his beard he had changed very little. He turned the blade and watched the hidden serpent in the pattern weld slither faintly across his features. He ran his thumb along the etching of the maiden where the steel met the golden crossguard. He could not detect the mar that obscured the figure’s head. The steel was smooth and regular. It was as if the unknown artisan had deliberately omitted it or left it incomplete.

  He had been well caught up in the miraculous moment of claiming the sword, but now, in a soberer mind, he thought hard about what the maiden had said, that should he choose to keep the weapon, he would slay the man he loved best.

  By the time Sir Lucan returned with the trusty old sword he had nicked again and again on blade and shield at Bedegraine, Balin had made up his mind.

  ***

  “Ah, Sir Balin!” Arthur called, when he had spied Balin entering the dinner hall.

  A great stained glass window depicting St. George lancing the throat of the snarling dragon beneath his feet cast the dining hall in magic hues of gold, red, green, and purple.

  The long tables were arranged in the usual manner, four forming an open square in which musicians played and tumblers cavorted as the dogs played tug of war with scraps and the nimble serving boys dodged and crisscrossed with precariously balanced serving trays. The tables were piled high with food and lined with knights and ladies, and Balin’s eyes shone when he saw that a plaque had been affixed to a chair at Arthur’s table with his name on it, between Sir Kay and Sir Bedivere.

  The lady Guinevere was there, too, and he thought of Sir Safir’s story that the Round Table of Uther was part of her dowry. One day it would stand in this hall in place of these long tables. Would there be a place for Balin there then?

  Not if he was destined to slay the man he loved best.

  ***

  “Come, join us!” Arthur called, waving him over. “Eat! Drink!”

  Balin crossed the square, but stood before Arthur’s table, his head bowed, both hands resting on the pommels of the swords he had strapped to either side. His own proven blade hung on the right, the Adventurous Sword on his left.

  Arthur frowned and signaled the musicians to cease their playing, and the knights and ladies to quit their chatter.

  “My lord,” Balin said, without preamble. “I must now take my leave of you.”

  Arthur looked at Guinevere, at Kay, and then back at Balin, consternated.

  “But why? Please, say you do not wish to depart because I have treated you unfairly.”

  “Look at me, my King,” Balin half-chuckled. He wanted sorely to stay, to be counted. But the sword which hung at his side and the promised doom it carried, could not be denied. “This morning I awoke on a bed of straw, less than nothing. Now I am offered a place at your table. Where is this unfairness?”

  “Claim your place, then. Stay at Camelot.”

  “I cannot, sire,” Balin insisted. But he could not tell the true reason why. How could he explain that the prophesy of the sword had been made known to him, and pride had driven him to claim it anyway? It would be a treasonous admission. There had to be a way around it, and until he found it, he had to keep well away from Arthur. “I cannot help but feel that I have yet to earn the honors I have been given this day. Here,” he said, striking his breast with his gauntlet and eliciting a hollow ring. “I must quest down roads I cannot tell, until I’ve won the right to return.”

  “You feel the burden of prophesy,” Arthur said shrewdly.

  Balin’s eyes widened and he nodded.

  “Yes, sire, more than I can say.”

  “Go then, with my blessing,” Arthur said. “But return, if not sooner, than in a year’s time.”

  Balin bowed.

  “By God, I swear,” Balin said.

  Arthur raised his cup and stood.

  “Let us all drink to Sir Balin’s return!” he called.

  Balin smiled as all around him, goblets rose in toast.

  “May God go with you, Sir Balin,” said Arthur.

  All drank, and Balin’s heart trembled.

  The door to the hall banged open then, and Balin turned to see a towering nightmare enter, so vivid and clear that despite two swords and a harness of good steel about him he nearly collapsed blubbering like the boy he had been when last he’d beheld it.

  A woman atop a white palfrey trotted insolently into the dining hall, gleaming white and cast in red by the light through the red dragon of the window, like the blinding center of the furnace fire that had awaited Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

  The slender rider, enfolded in white, was almost unchanged from the day Balin had watched through the smoke of his burning mother. Still regal, otherworldly, and untouchable.

