The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  “Yes yes, Sir Balin,” the voice said, annoyed. “Remember faerie rings and hollow hills and mad dances and maypoles, thousand-year slumbers and pixie dust. I’m no sprite! Unchain me and let’s be off from this place!”

  “You haven’t yet said who or what you are,” said Brulen.

  “Who are you speaking to?” Sir Garnysh muttered drowsily.

  The third voice nearly made Balin shout his surprise. “Curse this damned darkness!” he blurted out.

  Garnysh clanked and shifted between them, sitting up. “There is flint and firesteel here in my belt,” said Garnysh. Then after a moment, “Yes, I still have it.”

  Brulen tore a piece of fabric and in a few moments, Garnysh was striking primordial sparks that lit the three knights in brief flashes like lightning.

  “Steel yourselves, knights,” said the boy-voice as the charcloth flamed and the fabric lit in Garnysh’s hand, “for I was apprehended in the midst of making my escape.”

  Garnysh raised the makeshift light. It only burned away a few feet of darkness, and the three of them, huddled together, rose and moved across the black room toward the sound of the voice.

  Vermin scurried across the straw-strewn floor, retreating from them.

  “I may be a sight,” said the voice, just as the light reached the far end of the chamber, and suddenly the wall and the figure chained to it emerged from the pitch black like something surfacing from a pool of oil.

  Garnysh dropped the firecloth with a start, nearly setting the sparse straw on the floor ablaze. Balin caught it, and fixed his horrified eyes on the thing that had spoken.

  It was chained to the wall by its manacled wrists and fitted with a collar around its thin, bent neck. It was the size of a man, but thin in the extreme, its frame skeletal and the muscles underdeveloped. It was naked and mottle-skinned, yet not fully flesh. It’s head and shoulders were covered in a strange, wet-looking mane, consisting of something between hair and feathers. Its face was set with two huge, gleaming black eyes situated on opposite sides of its head and darting independently of each other, like a lizard’s. Its mouth tapered into a long, curved point with a pair of pursed human lips and small, nubby teeth at the end, and a shaggy black beard shot through with feathers hung beneath, almost to its swollen belly. Its ears were mere holes recessed in the sides of its head, but long wiry hairs sprung from their depths like cat whiskers. The hands that protruded from the manacles were long, fingerless points, where the stubs of rudimentary thumbs twitched uselessly at the base of each. Its legs below the quite human knees were beaded and leathery, and ended in splayed, spindly claws that could grasp a man’s head. In the axis of its legs was a mass of tendril hair and shaggy feathers, wreathing a disconcerting mélange of pitch black cloaca and giblets.

  Garnysh stumbled backward.

  “God’s bones, douse the light, Sir Balin!” he wailed. “Return that demon to the darkness.”

  Balin was revolted by the sight of the thing and wished for a blade to slay it with as he could not even stomach striking it with his armored hand. What kind of a horror was this? Surely Garnysh was right and it was a demon of some kind. He began to mutter prayers against it.

  Brulen was curious. “What are you?”

  “Remove this iron from me and you will know,” it pleaded, and the child voice was more horrendous coming from that strange maw.

  “Why don’t you tell us what you are first?” Brulen pressed.

  “The iron forbids me.”

  “We should kill this thing in its chains,” Balin muttered. “It’s a demon of hell.”

  “I second that!” Garnysh said.

  “Who chained you? The Lady Verdoana?”

  “Her servants,” said the thing. “They trapped me in the forest.”

  Brulen stared for a long time at the thing shifting in the fluttering firelight.

  “If Verdoana’s servants trapped it, it may not mean us ill after all,” he ventured.

  “Or maybe she harnessed it to bolster her fell powers,” Garnysh said.

  “When it was a child you were afraid of it, and now that it’s a demon you think it means us no harm?” Balin said, exasperated.

  “I don’t think it’s a demon,” said Brulen. “Faerie, maybe, but no demon.”

  It looked from one to the other of them, but its inhuman face betrayed no emotion, and it said nothing.

