IRON AND STONE: AN EXCALIBUR TALE
by J. Edward Ritchie
A midnight snow swirled down from the clouds in a crystalline dance, stippling the jagged contours of Buckthorne Village. Wesley’s hare skin boots stamped the alabaster powder into the grooves of a cobblestone road. His donkey plodded on behind him, hauling a rickety cart along the neglected thoroughfare. The wheels groaned in defiance, threatening to snap from their axles. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“You hear that, Sarah? Shoddy craftsmanship. No pride in his work,” Wesley said, cursing the carpenter who sold him the cart. “This cold’s no good for our bones, either.”
Sarah snorted. They both resented their all-too frequent nocturnal prowls. The village’s rustic charm had become more tarnished than the secondhand silverware he traded for a new hammer—a hammer that was now useless without its mate. Of all the settlements in Logres, why did he have to put down roots in one so rife with delinquents and thieves?
Wesley grumbled as he surveyed the area for his stolen anvil. It had disappeared from his shop three times this month alone. The offense was so frequent that Lord Halford refused his petitions for a formal investigation and ruled that the anvil must’ve sprouted legs.
“If I catch who’s doing this, I’ll tan the skin from their hides. A blacksmith without his anvil…might as well shove my hammer up my ass, for all the good it’ll do.”
Sarah anchored her hooves in place and brayed. Wesley would trust her investigative prowess over a hound any day of the week.
“Here, girl? Well, we’ve found it in stranger spots.”
The church loomed before them, its belfry taking on a sinister countenance in the darkness. A pair of circular stained glass windows flickered from an oil lamp burning on the second floor. Father Charles must’ve been working late on his sermon, obsessing over whatever moral judgments were needed to frighten people into behaving.
“Don’t suppose you’ve seen my anvil?” Wesley asked the prismatic eyes after an extended swig of ale. His pouch hadn’t been properly cured and imbued the drink with a foul hint of offal. “Hello? All-powerful, all-seeing Lord of Everything? Lend me your omniscience so that I may forge good works in Your name.”
A sudden squall flung open the churchyard gate. Desiccated bramble pitched from the hinges, stifling Wesley’s blasphemy with a thorny barrage. Sarah crossed over the threshold, undeterred. Bless her courageous heart. Wesley tempered his hopes (thieves were notoriously God-fearing), but at least the frozen soil was easier on his cart. He followed Sarah to the rear courtyard, passing underneath a canopy of branches whose leaves had been stripped by winter. A squirrel jostled awake and scampered overhead to warn its kin about the intruders.
“The anvil’s too heavy for one bastard alone,” Wesley said, calling upon the full measure of his deductive prowess. “Multiple conspirators. Three, I’d wager. But they underestimate the gumption of Wesley P. Wellington—”
Sarah halted amid a floral garden populating the courtyard. The denizens were dormant, giving a funereal quality to the fallow beds. But situated at the crux of the garden, inconceivably balanced on a waist-high boulder, was Wesley’s iron anvil. One with the stone, as if the pair had been carved together from a mighty slab.
“And there it is. Good girl,” Wesley said, ruffling Sarah’s snout. Even from a distance, he could picture every indentation from untold thousands of hammer swings.
Wesley’s anvil had lasted longer than either of his marriages. He wasn’t ready to give up on it, no matter how many times he’d have to cart it back home. A wayward anvil was an easier fix than a wayward wife. He circled the stone, a popular fixture in Buckthorne, trying to determine how to remove the anvil without throwing his back out or busting a toe.
“That’s an impressive bit of balancing, isn’t it?” Lifting wasn’t an option. He retrieved wooden rollers from the cart and placed them next to the stone. Another swig of drink would give him a kick in the pants to get the job done. “Who do we know that could do this?”
Sarah huffed and stamped twice. Strong opinions, that one.
“Arthur? No, he’s a good lad. Brings us bread every morning. Why would he…?”
The gears turning in Wesley’s mind locked up. He had more fingers and toes than Buckthorne had youths, and Arthur was quite fit for his age. Affection for the orphan had blinded him. Arthur and his band of misfits had to be the culprits. The gifts of bread were a ruse!
“That duplicitous son of a whore. Oh, he’s a conniving one. And to think I offered him an apprenticeship. Damn you, Arthur.”
Wesley punctuated his disgust by ejecting the contents of his right nostril. He would’ve relieved himself instead, if they weren’t on hallowed ground. Come first light, he’d give Arthur what for. The hickory tree outside his shop had the perfect branch for a whipping switch.
