It was never ending.
The loss of the Grail had been an unexpected blow, and very likely the true purpose of Viviane’s scheme with the sword all along, but as Blaise said, it would be recovered. All would be well, eventually.
Unfortunately, not for Balin. He must pay the price of the worm.
CHAPTER THREE
Balin prayed, but his heart was filled with wrath, and some of it, he could not help but direct at God Himself.
Part of him, the weak part, the part that shied from tight spaces, perhaps, asked why God had stood idly by and allowed him to be so terribly misused, but a voice within him, Gallet’s strong, strict voice, struck these mewling cries away as though with a hymnal.
Hadn’t he brought all this sin upon himself by taking the Adventurous Sword? Hadn’t his pride, as it was written in Proverbs, led him to his fall? He had rationed and reasoned away his need for personal glory and the iniquitous treasure of this cursed sword, even though the maiden had warned him.
Curse Avalon for spawning this thing in its hellfire smithy. Curse Merlin and Arthur and all these maidens who had steered his family to doom from the outset and curse himself for allowing himself to be led.
But no more. Now he would atone. Now he would put this relic of Satan to one final use.
He would turn it on its masters.
He would begin with Merlin in his Garden of Joy and then go to Avalon itself. Arthur had committed the sin of Herod and Pharaoh. He would cleanse away that sin like Christ flogging the moneylenders from the Temple. But in place of a flail would be this sword. He would cut down these crafty witches who had devoured his mother, first her soul and then her body, in fire.
From there he would go to Camelot and test it against Excalibur. Arthur was not God’s king. God had no king in Albion.
Brulen had been right. There was no human master worth serving. Perhaps not in all the wide world.
Brulen. Poor, damned Brulen.
He wept anew for his brother and said a prayer that God would let them reconcile ere he died in battle with heaven’s enemies.
I am easy to find, the old devil Merlin had said with a villainous smile.
He gripped the blade of the sword and stared hard into its surface, looking past his own myriad sins and glories etched upon it.
“Show me the way to Merlin,” he demanded and squeezed the hilt with both hands as though it were the wizard’s throat. Above the image of the falling Grail and Lance, Balin saw an image begin to form like fog on glass, the steel writing the future for him upon its now crowded surface.
He saw a forest and a lake. It was no simple, abstract representation. Every detail was specific, from the twist of an oak on the shore to a strange, moss-covered menhir. It was the place they’d made camp the night before riding into Lystenoyse, the little wood at the valley’s edge, outside of Carteloise Forest.
After he had finished donning his armor and had mounted Ironprow, he put the sword across his lap and rode.
As he drew further from the ruins of Carbonek, his heart grew colder, and he closed the visor of his helm to hide his shameful tears. He was leaving Lorna Maeve behind. It was all he could think of.
First, he had to pass through Lystenoyse.
The village he had ridden through with Count Oduin and Lorna Maeve was gone now. The buildings stood, but they were already falling to disrepair, as if a hundred years had passed between then and now.
Clouds of large, insidious flies buzzed everywhere, lighting upon the scrawny villagers he saw, the eldest and youngest of whom seemed to have been cast into the street. The houses were shuttered, perhaps against disease. Perhaps they were empty.
Those that stayed behind were gray and sunken, faces drawn and miserable. The biting flies clustered in the corners of their drooping mouths and glassy eyes, and raised great suppurating welts on their flesh. Merlin must have lied. It could not have been a mere three days. This village was on the verge of death.
He saw a wasted looking woman sitting against a building, staring off into nothing as a bawling, malnourished baby kicked weakly in her arms and tugged at her naked, withered breast. It was only when he had passed that he realized the mother was dead.
When he turned Ironprow about, thinking to retrieve the infant, a group of shuffling villagers in ragged clothes crept out from between the buildings, bearing hoes and staves, wooden pitchforks and rusty hatchets.
They barred his passage to the child and stared up at him.
“What is the matter here? Why do you all look as if you’re starving?” Balin asked.
