The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  There was no easy gauging the battle now. It took effort for Balin to remain in the saddle of Ironprow. At every turn the enemy came, faceless juggernauts of iron and steel, tarnished and bright, bloody and spotless, of every fashion, pauldrons heavy and winged, helms flowing bright plumes or flapping with silken ribbons, arms tied with soft remembrances of women who would grieve them before the sun set. Balin’s sword and shield met axe and mace, morning star and greatsword, until finally the latter caved and broke apart.

  Then, Balin let slip his ruined shield and drew his second sword, or rather his first, the trusty weapon with which he had trained and been dubbed so long ago. He lay about him as he had at the crossroads, no longer giving any though to defense, merely turning and cutting, stabbing and slashing, casting himself heedless into the unending fray. He locked his knees and let the reins fly wild. Ironprow understood somehow, and wheeled and jumped, switching its master’s facing constantly, as if the worthy animal knew that the heavy, roaring thing on its back would meet and end every impending threat to its own sweaty hide.

  A ring of armor began to form around Balin’s pitching mount as more and more Snowdonians took note of the wild enemy fighter in their midst and rushed forth to seize his life for their glory, meeting instead their own inglorious endings. Men swore vengeance at their fallen fellows and then swiftly joined them. Others lay whimpering final prayers as fresh dead came slamming down atop them, the foundation and brick of a wall of dead, with blood and viscera the mortar.

  For an instant, Balin found respite, like a summoner safe inside his warding circle of steel-clad corpses. His swords had built a makeshift berm which destriers and coursers, and even the most battle hardened chargers balked to leap, fearing either the heavy scent of death or rolling eyes at the sight of the devil horse and its demon rider waiting on the other side like a consuming fire. New attackers dismounted to clamber clumsily over the dead and get at him.

  Balin saw beyond the clash of arms where the remainder of the spirit-broken Saxons, still thousands strong, milled anxiously, watching the fight, eager and yet fearing to join. They had not yet flowed through the broken gate of Carhaix, though. A group of Saxon chiefs and their mounted bodyguard hovered near the entrance, preventing their subordinates from looting.

  No doubt as part of their pact with Rience, the city was being held for him to claim.

  Balin looked across the field then and spied the King of Snowdonia and Norgales himself, tall in his saddle, freshly armed and in his beard-trimmed cape. He was behind a line of archers and footmen which seemed innumerable to a lone knight in the midst of his last stand. All his commanders were there with him too. There was the wraith-like King Lot beside him, and the bright blonde Osla Big Knife, all calmly watching their utter destruction from afar.

  And behind them, empty grass, and that lone island of old trees.

  Then above the ring of steel and the screams of men, a familiar voice called to him, “What is your name, knight?”

  Balin looked down from Ironprow and saw a powerful, lone knight with a white beard and cruelly spiked pauldrons, bearing a bloody greatsword. He had cast off his bassinet and great helm. The knight stood insolently on the pile of corpses Balin had made. Though he was of their number, they were not his peers, and were but a footstool to his own purpose.

  Sir Segurant The Brown. The greatest knight of King Uther’s Round Table of old.

  “Sir Balin of Northumberland,” Balin called down.

  No one else was coming in to fight him now. Segurant had claimed him.

  “I am Sir Segurant The Brown. Step down into this arena you’ve made for us, Sir Balin,” he said, descending nimbly down the bloody limbs like a stair until he stood underneath the snorting muzzle of Ironprow.

  Balin breathed heavy. His arms were trembling, hanging at his sides. Having given them a brief rest to observe the enemy, they had failed him now, perhaps thinking the fight was over.

  But he could not let the challenge go by. Segurant may have been a great man once, but he was a servant of the Devil now, and his haughty pride was loathsome to behold.

  “God grant me strength,” Balin muttered and leaned forward to kiss the mane of Ironprow before sliding out of his saddle to light upon the ground.

  He had barely discharged his faithful mount with a light slap on the rump when Segurant was upon him, the huge sword falling toward his exposed head.

