Chapter Seventeen
My heart was pounding. I don't know why. After all, what chance did I have of pulling the alleged Excalibur from the stone, especially with alleged King Arthur in line behind me?
Still, I wanted to give the damn thing a tug. Why not, right? Fake or not, this was sort of fun. And I seemed to recall someone recently saying "life is supposed to be fun."
So I paid my five pounds to the guy standing outside the tent. The guy was wearing fake chain mail and a purple tunic. He looked miserable. He also looked silly as hell. Anyway, he handed me a green ticket stub and held the tent flap open for me. I was on my way!
The interior was gloomy, made even more gloomy by the presence of a very large, gray-colored boulder. The boulder looked a bit like a massive brain. A giant's brain perhaps. And jutting from the side of it was the gleaming hilt of a sword.
I hadn't been expecting to be so...impressed by the sword. The thing was utterly beautiful. Almost larger than life. And, if I didn't know better, it seemed to glow and sort of pulsate, as if it were alive.
Or as if your overactive imagination was on hyperdrive.
Another fake chain mail clad worker was sitting behind a fold-out card table, bobbing his head to music pumped through iPod earphones. So much for avoiding anachronisms. Unless, of course, it was the first iPod. The iPodeth, perhaps. Maybe he was rocking out to popular minstrel R&B tunes of yesteryear. Dark Age classics about grog and ale and fair maidens, or dragons and sorcerers and how not to get your head chopped off.
Anyway, the squire held out his hand and when I gave him my ticket, he said: "Pull with strength, pull with care, and perhaps, you're the heir. Good luck, O Future King of England." He sounded bored. He also sounded not very hopeful.
"Um, thanks."
I turned and faced the boulder. A high-powered spotlight, similar to something you would see on a Hollywood set, illuminated the dark rock and glittering sword hilt.
I'll admit, I felt excited. Had I not been dreaming of King Arthur and Camelot and the Holy Grail?
The hilt looked very old. The leather strap wrapped around the handle looked worn and battle-tested. How had the leather survived after all these years?
The pommel, a shining steel ball that counter-balanced the blade, was badly worn, as if it had seen many battles. Maybe it had. The cross-guard, which protected the hand from the blade, was engraved in writing that looked vaguely English. Old English?
Very Old English?
The weapon itself was a massive broadsword, and eight percent of it was deeply embedded in the rock. Fake or not, I wondered how the heck that thing got in there. The blade showed signs of heavy use, but still appeared razor sharp.
The worker leaned across the table and pulled out one of his earpieces. "Hey, mate. You gotta give it a tug and get moving. We've got a long line out there waiting."
"Yes, of course. Sorry, um, mate."
I turned back to the sword. The handle was tilted upward at about a forty-five degree angle. Perfect for grabbing and pulling. The rock itself - a massive chunk of granite that easily weighed a ton or two - was sitting atop a blue tarp. Nothing fancy here. Just a tent, a worker, and a rock with a sword in it.
All to capitalize on gullible tourists.
Well, this gullible tourist slowly wrapped his fingers around the hilt with a certain amount of excitement, and as soon as I did so...
Well, nothing much happened, unfortunately. No surge of energy. No blue sparks radiating up and down my arms. The sword didn't hum with magic or do much of anything special at all. Disappointment flooded me.
Still, the handle seemed a perfect fit for my hands. This gave me hope. I next positioned my feet in front of the rock, adjusted my grip slightly. Took a deep breath.
And pulled that sucker with all my strength.
The sword didn't budge or shift or give any indication that it was coming free. I stopped pulling before I gave myself a hernia. Damn. Destined for a life as a commoner. Granted, a handsome and charming commoner with some writing skills, but a commoner nonetheless.
I sighed and turned to leave, and that's when someone let loose with a blood-curdling scream from somewhere outside the tent. The worker snapped his head around and yanked out his earphones. The scream was followed by what I was sure was the sound of metal hitting metal.
And then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then bone hitting bone.
Sweet mother of God, what was going on out there?
The tent flap burst open and I yelped. Arthur appeared at the entrance, breathing hard and bleeding from a small wound in his arm. Through the still-open tent flap, I caught a fleeting glimpse of people running in every direction - but also of two men moving determinedly toward the tent.
Both were armed with swords.
"Excuse me, James," said Arthur, as he brushed past me and headed straight to Excalibur.
Chapter Eighteen
"You're going to need a ticket to do that," said the worker behind me, and he actually stood and blocked Arthur from the sword. Then the kid caught sight of Arthur's wounds - bloody rents in his sleeves and a cut lip - and the worker's mouth literally dropped open.
"You will step aside," said Arthur in a low, even voice. "Better yet, I suggest you leave altogether. Would be better for your health."
The kid stared at Arthur. Arthur stared back. Someone screamed outside. The worker glanced nervously toward the closed tent flap, then back to Arthur. They stared at each other for another heartbeat or two, and then the kid dashed out through the tent flap without looking back. He was still running as the tent flap settled back into place, giving me snatches of the scene outside. Unfortunately, I also had a good view of the goons with swords, both of whom were now a good deal closer.
"Um, Arthur, what's going on?"
"As they say in your physical world, James, there's no time to answer."
He positioned himself in front of the stone. Outside, the crowd was still screaming, along with the sounds of running feet. I had a sense that the market was clearing, and clearing quickly. Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"Where's Marion?" I asked.
"She's safe," he said, and wrapped his hands around the hilt, his long fingers gripping it tightly. There was sweat on his brow, I saw, and the knuckles of his right hand were bloody. The sound of bone hitting bone that I had heard earlier?
What the hell was going on?
Better yet, what the hell had I gotten myself into?
More shouts outside. More screaming. I shied away from the tent flap, expecting two men to come bursting through at any moment. Two men with swords.
Sweet Jesus!
I turned back to Arthur...and my jaw dropped. Something was happening to him and to the sword. Something very strange and wonderful and mind-blowing - and not of this world.