Obsidian Fire: The Cave of the Sleeping Sword Read online

CHAPTER 1

  The Cave

  June 2013, a tiny island somewhere off the coast of Scotland.

  The hilt that stuck out from the fissure in the cave wall was a lot smaller than what I would have expected for such a legendary Sword.

  The pictures always made it look bigger, I thought to myself as I looked at it by the flickering light of the torches. Much, much bigger.

  Sure, I may have thought the same thing when I first saw the Mona Lisa-and can even recall remarking sardonically at the time that I'd used postage stamps that were bigger-but this was different. This Sword, quite literally, wasn't much larger than a dagger. Apparently, eight hundred years worth of mythology can have the same effect on objects as a rear view mirror, and make them appear bigger than they really are.

  No, not mythology Mark, I had to remind myself. THIS Sword is real. It's NOT a myth, it's a fact. You've seen the pictures of the last Flaming Knight; watched the 1930s newsreels of the Flaming Sword in action...

  And now, here it was in front of me, after all this time: the Flaming Sword in all its diminutive glory.

  I'm loathe to admit that the Sword's inconsistency of scale has really thrown me, and has started to make me doubt things that I'd been so sure of for years. In fact, it's forcing me to give a lot more credence to Dirk's words than I ever really wanted to. The entire trip here, he kept telling me that the Sword had to be fake, and that the clandestine organization that claimed to guard it- yet offered public tours where tourists could each have a go at pulling it from the stone-was simply perpetuating the hoax.

  "Think about it," Dirk had said. "They're going to give the real Flaming Sword to any idiot who can pull it out of the crevice? It's probably not even a complete Sword. It's likely just a broken hilt cemented to the wall. You'll see. We'll pay them a few bucks, they'll let us each have a turn tugging on the hilt hopelessly, and then they'll usher us quickly out of the cave and into their overpriced gift shop."

  HA! I think as I look around, noting that the only opening to the cave is the one we used to enter. Shows what Dirk knows. There was no gift shop on the way in, and none back in the castle either!

  Still, if I were to put stock in Dirk's conspiracy theories, I'd have to admit that the supernatural setting that the Sword calls home is probably a little too perfect. I know that if I were going to perpetrate a hoax about a mystical Sword waiting for the chosen one to pull it out a crack in the rock, I'd base it here, in the islands that have long been thought of as the magical center of the British Isles, arguably the entire world. It's a perception that has been centuries-perhaps even millennia-in the making, and has an excellent pedigree in that it invokes rumours of connections with the long lost, great civilization of Atlantis.

  I think it's probably clear by now, that I did a lot of research before coming to this cave.

  In my investigations, I learned that this small wind-swept island in the Inner Hebrides was rumoured to have been first populated by the Atlantean people so many years ago that it's pointless to even try and assign a date to the occupation. It's widely claimed that the first group to arrive from Atlantis were the Hyperboreans, but it was purported to have been the second group-the Rutans-who established a colony on the nearby island of Iona, and presumably on this island as well, if the ancient remains that were long ago uncovered here are any indication.

  This connection with Atlantean mysticism is further implied by the fact that this island is even called New Santorini, after the island of the same name in the Aegean sea whose submerged calderas is thought by many to be physical evidence of the volcanic eruption that destroyed the lost civilization roughly 3,600 years ago.

  To be fair, the official New Santorini tourist brochures don't actually promote the Atlantean connection, and say only that the island was first settled sometime in the eleventh century with the construction of a fishing hamlet and an abbey, both of which were destroyed about a century later in a Viking raid. The brochures then go on to document that, sometime in the fourteenth century, Castle RedStone was built, as far as I can tell, about a hundred feet directly above me.

  Castle RedStone is a bit of a misnomer, truth be told, since the stones that it's constructed from are the same mottled brown that characterize the islands in this area of the world. It's not all that big of a castle either, being mostly a large bailey yard surrounded by a high stone curtain wall with a squarish tower at each of the corners. The thickest and tallest of the towers-presumably the keep-was built up and out of a rocky spit of land that jutted out into the sea so that it had a commanding view of the Sea of the Hebrides, an imposing moat if ever I saw one. The brochures claim that the purpose for the castle has been the same since the day it was built, that of protecting the magical Sword that I'm now standing in front of.

  I look at that Sword again. The inconsistent light from the lanterns makes it hard to see, and it seems to flicker and fade, almost like it only exists on the outer edges of my perception.

