The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  “To speak of evil…and falsehood! The Devil take you, Lady!”

  He relished the momentary glimpse behind her supernatural mask. Those pale eyes, in the last, knew fear, as the sword rasped free of its sheath.

  In the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur throw out both hands and heard an unintelligible entreaty blast like an accidental trumpet from his lips.

  Then he whipped the sword across. It passed under the Lady of The Lake’s chin as though through a cloud of mist.

  Her head tumbled from the stump of her swan-like neck, lips parted, eyes wide, hair flying in every direction, undone of all her damnable majesty in the ultimate moment.

  Blood spewed into the air and the white-gowned corpse took two uncertain steps and fell across Arthur’s table, pouring blood over the plates of the king and his betrothed.

  Guinevere pushed away from the table and shrieked, and the sound was indiscernible from the scream of the white palfrey, which rose on its hind legs, its flank painted in its mistresses’ blood.

  It spun and galloped out of the hall, shaking its white mane and kicking as if to shake the stench of fresh death from its body.

  But for the weeping of the ladies, the room was deathly silent.

  Knights stood over their toppled chairs, some of them with their swords drawn.

  Arthur stared down at the headless corpse of the Lady of The Lake lying across his table.

  Balin turned in a slow circle, looking for a sympathetic face amid the assemblage as blood dripped down the length of the Adventurous Sword, spotting the floor.

  Not Griflet. Not Bedivere. Not even Dagonet. All were grave and condemning. The Orkney knights looked like slavering attack hounds only a hair’s breadth from setting upon him.

  “God,” Arthur whispered, clenching his eyes as if to squeeze out the sight, leaning on his fists on the bloody table and lowering his head.

  Balin struggled to find the words to explain himself. How could he encapsulate all that had expressed itself in that one bloody instant? How could he explain seeing this woman, knowing her to be the cause of all his sorrows? How could he make them see a helpless boy, only capable of watching the flesh blacken and drop from his mother’s bones? How could he make known the secret anger that had dwelt at the center of his being his whole life and was now departed? He felt free, for the first time.

  “Gentle lords,” he said. “Dear…ladies…”

  Arthur was staring at his hands. The Lady’s blood had flowed around them and was now drizzling off the table edge. His hands were stained with it, and he rubbed them on his robe.

  Guinevere retreated from the table, whimpering, flanked by other ladies of the court. They were all of them fleeing from his presence.

  The knights drew closer.

  There was strident ring of steel.

  Arthur had drawn forth Excalibur, and that peerless blade shone with a light that was whiter than even the Lady’s had been. It was terrifying to behold in the hand of Arthur, for his serene and youthful face was now struck through with stark veins and wrathful creases, a guise of unfettered rage.

  He brought the sword up and struck the table with the pommel, causing the bloodstained dishes to shatter and the fragments to jump.

  “You mad, pernicious villain!” He roared, and in the next, his voice was a tortured, disbelieving wail. “The Lady Lile was our benefactress! Your shame is upon this whole fellowship!”

  He heaved his breath, shoulders rising and falling, teeth bared like a wolf anticipating violence.

  Balin’s bloody lips trembled. He had thought the silent resentment of the king a hard thing when he had laid the body of his cousin at his feet. But this was an anger unreasoning and terrible as a storm at sea. This was the wrath of King Arthur’s outraged heart.

  Was this the moment the maiden had warned of? So soon? Would he die fighting Arthur here in his hall? No. By God in heaven if it came to that, he swore he would not defend. Better to fall upon his own sword than that.

  “Go from my sight!” Arthur screamed. “If you were not truly cursed as the Lady said, then by heaven, I lay my own curse upon you! You will never live past this day if you linger here a moment longer!”

  Balin trembled at that pronouncement.

  The ring of knights wavered. He fancied he could feel their displeasure like the onset of inclement weather pressing in on him. They were never closer to disobeying their monarch than now.

  His mouth worked, but there was nothing he could say. How could he explain himself in the face of this ire? The Lady of The Lake had turned all his peers against him, her last blow against him. He swore it. Her last. But he knew in his heart he was vindicated. He had saved them all from her wiles.