  Perhaps the danger spurred his overtaxed muscles to one last effort. He raised his arms and crossed blades to catch that splitting blow.

  Then he turned, the scrape of his swords sliding off Segurant’s blade was a harsh whisper which became a whistle of wind as he swung for the older knight’s neck.

  But the heavy sword spun expertly and batted the double strike aside. The heavy pommel of the weapon lurched forward and struck Balin in the ear, and he reeled back, head ringing, barely dodging the stabbing point.

  Both combatants had dealt much death this day, and perhaps had they met each other fresh, the duel would have been swifter, more impressive. As it was, technique hid its face from naked aggression as understanding dawned in the minds of both men.

  Early into the fight, Balin knew Segurant’s reputations was no idle boast, no minstrel’s fabrication. He surely faced the greatest knight of yesterday. But would the maiden’s prophecy bear out? Would the Adventurous Sword make him the greatest knight of this day?

  Rience, Arthur, the Saxons, Carhaix, though a hundred and more such dramas as their own were even now playing out in the bloody show of war all around them, there was nothing in that circle of bodies but Balin versus Segurant.

  ***

  Segurant had slain real dragons and giants in his day, but this young knight’s death eluded him with every last instant parry and preternatural duck and spin. The veritable boy before him knew. He instinctively knew, as only one natural born to the martial path knew. He knew which blows to allow through his defense, which would merely dent his harness, and which would kill or maim. He knew when to lunge for all he was worth and when to feint and hope for an opening to exploit.

  He knew as Segurant himself knew, and so not a blow was landed that drew blood, for the one that did would be a killing blow.

  He wept to know he would have to kill this fine knight.

  ***

  Balin had never met a fiercer opponent.

  The old knight had the strength of a bear and the swiftness of an arrow flying, which should have been impossible with so heavy a weapon. Segurant used the massive blade unconventionally, more like a quarterstaff at times, hand flying up from the long handle to brace the blade against Balin’s attacks, then sliding back down to grip the pommel and put a bull’s might behind his riposte.

  This was the sword Wyrmspit, with which Segurant had laid dragons low in the old days. There was no magic to the ugly two-hander but what its wielder brought to it, and yet it was more than a match for Balin’s Adventurous Sword. Perhaps the hot blood of dragons had tempered the steel somehow. Balin had broken steel, yet whenever Wyrmspit met the Adventurous Sword, there was a flash of hot sparks as from a smith’s hammer.

  His own knight’s sword trembled to meet that elder weapon. Balin could almost feel the steel crying in pain deep in his fist with every savage kiss of Wyrmspit, threatening to shiver at the hilt.

  He released his grip on the sword as a whim, and Segurant, suddenly meeting an utter lack of resistance, overstepped ever so slightly.

  It was enough. Balin closed, his gauntlet beating down in quick succession Segurant’s wrist, pushing Wyrmspit low, too low to ward against the point of the Adventurous Sword, which punched through his bevor with a screech of tearing steel.

  Segurant’s momentum carried him further down the shining blade, until the tip burst from the back of his thick neck and he fell against Balin, dropping his sword and embracing him in the last.

  Balin groaned with his weight.

  Segurant stared up at him, eyes bulging, pouring tears. He
opened his mouth, perhaps to speak some valediction, but blood was all that came out, staining his snow white beard like the gory trail of some stricken winter prey.

  Balin let Segurant fall, his weight pulling the Adventurous Sword free, and tearing most of his head from his neck.

  He stared down at the body in amazement for a moment, as realization dawned on him that truly, he was now the best knight in the world.

  Somewhere a Saxon horn sounded.

  He plunged its point into the ground and looked around wearily for his next challenge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Beyond all hope, a hundred of the knights of Camelot and Arthur still stood or rode.

  The field was littered with dead knights, the victors in some cases entwined with the defeated.

  As Balin reclaimed his other sword and pushed the short wall of dead down to stumble through, he saw the Snowdonian and Norgales knights, still greater in number, had formed a perimeter around the survivors of Arthur’s charge, watching alongside the Saxons with wary uncertainty.

  Many of them had died. So many that the commanders had blown the signal to disengage.