First things first: the anvil. Brute strength would have to do the trick. And so help him if the anvil suffered any damage while removing it from the stone. Wesley took a rope draped over Sarah’s back, tied it around the anvil, and secured the knot at its horn. He wrapped the other end around his shoulders and waist, stretching until his back cracked. A slight hunch had formed from the strain of his craft over fifty winters, but his upper body was still robust.
“A bit of the old heave ho ought to solve this conundrum. On three. One. Two—!”
A flash from within the umbral clouds disrupted Wesley’s momentum. A shooting star? No, it was much too bright. Descending much too fast. And aiming directly at him.
The wind howled, stirred into hysterics by the impending impact. A slender object pierced through the clouds, engulfed in blinding flames.
“Run!” he said to Sarah, freeing her from the cart with a slap on the rump. She sped out of the courtyard, crippling the cart in her escape.
Wesley was out of time. “God help me.”
The blazing missile struck Wesley’s anvil, splashing a tsunami of fire over the gardens. The force sent a crack through the air as though the spine of Buckthorne seized and split like tinder. A ring of surrounding trees uprooted in the shock wave, their tendrils flailing from overturned trunks. The surge imploded the church’s rear exit and billowed inside, flipping the pews before punching the main doors across the village.
Wesley was thrust head over heels, flailing to anchor himself in the tumult. By what he could only assume was the grace of God, his arms found the garden’s oil lamppost. The screams were sucked from his mouth and swallowed by the din. His embrace with the lamppost weakened. A finger slipped loose. Then another. Death was imminent…
But it never came.
As swiftly as the chaos had commenced, it abated. Wesley slid down the lamppost and peeled off his hands. The stillness was unnerving. And at the epicenter of destruction, thrust directly through his anvil and lodged deep in the stone?
A sword.
Gathering his courage, Wesley advanced for a closer inspection. He was a blacksmith of notable skill, but this sword was transcendent. Craftsmanship of otherworldly quality. The pristine white blade wasn’t forged from any alloy that he could identify and featured runes not native to Logres or its surrounding territories. A carving of a winged being taking a man’s hand decorated the hilt, surrounded by an indecipherable inscription.
A person with any good sense would’ve fled for the comfort of ignorance and a warm fire. But if Wesley’s mother was to be believed, he left all his good sense in the womb. While it could’ve been the ringing in his ears, he swore that the sword was whispering to him.
Wesley.
The name swam in his head, spoken in a voice neither male nor female. Was it an invitation or a warning? Compelled closer, his boots walked of their own accord. Without having formed the thought to do so, Wesley reached for the sword. His fingers grasped the hilt and found it to be larger than any he’d held. The sword was fit for a giant, or a man of mythic stature…
Flames ignited from within the exposed section of blade!
Fire slithered up the hilt, towards Wesley’s hand. It flared across his entire body, encasing him in a searing, smokeless blaze…but it didn’t burn his flesh, not from the outside. He felt the flames enter his bloodstream, pumping through the internal rivers until it invaded his skull jelly. Reality became an ashen mirage scattered into the night, replaced with rampant horror.
War.
Wesley beheld combat on a scale without definition. Millions upon millions of winged warriors cleaving and stabbing and slashing until entire fields were charnel houses thigh-deep with corpses. Righteousness versus wickedness. Good and evil clashing under the auspices of two fated leaders. Brothers fighting a holy war.
But some truths aren’t meant for mortal men. To peer beyond the celestial veil was the greatest of sins—the forbidden apple reborn—and the cost for such knowledge was a fall.
#
Father Charles awoke just before he hit the ground in an avalanche of bedding. His face slapped against a puddle of lamp oil and broken glass. The floorboards rattled, vibrating his false teeth as fissures split the wood. A tempest ripped through the church nave beneath him like the voice of God. His mind raced for a natural cause—perhaps an especially violent blizzard? Clutching his jasmine petal rosary, he ran downstairs to assess the damage. The Lord would protect His house. The Lord would protect His house…
Father Charles emerged into pandemonium and choked on his prayers. All of the pews had been hurled against the walls, their carved artistry pulverized into kindling. A gaping maw howled in place of the rear exit. The chandelier pitched across the ceiling like a pendulum, spewing candles and crystal pendalogues. Nothing was spared in the elemental onslaught, not even the crucifix now wedged across the devastated entryway.
Father Charles knelt at the broken vestiges of his altar, placing his life in God’s hands. He had built this church from the ground up. His blood was in every nail. Every plank. If it were to fall that night, then he would greet the Almighty without fear. Such was his commitment. The cacophony reached a deafening crescendo as the church’s rent bones whirled around him…
Then silence. Miraculous yet piercing silence in the black wake of ruin.