  He half stumbled backward, almost tripping over the head of the Lady lying obscured in blood and tangled hair.

  Without knowing why, he stooped over and snatched the head up by the hair and went quickly from the hall, ignoring their oaths against him, his trophy dripping blood.

  He passed numbly into the outer hall. The guards shifted, unsure of what to do. Their captain touched his sword, but at a look from Balin, he lifted his hand, giving him passage.

  He thought he saw a familiar, wild looking figure in black for a moment, but the figure passed behind a column, and when it emerged, he saw it was just a lanky squire with a black muffler.

  The boy stared with wide, fearful dark eyes at Balin and what he carried.

  Balin pointed to him with his bloody sword.

  “Boy! Fetch my horse!”

  The boy’s eyes flashed anger for a moment, but then he bowed and scurried out of the chamber without a word.

  By the time Balin had reached the outer gate, he found the boy waiting, holding Ironprow by the bridle, his shield and lance hung on the saddle with a bag of provisions.

  Balin took the reins and climbed into the saddle. He propped the head of the Lady Lile on his lap, then reached down and snatched up the boy’s muffler, pulling it from his thin neck. There was a flash of silver. The boy wore some sort of necklace. A torc that was oddly familiar.

  Balin wound the muffler around the head and tied it off into a sack.

  “You must find Sir Brulen of Northumberland. He serves Orkney. Give him this,” he said, holding out the head in the makeshift bag. “He will reward you well.”

  He expected the dark boy to run from him, but the boy reached up and accepted the head quietly.

  “What shall I tell him, Sir Balin?”

  He paused. What to tell him?

  At their knighting, when Brulen had slain Gallet, he had not understood. His brother had seemed like a stranger. But now…

  “Tell him I forgive him,” said Balin.

  And he eased his spurs into Ironprow’s flanks and rode, wherefore, he knew not.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  King Arthur sat troubled upon his throne, and Merlin leaned on his staff beside him, gazing down at the floor.

  Merlin had urged the shaken Guinevere and her entourage to ride for Carhaix so that she could be with her father. Bedivere and Arthur’s nephews from Orkney had accompanied her.

  In the door to the empty throne room, Princess Colombe gripped the arm of Sir Lanceor.

  “I beg you, my love,” she whispered. “Do not.”

  Lanceor freed his arm and strode across the room to the foot of the dais. He was bedecked in his full armor, helmet in hand. He raised his gauntlet impressively.

  “All Camelot seethes for want of justice, sire. In another day, word of Sir Balin’s deed will have spread to Cameliard and from there across Albion. Only say the word and let me drive this false knight down for you.”

  “Do you truly seek justice or simply to drive Sir Balin down, Sir Lanceor?” Merlin asked, not looking up from the floor. “Have I not heard you denounce the Lady of The Lake in your cups? Why would a devout Christian such as you be her champion now?”

  Lanceor reddened.

  “The murder of a lady in the king’s hall should not
go unpunished, Merlin,” the Hibernian answered. “Pagan or Christian. Only in Sir Balin’s death can there be justice. Let me be its instrument, my king,” Lanceor insisted.

  Arthur looked to Merlin.

  “Merlin,” he murmured. “What should I do?”

  Merlin shook his head.

  “You are king. The decision is yours.”

  Arthur set his hands on the throne, looked at Lanceor, and grimly nodded.

  Lanceor smiled, bowed, and went purposefully to the outer hall.

  “Captain Albanact! Make ready my horse and lance!” he boomed.

  Arthur and Merlin watched him go, and from the side door, Colombe flitted after him, sparing them both one rueful glance before disappearing into the hall in her lover’s wake.

  “He’s right,” Arthur said, with a hint of sadness. “I do not like to set my knights upon each other, but Sir Balin’s crime is unforgivable. I should never have let him leave. Merlin, I don’t understand. Was the maiden false? How could Sir Balin draw the sword when no one else could? How could the magic mark him true when by his action he has proven a villain?”

  Merlin sighed.