  The servants shrank from her, and the dogs whined and cowered beneath the tables, so that the square in the center of the room was hers, but for Balin himself, who stood awestruck and agape as she swung down from her riding horse and addressed Arthur. The candles seemed to dim, relinquishing their meager light in deference to her own ineffable glory.

  “Do you know me, King Arthur Pendragon?” she demanded, in a voice like the dawn burning away the night.

  Guinevere clutched Arthur’s hand and the cross on the chain around her neck. All at the table averted or shaded their eyes, all but Arthur, who nevertheless gazed at her askance, as if facing the sun.

  “Are you…? The Lady of The Lake?”

  “I am.”

  Guinevere made the sign of the cross. Balin hated to see the future queen so distressed, and his initial fear gave way.

  Arthur set his jaw and touched the pommel of Excalibur.

  “If you are the Lady, then what is the name of this sword you gave me?”

  “It is Excalibur.”

  “And what do the old words upon the blade read?”

  “They read ‘take me,’” the Lady answered immediately. “And on the reverse, ‘cast me away.’”

  Arthur swallowed and nodded.

  “Then you are the Lady.”

  Balin moved toward the table and put his hand to it, leaning on it heavily. Here was the Lady Lile, who had led his mother down the Devil’s path and watched her burn. The chill of his departed shock began to warm into something else, a mounting heat that gnawed at the edges of his heart.

  “When you were given that sword, King Arthur, you swore an oath to grant the mistress of Avalon a boon of her choosing when she came asking.”

  “You speak the truth,” Arthur said. “Name your price, dread lady.”

  The Lady Lile lifted her hand and pointed one white finger directly at Balin, without ever taking her eyes from Arthur.

  “I ask for the head of this knight, who lately claimed a sword which was taken unearned from my keep, or else the head of the maiden who brought it here, if she yet remains.”

  The knights and ladies of the hall gasped.

/>   Balin’s hand on the table became a shaking fist.

  What was this now? The Mother of All Lies come claiming what God had granted him? Not only this sword, but his soul too? What did she want with his head? Had his mother’s death not been enough to slake her blood thirst? Now she had come for him? The white serpent entwined about Camelot, about Arthur. She had shown herself, brazen, sure that her influence over Arthur would serve her. So, his claiming of the sword had been some sort of blow to her plotting. Of course, she had come to claim his life. As Arthur’s greatest knight, he now stood between his king and her deviltry. Perhaps he was the only hamper to her returning the Black Cross of Camelot to its original purpose.

  “Lady,” Arthur said, lifting his hands, placating. “There was a maiden who brought that sword to my hall, and none could free it from her but the one who bears it now. If some misdeed against you has been done, it was by her hand, not Sir Balin’s.”

  “And yet more misdeeds will be perpetrated if he keeps it,” said the Lady Lile, looking at Balin now for the first time, her eyes like polar ice melting in a sea of rage. “This knight is cursed. His every act, despite his intent, will bring evil. He will not give up the sword. He cannot. There is but one way for him to relinquish my property. I demand his death, to avert what doom may yet come.”

  Balin glared at her, seeing the old fires framing her, smelling again the old memory scent of his mother’s roasting flesh.

  “My Lady, this is my hall, and Sir Balin is my servant,” said Arthur. “Please, you must ask something else. Anything else.”

  “I will ask nothing else,” the Lady Lile snapped, staring at Arthur again now. “Will you deny my right as your benefactress? Will you break your oath?”

  Balin touched the Adventurous Sword. It seemed to hum in his fist. He released his grip on the table, like a man hanging from a precipice letting go his hold. He lurched toward the Lady, unsteady. What came next seemed inevitable. He verily hurtled toward it.

  Blood drizzled down his chin from where he had bitten deep into his lip, and he spluttered now, flicking her pure gown with specks of red as he came: