Sir Lanceor pulled with all his might—and for quite some time—before relenting. He held the sword out towards King Pellinore.

“No,” King Pellinore said, patting the carbon steel sword he used to slay the Questing Beast. “I have no need of another sword. I have my own, and it works just fine. Pass it along to your eldest brother.”

And so Sir Lanceor passed the magic sword, inside its trick scabbard, to Sir Aglovale, eldest son of King Pellinore. Sir Aglovale heaved at the handle with intensity. He screamed as he tried his best to pull Tyrfing from the scabbard, nearly breaking the scabbard in the process. However, the magic that Lily of Avalon had used to create it were powerful, and kept the scabbard whole. The sword, however, felt the pumping blood flow through the hand upoon its handle and felt slightly rejuvenated at its newfound prospects of becoming a tool of bloodshed.

Their sister Dindrane watched as the sheathed sword was passed from Sir Aglovale, to their brother Sir Drian, to their brother Sir Lamorak, to their brother Sir Dornar, to their brother Sir Percival.

Sir Percival grabbed the sword and tried as hard as he could as well. However, he also did not have any success in removing the sword, depite the expectations of many in that great hall.

“Cousin,” Sir Percival said respectfully to Sir Bors. “Come try.”

Sir Percival passed the sword-in-scabbard to his cousin Sir Bors, but he also had no success in removing the sword. But he did have much success with smearing some sweat he had wiped off his lip from earlier upon the handle and pommel. Not a lot, but enough to awaken the sword. It sensed the organic matter, and felt alive again. Was it time for another run? Yes. This was it. Perhaps, they will quench his unyielding thirst. This arid chasm must flow with rivers of crimson. The blade pulsed with excitement.

“What’s the matter, Sir Bors?” a baron cried out. “Is your grip lacking lately?”

“Here, Sir Yvain,” Sir Bors said to Sir Yvain as he handed him Tyrfing. “Do not accidentally let the blade slip from your hand, lest it fall out.”

This, too, got many laughs from the court.

“Come on, then,” cheered King Arthur. “Yank it out, already, somebody! I won’t be shown up by Rience. The weakest knight in our realm could singlehandedly defeat the strongest in theirs.”

This got laughs, as well.

“Pull it out already!” another baron cried out. “I’m hungry as hell!”

This one got some nervous chuckles, and an scowl from the king himself. The baron shrank away.

Sir Yvain pulled the blade, but it did not budge.

“Give it here, boyo!” Sir Kay barked. “I’ll show you how it’s done!”

Sir Yvain walked over to Sir Kay with the weapon.

“C’mon now,” Sir Kay said to Sir Yvain. “Pick up the pace, boyo! March like an old man hasn’t moved into your bones! Hyah!”

The crowd cackled at Sir Kay’s jeering. Sir Yvain held out the sword to the seneschal, who promptly snatched the weapon from the young knight’s hands.

Sir Kay grabbed the scabbard and tugged at the sword. The blade remained sheathed.

Sir Kay then stuck the scabbard between his thighs and squeezed it as he pulled at the handle of the sword. The court groaned. Arthur slapped his own forehead as his court cackled and hooted. The seneschal strained for some time with the stuck sword before surrendering it to the marshal, huffing heatedly as he did.

“Don’t lose your head, dear Kay,” King Arthur said as he patted the crown of his seneschal’s head softly. “You gave it your best shot.”

Sir Bedevere the Marshal was next but he, too, failed to unsheathe the blade. He passed it to his cousin Sir Griflet, who also had no success.

And so Tyrfing was passed down from noble to noble, knight to knight, and baron to baron, until it arrived at Balin’s hands. He accidentally flipped the switch on the trick scabbard, and the sword came loose.

Gasps ran through the court.

“Wh—” the Damsel began, but upon seeing the eyes of every member of King Arthur’s court on her, she changed her tune. “Well done, sir knight! You have unsheathed the magical sword, and freed me of the burden of having to carry it with me.”

Balin studied the weapon. It was gorgeous. A tinge of ash along the edges of the hilt, and a smoky wisps up along its obsidian blade.

“There are words on it,” he said. “Whoever draws this sword will be granted great power, and will have to fight for the individual who had bequeathed him this sword.”

“Thank you, Sir Balan,” she said with glee. “Now, if you will help with my quest—”

“I’m Balin,” Balin said. “Sir Balan is my brother. He’s over there.”

Balin pointed at his brother standing some distance away. Sir Balan waved giddily at the Damsel.

“Twins?” the Damsel muttered to herself in amazement. “How whorish of the moor, to bear twins must mean she had slept with two men.”

She turned her attention from the well-armoured Sir Balan, to the more unkempt Balin who was holding Tyrfing up to the light that was spilling through the clerestory windows high up in the stone walls.

“Now,” the Damsel said with an outstretched arm and a bowed head. “May you please return to me the family sword, sir knight?”

“Why?” Balin asked with squinted eyes. “Didn’t you say that whoever could free it could have it?”

“Well, yes,” the Damsel began.

“Then, I choose to keep it,” he replied.

“But, but,” she stammered. “Don’t you already have a sword, sir knight?”

“Yeah? So?” Balin replied with a shrug. “I’ll keep them both.”

“Why, you—!” the Damsel exploded.

“Now, now,” King Arthur said. “You did say that whomever drew the sword could keep it. We all heard you say it.”

The knights and barons around her said aye in unison.

The Damsel cleared her throat.

“So I did. Very well,” she said. “Well done, sir knight. The sword has chosen you for your pureness and valiance.”

“Who, Balin?” Sir Lanceor cried out, before erupting in laughter. “This boy is no knight!”

The court joined in, laughing and pointing at Balin.

King Arthur saw the injustice of this, and sought to rectify it immediately.

“Then I shall change that!” King Arthur said, reaching out for Tyrfing.

Balin looked down at the sword, then handed it to King Arthur and knelt.

King Arthur held the blade out.

“I, King Arthur,” the king said as he lifted up the the blade. “Do dub thee, Sir Balin!”

Balin received the sword the crown of his head, and then his shoulders.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” the king continued.

The blade of Tyrfing yearned for blood, coveting the molten rivers of red that flowed under Balin’s thick neck as it passed by them.

“Arise, Sir Balin!” King Arthur shouted as he pulled the sword away from the knight.

Cheers arose as Sir Balin stood up and received the sword back from King Arthur.

The Damsel left abruptly in a huff. She was enraged. King Arthur was supposed to be her champion. Not this rookie of a knight. How was he supposed to be able to kill her brother Cade Ellison?

Similarly, Sir Lanceor stewed in a corner of the court.

‘How was it that neither I, not Sir Balan could secure the sword,’ Sir Lanceor fumed silently. ‘And yet Sir Balin does? There’s no way in hell that criminal is more valiant than I. That villain is filled to the brim with treachery. How is it that he was able to draw the magical sword and not I?!”

Sir Lanceor cursed to himself, and swore to get his revenge on Sir Balin.