Father Charles waded through the darkness, beckoned onward by an incandescent flare beyond the rear maw. He peeked his head outside with a silent prayer for protection only to be struck by the absurdity of the gesture. Prayer was a communion with God, and if the horror Father Charles saw was any indication, His word had already been spoken—judgment.
The village blacksmith, Wesley, stood rigid in the heart of the garden. His body was coated in living flames like a combustible suit of armor. He turned and locked eyes with Father Charles, devoid of fear or pain. His mouth opened into a blazing portal that released a single word into the ether:
“Excalibur.”
Father Charles watched, petrified by the rapturous doom, while Wesley was incinerated from within. The fires were a consumptive force of divinity, burning until nary a speck of ash remained. In Wesley’s place, unscathed and inert, was a sword driven into an anvil and stone.
Father Charles crossed himself and went mad.
#
The church bell rang across Buckthorne without its usual rhythm or purpose. The panicked toll swept into Merlin’s hut at the village borders and clanged between his temples like some hellish torture. His bloodshot eyes peeled open, splitting a seal of sleep crust. The bell and the throbbing in his head clanged back and forth in a nauseating dialogue.
“Fuck!” Merlin yelled at a hole in his wall that passed for a window.
The local plebeians couldn’t even tell time properly. But their gullibility was key to his grift as village wizard, one that had been paying quite well. Whatever the superstition causing their panic, he’d find a way to capitalize on it.
Merlin swung his gangly legs out of bed, knocking over a clay amphora. A burgundy rivulet trickled from the lip. He held the amphora over his mouth and tapped the bottom to receive its sacred droplets. Memories of the previous night were fuzzy. He recalled a woman (now conspicuously absent), copious drink among discussions of the mystical arts, and—
“Oh, right,” he said, spotting a bowl that held remnants of herbs and mushrooms. The woman may’ve been entirely his creation. Merlin was, after all, his own best company.
Merlin wrapped a fur robe over his tattooed arms and torso. The tribal markings came from his infiltration of the Saxons decades ago (espionage was a young man’s game), and now served to buttress his mystique. He walked between worlds, civilized or…other.
A whirlpool of piss sloshed in Merlin’s bladder. He limped to his chamber pot, joints aching, and loosed a delightful stream. Euphoric release, except he’d forgotten to empty the pot last night. His stream splashed off a frozen pond of repurposed wine. Right onto his feet.
“Damn it all!” he said, kicking the pot. His toes clashed with the frozen metal and lost.
This was not Merlin’s proudest morning.
At least the bell ceased ringing. That meant the rabble was gathering and would need his incomparable counsel. One had to look the part, however. He gathered his frizzy, graying beard and bound it with a crimson ribbon. Bundles of hair tumbled onto his shoulders, some braided with beads, others tangled in oily knots. A faded violet hat with a wide brim fit snugly on his head, ending in a point that folded back. He completed the ensemble with a gnarled, ebony cane carved from a tree struck by lightning. A fancy but useless crystal was wedged atop the cane.
Merlin was ready. Time to discover why he had to rise before noon.
#
Merlin merged with a swarm of locals buzzing through the streets. His appearance among their frenzied ranks elicited curiosity. Or perhaps they were commenting on his ripe stench, not that any of them smelled of roses. He followed the procession to the church where the entire village spilled across the grounds. The crowd parted, giving him access to the source of their trepidation. Wesley’s anvil was placed atop a sitting stone in the courtyard garden. Peculiar. Everyone knew about the disappearing anvil—Wesley never shut up about it—but this instance was different. A sword had been struck through the anvil and into the stone, wedged to the hilt. An impressive feat, to be sure, but hardly worth all the commotion.
Father Charles held people back while preaching. His clammy, pale face and quivering voice weren’t exactly filled with the Holy Spirit.
“Stay back. Back! It’s a sign from God. A denouncement of our sinful ways. Repent, friends, lest you join our blacksmith in hellfire.”
“Hellfire? What’s he going on about?” Merlin said.
“Poor Wesley tried to free the sword and got burnt up,” a gap-toothed baker replied. “Nothing left to bury. Powerful tragedy, it is.”
“Ludicrous.”
Iron, stone, and whatever metal the sword was forged from weren’t flammable, no matter what those uneducated philistines believed. Merlin’s criticism turned eyes towards him. With Father Charles raving like a lunatic, spouting off about hellfire and damnation, people yearned for the solace of logic.