  Yes, this Sword is the reason for the castle above me, although I know from my research that nobody can actually say for sure whether the Sword was put here in the cave under the protection of an existing castle, or if the castle was built afterwards. All we know for sure, is that the Obsidian Brotherhood, the self-professed guardians of the Flaming Sword, have been using this fortress for centuries, waiting for the Sleeping Sword to choose the person with the right moral fortitude to wield its awesome power.

  That is, if you believe that kind of stuff. Hell, I'm a believer, and even I have a hard time saying this kind of thing out loud with a straight face.

  Sure, I can appreciate how hard it could be for some people to accept the legend. It's been so long since the Sword's been seen in action that it's all too easy to relegate it to being some kind of medieval fairy tale, war-time propaganda, or worse, outright hoax. In fact, the whole legend had been largely forgotten, until the recent revelation by the brotherhood of a long-lost Prophecy brought it back into the public's attention.

  "Hey look," whispered Dirk, interrupting my thoughts, and effectively reminding me that I did not undertake this journey all by myself. "Check out that chick from the ferry."

  That "chick" that Dirk is so misogynistically referring to, is a buxom young woman with long blond hair and a very loose grasp on the concept of the appropriate attire to wear in public. Right now, she's bent over at the waist tying her shoe, and it seems to me that it's taking her a preternaturally long time to do it. The fact that Dirk is so fixated on her when we're in the presence of an ancient magical Sword, is but further evidence that we do not share the same motivation for being here. That's been especially clear since we first boarded the ferry in Oban. During the three hour passage, Dirk spent some of his time with his nose in his laptop, and most of the rest of it shamelessly flirting with a group of young women who were on their way to the island on some kind of university tour.

  Dirk can be a pig, but he's a good friend. In fact, we've been best buddies since grade school, our friendship initially being formed when we banded together to stand up for ourselves against the schoolyard bullies who would pick on us both for being computer club nerds. Although, truth be told, he had it much worse than I did, because he was also a target for being overweight, as well as the only black kid in our small Northern-Ontario town. We made a great team pushing back against the bullies, but personally, my motivation went well beyond our own self-preservation.

  Y'see, I had been raised on stories about the legend of the Flaming Knight, and they had touched something inside of me, something that couldn't be ignored. For me, the Knight represented all that was good and moral in humankind. He had used his powers and abilities to stand up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves, and he had challenged the rest of us to do the same. So naturally, when I filled up and out at a very early age (I was already well over six feet tall in Grade 8), I knew that I had to use my imposing stature to make a difference, first in high school, and then beyond (by the time I was 17, I was a m
aster of at least three different forms of martial arts, and could expertly handle about a dozen classic weapons, including both long and short Swords.)

  I've always thought it was funny how the Knight had been able to inspire so many of us, considering that he had only operated for a scant handful of years, never gave an interview, and was never photographed without his signature helm. In fact, some say that he single-handedly gave birth to the super-hero genre that appeared in comic-book form shortly after his first appearance.

  I don't know about that, but it's certainly true that he started the whole vigilante movement, and gave it a lot more credibility than it would have had otherwise. In fact, not long after the Knight disappeared in the early 1930's, reports began to emerge the world over about ordinary civilians who were mobilizing themselves against those who would seek to take advantage of them or others. When interviewed, every single one of these people claimed that it had been the Flaming Knight that had been their inspiration. For many years, this vigilante movement went unacknowledged by the governments of the world, likely because none of them wished to risk an organized backlash from a populace that was suddenly feeling empowered.

  It wasn't until the 1970s that the Canadian government was the first to legalize vigilantes, after a small group of civilians, brandishing little more than nun chucks, completely dismantled the FLQ terrorist organization, effectively ending the crisis. The US Federal government followed suite in the early 80's after a civilian used a tricked-out walking stick to disarm a gun-toting John Hinckley Jr. just as he was about to open fire upon then-President Reagan and his entourage.

  The cause was further facilitated by an impassioned plea before the United States Congress by an aging Martin Luther King Junior, who had been saved from an assassin's bullet some twenty years earlier by a young woman and (of all things) her well-aimed boomerang. In a speech that many have since claimed to have been even more moving and eloquent than his "I have a dream" speech, King spoke of how heroes were needed in a world that tended to focus on the loud acts of evil, simply because they're unusual, all the while forgetting that they are still exceptions and not the rule. He was concerned that, over time, and after constant exposure to the actions of the evil minority by a media who had become too focused upon the ratings potential of their reprehensible actions, the population at large might come to believe that everyone was inherently bad. He was especially afraid that people would come to know-and ultimately be motivated by-fear.

  He said that the whole world needed heroes who would stand up colourfully and obviously, and be the ones running towards the danger when so many others were fleeing from it. They would become the symbols behind which the rest of us would rally; the ideal from which the rest of us could find inspiration, and they would be the ones to show us that, for every individual bent on committing an act of unspeakable violence, there were hundreds and thousands of regular folk who, at every minute of ever day, were out there dynamically committing works of kindness, and campaigning tirelessly for the common good.

  "No," he said. "Heroes may not stop every act of violence, but they help people to feel that there is hope in a world where such acts routinely occur."

  As a direct result of these events, there are hundreds of sanctioned vigilantes operating throughout the world today (myself included), some admittedly costumed a little more brightly than others (for the record, I prefer basic black). Of course, it's all very closely regulated, and we're forbidden from using guns, or any form of lethal force for that matter, and we're saddled with more liability and malpractice insurance than most doctors.

  I am registered under the code name of KnightLight (a name that was inspired, of course, by the Flaming Knight), and patrol an area of Manhattan in a portable headquarters disguised as an old rusty front-loading garbage truck. Dirk comes out with me occasionally, but prefers to keep a low profile in a supporting role (he truly despises the term sidekick).

  Through it all, Dirk has been right there beside me, even when I told him a few months ago that I wanted to seek out the Flaming Sword so that I could finally become a crime fighter with more power at my disposal than a can of pepper spray and a taser. Even though he didn't for a moment believe that the Sword was legit, he'd still been excited about coming with me on this trip, which is more than I can say for my fianc? Kimberly, who chose to stay at home in New York City.

  Thus far, the trip had been fairly uneventful. We'd landed in Glasgow two days ago, and took some time to adjust to jet lag before taking a bus to Oban very early this morning where we boarded a passenger ferry. There were about two dozen of us on that ferry and, after a journey of about an hour and a half, we finally got our first good look at the island of New Santorini, and I could tell right away that nothing I had yet seen had done the place justice, not the pictures in the brochure, or the satellite images, not even the online videos. As the ferry glided into the tiny harbour in the shadow of the castle, it truly was like stepping back in time.

  Moored all around us were more medieval vessels than I'd ever seen in one place outside of a movie. There were knarrs, single-masted cogs, hoys, and picards-even a few caravels. There were a few of Egyptian ancestry, one or two of Saxon origin, several that could have sailed directly from the Thames, and one, that was up in a dry dock and well protected by a wooden canopy, looked to be a classic fishing boat of Greek origin.

  Our passenger ferry weaved its way easily through this small fleet, finally docking at a large wooden wharf where we were met by a trio of monks who introduced themselves as our tour guides before instructing us to disembark. Each of the three men were clean-shaven and bald, and were dressed-perhaps a little stereotypically-in a simple loose-fitting light-brown tunic that was cinched around the waist with a thickly braided cord. The small badge that each wore on their scapulas (that I knew from my research was the embroidered image of a hand holding a fiery Sword aloft), identified them as members of the Obsidian Brotherhood.

  "Welcome to the island of New Santorini," spoke the monk standing closest to us. He was wearing a broad smile, his arms spread wide. "I trust your passage was a comfortable one. My name is Robert, and I'll be one of your tour guides today. Where you go next is up to you. For those of you wishing to learn more about the many reproductions of sailing vessels in our harbour, please follow Deepak here." Robert gestured to the monk to his right. Several of the ferry passengers stepped forward and followed after Deepak, who immediately led them down a long wooden walkway towards a large galley docked at the end of it.

  Robert continued. "I'll be leading the tour through the village and the castle, while Aaron," he nodded towards the remaining monk who looked up from what appeared to be a smartphone to acknowledge the introduction, "will lead the tour to the cave for those of you who can't wait to try your hand at waking the Sleeping Sword." He had a smile on his face as if he were in on some kind of joke that the rest of us weren't getting.

  The larger part of the group moved towards Robert, who in turn ushered them down the wharf towards a distant wooden stairway that scaled a tall bluff. The small cluster that remained numbered six people, including myself, Dirk, a young woman, a big man with a cowboy hat, and a young Asian couple, whose constant displays of affection strongly implied that they were newlyweds.

  The bald monk named Aaron greeted us warmly as he slipped his smartphone into a hidden pocket of his robe. I was getting so used to seeing devices like his everywhere in the modern world, that it took a moment for me to realize how odd it was to see technology like this being used so openly on an island that sold itself as a place to immerse yourself in a purely medieval experience.

  "As Robert told you, my name is Aaron," announced the monk in a slight Scottish accent, "and I'll be guiding you down into the subterranean passages beneath the castle to see the Sleeping Sword, and give you all a chance at pulling it from the stone." He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. "Word of warning first though, this is not a trip for anyone with a dislike of the dark,
confined spaces, or- for that matter-spiders." He looked around to gauge our reaction. Satisfied that everyone was still willing, he continued, "Well, then let's not waste any time shall we? I can tell you're all very eager."

  Behind me, I could hear Dirk mumble something that was no doubt sardonic, but I didn't hear what it was, nor did I ask him to repeat it.

  Aaron turned, and gestured for us to follow him down the wharf towards the staircase. While we walked, he introduced us all to the island, the brotherhood, and gave us a brief background on the history of Castle Redstone. Immediately, I could see why he'd been chosen to lead these tours. His voice, though not very deep (if anything, it was slightly effeminate), hardly had any of the heavy Scottish brogue that might have made it more difficult for Westerners like myself to understand.

  Once we had climbed the wooden see-saw staircase that hung off the cliff wall of the harbour, we found ourselves in a large open space in front of the castle that was about the size of two football fields. Over in the shadow of the castle walls was a small reconstructed medieval village, and arranged along the opposite edge, looking out over the sea to the North-West, were a number of very large siege engines. In between, was a grassy field populated here by a few grazing sheep, cow, and goat, and there by children running around at play.

  Aaron was explaining that the castle was also well known as a research academy that offered numerous courses in a variety of medieval-themed subjects. This wasn't news to me, as I had come across this fact in my research, and had already watched all of the academy's online documentaries that were available.

  "We have quite a few videos online as well," offered Aaron coincidentally. "Our goal is to give the viewer a much better idea of what life was really like in the middle ages, for those unlike yourselves, who can't be here in person."

  The young blond woman put her hand up to ask a question, and immediately Dirk elbowed me in the ribs to pay attention. Presumably, this was one of the young women he had been chatting with back on the ferry. I tried to nudge him back, but instead ended up embedding my elbow in the laptop bag that he had slung over his shoulder.

  "Hey, easy," Dirk said playfully as he shifted his bag so that his laptop was out of my elbow's range. "I'll heal. Maisy won't."

  I never could understand his predilection towards naming his technological gadgets. Maybe that's why he never goes anywhere without that bag.

  The young woman identified herself as a student, and asked Aaron exactly what kinds of videos were available.

  "We have a wide variety," answered Aaron as he walked. "For instance, some videos show how ancient candles were made, others show how food was prepared or how it was stored. We've got documentaries on boat building, as well as how ancient weapons like Swords, bows, or crossbows were made and used. Some of our most popular videos highlight and demonstrate these siege engines." As the young monk spoke, he gestured at the numerous devices arranged along the far edge of the field. There was a covered battering ram, a very tall siege tower, a couple of smaller ladders, a catapult, and a very large counterweight trebuchet.

  "That trebuchet, for instance is the star of our most popular series of videos, as it's the biggest working device of its kind in the world."

  "It's functional?" asked a member of our group.

  "Absolutely," answered Aaron. "We give regular demonstrations of it actually, which is why we have it set up facing away from the castle."

  Most of our group laughed at this. Personally, I was getting a little impatient. I'd been waiting most of my life for the opportunity to see the Sword, and I didn't really want to have to wait very much longer. I'd already watched the trebuchet videos online; I knew how it worked. I just wanted to get moving.

  Aaron, however seemed to have other ideas. "They're just about to demonstrate it for Robert's group," he suggested. "Let's just take a moment to watch."

  I didn't think that I showed any external signs of irritation, but Dirk must have seen the way that my jaw was set, because he leaned in closer and whispered, "Take it easy buddy. The Sword isn't going anywhere."

