ing Sword
A Tale of Arthur’s Time
by asotir
Eartherea Books
Here and Beyond
Copyright 2009 by asotir.
The Killing Sword is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License. This means you’re free to copy, distribute and transmit the work, or to adapt the work into any form or media, so long as you give asotir credit for what we did (though not in any way that suggests that we endorse you or your use of this work), and so long as you ‘share alike’ – if you alter, transform, or build upon this work, then you distribute the resulting work only under the same or similar license as this one.
Table of Contents
I. The Unknown Knight
II. The Promise
III. The Naked Damsel
IV. The Lady Perilous
V. The First Trial of Arms
VI. The Lovers’ Tomb
VII. The Knight of Two Swords
VIII. The Silver Lady’s Lover
IX. The Battles of Terrabil
X. The Tomb of 13 Kings
XI. The Unseen Knight
XII. The Hungry Lady
XIII. Revenge
XIV. The Dolorous Stroke
XV. The Maid in the Garden
XVI. The Castle by the Lake
XVII. The Last Trial
XVIII. In Darkness
XIX. What Merlyn Did After
XX. Envoi
‘Lady, it is ever an ill time when I find you, and always a tomb I find you near.’
This Tale
is a True Tale
from the time of
Arthur King of the Britons.
§
I got it from William Caxton, printer, who fashioned it from the manuscript of Sir Thomas Malory, Knight. Sir Thomas in turn had the tale from a French scribe who penned the roman as part of the cycle of works treating of the Saint Grail, that most mysterious thing. The monks got the tale from troubadours, minstrels & talesmen, whose lines extend back in years before any man can tell.
§
So a good & true Tale will not die but give instruction & amusement for as long as men shall choose to learn & tell it.
I. The Unknown Knight
WHEN ARTHUR, Uther Pendragon’s son, drew the Sword out of the Stone, only a few barons and knights would follow him. Most defied him, and bade him prove his claims upon their lands by force. And for years England and the Isles were rent by war.
Two men did more than all the rest to win those wars for Arthur and secure his father’s throne. One was Merlyn the Sorcerer, and he is famed throughout the world and will never be forgotten. The other was the Northumberland knight Balyn the Wild, who by strength of arms caused the death of twelve rebel kings upon a single day.
Balyn was never a knight of the Round Table. He fought and died before Arthur wedded Gueniver, before the mighty Gawain, Arthur’s sister’s-son, was knighted, and before Lancelot of the Lake became a man. And Balyn’s name is all but unknown now.
And yet it ought not to be so, for Balyn not only won Arthur his throne, but he also doomed the Fellowship of the Table to ruin and to death.
Here is how it happened.
II. The Promise
THE BEGINNING of Balyn’s tale lies in darkness. For it was in the darkness of the pit, condemned to death in the deep prison of the King, that Balyn looked for the first time within his own heart, and made his dreadful promise.
He had come to Camelot seeking vengeance upon his enemies. Balyn did not know that Sir Kay the Seneschal, Arthur’s foster-brother, had sworn that he would put down all rebel knights without regard to justice or any laws of the land. And to this end Sir Kay the Seneschal had sent spies throughout England, and promised them rich bounties if they would only tell him the names of all rebels.
Among these spies was the poor knight Sir Brisance, who thought to himself, that if he could gain Sir Kay’s bounties he might pay off his debts and keep his wife and children in better estate. And when Sir Brisance saw a stranger knight in the streets of the town, he ran to tell Sir Kay the Seneschal that he had found him a rebel. It was Balyn, but Sir Brisance did not even know his name. Sir Kay the Seneschal sent his soldiers to the hostel, and there they took Balyn and dragged him off to prison.
Meanwhile Sir Kay the Seneschal held out the money-bag to Sir Brisance. ‘Tell me then,’ said Sir Kay, ‘what reason you had for accusing this northern knight.’ And poor Sir Brisance cast about in his heart, and he recalled him how King Arthur’s own cousin had been killed a few weeks back. So he said, ‘This same northern knight killed the king’s cousin. I don’t know his name, but I know his face and I saw him walking from the deed.’ And for that lie Sir Kay the Seneschal gave him a second bag of gold, and left Balyn in a cell deep under the prison yard.