“What’s more plausible,” Merlin began, “that Wesley was the victim of divine retribution, or that he’s sleeping off his drink somewhere, oblivious? Hmm?”
With one reasonable and impartial question, the tide shifted in Merlin’s favor. Father Charles scowled at him, the bags under his milky eyes heavy with reproach. The two never got along. He saw Merlin as a pagan rival plotting after the souls of his flock, and Merlin couldn’t abide the hypocrisy of religion. Besides, the village appreciated Merlin’s special brand of therapies. Simply put, they wanted to be fooled, and “magic” was fool’s gold.
“This is a spiritual concern,” Father Charles insisted. “And you, you charlatan are unfit to comment on such matters.”
“Let him speak, Father,” the baker said, crumbs from a bite of loaf spitting between his teeth. Other joined in until the priest’s objections were overwhelmed.
“You must understand, sometimes a specialist is required. No hard feelings,” Merlin said and stepped past Father Charles. “Now then, what do we have here?”
Merlin circled the stone, examining the sword and anvil with a discerning eye. The iron that the sword pierced had melted and cooled around the blade. Unless it had been inserted into the anvil elsewhere and then brought here, he didn’t have an immediate explanation. Merlin reached out with his cane, and the crowd gasped. A quick rap against the hilt produced no otherworldly phenomena. Still, if touching the sword had indeed killed Wesley, he wouldn’t repeat the mistake. That didn’t mean someone else couldn’t volunteer as a test subject. And if Merlin knew one sure way to manipulate the masses, it was with the promise of power.
“Father Charles is correct: this is an unnatural occurrence. Removing the sword will require nothing less than a feat of noble strength and majesty. I daresay that anyone who could do so would be a king among men.”
“Negligent words will cost lives,” Father Charles warned. He yanked off Merlin’s hat and stomped on it in a childish tantrum. “The Lord will not tolerate your schemes.”
“I’m giving them what they want.” Merlin dusted off his hat and returned it to his head. “It’s what I do.”
Indeed, Merlin’s words had captivated the crowd. Murmurs ignited as the peasants looked among each other for a champion. While they mulled over the possibility of fame and fortune, Father Charles became more unhinged. He bounded between people, grabbing at them like the local nutter, eyes wild with pious furor.
“A pox on Merlin the Pretender. Buckthorne is doomed. Save your souls!”
He bolted from the churchyard, expecting to lead a procession to salvation elsewhere. Not one person followed the humiliated priest. Merlin watched him zigzag into the distance, blabbering to a phantom flock.
“It seems the father is in need of a holiday,” Merlin said to diffuse any awkwardness. “I ask without obligation or coercion: does anyone wish to test their mettle for the greater good?”
Buckthorne was in short supply of bravery. The crowd took a collective step away from the sword and averted their eyes, all except for a gang of boys snickering at the periphery. Arthur was the mastermind, a rapscallion and epitome of wasted potential. Upon a time, Merlin had expected great things from the boy. No longer. Thirteen years in, and the only initiative he’d shown was in the art of thievery. Whatever promise of greatness was born with Arthur had seeped out into the muck of Buckthorne’s streets.
“Arthur, what say you?” Merlin called out. Arthur whisked his hand from the pocket of an oblivious bystander. “You’re a strapping lad. Care to try your hand at destiny?”
“No, sir. I’m destiny-free,” Arthur said, the juvenile wit amusing his lackeys.
“Nonsense. You must have a greater purpose in Buckthorne than anvil relocation.”
Arthur’s repeated heist was the village’s worst kept secret. His face swelled red as the crowd heckled him. Even his friends contributed. Ah, the fickle loyalty of youth. Another choice barb from Merlin would pressure him to action. He felt a twinge of guilt in his gut stemming from the remote possibility of putting Arthur in danger. But Father Charles had been on the brink of madness for years. Swords don’t set people on fire.
“Step forward, Arthur. Unless you’re afraid that Wesley was truly the victim of divine immolation?”
“When have I ever failed to serve our great community?”
Every day of your life, Merlin wanted to say, but the crowd’s disapproval beat him to it. Arthur waved off the naysayers and strutted towards the sword. Halfway to maturity, his tall and slender frame was not yet balanced with the muscles of a man. Merlin heard the fruits of Arthur’s pickpocketing jangle in his pockets.
“Go on, boy.”
Arthur extended a hand and inched it towards the hilt. The crowd held their breath, probably hoping for the spectacle of a tragedy. Closer…closer…fingers ready to grip…but he stopped before flesh met metal.
“On second thought, if you’re so powerful, why not remove the sword with a spell?”