  Balin staggered forward, dragging his swords in the bloody earth.

  Bedivere stood, and the Orkney knights, Kay still on his horse next to Arthur atop the blood spattered Hengroen as always, Griflet, Geraint, and others. All were battered, cut, and bloodied. All spent past their limits.

  Balin looked about for Ironprow, but did not see him, and nearly tripped over the body of a knight whose face he had seen at the banquet in Camelot, but whose name he didn’t know.

  Someone caught him.

  It was Brulen. His helmet was gone, and blood ran from a cut at his hairline, as well as from the wound in his arm, opened anew and now hanging limp at his side.

  Balin smiled, but could summon no words.

  Brulen smiled back and they touched foreheads, glad to have met each other on the field of slaughter one last time.

  ***

  Rience had seen enough of his men die, or perhaps he had taken the fall of Segurant as an ill omen. He had ordered his men back, and now the Saxon archers were raising their bows and crouching in unison.

  A chief rode back and forth behind them, urging their aim be true, preparing them to let fly.

  Balin let his swords drop from his tired hands and threw his arms about his brother. He wished they could be free of their armor, to feel their hearts beat one against the other before steel pierced them.

  “Forgive me, Brulen, forgive me,” Balin bawled into his brother’s ear.

  “Forgive me, brother,” was Brulen’s sobbing answer.

  Then there was a commotion from far off where the archers stood.

  Balin glanced over and saw the captain of archers fall quietly from his saddle, their execution order dead with his last breath.

  Panic and chaos erupted among the Saxon bowmen. Arrows. Arrows were falling into their midst from the sky. But how? There weren’t that many archers left on the wall of Carhaix, and they were well out of range of the city at any rate.

  These arrows came stinging from behind.

  But there was nothing behind the archers but their own footmen and King Rience. And nothing behind them but bare field and that small copse of trees.

  And then, something stirred that bunch of trees. Something that was not the wind.

  A wild, black clad figure atop a piebald horse, bearing a staff. He paused, turned, and raised his arm as if gesturing for someone to follow.

  ***

  A column of charging cavalry, under a flapping black banner burst from the stand of trees.

  On the banner: Sable, a lion passant, Or. The gold lion banner of King Leodegrance.

  Balin watched open mouthed as the silver column of warriors grew like a snake emerging from its hole. It was impossible that those men had been hiding there. There were dozens of men. There was not enough area to hold them all.

  “It’s a miracle!” Balin remarked.

  “Not quite,” Brulen chuckled wearily. “Merlin.”

  And then, to compound the impossibility, two more lines of knights came flying from the left and right of the copse, both bearing glorious standards.

  Azure, a lion rampant or, armed and langued, gules.

  The golden lion, red clawed and red tongued, of King Uriens.

  And on the other side: Or, semy of plain crosslets, azure.

  The blue field of gold crosses. The emblem of King Pellinore.

  It was as if the copse had dammed some silver river and suddenly burst, spilling three coursing streams out onto the land.

  As Leodegrance’s army bore straight for King Rience’s back, and he and his immediate men turned to face them, the armies of King Uriens and King Pellinore flanked the terrified Saxons.

  Merlin remained behind, the knights coursing around him. Finally, a line of archers marched out, raised their bows, and arced another volley into the air which rained down on the enemy, just before Leodegrance’s knights smashed into their midst.

  “Horses, if you have them!” Arthur roared from his saddle, wheeling the shimmering Excalibur above his head. “If you hear me, you are not dead men yet!”

  Balin and Brulen both heaved a cry that was taken up by the other survivors of Camelot and Cameliard. They were not alone.

  The surge of spirit made the enemy ringing them quiver. They gave ground, uncertain whether to turn and meet the new threat or dispatch the ones at their mercy.

  Then Arthur’s men charged in all directions, on foot, on horse, renewing the attack, their half-dead bodies invigorated by what some of them called magic, and others said was the Holy Spirit.

  Balin and Brulen rushed into the thick of the enemy and pulled a pair of bewildered Snowdonian knights from their saddles, seizing their destriers for themselves.