  I forced myself to smile back at him, and watched the trebuchet, as several monks pulled on ropes that were attached to pulleys to fully lower the beam. Once it was in place, four other men lifted a large stone off of a nearby rock pile, and nestled it into the thick leather sling attached to the end of the beam. Then, all but one moved well away from the trebuchet, taking the gathered tourists with them.

  Aaron narrated for us to let us know what was going on. "Right now, we've got a rock in the sling that weighs about 100 kilograms-that's about two hundred and twenty pounds for our American friends-although the device is capable of throwing projectiles three times that size. Once the beam is pulled all of the way down, it's released so that the counterweight on the other side of the axle pulls it back up again quickly..."

  Right on cue, the beam began to arc up into the air, pulling the sling and the projectile that it carried with it. It began slowly enough at first, and then began to pick up considerable speed. Despite my earlier impatience, I found that I was becoming fascinated by what was happening in front of us. It's not often you see an object that large sent sailing so smoothly into the air. Sure, I'd seen the videos, but I was discovering that they can't prepare you for the experience of seeing it live. For one thing, even at this distance, you don't expect it to create the kind of wind that it does, nor are you prepared for the sudden change in air pressure that seems to take your breath away.

  As the rock crested the top of its arc, one side of the sling released, and the stone tumbled gracefully through the air for about 400 meters, before finally splashing dramatically into the sea.

  "That's also the reason that the ferry doesn't travel along the north side of the island," said Aaron, once more to laughter from the group.

  Aaron was walking again now, leading us towards the village and the castle beyond. Mercifully this time, although he described the village as we walked through it, he refrained from actually stopping to show us anything.

  All around us, the village inhabitants were getting things ready for the coming influx of tourists from the day's ferries. On our right, a baker was pulling fresh bread out of a stone oven, while beyond him, a woman was pouring out samples of ale and mead. To our left, a blacksmith was shoeing a horse, while behind him in the shop, his colleague was hammering a glowing piece of metal. Up ahead of us, a man and a woman were setting up chairs and tables in a brick-paved courtyard outside a little restaurant, and a couple of young boys were drawing water from a well. A lot of it was pretty stereotypical to be sure, not unlike that which you'd see at a standard Renaissance Fair, but there were a few details that showed that the designers knew what they were doing.

  As we walked, my attention was drawn to an old man who was moving among the villagers and chatting with them each in turn. Although he was dressed like the rest of the monks, he was the only one who sported facial hair in the form of a thick grey beard. I noticed how each of the reenactors seemed to defer to him as if he were in charge, and I watched how he would offer what appeared to be advice or an instruction to each of them as he went. As our group passed, he exchanged a greeting by way of a nod with Aaron, and then stopped to watch us carefully-perhaps even suspiciously.

  Aaron led us through the village and into the castle through a wide gatehouse with a raised portcullis. Ahead of us, in a sandy area of the courtyard, a number of young men dressed as squires were testing each other with what appeared to be blunted practice Swords. Several monks were walking among them and offering them advice, as well as demonstrating proper technique.

  "We also teach traditional Sword fighting here in the bailey," said Aaron as we walked around the courtyard, before anybody had a chance to ask what was going on.

  The man with the large cowboy hat spoke up in a thick Texas drawl, "Are these folks tourists too? We were on the earliest ferry today. How'd they get here before us?" He seemed a little upset, almost as if he had been ass
ured by some travel agent that he'd be first on the island.

  Aaron smiled at the tall man as he answered, "Oh, you are most definitely the first group today. These guests have been here for a few days now. We offer longer stays for those who want to truly experience what life was like in the middle ages." He gestured at the Sword-wielding squires. "They sleep in appropriate quarters, eat authentic food, dress in period clothing, and learn an apropos skill while they're here. Some stay for a few weeks, others as long as a whole year."

  The Texan grunted in reply, but continued to eye the trainees suspiciously as he walked with the rest of us around the training area.

  As we moved, I looked at the castle walls around us, and noticed something odd under the rampart behind us and beside the barbican. The stones making up a large portion of the curtain were a slightly different colour than the rest of the wall, almost as if they hadn't weathered quite the same. What's more, some of the older stones around that section were blackened, as if they'd been exposed to extreme heat. It looked very much to be evidence of an attack that had been repaired more recently. The whole thing struck me as odd, since I hadn't read anywhere about Castle Redstone having ever been under siege.

  Ahead of us at the base of the keep, there were four monks standing two to the side of an alcove with a recessed dark wooden door. They nodded to Aaron, and greeted our group warmly. Two of them pulled a couple of ancient-looking gilded lanterns off braces on the wall and lit them while the other two pulled the heavy door open.

