Then they could hear the tramp and splash of the advancing Saxons and the yell of the commander. Soon they were close enough to hear the twang of bowstrings.
And then there came another command and a chilling demon scream of charging men.
Balin, Brulen, and Geraint braced themselves against the blockade and shuddered as the full strength of the Saxon force charged against it.
It groaned and pieces clattered off, but it held.
The Saxon captain called out in cadence, and the army on the other side of the blockade heaved. They were irresistible.
“We can’t stop them!” Geraint shrieked.
“Spears, then swords!” Balin called. “Cut down as many as you can! Geraint! Go upstairs and lock the gate!”
And so here he would meet his end, in the putrid bowels of this city in a hopeless fight. But at least Brulen was here.
“I won’t leave you!” Geraint yelled.
“Go and lock the gate! Then ride for reinforcements! Bring the Orkneys! Anyone you can find!”
No doubt the Orkneys and the other Cameliard knights and the sons of Pellinore had their own troubles. Rience had Saxons to spare after all, and if there was enough of a force arrayed out on the field before the city to mask the maneuvers of so many down here in this tunnel, no doubt each of the secret passages was equally threatened. They didn’t need to besiege Carhaix or batter down her gates. The city would fall from within.
The barricade buckled with the latest push, and Geraint reluctantly withdrew and stumbled toward the stair. Brulen took up a spear and his sword and Balin did the same, the gleam of the Adventurous Sword in his hand almost lighting the passage.
Then a great shadow stymied the sun on the sewer stairs and he looked up and saw a great dark furred form as of a sharp-eared beast come padding down the steps on all fours.
Its eyes caught the shine of the sword and flashed like jet in its broad face. It was a silver wolf, yet larger than any such beast Balin had ever seen.
A great, evil dread seized his heart at the sight of the terrible creature, and he nearly cast his spear down its maw.
At that instant the Saxons burst through the barrier, sending its components tumbling in every direction. Balin spun and spitted a rushing warrior on his spear, then swung the Adventurous Sword and cleaved through the helm of a second, halving the grimacing face beneath in a burst of teeth and blood. A sharp ringing sound reverberated along the tunnel, and the sword shook in his grip. Its inherent shine flared into a lightning bright flash that illuminated the surprised visages of the tangled cluster of bearded soldiers, all of them in scale hauberks and wielding long swords or spears and round blue and white painted Saxon shields.
Time seemed to freeze in that moment.
Balin recognized the commander in that single strobe of incandescence, a broad shouldered man in a chain shirt and peaked aventail helm with accents of brass around the eyes and nose, and a broad axe in his fist. A signal horn hung from his belt, to be blown when Carhaix had fallen, no doubt. But the dead could sound no horn.
The supernatural white blaze of the sword penetrated the dark eyelets of the commander’s helm and showed bright eyes, wide and dilated in awe.
The wolf on the stair let out a terrible howl that echoed down the tunnel like the plaintive wail of an arch demon lamenting the torture of hell. There was something unearthly in that animal call. It was like no wolf Balin had ever heard and contained much of the moan of a man in it.
That beastly din, combined with the light of the Adventurous Sword, caught every man in the Saxon charge up, and in their eyes and in their manner Balin saw for an instant a withering dread that surpassed his own, perhaps born in the long ago superstitions of their northern blood. This knowledge, that they were greater in number and yet more afraid, blew fire into his heart and limbs and quickened his pulse.
The blast of strange light faded, and so too did that howl dwindle. It was as if the illuminated Saxons plunged, drowning men sinking into a fearful night eternal. Balin’s last sight of the Saxon commander was as the man reached out, as if to catch the dying light in his grasp.
Into that darkness Balin leapt, striking first two-handed with the sword, smashing shields and snapping swords. He cut the shaking hands that grasped the broken weapons. He split in twain the fear-filled hearts behind them. As if the bloodletting was not enough, he drew his second sword to better glut his hunger for the slaughter.