The villagers said nothing, until one old dry lipped woman answered, “When the castle fell, all the food spoiled. The meat was found to be maggot-ridden. The milk curdled and the grains were infested with weevils. The river ran dry and the animals dropped dead. Then the flies came, and they spread a sickness among us.”
“Give us your horse and we’ll let you pass,” said a gaunt man with a mallet.
Balin drew back on his reins, unsure of what to do as they reached out to pull him from the saddle. A clout from his gauntlet would split a skull. He could kill them all.
Ironprow kicked one of the groaning, skeletal men down and, seeing an opening in the crowd, turned and bolted of his own accord. Ironprow did not stop until he had reached the valley’s edge.
The little forest was quiet. Mist and mud had taken the place of ground vegetation, and the trees were winter bare. He could see wolves loping alongside the road, watching Ironprow with the same look as the villagers.
He rode on, until at last he came to the stone and the oak beside the lake.
He was surprised to see a knight riding away from the lake and turning up the road to Carteloise. He was as out of place in this strange and wasted wood as a silver platter among a shelf of broken clay dishes.
He rode like a dream of chivalry upon a beautiful white destrier with gaudy, somewhat incongruous leopard skin saddle skirting and wore a suit of splendidly polished, close-fitted armor, unadorned but somehow more resplendent than all the gold and silver chased harnesses Balin had seen on the breasts of kings. A red and white plume flowed luxuriantly from the knight’s helm, and he bore a sword at his side and a bright red and white charge: Argent, three bendlets, gules.
Balin hailed the knight with a hoarse cry, and the man stopped and looked back. Seeing him, he turned his horse and waited until Ironprow had slogged up the muddy road to face him.
The knight raised his gauntlet. “I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, bound for the court of Camelot,” the knight called in a strident, but decidedly young voice, Gallic in accent. “Who goes?”
Du Lac? He knew enough of the Gallic tongue to understand that meant ‘of The Lake,’ and his heart, inspired by the sight of so pristine and well-armed a warrior in the midst of desperate times, sank back into the mud of despair and enmity and burned there.
He had ridden from the direction of the lake and there was nothing there.
“You say you are bound for Camelot,” said Balin. “From wither are you bound? Not Avalon?”
“You are discourteous not to answer with your own name, sir,” said Lancelot. “I do ride from Avalon, though my father was King Ban of Benwick. I was raised at Avalon upon his death, by the Lady of The Lake. Now I am bound to meet my cousins, Sir Bors and Sir Lionel. They will vouchsafe me to King Arthur.”
“If the Lady of The Lake is your patroness, then you will never get there,” said Balin, with hardness in his heart.
“Why do you say so, sir?”
“I say so because I am the enemy of all that is of Avalon, and I will let no man who owes the Lady of The Lake allegiance pass.”
“Do you threaten me, sir?”
“No, sir, I slay you!” Balin yelled. He dug his heels into Ironprow and charged.
Here he would land the first stroke of his vengeance against the devils that had driven his family to ruin. This pagan’s blood would baptize the Adventurous Sword anew.
He expec
ted the untested knight to break and run before his charge, but instead the boy, to his credit, met him gamely, drawing his own sword and kicking the splendid white destrier into his path.
It was almost a shame to kill so brave a young man.
Balin swept at Lancelot’s head, intending to knock it from his shoulders, but to his surprise, the boy slid nimbly from the side of his saddle and hung there, evacuating the arc of the Adventurous Sword and swinging a short, sharp blow that landed on Balin’s shield and broke it with a ring.
Balin recovered and turned, dropping his ruined shield and drawing his second sword.
Young Lancelot swung back up onto his horse’s back and turned also. It was an admirable display of horsemanship. He was swift in his armor.
“A knight with two swords!” Lancelot exclaimed, and it sounded to Balin as if he might be laughing.
Balin charged again.