“Disrespectful whelp.” Merlin pressed the crystal of his cane against Arthur’s pocket, threatening to reveal its contents if the boy didn’t cooperate.
Neither of them budged. It was a test of wills with the entire village in attendance. Merlin had worked too hard crafting his reputation to have it sullied by a salty street rat.
“Enough!” a haughty voice boomed, interrupting the standoff.
The smell of cooked pig fat preceded Lord Elmer Halford. He shoved through the crowd with Father Charles scrambling in the shadow of his rotund posterior. Merlin wondered what the priest said to get Lord Halford to both interrupt his breakfast and walk more than ten feet.
“What sort of people are you that would send a priest howling through the streets? I will have order,” he said, relieving Father Charles. The relief was short lived. Lord Halford took center stage and dismissed Arthur, his prodigious girth gyrating with each step. “If anyone is to secure destiny’s embrace this day, it should be me, Lord of Buckthorne.”
“Lord” was a generous title. Elmer’s wealth was notable for the village, but he had no true claim to the lands or its people. It was easier to indulge the Lord’s fantasies than cause a stir, and his failure would give Merlin great joy when reminiscing on lonely nights.
“I’m embarrassed to have ever thought otherwise,” Merlin said, bowing low.
Father Charles rushed to intervene. His good intentions had ricocheted. “Lord Halford, I beg you—”
“Nonsense, Father. You were right to fetch me.” Lord Halford puffed his chest, playing to his subjects. “This is my birthright.”
Merlin immediately sensed something was off. A wave of unease struck him, as if pulsing from the sword, but Lord Halford’s arrogance dulled his perception. He felt nothing except the invigoration of hubris. Certain of his aristocratic lineage, he gripped the hilt with both hands and tugged.
Not a wiggle. The only movement came from gas escaping his buttocks.
“It’s really in there. But I was only testing how much strength to employ. I wouldn’t want to damage the blade.”
Lord Halford gave it his all, face bloating purple in strain…
Whoosh! Flames ignited from the sword, slinked up his arms, and wrapped him in a blazing cocoon. Cries erupted from the crowd as Lord Halford disintegrated before their eyes. His scream reverberated through the streets and alleys of Buckthorne like a wailing specter.
It seemed that Father Charles’ mind wasn’t all bats and cobwebs.
“That is the devil’s sword! The Adversary has befouled our church,” he declared as if to dash the compliment from Merlin’s mind. “We must burn it all. Burn it!”
Like an annual witch-hunt, villagers gathered torches to burn their fears. Merlin didn’t care about the church or its grounds—the property could be put to much better use—but the sword in the stone was a phenomenon too important to be destroyed by mob mentality.
“STOP!” Merlin pierced his cane into the snow, commanding attention. “Whatever magic has struck down our lord, I will dispel it. I give you my word. Until then, this area is off-limits. Return to your homes. Trust me, as you always have.”
The villagers were more receptive to his promise than Father Charles’ fear mongering, at least for now. Happy to leave the problem to the professional, they abandoned their incendiary intentions. Attention spans were low in Buckthorne.
“Come back! This must be done. God commands it,” Father Charles pleaded, waving his torch. The old coot prepared to burn the church himself. His delusions were almost sad.
“Go to the inn, Father.” Merlin swiped the torch from Father Charles and doused it in the snow. “You’re not needed here.”
“That, Merlin, has become all too clear. May God save you, but I doubt it.” Father Charles took a final look at the church—his home for five decades—crossed himself, spit on the ground, and left, crestfallen. He was never seen in Buckthorne again.
“Well then, where to begin?”
Merlin was certain that the sword had nothing to do with God or the “Devil,” but he had no answers. Not even suspicions. It was going to be a long day.
#
The residents of Buckthorne sought distraction in their daily routines while Merlin conducted his “experiments” on the mysterious sword, but cautionary rumors swam in the undercurrent. When night finally fell, dread had besieged the village. Windows were closed and latched. Doors locked. Candles snuffed out. Even the bravest men placed superstitious offerings outside their homes to ward off or appease whatever evil had hurled the sword upon their quiet hamlet.
Arthur didn’t partake in the curfew, not that anybody supervised his whereabouts. Run away enough times and people stop looking for you…except Merlin. Disrespectful whelp, he said, as if the nosy freak possessed any real power, magical or otherwise. Arthur had years of practice at ignoring Merlin’s judgmental tone, but guilt was a different beast. Not guilt from stealing the anvil—that was good fun—but that he’d inadvertently set in motion the events leading to Wesley’s death. His friends, though agreeable chaps, didn’t share his sense of contrition. After seeing a man burned alive, moral introspection wasn’t their top priority.