The wolf sprang from the stair, too, and Balin smelled its musk and heard its horrific snarling at his side. He was splashed by the blood of its victims, just as he was sure it was bathed in the same from his own.
Brulen was there, too, in the dark, expulsing the cry of a man seeking to beat death at his own game, to overwhelm death with more death.
These were the ancestral enemy their father had faced in the service of Detors, and Balin delighted in taking up his birthright. The half-hearted blows of the dying picked at him, making his armor chime. One heavy blow from an axe tore the helmet from his head, but he fought on, ears ringing.
He did not know how long they cut their way down the length of that tunnel, but when his forward momentum carried him to the end of his opponents, he nearly fell sprawling into the water, tripping over the dead. He turned to look back, and the light of the stair was a ways off, the view unobstructed.
The great wolf panted beside him, but he did not shrink from it. He heard Brulen’s labored breathing, and Geraint’s.
“My God,” said Geraint. “Are we alive?”
Balin gasped and leaned against the tunnel wall. Many islands had formed in the water, still and barren. The stink of blood and piss and dung was heavy in the dank air.
“If we are not, this is surely hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
When they had waded back down the stinking tunnel, now choked with floating bodies, and climbed the sunlit stair back up to the street, they were greeted by Sir Lamorak and Sir Gaheris who came riding up on their horses.
“Goddess!” Lamorak exclaimed at the sight of the three blood splashed men and the large wolf, whose maw and flanks were soaked in Saxon red.
Gaheris dismounted and took from off his saddle Sir Marrok’s tabard. He moved to the sewer stair, and the wolf followed him closely, wagging its tail like an eager hound. Gaheris flung the bunched up garment down the stair and the wolf eagerly bounded down after it, like a dog at play.
Balin could only stare after it, fearing what form it would take.
“We repulsed the south tunnel assault handily,” said Gaheris. “There were only a dozen or so, and we set the tunnel afire. They won’t try that way again. How many fought you?”
Brulen shook his head.
“I could not count them in the dark. There were many. Too many.”
“Where is Sir Landens?” Geraint asked.
“He took a wound from a Saxon axe beneath the knee, but he will neither die nor lose the limb,” said Lamorak. “He is a game man. We carried him to Princess Guinevere.”
Sir Marrok emerged from the stairwell, wearing his tunic and otherwise bare beneath. His arms and legs bore open cuts, and there was blood beneath his nails and splashed across his teeth and lips.
Sir Balin shuddered and crossed himself, doubting the werewolf’s tale no more.
“Collocaulus was in command of our lot,” said Marrok. “I remembered him from King Uther’s day. One of Osla’s lieutenants. Sir Balin slew him.”
He looked at Balin with admiration, but Balin would not meet his gaze, afraid he would see a beast’s eyes in Marrok’s face. He pitied the man his curse. It was an evil fate to consider.
“We must ride and relieve them at the east passage,” Balin said hastily.
They wasted no time in mounting and riding hard for the eastern postern, which was a secret way that opened up into a toolshed off the central keep and was intended for the nobility of the city to make their escape.
When they arrived, they found the shed sunder
ed into splinters and the secret postern door exposed.
Sir Tor sat at the edge of it with Sir Guy in his arms, and Sir Agravaine pulled the broken helm from Sir Purades, revealing his bloody face.
Sir Tor looked up with tears in his eyes.
“Sir Guy de Cameliard is dead,” he announced sadly.
Sir Guy lay as if sleeping. His armor was much dented and bloodstained, and there was a great rend in the steel from which a tide of blood still leaked.
“He slew that traitor, Sir Bertholai, down in the passage before he fell,” said Sir Purades.
Geraint got down and fell to his knees beside the dead knight.
“He was my uncle’s son,” Geraint said, stroking his face with one gauntlet.
“There will be time for grief later if we live,” said Balin. “How fares the east passage?”
“We fought men of Snowdonia,” said Agravaine. “We accounted for half their number, then they retreated at a command and surrendered the passage.”
They heard Saxon signal horns bellowing from the field then, and the whistle of a storm of arrows, followed by a tremendous crash.