  “A man may be a hero in his own tale and yet a villain in some other’s,” said Merlin. “A woman too. Even the Lady of The Lake was benefactress to you and bane to him. As to the sword, a sword for all its magic is but a sword, and may no more lie than a brick may weep. There is truly no better knight than Balin in this land. He shall yet achieve great things for you, but in the end, as the Lady said…failure. And death.”

  Arthur pressed Merlin for more, and would have spoken long into the night, but the enchanter begged off, saying he had secret business and long journeys to attend to.

  Merlin retired to his chambers, where a door at the back which was locked but had no key, opened to his crystal cave. There he dwelt, fortified by weighty tomes in languages both forgotten and yet to be spoken, many written in his own hand.

  Nimue, and any other who observed him, would not have known him to be in mourning. His face seemed no more troubled than usual. In repose, he seemed always troubled. He mourned the loss of the Lady in his own way, by recording it in the pages of his books, as he recorded everything. Record was precious to one without a past. He mourned the loss yet to come.

  Next, he set the black muffler sack with its dreadful burden on his workbench and positioned before it the ancient Cup of Jamshid. He stirred the liquid in the cup with the point of a polished dagger and recited incantations learned by long rote. By means scyphomantic and macharomantic, he looked into the seven levels and confirmed much of what he already knew, and learned far more than he wanted. In this knowledge unfiltered came the myriad dangers of his profession, the fardels of maddening secrets and unavoidable destinies which were wont to drive him running naked at times, howling through the wild rains of secret forests, hounded by visions wondrous and horrific, until he cowered in his crystal cave, huddled like a thing unborn fearing the noise and light of life impending.

  He had seen men hurtling through black space in ships of steel on plumes of fire, heard songs gentle and cacophonous from ages hence. He had seen and lived the triumphs and calamities of men and women who would not be born until long after Arthur was dust. And he had seen Albion’s fall and his own demise a thousand times. It came in many ways, from many avenues, from hidden archers and rolling fires, from men’s violence and from the guile of women. The ultimate destiny was inexorable, but the tributaries by which they arrived, he had found, could be altered and diverted, to take less treacherous courses.

  For as long as Arthur sat brooding alone on his throne, so sat Merlin, ruminating on how to avoid the worst possible doom and how best to bring about the lesser. That was Merlin the Cambion. Not the plotter and director men thought him, merely a fretting intermediary. Like a cosmic advocate, he pleaded on behalf of men with an uncaring fate.

  When Sir Kay came in the morning and led his dozing foster brother and liege at last to bed, Merlin rose from his workbench and by forms fleet and strange, bore his grisly burden to the one Sir Balin had directed him to.

  He wondered if Nimue had learned what had happened.

  ***

  She had.

  Through the Sight, Nimue had seen the death of the Lady Lile.

  Merlin had not been bluffing. He’d been right about Balin. How had she not foreseen this turn? She fell from her horse, distraught, and lay in the forest weeping for the Lady of The Lake and the damage she had unintentionally done.

  Lile had been the only Lady of Avalon she had ever known. She had been kind, like a beloved aunt, during her career on the Isle.

  By dawn Nimue regained her wits and settled in the hollow of a tree, drawing the Gwenn Mantle about her to hide herself from all sight.

  Avalon would swiftly elect a new queen. Nineve was a contender, but Viviane was more likely. If Viviane assumed the title, the maidens of Avalon would hunt Nimue down. Of course, Merlin might catch her first. The forests were no longer safe, nor any still body of water.

  She flew far north as a sparrow, from dusk till dawn, to the Christian kingdom of Lystenoyse, where she had hid from the eye of Avalon after stealing the Adventurous Sword and the Gwenn Mantle.

  She remembered the dewy fields where she had slept one night and the beauteous Castle Carbonek where the Christian King Pellam, custodian of the Sangreal, ruled inside the enchanted Palace Adventurous. Then, she had been unable to pass the walls of Carbonek with the Adventurous Sword, as no weapon could cross its threshold.

  Now, free of the sword, she transformed into a bird and soared over the high walls and lit on the dark window sill of one of the tower chambers. She pecked furiously at the casement until a light lit inside and a pale hand pushed it open to admit her.