  The room beyond was dark, and we couldn't see much of it until one of the monks entered and began almost immediately to descend a staircase.

  "Please follow Patrick everyone," directed Aaron as he pulled another lantern off the wall. "Oh, and watch your step."

  One by one, our group of six tentatively entered the passage, followed immediately by Aaron and another monk. Ahead of us, a ceiling curved steadily downwards as we descended a well worn, stone stairwell. Thankfully, our way was well lit by a series of lanterns that the first monk was obviously lighting as he moved deeper.

  The stairway was long, and broken up by occasional landings, with the low rock ceiling above and around us darkened by what I could only assume was centuries of open-flame torches. We hadn't been descending for long before I noticed that the steps were no longer worked stone, and had been carved directly into the rock itself. We had obviously left the castle structure behind us, and were now entering the natural cave system beneath it. I was also noticing that it was much colder and damper down here; several times, I found myself splashing through thin puddles that had gathered on the smooth treads of the steps.

  As we moved further down the stairs, Aaron began to speak again, his voice amplified by the enclosed space that we were now in. He began to tell us about the history of the island, and how the Obsidian Brotherhood-whose original members were thought by some to be the descendents of the Druids who first settled these islands in the Hebrides- initially gathered to guard the Sword. There was nothing in what he said that I hadn't already read about in my research, but I thought that it was funny how, once again, there wasn't any mention of Atlantis. Apparently, the brotherhood who organized these tours wanted to promote the mysticism of it all, but not overdo it with legends that might be considered too outlandish the more conservative element of the population.

  Even an ancient brotherhood such as this one has to consider branding, and how it markets its image to a modern, slightly more cynical audience I suppose.

  The passage eventually levelled as we caught up to the first monk. He waited until we were all gathered at the base of the stairwell, and then ushered us along a twisting corridor with a smooth flat floor, and a low, but manageable, ceiling. It didn't take long to discover that we weren't alone in the cave system. As we walked, we passed a number of cave openings that were each being blocked by a monk holding a flickering lantern. Perhaps it was the darkened atmosphere, but had they not been smiling pleasantly, it would have been a tad foreboding. They were polite in the way their presence told us not to enter these other caves, but it still felt a little too militaristic for my taste. I also noticed that, once our group had passed them by, each of these men fell in behind us, until our group had grown to twice its initial size.

  After a few minutes, the leading monk stopped to stand under the arch of a broad opening that obviously led to a larger cave, turned to face us, and bid us to halt.

  "We're about to enter the Cave of the Sleeping Sword," Aaron announced weightily as he moved to the front of the group to stand beside his brother. "It has been prophesized that, early in the second decade of the new millennium, the Flaming Sword shall choose a new Sword bearer." He paused for what I can only assume was dramatic effect. "Will one of you six be that person?"

  Slowly, dramatically, the monks moved aside, and gestured for us to go into the larger cave. The Texan, not surprisingly, was the first one of us to enter, followed quickly by the remaining members of the group. I'd like to tell you what the rest of the cave was like, but I only wanted to see one thing: the Sword. This was a moment that I'd been waiting for my whole life, and now that I was finally looking at it, my first thought was that it was much smaller than what I had expected.

  Aaron apparently could read my mind. "Yes, I know what you're thinking," he said loudly, his voice echoing off the ceiling and walls of the damp cave. "It's the first thing anybody says when they first see the Sleeping Sword. Shouldn't it be bigger?"

  Everyone laughed, and quickly, the monk changed topics, and started telling us more about the role that the brotherhood has played in guarding the Sword over the centuries.

  Am I the only one who noticed that he didn't actually explain why the Sword looked so much smaller? I mean really! The hilt was about the size and shape of a Twinkie!

  "Some of you may remember the last time the Sword chose a Flaming Knight to wield it," the young monk continued. "It was 1928 when the Sword was last pulled from the stone, and it was used to right a great many wrongs all across Europe before being returned here under mysterious circumstances a scant five years later."

  "What happened to the Knight?" asked somebody near the back of the cave.

  "Nobody knows," replied Aaron in an ambiguous tone that implied that either he wasn't telling us everything that he knew, or he was playing up the mystery for our entertainment.