They met in the center and traded strikes. Lancelot’s weapon caught his armor pauldron and Balin chopped with the Adventurous Sword, managing to strike Lancelot’s shield from his hand, severing the straps. He followed with the other sword and smote Lancelot a blow hard enough to dent his cuirass, but the young knight’s arm came down and trapped the second sword. He rolled from the saddle, snapping the blade and leaving the hilt in Balin’s grasp but landing on his feet.
Balin roared and swung down at Lancelot, shaving his helmet plume. Ironprow joined the fight and struck at Lancelot with his forehooves, but Lancelot batted them aside with his gauntlet. This time Balin was certain he heard the boy laughing beneath his helm.
“Your horse has spirit, sir!”
Balin took the Adventurous Sword in both hands and swung low, this time compensating for the dexterous boy’s annoying tendency to duck. He caught Lancelot full in the face and the magic blade broke the visor of his helm and sent the whole accoutrement spinning.
At first, he had thought he’d sent the boy’s head away with his helm, but there he crouched, exposed, and no longer laughing. He was surpassingly handsome, yellow haired, blue eyed, and beardless, with the sort of milky skin that registered rage and embarrassment in a red flush of the cheeks, precluding all hope of guile.
To Balin’s surprise, Lancelot sprang vertically into the air with such strength that he found himself eye level with Balin. He swung his silvery blade and struck Balin such a blow on the vambrace that his fingers popped open and the Adventurous Sword tumbled to the ground.
Then, as he began his return to earth, Lancelot slapped his free hand on the side of Balin’s helm and twisted, using his weight and momentum to tip Balin from the saddle and pinwheel him hard to the ground.
Dazed, Balin spluttered as Lancelot was suddenly astride him, sliding the point of his sword through the slit of Balin’s helm to threaten his left eye.
“Do you yield?” Lancelot demanded.
Balin, breathless, succumbed to the first honest defeat he had suffered. Also, his last. “I do not yield. Kill me now,” he said tiredly.
Lancelot looked confused. “Why would you rather die than yield? We have no audience. No one knows of your defeat. I do not even know your name, so how can I tell anyone?”
Balin chuckled wearily. “This is the caliber of knight Avalon produces.”
“What do you mean?”
“I speak of a man’s honor, boy. I sought your death, pagan creature that you are. In doing so, I was fully prepared to die. When a man challenges another, he does so at risk of his own honor. It doesn’t matter if I am defeated in this secluded forest or in the tiltyard of Camelot with the entire kingdom looking on. God above has witnessed my failure. And by the law of God, I may not live. For no true knight can stand against one who is false.”
“Then you are false?”
“I do not know,” Balin said truly. “I only know you must kill me. If you call yourself a true knight and yet have no knowledge of honor, then you are a glory seeker who fights to please a crowd, and I do not wish to remain alive in a world where a knight like you is esteemed.”
Lancelot looked at him thoughtfully and slid his sword from Balin’s visor with a scrape.
“I am a very young knight, yet. I have not even embarked upon my errantry nor sworn to a king. You are obviously a knight of wisdom and honor, and by the state of your armor, many battles. Do you think perhaps, that God granted me this victory over you to teach me humility?”
“How do you stand to learn humility as a victor?” Balin scoffed.
“Through your words I have learned it. I am used to praise and the attention of women for my skill at arms. But you have shown me that a true knight may fight and die without anyone knowing at all. What is your name?”
“I will not give it.”
“If I insist?” he said, brandishing his sword.
“Never.”
Lancelot shook his head. “You amaze me. You hold your tongue, and your reasons are your own. I respect that,” he said. He got to his feet, smiling down at Balin. Then he offered his hand.
Balin looked up at this peerless boy, so like St. Michael himself in form. There was something inspiring about him, which he had to fight to resist.
He slapped away the hand and rose on his own. Maybe the boy was right. But if his victory had taught this pagan a lesson, then what had it taught Balin?
When Balin stood again, the boy had gone off a ways and was now coming back, smiling. “I’m sorry about your sword. Here is the other.”
