The Sword in the Stone

Concealed in the tall grass of the forest floor, a bush rabbit cleaned herself. The quiet hush of the foggy Irish morning crept slowly into the woodlands.

A subtle southern wind carried the fog to embrace the woodland critters like a blanket of cold mist. The ancient trees creaked and moaned. Their frightened spirits shook free of their bark, fleeing deeper into the darker green of the forest. 

Something was coming. 

The bush rabbit’s ears perked and flicked in the direction of the forest’s edge. Her eyes glazed and dilated as her large, sensitive ears registered numerous tremors in the earth. In a frenzy, she dashed further into the wood.

Thudding. Trotting and trudding. A hundred knights on horseback increased in sound as they marched over the hilltops of the plains and into the beginning rows of ancient trees. Like the primordial guardians of yore, the trees uprooted and defended the forest from these silver-clad invaders. Their thick, moss-covered roots smacked the first battalion of steel-plated men clean off their steeds.

Some of the men drew their swords, but they hesitated as a quiet, Robed Man stepped forward. Unafraid and unmoved by the ferocity of the trees, he touched them with a glowing hand. One by one the violent trees ceased, returning their calming roots to the dirt.

The Robed Man fell to one knee, visibly drained by the magic spell. His Apprentice rushed to his side with a longstaff and a waterskin.

A young, gilded king lead his horse up to them and asked, “Should we rest a moment?”

“Nay, press on.” The Robed Man said to the king and his knights. “We must reach the forest center by midday.”

The party continued trudging through the eerie quiet of the wood. Every snapped twig beneath the horses’ hooves sent an unnerving clatter of sound echoing through the trees. 

As the oblivious shining knights passed by, a sweet smell wafts over the senses of the fauna and flora of this ancient forest. They hadn't seen man in ages, and this new, delicious smell gave them cause to stir from their petrified beds and dusty, dark caverns. Such a satisfying, delectable smell – the sweet smell of fresh flesh…

It started quietly at first. Several of the knights and their horses in the very back of the group began to disappear, as if vanished by the forest itself. With every shrub and cave passed the screams of the abducted knights and their horses were heard even by those at the very front of the group. A few scouts were sent to investigate, but they found only faint trails of blood and shredded armor metal.

As the remaining knights neared their destination, their vast number was reduced to only a few dozen. The Young King approached The Robed Man and asked, “Where will we find the entrance to the temple?” 

The Robed Man, silent and still, pointed an old finger at a clearing ahead. A light beam from the midday sun broke through the canopy to the forest floor. It illuminated an invisible gate, rendering its weathered stones material and whole.

Inside the stone structure, a sanctified chamber rested, free of the indiscriminate wrath of elements. As if undisturbed by time, the relics and adornery of this magnificent hall shimmered with untold blessings of the Divine.

“Truly, this is the holiest of places.” The Young King whispered in reverence.

In the room’s center, a runic blade waited sheathed in a massive, engraved boulder. The last rays of the midday sun glinted and glowed, reflected in the visible section of the sword’s blade.

“‘Tis but a single sword. Set in stone, no less.” The Knight Captain said to The Robed Man from atop his horse, shielding his eyes from the refracted, blinding light. “How will one dusty relic aid us in our quest?”

The Robed Man produced an ancient tome with an engraving of a magic sword. Flipping through its pages, he began to read his findings aloud.

“In a past life, this blade went by the name Enuma Aael.” He said. “But the origin language of its name has been dead for millennia. Few know the true meaning behind it.”

He continued to speak, showing The Knight Captain the tome and his additional research notes, “An instrument of power once wielded by the Archangel Michael himself, but it existed long before that.”

“But all legends regarding the sword say the same thing about the its power – the blade will vanquish any foe that dares to stand before it.” The Apprentice added to his master’s explanation, who gave the lad a proud, approving nod.

“Take it.” The Robed Man said to The Young King.

The Young King clasped and removed the blade as if pulling a knife from a churn of butter. 

The Robed Man smiled. “The blade has deemed you worthy, Arthur.”

The Young King studied the runic markings on the blade with fascination. The Robed Man approached, kneeling down with outstretched hands to exalt his liege.

“Now that it has a new master in a new age, the sword deserves a new name.” The Robed Man said. “What will you call it?” 

“Excalibur.” The Young King replied, raising the sword high over his head. The sound of his voice sent a ringing through the blade as the runic markings shifted and changed. They reformed as the Gaelic inscription of “Excalibur” on the shining metal.

Suddenly, the sword glowed wickedly bright and The Young King’s hand turned to stone. He bellowed in pain and fear as a dark magic moved up his arm and enveloped his entire body. His stoney limbs cracked and fell to the ground as the last shred of his organic self was consumed by the spell. The Robed Man recoiled in horror as his beloved king transformed into a silent, screaming statue of crumbling rock.

“Here’s a legend that might’ve escaped your research, old man.” A voice called out from somewhere within the chamber. “Once removed from the stone, ownership of the sacred sword can only be transferred once the life of its previous owner has ended.” 

From the shadows, a Red-Haired Witch stepped into view, laughing haughtily. Her long, bushy hair flowed like a cascade of hellfire.

“Morgana, what have you done?” The Robed Man wept at the foot of the pile of rubble that was formerly The Young King.

“You stole my destiny from me, Merlin. So I stole it back.” The Red-Haired Witch beckoned the sword and it flew to her hand. “You chose a weakly boy as your champion over your strongest pupil. So I reduced him to dirt and clay.”

She waved a glowing hand at The Robed Man and enchanted tree roots broke through the temple ceiling to entangle him. The remaining knights drew their swords and surrounded The Red-Haired Witch. The Robed Man’s Apprentice brandished a wand and shot a bolt of lightning at her.

“Ah, I take it you’re my replacement.” She said, swatting away the meager spell as if it were a fly. She ran The Apprentice through with the sacred sword.

“Enuma Aael, meaning ‘The Cleansing Light.’” The Red-Haired Witch said seductively, cradling the bloody sword against her bosom. “How proper that you soldiers of light be slain by the same power you claim to serve.”

She slashed the sword in the air, sending a cascade of pure white flames that engulfed the knights and their horses. They screamed and writhed in twisted agony as the flames quickly melted the metal of their armor down into their flesh.

“But if it is the master’s duty to give name to such a weapon, then I name thee Caliburn.” The Red-Haired Witch said, running a finger up the edge of the blade. “‘That which will destroy the light.’”

The blood from her finger mixed with the metal of the blade, corrupting its color to a deep crimson. The runic markings shifted again and formed the Gaelic inscription of the name Caliburn.

As the knights burned, the bush rabbit watched from the tall forest grass. The white flames and the silhouettes of the knights' burning bodies reflected in the deep, glistening black of her dilated pupils.

Copyright © James Schleisman 2019 All Rights Reserved.