Lord Halford’s scream…a harrowing, sustained shriek of unfettered agony. And the smell of crisping human meat, the sort of smell that invades yours nostrils until you taste it, would remain with Arthur for all his days. Was that what happened to Wesley? The poor man only wanted his anvil back. He wouldn’t have cared about the sword beyond admiring its craftsmanship. The only answers he needed came in liquid form. Endearing old drunkard.
When Arthur had hesitated to take the sword, a bit of drama for the crowd, he did feel a spark within. Nothing painful, more like a dormant virtue being stirred awake. New but still familiar. He didn’t know what it meant, but he wasn’t afraid. Stomach-in-his-throat nervous, not afraid. Arthur was culpable and accepted that fact. The bizarre sentiment floated among his thoughts like an intruder. He never volunteered for or admitted responsibility of any kind.
Arthur made for the church, taking a roundabout route to avoid detection. A temporary fence had been hastily erected to deter anyone who might have a misguided sense of bravery. He found a section of rotted planks and wrestled open a hole to slink through.
The garden resonated with an invisible power, causing the hairs on Arthur’s forearm to stand. He spied on Merlin, wholly unimpressed with the wizard’s methods of research. Frustrated from hours of failure, Merlin was reduced to hurling rocks and curses at the sword.
“Legendary sword? You’re a hunk of metal created to serve,” he said, jabbing his cane into the small space of blade between the anvil and hilt. “Release your hold on this stone. I Merlin, command it!”
Merlin prattled on as if the sword was responding, and the conversation wasn’t going his way. He spat and laughed and stamped, trying to provoke a quantifiable response. Merlin was a kook, but he wasn’t crazy. Something was emanating from the sword—call it magic or sorcery or devilry—and it was very real.
“Then keep your secrets!” he finally shouted in defeat. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll have this stone ripped from the earth and dumped in the lake. You and your precious anvil can fuck off with the fish. I’m going for a drink. Good day.”
Having secured the final word, Merlin huffed, tidied his hat, and made a grandiose exit.
Arthur.
Startled, Arthur stumbled from his hiding spot. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if waking up naked in the village square. Merlin was gone, but someone had called his name. He scrambled backwards on his hands and knees to escape the voice.
Arthur!
The voice came from inside Arthur’s head but wasn’t his own. The interloper peeled away layers of his mental defense, vying for dominance. Vision blurred, Arthur tried to run from the churchyard but could only move in one direction. He was being pulled—summoned—to the stone. The anvil. The sword.
Closer. This is why you are here.
There was sincerity in the voice. Familiarity. And inevitability.
I am yours, if you believe it so.
Belief wasn’t native to Arthur’s disposition. Not in family. Not in community. Not in fortune or fame. And certainly not himself. Everything about his life had been unexceptional, and that was his preference. He had no expectations for himself, and people in turn expected nothing from him. But whatever was happening to him now was extraordinary.
Because you are extraordinary. You know what to do.
Had Wesley and Lord Halford faced similar temptation? What of Merlin? Were external forces compelling Arthur to certain death? He’d never gambled a single coin, but here he was about to risk life and limb, for what? A sword? He had as much interest in knighthood as he did in the village’s disease-infested whorehouse. Honor, duty, and bravery were nebulous qualities to Arthur, words without substance. A sword couldn’t change that. And yet, what if…?
You have not yet begun to live.
The timbre in each syllable was unequivocal truth. The articulation of authenticity.
What did Arthur have to lose? Nothing except for more years of scraping by in the streets until some plague or villain took his life. Nothing to lose. A future to gain.
Have faith, Arthur. Believe.
Arthur clamped both hands around the hilt before he could change his mind. The sliver of blade peeking from the anvil began to glow. The hilt vibrated in his grip. He flinched, expecting to burn, but instead felt the sword loosen from its iron and stone housing. Incredible.
Arthur lifted the mammoth blade free, dumbfounded by his achievement. The air smelled sweeter. Chirps and squeaks from wildlife in the neighboring forest funneled into his ears. He tasted the metallic traces of a days-old cut on his gums. His fingers thawed, despite the winter’s chill. And among the boundless perception came a singular truth, a name—
“Excalibur.”
Though the sword was taller than Arthur, it felt almost weightless. A current of flame ignited around only the blade, crackling with energy. Excalibur became fluid, like liquid metal, reshaping to a form more befitting his size. It solidified into a traditional knight’s sword, complete with crossguard and pommel, but had none of the bulky design flaws. The surreal metamorphosis wasn’t based in any laws or logic from Arthur’s meager education.