  “Gallet told me that faeries are angels caught outside of heaven after the Fall of Lucifer. With no home in hell and barred from heaven, they grew mad,” said Balin.

  “Not a demon, though,” said Brulen, shrugging.

  “But not harmless,” Garnysh added.

  “I was taught the Fey always repay a kindness,” Brulen said.

  “A faerie’s notion of kindness is to invite you to a dance that lasts a thousand years, or to take your human burdens from you by turning you into a fox or a snail,” Garnysh muttered.

  “I think it can free us from here,” said Brulen. “Will you eschew its help it if means your lady’s life?”

  Balin had been set to leave the thing languishing and find some other method of escape when his brother had said that. And for his part, he knew his answer.

  “I am not willing to wait. If the thing can help us, free it,” he said. “Our time may be as short as our need is long.”

  “I don’t like this,” said Garnysh, backing out of the light, a wide, scared expression on his face. “I’ll have no part in it.”

  “Then you hold the light,” Brulen said, handing the burning cloth to Garnysh, who reluctantly held it high. Then to, Balin, he said: “Help me, brother.”

  Balin curled his lip to approach the thing. It smelled of wood smoke and sweat, and his skin crawled when he laid fingers on the pin of the manacle enfolding its malformed wrist. He had to take off his gauntlets to pry it with his fingers, and grimaced to feel its clammy skin brushing his knuckles.

  He was forced to lean close as he worked the pin loose. Brulen struggled with the other. He turned his face from the thing and saw, with a shudder, a small white mouse very like the one he had seen in the cemetery at Castle Meliot. It was sitting upright on its haunches and staring up at them with pink, knowing eyes, nose twitching.

  He spat at it, and it retreated into the darkness. He could feel it there in the black, watching still. It made him rethink this plan of action, but even as he did so, the pin popped loose and the spindly arm fell from the iron fetter.

  “Get to work on the collar, Balin,” said Brulen, still painstakingly working the left-hand manacle pin.

  Balin put his hands about the collar seeking out its weak point. The fleshy throat of the thing undulated against the backs of his fingers, and the fine feather-hairs tickled his flesh, which seemed to scream in disgusted protest at the unwanted interaction.

  Brulen freed the creature’s other arm. It made no move, but stood there patiently with its bent arms before it in the attitude of a mantis.

  The light of the small tinder fire was dying by then, and as his fingers tore and bled from the hard exertion, it died altogether, and they were again in total darkness, the hissing breath of the thing close in their ears.

  Balin didn’t like to free this thing blindly and urged Garnysh to make another light, but by the time he had fished out his steel again and begun striking sparks, Balin felt the pin pop free and the collar clanked open.

  Balin stepped back as though from a hot stove.

  There was no sound from the creature at first, but then he heard it give a sigh of contentment.

  Bare feet slapped across the floor, and they heard Garnysh give an exclamation, heard his armor scrape and clatter.

  “What is it?” Balin asked urgently.

  “Nothing! It just moved past me, to the door,” Garnysh whispered.

  They marked its progression. It seemed to move with purpose. No stumbling or cursing. Evidently it navigated the darkness with no ill effect. They heard it ascend the stair and cautiously crept after it, clatt
ering against each other in the black.

  The door clanked, and on the other side, the bolt hit the ground with a thud.

  The heavy door lurched open, spilling a cone of light into the dungeon, against which, their liberator stood limned.

  But it was not a hellish monstrosity any longer.

  It was Merlin, and he was naked as a hatchling jay.

  “Well come on,” he said, waving them up, impatiently. He stepped out of the dungeon into the torch-lit hall beyond.

  “Merlin,” said Brulen, in as cold and bitter a tone as ever Balin had heard his brother speak. “Better to have left him chained.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The naked enchanter led the three knights through the corridor and cast one disparaging look over his bare shoulder.

  “The three of you make a racket like a gang of kitchen boys dropping crocks down the stairs,” Merlin grumbled.

  “How did you end up in this dungeon, Merlin?” Balin asked.