  “Hello,” said a sleepy woman’s voice. “What is it that’s so important, little bird?”

  Nimue hopped past her into the dim room and became herself once more.

  The lady at the window, Lady Heleyne, nearly dropped her candle in surprise.

  “Oh my God! Nimue!”

  She was older than Nimue but quite beautiful still. Her long golden tresses hung unfettered, and her nightgown was the color of Avalon mist. The cross around her neck marked her as follower of the crucified god, but Nimue trusted her now more than any other.

  “I’m sorry to visit you like this unannounced,” said Nimue. “I had nowhere else to turn.”

  Heleyne regained her composure and closed the window, coming across the room to embrace Nimue.

  “You’re shaking!” she whispered. “What’s happened?”

  She broke the embrace and stared at Nimue.

  “Have you done it?” She gasped. “Is Arthur slain?”

  “No,” said Nimue, parting from her and dropping herself tiredly into a chair beside the door. She was exhausted. She opened her mouth to explain and fought back a wail. She put her hands to her face and squeezed her eyes against the guilt and sorrow.

  Heleyne set the candle on the dressing table. She knelt and put her hands on her knees.

  “But the sword! You don’t have it,” Heleyne said.

  Heleyne had found her in the field outside the castle and pitied her. She had attempted to bring her to Carbonek, and when the Adventurous Sword had prevented her, Nimue had explained its curse and how she could be freed of it. She had hoped Heleyne would recommend some great Christian knight loyal to Arthur, but to her surprise, the kind lady of Carbonek had had no good words for the High King, and confessed that she hated Arthur, for he had personally slain her beloved brother at Aneblayse.

  This mutual hatred had forged a sisterly bond between them, and Nimue had eventually confided her entire plan, relaying the tale of how she had used the Gwenn Mantle to infiltrate and steal, all to arrange the death of Arthur by the Adventurous Sword.

  “Oh, Heleyne,” Nimue said tiredly, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve been a fool. I should have taken your advice and just used the Gwenn Mantle to kill Arthur in his sleep
.”

  “But a knight has claimed the sword?” Heleyne pressed. “A knight who loves Arthur best?”

  “Yes, one Sir Balin. But he is a simple, raging brute, and he’s used it to…” She shook her head. As a Christian, Heleyne wouldn’t understand the devastation of Lady Lile’s murder. It was pointless to explain. “This was supposed to be a simple curse. But now the knight has misused the sword and been driven out of Camelot as an outlaw. I’ve failed. Spectacularly.”

  Heleyne laid her cheek on Nimue’s knees.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But…will not the curse still do its work?”

  “It should, but how much damage will it cause before it does?” Nimue said. “Every day the sword gets farther away from its target.”

  “Well then, you must simply steer your instrument back in the right direction,” Heleyne said, lifting her chin to stare up into Nimue’s eyes. Her gaze flitted to the enchanted mantle about Nimue’s shoulders, and she touched the hem lightly between her thumb and fingers.

  “My movements are restricted,” Nimue said. “The Merlin is hunting me, and soon, all of Avalon will join him.”

  “You can stay here, of course,” said Heleyne. “As much as you need to. The women of Avalon cannot see into Carbonek. Not even Merlin can.”

  “I know. But after they’ve searched Albion and not found me, eventually they will think to come here,” Nimue said. “And I won’t bring them to your doorstep, not if I can help it.”

  Heleyne bit her lip and rose, pacing in front of the mirror for a few moments.

  “Then what you need is something to distract attention from your movements,” she said at last.

  “Only a rampaging dragon would keep them from me now,” she chuckled.

  “I can provide something like that,” she said, smiling. She left the candlelight and disappeared in the dark beside her large bed.

  Nimue heard liquid splashing.

  “What?”

  Heleyne returned with a goblet of wine and held it out to her.

  “Part of the reason Avalon hunts you is the Gwenn Mantle,” she said. “You told me it’s one of the Thirteen Pagan Treasures of Albion, like the Sangreal of us Christians. They seek to return it to Avalon.”