She hushed him. “Be quiet, Sir Knight. I beg you! I came to this accursed island by accident, when my homeward bound ship entered a storm and somehow emerged here. I am a prisoner, assailed daily to join the society of these dark maidens, and I may not leave. It is the fate of all women who wander into Avalon. But my sex spares me the harsher fate of hapless men like yourself who find themselves on this shore.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Any man discovered on Avalon is forced to face the Red Knight in battle. He is the Devil’s own champion, Sir Balin,” she said, rapidly crossing herself. “Nine good knights have I seen him lay low in the time I’ve been here.”
Balin gritted his teeth to hear this. The Red Knight. The same blackguard that his mother had spoken of. No doubt part of a triumvirate of evil on this island. The Lady, Merlin, and the Red Knight, standing in direct opposition to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
“Show me this Red Knight, that I may slay him for you, my lady.”
The maiden smiled and touched his arm. “Oh, Sir Balin, it gladdens my heart to hear you say that, to think that my emancipation is at hand. I do not doubt your strength, but do not be so bold. You are not at your peak, and you have no shield. Stay here tonight, and in the morning, you and your horse will be fresh, and I will secret you a new shield and armor from the castle’s stores.”
Balin fidgeted. He didn’t like the idea of spending the night in this place. “I do not like to carry any more of this island’s arms into battle than I have already. This sword I freed you of has proven a great curse to me. You were right. I should have heeded your warning.”
“Yet the Red Knight’s arms are all of Avalon, and they will cleave through your harness like paper. Please, Sir Balin. Rest and let me arm you. I will not fail.”
“Nor will I, my lady,” he said, touching the back of her hand. “Very well.”
She thanked him tearfully, blessed him, filled the manger with apples for Ironprow, and shut him in. He did not doff his armor, for fear that some night watchwoman might find him and he might need to fight, whatever his equipment. He piled the straw and sank into it, listening to Ironprow eat.
The air through the stable was cool and clean, and it brought also the weird music of the women which, heard in some benighted hamlet miles away, might have soothed him with its graceful melodies and beauteous feminine voices. But here in the enemy’s camp, it sounded like the song of sirens, presaging death and doom.
He could not sleep in his armor, as he remembered the last time he had tried to do so, after slaying Lanceor, and like every man past midnight, the sins of his days washed over him and he trembled in his steel skin to think of what the morning would bring.
If life, it would mean death for the maidens he had seen. It would mean the throats trilling sweet songs this night would be cut in the morning when he raged like fire through their castle.
Yet if the Red Knight proved his better, as already another knight of Avalon had been, then it meant death.
And then what?
If Brother Gallet were to be believed, would it be heavenly sunlight for all eternity? Ministering angels and trumpets? What would he do in heaven all day? It was a thing he had often wondered in his boyhood. Would he be given a duty complementing his station in life? Would it be his lot to kneel before God through eternity and sing praises as he had in church?
And what if the sins of his life outweighed the good? Did his good deeds outweigh his failures? He thought to bring out the Adventurous Sword and mark them, but the light was dim and he dared not kindle any. There was the avenging of his mother, had that been murder because the woman had been unarmed? Was his sin compounded because she had been his aunt unknowing? There was the defeat of Rience, surely an evil soul. The defense of Cameliard and Queen Guinevere, the slaying of Lanceor and by inaction, his lover Colombe. The adventure of the Leprous Lady, in which he had done no great wrong that he could remember, though he had slain two blood drinking creatures, and then of course, the slaying of the murderer Garlon and the loss of the Sangreal.
That last was a very great sin indeed, and it burdened him, made a coward of him. He wanted to steal way from the island and find some priest to absolve him before he undertook this thing, so that if it was his fate to die, he would not go to hell. Why had he not thought of that before?
What if hell did receive him tomorrow? What would it be like? Would he have to conform to its myriad tortures for all eternity or was there some way he could resist and fight his way free? It seemed intolerable to him that he should spend eternity at the mercy of demons. Better to fight and suffer the wounds of battle again and again than be cowed and mistreated.
In the last, he wondered, wherever his soul was bound, would it meet Lorna Maeve’s again?
Heaven, hell, or dismal purgatory, each would be markedly better if she were there.
Could he find her? Would she blame him for her demise? Would she hate him in the end as she had that night outside her tent?
He clasped his hands and prayed for victory on the morrow. For all his questions, he would rather fight than know the answers.
CHAPTER FIVE
Balin did manage to sleep somehow. In the morning, he was awakened by the sound of a summoning drum. There on the straw before him, neatly stacked, he found a suit of fine armor and plain shield, a sturdy lance and great helm, and a basket of apples and bread. The lady had proven true.
He doffed his battered old harness and dressed in the new, his heart hammering the whole time to the sound of the drum, which sounded like an execution march. The food he left where it was. He would not touch anything of this island to his lips. He knelt before he mounted Ironprow, and using the sword for a cross, pressed it to his forehead.
“Heavenly Father, I beseech you…grant me atonement. Let me slay their unholy champion if it means my dying stroke. Then, if it is your will, let me triumph over this undying enemy. Here, where she abides.”