  “I came looking for you, Balin,” Merlin said. “I was told you would be in the Carteloise Forest, but I suppose I was too early. More likely you were late. As I said, I was set upon by the same knights who captured you. I tried to escape, but they were surprisingly fast. They clapped me in cold iron mid-transformation. I did not expect to see you again, Brulen.”

  “I would not have freed you had I known it was you,” Brulen said. “I should’ve listened to Sir Garnysh. He was right. We have unleashed a demon.”

  “Only half, on my father’s side,” said Merlin, peering around a corner.

  He waved them closer then, and strode in.

  “Your weapons.”

  They found themselves in an old, long unused guardroom, and sure enough, their swords and shields were neatly arrayed on wall pegs intended to keep the arms of the castle guard.

  “These won’t do anything against those things,” Balin said. “I need my sword.”

  “For once I agree,” said Merlin. “Where would they have put it?” he wondered aloud.

  “It’s still in the road in front of the castle,” said Balin. “They couldn’t lift it.”

  “Of course.”

  “The Lady Verdoana,” said Garnysh, strapping on his sword, “she must be like her servants.”

  “I know next to nothing about her,” Merlin admitted. “There were stories of the Leprous Lady in my boyhood. That she preyed upon passing maidens, I knew, but nothing else. We must assume she is of the same dreadful race as her knights, yes.”

  “Then they will want the ladies’ blood!” Garnysh despaired. “Oh, my sweet Ettard!”

  “But if that is so,” Merlin went on, ignoring Garnysh’s outburst, “there may be another way to dispatch her. Of the baobhan sith I have heard it said that a shaft of yew through the heart will destroy them and that they cannot abide the light of day.”

  “We have no yew, Merlin.” Balin hissed. “And we’re pretty far from dawn. Think of something else.”

  Merlin twisted his beard with his finger.

  “No holy water among you? Crucifix? Eucharistic host?”

  “We’re knights, not deacons!” Brulen scoffed.

  Merlin thought for a moment. “Bulb of garlic?”

  “We’re not cooks either.”

  Merlin threw up his hands. “Then, Balin, I think we shall have to get your sword.”

  “How can we hope to pass through this abominable keep undetected?” Balin said.

  “That’s easy enough,” said Merlin. “I’ll weave a spell to mask our presence.”

  “Can’t you conjure some clothes?” Garnysh burst out. “God’s blood!”

  “My clothes and staff are still in the forest where I left them,” Merlin said.

  “Merlin, do not turn us into beetles or rodents, or something,” said Balin.

  Merlin spared Balin a look and then set one hand on his shoulder and another on Garnysh’s. He looked at Brulen. “Touch shoulders. Gather close.”

  Brulen hesitated but put his hands on the shoulders of Garnysh and Balin, and they did the same to him.

  Merlin lowered his shoulder for a moment and closed his eyes, muttering secret words they could not decipher nor hope to repeat. An instant later he opened his eyes and released them. “It’s done. Let’s go.”

  Balin didn’t feel any different, but they fell in behind Merlin as he strode up the corridor to the bottom of a cracked stone stair.

  Merlin ascended, and they climbed behind. At the top of the stairs they halted, sighting one of the terrible knights standing guard with a halberd, but Merlin kept going. He ducked easily enough beneath the guard’s arm and moved on, so they did the same, each being careful not to jostle the sentry.

  Balin passed right in front of the knight, watching its impassive face. Sweat leaked down his sides. He expected the unearthly knight to seize him any moment and tear out his throat with its fangs, but the creature took no notice of them, and they slipped from its presence.

  Every flat surface in the dark keep lay beneath a thick frost of dust. Every table, every chair, every step, was covered. Faded tapestries hung moldering on the walls, and the dry, dead leaves of many an autumn passed lay scattered across the floor. It was as though the castle had not served as a proper abode in centuries. Perhaps, in a way, it hadn’t. Verdoana and her servants put no effort into its upkeep. It was merely their citadel against the light of day, a place to drag their screaming victims.

  There was no illumination. They followed Merlin’s pale backside, for he alone seemed unhampered by the darkness. He stepped surely, pausing only to peer left and right down intersecting passages before decisively choosing a direction, as if he knew the layout well.