What now? he thought, admiring the enigmatic work of art.
An explosion from on high obliterated the storm clouds, exposing an ocean of stars. Backlit by moonlight, a sublime figure descended towards Arthur. The rhythmic flapping of six wings scattered powder from the snowdrifts, a hint of emerald gleaming in the exquisite feathers.
The figure landed in front of Arthur, towering three heads taller than him. His wings stretched, ruffled off the snow, then retracted inside his back. He had the appearance of a man—an immaculate ideal lifted from the heroes of myth—but wasn’t human. He was too perfect. Too beautiful. A crown of golden white flames circled his head in an eternal burn.
Arthur found himself face-to-face (or face-to-chest) with an actual, living angel, but he didn’t hear any harps or choirs. This wasn’t an angel from the fairytales of scripture. He was a warrior, exuding might and fortitude beyond measure. The implications overturned Arthur’s world. If angels were real, then God was real. Heaven and Hell. And Arthur had compiled an unhealthy record of sin.
“Greetings, brother.” The angel’s voice bred loyalty without commanding it. Love and might intertwined. “I am Michael.”
The Michael? Sermons resurfaced from Arthur’s early years when he still attended church. Michael, savior of Heaven, who cast Satan into the pit. Angel of angels. Sanctity personified. Supplication was Arthur’s only option. He averted his eyes and presented the sword.
“Is, is this yours?”
“Excalibur.” Michael’s hand hovered near the sword but didn’t seize it. “Long has it been lost among the stars. That I would find it here, in the hands of a mortal unscathed by its might, is…curious. Who are you to claim such power?”
“No one,” Arthur blurted out, displeasing the angel. The weight of Michael’s gaze was unbearable. “I mean to say, Arthur, sir.”
“That is your name, not who you are.”
Michael took Arthur’s head in his huge yet silken hands. Filaments of celestial energy snaked from the fingers and threaded across his mind. All of Arthur’s memories, thoughts, hopes, dreams, and fears were Michael’s to explore.
“A thief. A layabout. A vagabond. Potential rejected like refuse,” Michael said, perplexed by Arthur’s deficiencies of character. “This is who you are?”
“…Yes,” Arthur replied, ashamed.
“What of your compassion? Courage? Generosity?”
Michael continued his mental probe, excavating memories buried under traumatic rubble. Events took shape in Arthur’s mind, events he had no recollection of but that sifted intense emotions from the silt of infancy. The chilly corridors of a labyrinthine castle, each crack in the stone telling volumes of history and ancestry. Safety within those walls. A baby swaddled in blankets, rocked to sleep in the strong arms of a man, warm and loved. A golden crown wrapped around the man’s head, embedded with precious gems, the crown of a king. Merlin, younger, not yet jaded, whisking the baby from its home at the king’s behest. A queen weeping over the necessary sacrifice as an invading army marched on the horizon.
“Please stop,” Arthur said and shook his head free. “What are you showing me?”
“Nothing your eyes have not already seen,” Michael said. “Nobility is in your nature, forgotten but not lost. Excalibur has bound itself to your destiny. Why do you reject it?”
Whenever the inkling of greater purpose arose within, Arthur thrust himself in the opposite direction like a roach fleeing from light. If he had a destiny, it meant his choices—his freedom—were lies.
“If you continue down this path, what sort of man will you become?” Michael pressed.
“No one is guaranteed tomorrow. I live for the day at hand, not for those that lay in wait.”
“That is not living. It is hiding in plain sight,” Michael said and took the sword from Arthur. The modified size made it look like a child’s toy in his hands. “Excalibur has been at my side for eons, and that is not an exaggeration. Demons have tasted its blade. ‘Gods’ have been struck from this world. To wield it is to be legend. Most men would kill for this power. Empires would be scorched from the pages of history. And you, little more than a boy, reject it?”
Michael’s incredulous tone felt like a razor against Arthur’s throat. He wanted to wake up, to erase this fever dream and return to his days of tomfoolery.
“Were a hundred men to stand before you, a hundred men would have more worth. I don’t want to be remembered in legends. I don’t want power,” he admitted. “That is a road of blood and pain.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps there would be a more exemplary outcome.” Michael offered Excalibur back to Arthur. “I have seen Mankind rise from the mud and endure—thrive—against all odds. But humanity is its own worst foe. Your contradictory nature breeds violence. If there is anything you cherish in this world, you may one day be called upon to protect it. Have faith.”