Balin stared. Lancelot was holding the Adventurous Sword out to him. The sword no man had been able to lift but him. He reached out, and for a moment, feared it would pin him to the ground if he tried to hold it, but Lancelot handed it over lightly. He mounted his horse again.
“Will you not ride with me to Camelot, Knight with The Two Swords? I am of Avalon, but if you promise not to hold it against me, I will ask my cousins to present you to King Arthur.”
Balin was moved by this boy’s offer. More, he was in awe of him. Tears swelled unbidden in his eyes as he remembered Dagonet and Safir and the other knights who had been kind to him in his time. Perhaps this boy was something new. Perhaps…but no. He could not give into the temptation to ride beside this knight back to Camelot, no matter how strong.
“When you see King Arthur, tell him where last you saw the Knight with The Two Swords.”
“I will,” said Lancelot and with a smile, he raised his hand in farewell and rode off.
Balin watched him go, until he was a bright speck like the pinpoint of a star on the road to Carteloise.
Balin found his broken shield. It was beyond repair, the boar charges forever riven, so he hung it in the oak tree.
Then he took Ironprow by the bridle and gazed at the blade of the Adventurous Sword, matching the engraved image to the lake and the menhir and the tree.
There was something new carved there on the sword.
Two knights fighting on foot. He thought maybe it was Lancelot, but no. Their shields were blank, and the sword was nothing if not accurate. He looked out across the lake.
Merlin had said that every forest led to his Garden of Joy. He had seen Lancelot ride from the direction of this empty body of water. What if every lake led to Avalon?
He waded out into the lake, wetting his ankles, and stood staring across the misty surface for a time. The sun was sinking now, and the red played on the water. It was the bloody Nile of cursed Rameses. The mist had thickened, and the far side could no longer be seen.
He lowered the tip of the sword and let it pierce the water. Immediately he heard the sound of spars groaning, of water lapping. Then he saw a skiff skimming through the mist, making for him.
It was empty, but the poles moved just the same.
CHAPTER FOUR
Balin led Ironprow onto the skiff and it tottered not at all. As soon as he had stepped aboard, the poles groaned and the skiff departed the shore.
He passed a hand through the space where a ferryman should have stood, but there was no resistance. The
skiff proceeded quietly across the water and into a bank of mist so thick Balin could barely see Ironprow’s outline.
Though he had seen the diameter of the modest lake, the skiff proceeded for some time. Balin saw the tower of a keep rising ahead. The skiff beached once more, and Balin led Ironprow onto dry land.
This was not the waste land he had left. Here the grass was lush and green. Fireflies pulsed and circled in the dimness like will-o’-the-wisps. He saw a dark castle loom over the tops of an orchard of apple trees. There were soft lights in the windows, and he could hear the sound of gentle music.
He started toward the orchard, when a bobbing torch light appeared, and a woman emerged, all in samite such as he’d seen the Lady of The Lake wear.
“Are you the Lady of The Lake?” Balin growled, gripping his sword.
“Don’t you recognize me, Sir Balin?” said a familiar voice. The maiden lowered the brand so that it illuminated her lovely face.
“You are the lady who gave me this sword.”
“I am,” she whispered. “Come with me, before the Red Knight is alerted.” She turned, but he hesitated.
“Is this Avalon?”
“It is. And I am its prisoner, just as you may be if you don’t hurry.” Then she went off into the gloom.
Balin swallowed, terribly confused. Hadn’t he come to the realization that this sword was a thing of evil, and that thus, the lady who had given it him must also be evil? Yet she had given him fair warning hadn’t she, that day? Hadn’t she entreated him not to claim it?
He followed, aware of the clink of his armor and the heavy breath of Ironprow as they passed through the silent rows of trees.
She led him through a copse that skirted a great field in front of the castle, where maidens strode the grounds in the light of the windows, singing and speaking to each other, and drinking wine. She guided him carefully to the back of the castle to a stable and showed him into an empty pen where he could put Ironprow.
“What is this?” Balin demanded.
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