  He led them at last to the main foyer, where a single light burned in a sconce on the upper landing. They could see the main gate down a hall to their left.

  Merlin led them to the gate, and as he approached, he spoke, “Thus far our little adventure has been easy, but I cannot mask the noise opening that gate will make. You must be ready, Balin, for whatever comes.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Ettard is being kept upstairs, I’d wager,” said Garnysh.

  “And Lorna Maeve and Count Oduin as well,” Balin agreed.

  They expected Merlin to blow the heavy gate from its housing with a wave of his hands, but he went to the heavy timber bar and motioned for Garnysh to help him.

  “Ready?”

  Balin nodded, and at his side, Brulen prepared to bolt, looking warily behind them for any sign of pursuit. Merlin and Garnysh grunted at the bar and threw it up, then pushed open the heavy doors. Balin rushed out into the night down the mist covered road, Brulen clanking along at his side.

  He saw the Adventurous Sword, gleaming through the fog where he’d dropped it.

  “Balin, look!” Brulen hissed.

  In the cemetery, one of the knights held a shrouded white body in its arms. It was lowering it into the open grave they’d seen earlier.

  Its head turned at the sound of the keep door, and it dumped the body unceremoniously into the fog shrouded hole and began running across the graveyard to intercept them.

  It was unbelievably fast. Balin feared it would beat them to the sword. Praying, he slid in the dirt for the weapon.

  In the same instant, the knight leapt up over the fence of the graveyard and soared at them, sharp teeth bared, hair flying, clawed fingers groping in anticipation of their flesh.

  Balin rolled and grabbed the hilt of the Adventurous Sword. He brought it up and swung in one motion, swiping through the knight’s head just above the eyebrows. Its face slackened and it crashed dead on top of him, the crown of its skull rolling off down the road like the discarded lid off a jar.

  Brulen pulled the corpse off him and yanked him to its feet. Garnysh was waving frantically for them to come. Balin didn’t see Merlin. They ran back to the entrance, breathless.

  “Where’s Merlin?” Brulen asked.

  “As soon as you two left he became a ra
ven and flew off over the trees!” Garnysh growled.

  “Bastard!” Brulen cursed.

  “You mean he abandoned us?” Balin said in disbelief.

  “Now you know never to trust that lying devil, Balin,” Brulen said, scouring the dark forest with his eyes as though if he could locate Merlin, he could destroy him with a baleful look.

  “We don’t need him anymore,” said Garnysh. “We have your sword, Balin. Come on!”

  Garnysh turned back to the foyer, but Brulen took hold of his wrist.

  “No, Garnysh. We can’t just storm in here without a plan again.”

  “The plan is to rescue my bride and your people and slay any of those foul things we meet. And put that Leprous Lady to your sword.”

  “No, Balin!” Brulen said. “Merlin said these things avoid daylight. We should wait till dawn and then find them.”

  “Did you see that body lain in its grave? We don’t have time!” Garnysh said.

  Balin stiffened. In the rush of things, he had forgotten all about the body the thing had dropped.

  Without a word, he left the castle at a run for the cemetery, Brulen and Garnysh first calling out, then running behind him.

  ***

  Merlin had tensely watched Balin run for the Adventurous Sword, ready to offer what aid he could.

  That was when he’d seen the white mouse dart from between Garnysh’s feet and go scurrying off for the edge of the forest.

  He knew it was Nimue. It was her favorite form to take.

  What was she doing here? Trying to steer Balin back to Arthur, no doubt.

  For a half a moment he stood looking between her pale little form and Balin clashing with one of the Leprous Lady’s knights. In that half a moment, Balin handily dispatched the fiend and rolled out from under his corpse with the sword.

  Without a word, he assumed the shape of the pied raven and beat his wings after Nimue, ignoring the frightful exclamation of Sir Garnysh.

  The wind rushing in his ears, he banked and dove at her, seeking to snatch her up by the nape of the neck or perhaps catch her tail in his beak.

  She saw him though over her shoulder and shifted into the form of a mole which hastily burrowed a tunnel under the tree line.