It was a new Balin that rode from the stables of Avalon, sure and bright in his gleaming arms and straight lance. He rounded the corner of the large white castle and came to the edge of the field.
Waiting on the other side, upon a black destrier and all bedecked in red armor, with hellish red plumes upon his helm, a red shield, and a red lance, as though he had been dipped in blood, was the champion of Avalon.
His destroyer or his salvation? He looked about and saw that the battlements of the castle were lined with maidens all in blazing white and chief among them, a white haired woman, tall and statuesque, beautiful and villainous.
The woman raised her hand and the drumming ceased.
“Where is the lady who brought me to shelter last night?” Balin demanded before she could speak. His new helm had no visor, and he could not easily remove it, so he had to shout with some force to be heard.
“You will see her only if you live,” the Lady of The Lake replied.
“Then ready her to leave this island!” Balin called, “and all you ladies, make ready to depart, if you would keep your lives, for I bring the sword of God to this nest of vipers! Once I am finished here, I will come for you, dread Lady!”
He spurred his horse and charged across the lush green yard.
The Red Knight came, too, silent as a scarlet monolith bearing down, his red plumage flying behind him like fire.
Balin could not help but admire the form and fearlessness of his opponent. Avalon was a cradle of evil, but it was also a wellspring of knights.
As the distance closed, their lances lowered simultaneously. Neither man nor horse veered away but met in the center with a resounding crash that flung them both from their saddles and sent their shields wafting away like autumn leaves.
Balin lay stunned on the ground, staring up at the gently moving clouds in the blue sky.
Who was the Red Knight? Some lost hero of Uther’s table, like Segurant, or a child of Avalon itself, raised solely for the purpose of its defense?
He sat up slowly and saw the Red Knight do the same.
They drew their swords. The Red Knight’s had a crossguard of burnished red-gold. By its singular gleam, Balin knew it was no ordinary weapon he could break with the Adventurous Sword. They circled and advanced, like detritus being drawn inexorably into a whirlpool.
At the center, their blades met. Each ring of steel on steel was titanic, like the clash of Excalibur on Marmyadose that day in the field before Carhaix. Balin felt the force of their meeting in his upper arms. It was like holding onto lightning.
They were well-matched. Better than in the fight with Segurant, which had been a test of endurance and patience, and better than in the duel with Lancelot, in which he had been sorely outmatched.
This Red Knight was his true equal. Every lunge was parried. Every swing checked and countered and rapidly checked again. It was as though he fought himself.
The last time he had felt so perfectly matched was when he had sparred with Brulen, and for a moment, he was terrified that somehow the silent Red Knight was Brulen, bewitched or somehow compelled. But no, this knight’s armor was right-handed, and Brulen was called The Sinister for his left-handed blade.
They battered against each other with shoulder, elbow, and fist, and locked together a dozen times, but their swords could not penetrate.
Balin did not know how long they fought. The sun rose to its zenith, and the inside of the armor was stifling, his breath loud and panting in his own ears.
Then the Red Knight’s sword slipped and the edge of the Adventurous Sword fell by mere happenstance into the joint between his shoulder and neck, eliciting a pained groan and a burst of blood which disappeared against the crimson steel of his harness.
Surprised at his own fortune, Balin pressed the attack and directed blow after blow at that weakened spot. The Red Knight protected it fiercely though, switching his sword with a flip into his left hand so that he could check the overhand strikes. The right arm hung mostly useless, and when Balin found the wound thus protected, he managed to batter furiously at the Red Knight’s cuirass, denting it ever inwards.
He was thrilled. God was with him. He was winning.
Then the Red Knight pivoted unexpectedly and swept upwards with his sword, catching Balin so hard across the helmet that the steel met his face and smashed his nose. He stumbled back, tasting the river of coppery blood that poured down over his mouth.
The Red Knight leapt in, striking at the helm, and when Balin raised his arm to deflect, his opponent stabbed him deeply in the armpit.
Balin retreated, clutching the grievous wound, hearing the blood trickle down his side. He could not raise his left arm higher than his chest.
The Red Knight did not advance, but jammed his sword into the red sprinkled grass and leaned there for a moment, heaving blood into his helm, which drizzled from beneath his chin and down his front. The dents in his breastplate were substantial.
Balin took respite, too, but as soon as he stooped to catch his breath, the Red Knight charged him, raised his sword overhead, and brought it down so hard on the top of Balin’s helm that he heard the ladies on the castle roof gasp. Blood immediately covered his right eye and his crown felt hot and exposed. The twisted steel pressed against his face.
He fell to one knee, ears ringing, and thrust savagely at his attacker. He saw the tip of his blade disappear in the Red Knight’s side. The Red Knight fell backward and sat down hard, grasping at the fresh wound, blood gushing over his gauntlet.
Balin went to one knee and painfully forced his wounded left arm up, to slide his fingers beneath his dented helm and undo the fastenings. He was half-blinded and could scarcely breathe. He needed to get his helm off.
The Red Knight rose unsteadily, and Balin cursed him under his breath.
Stop, damn you! Stop!