“That sounds like the front gate,” Sir Purades said.
Balin bit his lip and looked to Brulen.
Brulen read his thought and pointed out a nearby wagon yard.
Balin nodded.
“We have to reinforce the gate,” he said. “Those wagons over there can be used to block off this entry entirely if we knock the wheels off.”
“I will stay and do it,” said Sir Purades, wiping the blood from his eyes.
“As will I,” said Sir Tor, gently pushing the corpse of Sir Guy into Geraint’s arms.
Marrok limped up, took quick stock of what was needed, and spoke, “I’d be no good in another fight. I’ll stay.”
“Sir Geraint?” Balin pressed.
The knight of Cameliard looked up absently, as if he didn’t know where he was.
“Geraint!”
Geraint blinked and nodded, laying Guy down on the stones.
“I’ll go with you.”
“When the work is finished, guard the Princess Guinevere,” Balin said to the others, wheeling his horse about.
Agravaine and Geraint mounted, and the six of them rode for the gates. Balin looked once over his shoulder and saw Sir Marrok raise his bloody hand in farewell.
***
Dead defenders were draped over the wall of Cameliard as their dwindling fellows launched arrows down on the besieging army. As Balin and his coterie rode up, they saw a Saxon climbing over the edge of a battlement as he topped a besieging ladder. A badly wounded Cameliard man, bristling with arrows like a porcupine, rose slowly, ran straight at the Saxon assailant and tackled him. They heard the howls of every man on the ladder as it fell backward, even above the din and clash and the singing of feather shafts.
Balin was surprised to see Arthur’s knights mounted and waiting in an orderly line before the gate, whose iron and thick oak were splitting apart. Squires ran up and down the column passing up lances and shields.
Arthur was astride his horse Hengroen, trotting magnificently up and down the line, shouting encouragements as he had at Bedegraine, his helm in his hand.
Sir Lamorak recognized his brother Aglovale at the back of the line and rode up to him, Balin and the rest falling in behind.
“What goes on here?” Lamorak asked.
“The gate is failing,” Aglovale said. “We are lost!”
Balin looked to Brulen as Arthur rode up to them.
“Sir Balin!” he exclaimed at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
Balin had completely forgotten he had lost his helmet in the sewer.
“My lord, Sir Balin and his brother have faithfully defended Cameliard this day,” Gaheris interjected.
“I will swear to that,” said Sir Geraint.
Arthur looked from his nephew to the cousin of his future queen, if ever he would live to see the day of their wedding. Then his eyes settled on Balin. His face was strained, eyes bloodshot. A Saxon arrow had pierced his besagew and hung there unnoticed, like some bit of decoration.
“You were the Sir Ballantyne I ordered to guard the hidden ways,” Arthur said, his voice hoarse. “How do they fare?”
“They attacked from all avenues, sire,” said Balin. “We repulsed them all. The south passage is aflame and the sewer infiltrators were killed to a man.”
“What of the east tunnel?” Arthur asked with some sense of urgency.
“The Snowdonians were driven back. Sir Guy de Cameliard fell in battle with the traitor Sir Bertholai The Red, who was also slain. I left three knights to block the way.”
Arthur sighed in heavy relief and closed his eyes, muttering a prayer of thanks. Balin realized that Arthur was not defending only his ally, nor even his kingdom from Rience, but his love as well. The east passage was closest to the keep, where Princess Guinevere and the other ladies were secured.
“Sir Landens is wounded but guards the Princess Guinevere,” Balin added, “and I instructed the others to join him when they finished their work.”
Arthur’s eyes opened.
“Yet her cousin Sir Guy is slain,” Arthur said.
The gate shook and crackled again with another impact that sent rivets and splinters tinkling to the ground.
Arthur snapped out of his melancholy and gritted his teeth at the sight of the gate. “The gate fails,” he said, donning his helm.
He stood in his stirrups and shouted over the heads of the knights. “The men of Cameliard on the wall are faltering! The city cannot hold! But I will not die shut up in a trap like a rat! When the last blow sunders the door, I will ride straight into the enemy host and cut my way to Rience himself, if God will grant me that!”