Though staring at an angel offering him a heavenly weapon, humbled in his presence, Arthur couldn’t instantly accept God into his heart. That wasn’t how faith worked.
“I know what you are, or what I think you are, but I’ve haven’t set foot in a church for years. I can’t quote passages from the Bible. If there is a God, I don’t feel Him.”
Instead of chastising Arthur, Michael smiled. Warm. Forgiving. Accepting.
“What is a church but stone and mortar? A Bible but parchment and ink? How could you have faith in your Creator when you have none in yourself? Look inward, and you will find answers to questions you have not thought to ask.” Michael thrust Excalibur back into the anvil and stone, releasing his grip once the flames sealed it. “Find yourself.”
“You can’t leave it there,” Arthur protested. “People died.”
“When destiny is resisted, people die. Trust me.” Michael’s perfection cracked for but a second, revealing the world-weary scars beneath. His six wings emerged and stretched across the garden, feathers tasting the air. “But there is always a choice. Whether or not you choose to claim Excalibur, we will not meet again. Live well, Arthur Pendragon.”
Michael shot into the sky, soaring with effortless grace, and disappeared.
Arthur blinked. There were no signs of the angel’s visit. Had it all been a hallucination? He wasn’t drawn to Excalibur. There was no voice in his head. All was silent. Normal. And terribly cold. His memory of the conversation muddied like spilled paints blending together, leaving only the sludge of doubt. But a vision dangled at the precipice of his mind—a child, a family—vital but too dangerous to capture. Forever out of reach.
“Pendragon, what sort of name is that?”
A snort snapped Arthur to attention. Wesley’s donkey, Sarah, cautiously approached. She shook her head at the sword and whined, mourning. Loyal to a fault. The reins attached to her muzzle dragged chunks of a broken cart behind her. Wesley had no family. No heirs. His name would cease to be spoken in a week’s time, forgotten in a year, but Sarah would remember.
“I know, girl. It’s not fair,” Arthur said, freeing Sarah from her burden. “He didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry.”
Arthur’s stomach rumbled as rays of light peeked over the hills. Morning had come, and with it fresh bread cooling on the baker’s windowsill. Life went on.
“Are you hungry?” he asked Sarah. She shoved her snout in Arthur’s hands and licked his fingers. “Me, too.”
Arthur had no coin to his name, but that never stopped him before. Oddly, stealing a loaf wasn’t the first idea that came to mind. The appeal of thieving from the shadows had waned. The child he’d been only a day prior was a fickle guise that felt tailored for someone else. Arthur wasn’t a boy, nor was he a man. And who he would become was a story for another day.
“Say goodbye, girl.”
Arthur turned his thoughts to Wesley, wherever he was, and vowed to care for Sarah. He led her away from the churchyard, giving the sword in the stone a half-glance farewell. Arthur, a legend? He indulged a daydream to distract from the cold: riding an onyx horse, grown and donning a full set of regal armor, Excalibur raised high as he charged into battle, surrounded by the best men in all of Logres.
“Can you imagine?” he said, laughing off the fantasy. “All I see in our future is breakfast. I know, I know, we’re broke. But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”
If Arthur’s destiny was real, it could wait a while longer.
#
A solitary feather fluttered among the snowflakes, coasting along ethereal waves. Merlin snatched it from the air—tangible proof of everything he had watched from behind the church’s overgrown hedges. Not avian in nature, the feather was larger than his arm with a quill that could skewer a man. The qualities of color and strength were uncanny. Merlin wasn’t convinced that the creature who spoke with Arthur was an angel from biblical myth, but it didn’t matter. Why?
Magic was real. Merlin had seen it. Felt it. The remnants were in his hands. A power existed that was greater than money or fame or political influence, a power that could reshape the future of Mankind, and Arthur was at the center of that power.
Merlin’s face blanched. Hands shook. He leaned against the hedges, head swimming with possibilities. Thirteen years he wasted in honoring his promise to King Uther Pendragon. Thirteen years he kept eyes on the boy, each day more convinced that it’d all been for naught. Merlin’s lips curled into a crooked grin. He’d never been so delighted to be so very wrong.
But Arthur couldn’t be trusted to comprehend the magnitude of what lay ahead. He would free the sword again, of that Merlin was certain, commencing a historic chain of events. Word would spread of Arthur’s feat. Enemies old and new would scour Logres to challenge him. War and death were inevitable, because Mankind destroys what it doesn’t understand.
Arthur needed wisdom and cunning to guide his sword in righteous conquest. He needed the expertise of a fearless mind to study the arcane power, an alliance to make nations kneel in reverence.
Arthur needed a wizard.