The Red Knight stumbled forward, raising his sword. Balin lifted his blade, his left hand now trapped beneath his helmet.
He jabbed again and again at the Red Knight’s wounded side. Twice he was struck aside, but the third time he scored a hit, and as though the rent flesh remembered his blade, this time it welcomed it like an old lover, and the sword sunk in almost to the third engraving from the tip.
The Red Knight cried out and fell once more to his knees. He struck Balin’s sword down with his mailed fist. Then he took up his sword stiffly in both hands and began to furiously attack, striking the side of Balin’s helm and chopping away at his shoulders.
Stunned, Balin could do no more than shudder under the heavy rain of attacks, but he lifted his sword once more and began to stab persistently at the gory wound in the Red Knight’s side.
Again and again they struck each other from the kneeling position, tearing steel, tearing doublets, both screaming in pain and rage, each seeking only the other’s immediate death to stop the agony. Blood and flesh flew in the air, and the women atop the castle screamed and turned away. All except the Lady.
When both were spent and exhausted and the pieces of their armor hung half severed and twisted from their torn bodies, they fell against each other. Each heard the ragged, tortured breathing of the other close by.
Balin pushed the Red Knight away, and they both fell on their backs in the grass, which was now a dark red circle around them.
Balin lay until he thought life would slip from him. When it didn’t, he propped himself up on his elbows and strained to see his opponent.
The Red Knight turned on his side in the same moment and looked at him. His breastplate was punctured six times and leaked blood from every hole, and his cuisses were broken and hung by scraps of leather.
Balin’s own helm was crushed to his skull, so that he had to suck his breaths through the narrow gap of twisted steel. His breastplate flapped open on his bloody chest like a broken cabinet door. In this reposing attitude, they stared at each other for a time.
No higher thought passed through Balin’s exhausted mind. He could register only pain and the need to put an end to the source of his agony.
He rolled and pushed himself up. He slipped a few times and clattered into the red-painted grass, but then he found his knee, and then his feet, and then he was standing with his sword in hand.
The Red Knight watched him the entire time, not moving, perhaps not wanting to make the effort himself unless he was sure the fight would continue.
Balin stood and waited. For a moment, he thought the Red Knight had died.
But then he rolled on his stomach, put his sword into the ground again, and pulled himself up trembling by the crossguard, dragged his legs up, and managed to stand, wobbling on the sword like a cane.
The women of Avalon murmured. Some wept.
The Red Knight raised his sword and straightened.
Balin breathed deeply and limped closer. He hefted the Adventurous Sword and brought it in an arc at the Red Knight’s head.
The Red Knight could not life his sword past his breast.
The edge of Balin’s weapon struck him in the face and he reeled as if from a fist, but recovered. Balin hit him again on the backswing.
The Red Knight stumbled wildly, then recovered his balance and brought his sword in, knocking aside Balin’s hanging chest piece and chopping into his left side ribs like a butcher.
Balin groaned, pitched forward, and came up swinging, catching the Red Knight in the helm again, forcing him to look at the sky. The Red Knight wheeled and came back with a thrust that found Balin’s exposed shoulder.
Balin hit him in the face again. His helmet was bent out of shape like a clutched fist, and blood poured from the eye slit like tears.
The Red Knight did not withdraw his sword, but twisted it, stirred it in Balin’s shoulder socket, grinding the muscle and bone together. Balin screamed and struck his sword arm.
The Red Knight only leaned forward, shoulder moving steadily, ripping apart Balin’s muscles. Balin shrieked wildly and with a supreme effort, hacked vigorously at the Red Knight’s elbow as if it were firewood.
Balin fell after it. For a time, all was black. Then he heard the weeping of the women again, and a hissing in the grass.
He looked and saw the Red Knight lying nearby. He had a hold of the sheared bone protruding from his own severed arm. It still clutched his sword, and he was pulling it closer through the grass.
Balin moaned and flopped over on his belly.
The Red Knight pulled his own arm over his chest.
Balin took hold of the Red Knight’s feet and began to pull himself up the length of the enemy’s body. The Red Knight began to pry the fingers of his dead hand open.
Balin pulled himself atop the Red Knight and shimmied up his waist, panting. The Red Knight freed his own sword.
Balin pushed himself up, straddling his chest.
The Red Knight swung his sword up and caught Balin’s helm again. Metal tore.
Balin gasped and brought up his sword.
The Red Knight struck him again. The helm rattled loose on his face, half turned. He was looking at the side of his helmet now, totally blind.
Another hit knocked it clean from his head, and he was numbly aware of his own eye tumbling down his right cheek in a surge of white agony, of teeth spilling over his bloody lips.
The Red Knight ceased his attacks.
Balin roared and brought the Adventurous Sword up. He drove the point into the Red Knight’s chest, throwing all his weight on it. The ultimate measure, for one final blow.
He sank the sword to the hilt in his enemy’s chest, pinning him to the ground underneath.
He lay full upon the Red Knight, spent.
The Red Knight let out a long, haggard rasp and his head fell back against the grass.
Balin lay panting, his ear to the bloody red armor. His battle was over. His life was over. His rampage against Avalon would end where it had begun.
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