The knights raised their shields and hollered their approval.
He turned and looked at Balin, then reached forward and clapped his pauldron soundly with his gauntlet.
“You are supposed to be the best knight in the world,” said Arthur. “Ride with me now, Sir Balin. I would have the Adventurous Sword at my side. Perhaps it and Excalibur can carve a clean path through the waves to our foe before they fall back upon us.”
Balin’s heart swelled so great he thought it would burst his cuirass. He clasped his king’s hand and his only answer was a joyful sob that burst unbidden from his lips as he bowed his head in assent.
Arthur closed his helm, took his dragon shield from his squire, and fitted his lance into its rest.
Another did the same for Balin, and they took their places at the head of the knights with Bedivere, Kay, and Gawaine.
The door shivered. Bearded faces peered through the splits in the heavy wood. At the sight of the gathered knights, the eyes widened and they retreated fearfully, shouting a warning to their fellows.
Arthur raised his lance and bellowed, loud enough to be heard by all his men, “Now! By the powers that made you!” To the beleaguered guards manning the gates, he shouted, “Throw the bar!”
Balin was exhausted from the hard fight through the sewers. Every steel encased limb felt encumbered by lead even atop that. But he couched his lance and raised his bare charge, and prayed to God to cross swords with a king once more before he died.
The shattered timber need hardly be lifted from the gate. It fell to pieces when the guards laid hands on it and the horde beyond, throwing the weight of their makeshift ram upon it, tumbled in like eavesdroppers surprised at a chamber door.
Those that had tried to warn the others scrambled to get away, their alarms lost in the confusion and exultation.
Arthur, Kay, Balin, Gawaine, and Bedivere kicked their horses and charged, and all the fighting pride of Camelot and Pendragon thundered behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Lances pierced steel and muscle, lifting men screaming into the air. Others exploded with lightning cracks, pounding metal and pulverizing the bone beneath it. Limbs flailed wildly and without reason as evicted
souls departed their broken, bloody cases.
The great ram and the wet hide canopy above it collapsed as the besiegers suddenly found themselves besieged.
In the initial tangle of retreat from the hammer charge, men died, bones snapping beneath iron shod hooves or the heavy boots of their own fleeing warriors. In the wake of the great push, the squires swarmed over the groaning wounded, dealing death as quick as the flicking tongues of adders with dagger edge and spear point.
A hundred and forty knights smashed into the numerically superior Saxons, and for one storied, effervescent moment, successfully drove them back. But behind them waited the dream crushing armored cavalry of Orkney and Norgales, and the hard knights of Snowdonia, led by Sir Segurant The Brown, two thousand strong.
These spread into a steel shield and thundered across the plain to catch the rebounding Saxon footmen and check Arthur’s spear point.
The forward knights of Camelot and Cameliard had lost their lances, and so those in the rear that had kept theirs intact, doubled their speed to take the front. Arthur, Kay, Bedivere, Balin, and Gawaine fell back and drew their swords.
Balin saw Geraint, Agravaine, and Gaheris fly past, leveling their lances as they went. He looked for Brulen, but did not see his brother.
Lance point met shield and plackart and helm as it had in hundreds of bright tournaments on the sunlit tiltyard before Camelot. But this was no war play now for token or gamble, and knights crashed to the ground with a tremulous cacophony of sound, some never to rise again. Horses screamed, pierced or broken legged, and flopped about the bloody field, rolling over their masters.
The superior force of Segurant caught and crushed the charge, then enclosed them like a fist, riding in with chopping swords and swishing flails to rake and batter those that had fallen and struggled to rise.
Excalibur and the Adventurous Sword rang out and struck alongside each other as they had only once before in forgotten times, until the melee became a writhing knot of steel clad riders and unhorsed fighters. Balin and Arthur were separated like leaves in a storm swift eddy. Balin blessed this turn. Every moment he spent at Arthur’s side, he feared the sword in his own hand.
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