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was Benedict all right, his face partly muffled, the stump of his right arm upraised to shield his eyes,
coming like some ghastly escapee from hell. Bursting through a shower of sparks and cinders, he came
into the clear and plunged on down the trail.
Soon, I could hear the hoofbeats. A gentlemanly thing to do would be to sheathe my blade while I
waited. If I did that, though, I might not have a chance to draw it again.
I found myself wondering how Benedict would be wearing his blade and what sort it would be. Straight?
Curved? Long? Short? He could use them all with equal facility. He had taught me how to fence. . . .
It might be smart as well as gentlemanly to sheathe Grayswandir. He might be willing to talk first-and this
way I was asking for trouble. As the hoofbeats grew louder, though, I realized I was afraid to put it
away.
I wiped my palm only once before he came into view. He had slowed for the turn, and he must have
seen me at the same instant I saw him. He rode straight toward me, slowing. But halting did not appear to
be his immediate aim.
It was almost a mystical experience. I do not know how else to put it. My mind outran time as he
neared, and it was as though I had an eternity to ponder the approach of this man who was my brother.
His garments were filthy, his face blackened, the stump of his right arm raised, gesturing anywhere. The
great beast that he rode was striped, black and red, with a wild red mane and tail. But it really was a
horse, and its eyes rolled and there was foam at its mouth and its breathing was painful to hear. I saw
then that he wore his blade slung across his back, for its haft protruded high above his right shoulder. Still
slowing, eyes fixed upon me, he departed the road, bearing slightly toward my left, jerked the reins once
and released them, keeping control of the horse with his knees. His left hand went up in a salute-like
movement that passed above his head and seized the hilt of his weapon. It came free without a sound,
describing a beautiful arc above him and coming to rest in a lethal position out from his left shoulder and
slanting back, like a single wing of dull steel with a minuscule line of edge that gleamed like a filament of
mirror. The picture he presented was burned into my mind with a kind of magnificence, a certain splendor
that was strangely moving. The blade was a long, scythe like affair that I had seen him use before. Only
then we had stood as allies against a mutual foe I had begun to believe unbeatable. Benedict had proved
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otherwise that night. Now that I saw it raised against me I was overwhelmed with a sense of my own
mortality, which I had never experienced before in this fashion. It was as though a layer had been
stripped from the world and I had a sudden, full understanding of death itself.
The moment was gone. I backed into the grove. I had stood there so that I could take advantage of the
trees. I dropped back about twelve feet among them and took two steps to my left. The horse reared at
the last possible moment and snorted and whinnied, moist nostrils flaring. It turned aside, tearing up turf.
Benedict's arm moved with near-invisible speed, like the tongue of a toad, and his blade passed through
a sapling I'd guess at three inches in diameter. The tree continued to stand upright for a moment, then
slowly toppled.
His boots struck the earth and he strode toward me. I had wanted the grove for this reason, also, to
make him come to me in a place where a long blade would be hampered by branches and boles.
But as he advanced, he swung the weapon, almost casually, back and forth, and the trees fell about him
as he passed. If only he were not so infernally competent. If only he were not Benedict. . . .
"Benedict," I said, in a normal voice, "she is an adult now, and she is capable of making up her own mind
about things."
But he gave no sign of having heard me. He just kept coming, swinging that great blade from side to
side. It made an almost ringing sound as it passed through the air, followed by a soft thukk! as it bit
through another tree, slowing only slightly. I raised Grayswandir to point at his breast.
"Come no farther, Benedict," I said. "I do not wish to fight with you."
He moved his blade into an attack position and said one word:
"Murderer!"
His hand twitched then and my blade was almost simultaneously beaten aside. I parried the ensuing
thrust and he brushed my riposte aside and was at me again.
This time I did not even bother to riposte. I simply parried, retreated, and stepped behind a tree.
"I don't understand," I said, beating down his blade as it slid by the trunk and nearly skewered me. "I
have not murdered anyone recently. Certainly not in Avalon."
Another thukk! and the tree was falling toward me. I got out of its way and retreated, parrying.
"Murderer," he said again.
"I don't know what you are talking about, Benedict."
"Liar!"
I stood my ground then and held it. Damn it! It was senseless to die for the wrong reason! I riposted as
fast as I could, seeking openings everywhere. There were none.
"At least tell me!" I shouted. "Please!"
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But he seemed to be finished with talking. He pressed forward and I had to fall back once more. It was
like trying to fence with a glacier. I became convinced then that he was out of his mind, not that that
helped me any. With anybody else, an insane madness would cause the loss of some control in a fight.
But Benedict had hammered out his reflexes over the centuries, and I seriously believed that the removal
of his cerebral cortex would not have altered his movements from their state of perfection.
He drove me steadily back, and I dodged among trees and he cut them down and kept coming. I made
the mistake of attacking and barely stopped his counterthrusts inches from my breast. I fought down the
first wave of panic that came to me when I saw that he was driving me back toward the edge of the
grove. Soon he would have me in the open, with no trees to slow him.
My attention was focused on him so completely that I did not realize what was then to occur until it did.
With a mighty cry, Ganelon sprang from somewhere, wrapping his arms about Benedict and pinning his
sword arm to his side.
Even had I really wanted to, though, I did not have the opportunity to kill him then. He was too fast, and
Ganelon was not aware of the man's strength.
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