  They rode hard, splitting the host of Saxons and knights with unrelenting violence, their swords knocking heads spinning from their shoulders and leaving the dead sprawling in their wake.

  ***

  They rode directly for King Rience and the commanders.

  A wild arrow shot up and skinned Balin’s chin, but then they crashed into the thick of the retreating bowmen, cutting their bowstrings, cleaving their sallets.

  When they burst side by side through the contingent of archers to the bodyguard, they found the knights of Pellinore engaged, and The King of the Isles himself fighting the lanky King Lot horse to horse. Balin had not seen Lot since the courtyard of St. Paul’s, when he had renounced Arthur. His face was shorn clean, the black beard gone to Rience, no doubt.

  Balin grinned savagely to see Rience, Lot, and Osla Big Knife grimacing in awe at the sudden ill turn of their assured victory.

  Balin spurred his horse for Rience, shouting the king’s name, but a horse came up fast alongside him, and its rider cried out, “No, Sir Balin! He’s mine!”

  It was Arthur, bent low over Hengroen, snarling as he swiftly cut across the nose of Balin’s horse and rode straight at the tall king.

  Rience saw him and turned to meet him, readying Marmyadose.

  Balin watched the two monarchs clash, saw the blinding flash of their enchanted blades, and then saw King Lot deal Pellinore a blow that knocked him clean from his horse.

  Balin kicked his destrier and collided with Lot, sending them both crashing down in a tangle.

  They rolled back and forth, wrestling for dominance, until Balin got hold of his sword again and struck his face with the crossguard, laying Lot out.

  All of Lot’s bodyguards were engaged or fleeing. Balin sat, panting, his sword point to the pagan king’s throat. The battle was crumbling to a chaotic rout all around them.

  “Yield,” he demanded.

  “Yield?” Lot gasped, laying spread-eagled and staring up at the blue sky. “Tell me your name, sir knight.”

  “Balin of Northumberland.”

  Lot chuckled tiredly.

  “I was about to appeal to your sacred duty to your
rightful king, but it would have to be a knight of that craven oaf Clarivaunce that conquered me at last. Perhaps even that murderer Arthur is a better lord than him. How very far the apple fell from the tree of Detors.”

  “Why do you call King Arthur murderer? He will grant you leniency if you but surrender. Anguish and Uriens swore fealty, and they still rule their lands, as do Leodegrance and Pellinore. And I am told you are a good king.”

  “Who told you that?” Lot asked sharply.

  “My own brother, Brulen, who served you. And I have served alongside your sons, Agravaine and Gaheris.”

  “My sons.” Lot spat.

  “You think them traitors?”

  “No,” he sighed. “They follow their hearts, and know not the source of their father’s enmity toward their uncle.”

  Balin leaned forward.

  “What is its source?” he ventured.

  Lot looked into his eyes, then over his shoulder as a shadow fell over them both.

  “Good day to you, King Pellinore,” said Lot in a flat and unwelcoming tone.

  Balin looked up and saw the tall, faceless king in his glorious, cross-emblazoned great helm and gold-chaised armor, a scarlet, ermine-trimmed cape over his shoulders. Beside him stood his son Lamorak, his sword naked in his hands.

  “Stand aside, sir knight,” came Pellinore’s muffled voice.

  “Do as he says, Balin,” said Lamorak. “It’s proper that we take charge of the king of the Orkneys.”

  Balin stood slowly, nodding. He supposed a king must surrender to a king to save face.

  Lot’s gauntlet shot up and caught Balin’s wrist, pulling him down with considerable strength until his ringing ear, bleeding from the blow Segurant had dealt him, was near to Lot’s lips.

  “Sir Balin,” he said hastily, his voice strained and urgent. “In St. Stephen’s, where they will bury me, there hangs a certain painting of a serpent. Number its clutch and count the rebel kings. Then you will learn the High King’s secret shame.”

  Balin frowned at Lot, puzzled.

  “Bury you? Are you badly hurt, sire?”

  Balin could see no serious wound on him.