But the truth was that Balyn was no rebel, and had never seen King Arthur’s cousin in his life. And the knights-judges would have proven this, but Sir Kay the Seneschal had sent down the knights-judges and suspended the law-courts. ‘For I will put terror into the hearts of rebels,’ he said, ‘and I deem it better that ten innocent men should hang, rather than that one rebel go free. Let justice wait, for now I will have order in this land.’
So Balyn joined the other men condemned upon the word of Sir Kay’s spies.
He made no complaint. He knelt in the pit and rested his heavy hands upon his upright knee. He let his head hang low. There was no light within that cell, save for a little flickering gleam that stole in through the crack beneath the great door up the steps to the passageway beyond. Day or night was darkness there. In time his eyes grew large, and he could see a sort of warp and weft of gloom, and it might have been the stone walls and stone floors cut out of the granite of the earth, and it might have only been the inconstancy of his eyes.
His eyes were starved, but his ears were feasted in that place. He heard the voices of the dying, the doomed, and the damned. They cried out, the traitors and the forsworn and the unjustly accused men, the men whose enemies ranked higher in the court and could send them to this place.
He listened in stillness and did not move himself. He knelt on one knee with his big hands upon his knee.
When the food was put through the slot in the door, he ate a mouthful and left the rest, but drank deep of the water and licked the bottom of the cup.
When his need came he squatted in the lowest corner where the filth piled high. The stench of the prison was foul but a man abides many things when he must and complaints make burdens double.
He lay upon the pallet in his cloak. He must have slept for he was walled up there for six months and no man may go so long without sleep. But the sweet sleep of dreams he did not take in all his time there. He lay upon his back and looked up at the stone. His look was solemn and slow. He lay upon his back a while and then he rose and knelt upon one knee and rested his big hands upon his knee.
Many thoughts came to him. He was minded of his childhood and of his mother who had smiled and kissed him when he was a babe. That was his first memory in his life and it brought tears to his eyes now. He faced that memory with the same patience that he faced the stone walls and the food shoved through the slot and the rats and the filth in the corner.
For six months he looked back upon his life. And he wondered, slowly in his heart, What was it for? What did I achieve? What good came into the world because I lived and drew breath?
He thought, If it is granted me to leave this place, then I will do a great thing. I will do a deed of greatness or I will die in the attempt. And when that deed is done, O you Devils of the dark, dank Earth, then you may wreak upon me all the torments your dark hearts delight in. So much I swear.
And when
he had taken that oath something gave way in his heart so that he was taken aback. For a moment he even wandered near the edge of fear and it came to him that he might withdraw it for he had not said the words aloud.
But I will not withdraw it. I meant it. I will do a great thing, then come what may come.
Long after he had lost hope to see the light again, the gaoler took it upon himself to speak. The Devils of the Earth had heard Balyn’s promise and meant to make him keep it.
‘Prisoner of the North,’ the gaoler said, not knowing even Balyn’s name, ‘you do not cry out.’
‘No.’
‘You do not beg for freedom or regret your sins. You do not cry, Mercy for I am innocent.’
‘No.’
‘Prisoner of the North, you alone in these pits have held fast to your manhood. If there is any grace I can do for you, saving only that it does not betray my office, I will do it for you.’
‘There is one thing you can do.’
‘Ask.’
‘In the town, at the hostel of the Red Drake, my squire will be waiting. Tell him where I am and what has befallen me. He is a tall man of fair sparse hair, and a mustache that falls to his chin.’
‘I will seek him out and tell him when I am relieved of my post this day. I promise you that.’
‘No promises! Do not promise anything to me. Men who are entombed in the darkness of the Earth can enforce no oaths or promises from men that are free. Do it, or do not. But promise nothing.’
‘Prisoner of the North, you are a strange man. Let it be as you wish.’
The slot fell shut and the little lurid gleam of light failed. Balyn felt the blood thud in his wrists and knuckles upon his upright knee. He felt a strain across