  I moved as close as I could to get a better look at the Sword, an effort made all the more difficult by the big Texan who kept moving around in front of me and blocking my view. Although my first impression of the Sword, at least in terms of its size, was a little underwhelming, I was still nonetheless captivated by the awesome beauty of it.

  Legend had it that the Flaming Sword had been knapped out of a single, unusually large, piece of blood-red obsidian sometime in the twelfth century. Although the dagger before me isn't of a size that could be considered "unusual", I can see a little bit of its unique red blade sticking out of the crevice between the rock wall and the hilt.

  And oh, what a hilt it is!

  Intricately decorated, and fashioned entirely out of burnished gold, the hilt borrowed from the classic anthropomorphic Celtic design, with the cross guard and pommel processes bent into shapes that were reminiscent of the arms and legs of a human figure. One could only assume that the blade, which extended unabashedly out from between the two "legs" of the figure, was phallic in nature. The figure's body was represented by a grip that was wrapped tightly in dark leather, and the figure's head-being the very tip of the pommel-was symbolized by a large amber stone.

  Speaking of the amber stone, it appeared to be almost as supernatural as the Sword itself. It seemed to be soaking up the meagre light being cast by the half dozen flickering lanterns in the cave, and then amplifying that light and splaying it across the surrounding walls in the form of dancing spots in much the same way as water would be sprayed by holding a thumb over the nozzle of a hose. In fact, there were times when the lantern light was obstruct
ed (usually by the Texan's obscenely large hat), that I'm sure that the stone continued to glow all on its own.

  If this tiny Sword was a fake, it was a pretty convincing one, its authenticity substantiated in large part by the decorations on the cave wall all around it. Directly below the blade for instance, there was a faded painting that was barely visible, showing a red Sword enveloped in a bright yellow flame, being held aloft vertically by an armoured hand.

  Ah, so that's where the idea for the brotherhood's logo came from.

  This was not the only pictograph on the wall, however. There were dozens of them, some more brightly painted than others, and some that were hardly recognizable. One that caught my eye directly to the left of the Sword showed what appeared to be two winged serpents entwined into a symbol that was reminiscent of a Celtic design. Apparently, I wasn't the only one to notice this pictograph as I could hear the newlyweds chatting about it as well.

  "I'd always thought that dragons were a modern invention," whispered the husband.

  No doubt, he was assuming that he'd found something anachronistic that proved that this cave was a modern reproduction. I knew otherwise however (dragons had indeed been imagined as far back as medieval times, likely as a result of dinosaur bones that were first discovered around that time) even though I wasn't about to speak up and tell him as much, mostly because something else had drawn my attention.

  Directly above the Sword were faded runes that had been arranged in a rough semi-circle with the blade as the center-point. It was obviously some kind of ancient writing system, but it was of a kind that I didn't recognize. Naturally, this was perplexing me, because I had memorized a lot of rune-based languages in preparation for this trip, and this one was strangely familiar in a manner I couldn't quite put my finger on. Yet I still couldn't decipher it.

  "Who's the woman?" asked the young student's voice, interrupting my train of thought. Curious, I looked around to see who, or what, she was talking about.

  Behind me, extending out from the wall directly opposite the Sword-and so big that I'm surprised I missed seeing it on the way in-was the statue of a woman carved out of what appeared to be the very rock of the cave itself. The woman was dressed in long flowing robes, her hands holding what appeared to be an exact duplicate of the Flaming Sword, as if she was offering it to us. The sculpture was so ancient that most of its surface was either cracked, covered in lichen, or pock-marked, except for the face, which was so perfectly smooth that it looked like somebody had been polishing it daily. Standing on either side of the statue, as if guarding it, were two fairly stern-faced monks holding their lanterns aloft.

  "That is a statue of Kathryn Flint," answered Aaron, a note of reverence in his voice. "She is the enchantress who gave the Sword its awesome power. It is said that her pneumena, or what many of you would call her soul, lives in the Sword. It is she that you must impress when you make your attempt to pull the real Sword from the stone, for it is she who ultimately decides who is worthy...and who is not."

  "Is that another Sword?" asked the newlywed husband pointing to the blade in the stone woman's grip. "Can we see it?"

  "It is a replica," Aaron answered. "We will need to have something here to show future tourists once one of you extracts the real Flaming Sword now won't we?" There was more laughter as Aaron silently declined to answer the man, and instead stepped forward to stand beside the real Flaming Sword embedded to his right in the stone wall of the cave. He held his lantern out in front of him, commanding our attention.

  "With that, we should begin. The prophecy tells us that the time to choose the next Flaming Knight is nigh upon us," he repeated. "I charge you again. Is one of you the chosen one?" He asked, pausing dramatically in a speech he'd doubtless repeated numerous times. He gestured with his lantern towards the runes above the blade. "These ancient words say it all. They read: If ye be worthy, ye shall possess all the powers of the Flaming Sword."

  "What language is that?" I asked the monk pointedly, as I wiped off a drop of water that had fallen onto my forehead from the damp ceiling, and moved a little to the left to avoid the next one.

  The young monk seemed taken aback at first, even defensive, but mellowed quickly enough. He was probably assuming that I was another brash American, so I made a mental note to take it down a notch. With a little less boldness, I added, "It's just that I've studied many ancient languages, and this one is new to me."

  The monk smiled impishly. "It's very ancient. I'm not surprised." Then, he turned away from me, and continued his story, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he'd left a question unanswered. Again.

  Beside me, Dirk leaned in and tugged at my sleeve. "If ye be worthy," he snorted derisively, and a little too loudly. "I guess they couldn't decide which myth to plagiarize eh? What is this? Thor or King Arthur?"

  "Shhhh," I responded.

  Dirk leaned back, but didn't stop talking. "Shame Kimberly isn't here," he countered, "at least then I'd have somebody to talk to."

  "Shut UP!" I hissed as quietly as possible. Aaron looked at me briefly, but never interrupted his speech.

  "...not be taken lightly," he had been saying. "For anybody who attempts to pull the Sword out of the stone, must truly understand and appreciate the responsibility that it represents should they be successful." He looked us each in the eye as he asked, "Do you understand this, my friends?"

  We all nodded in unison.

  "Do you then solemnly swear to assume the helm of the Flaming Knight should the Sword see you as being worthy?"

  One by one, prompted by Aaron's probing stare, we each answered in the affirmative. I meant my "Yes" sincerely, although I'm sure that Dirk's "Sure, why not," was likely meant to be more than a little flippant. I was also the only one to hear Dirk's follow-up, whispered directly into my left ear, "Yeesh. Talk about being over the top. Relax buddy."

  Finally, satisfied with our responses, Aaron said through a toothy grin. "OK. Who is to be first then?" He stepped away from the Sword hilt to stand back beside the statue of Kathryn Flint.

  Not surprisingly, the Texan leapt forward, practically knocking over the young student in the process. He pulled on the hilt for a solid two minutes, trying a number of different positions to add leverage. Finally Aaron spoke up and said, "If it doesn't come out easily sir, then I'm afraid it's not going to come out at all." Finally, the large man moved away, a gloomy shadow of rejection darkening his face.

  The newlyweds went next. Although the husband had the same luck as the Texan, he accepted his failure a lot faster, and with more grace. After his fruitless tug, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and made way for his new wife, who in turn approached it warily. As we watched, the young woman reached out towards the hilt, but seemed unwilling to actually touch it. It was in that moment of hesitation that the sullen Texan spoke up, breaking the silence.

  "There ain't no point li'l missy," he said callously. "There ain't no way that the Sword's gonna pick a woman." He grinned in that forceful, mean-spirited way that bullies all over the world all seem to have in common.

  Do bullies take some kind of course to learn that sneer?

  The woman's husband stepped between her and the Texan. I had also begun to move towards him when, somehow, Aaron got there first. The young woman had been visibly cowed by the big man's rebuff, and had begun to pull away from the Sword, when Aaron's hand touched her gently on the shoulder to stop her.

  "If that truly was the case," Aaron said to the Texan, "then perhaps that explains why it rejected you sir." The quiet tension in the cave was split by laughter, and the Texan didn't take kindly to being the butt of the joke. He glowered at Aaron, and I could see him twitching as if he were about to make an offensive move towards the monk. I moved even closer just in case, but I could see that three of the other monks in the cave had done the same, as had the young woman's husband, who seemed to be having an equally hard time containing himself. The Texan finally seemed to realize that he was outnumbered, and immediately back
ed away muttering under his breath.

  "But seriously," continued Aaron. "There is no such restriction. The Sword sees within. It sees beyond external labels. A person's worthiness is not a reflection of gender, race, or sexual orientation. Nor is it an indication that you are unworthy should you fail to pull it out. The Flaming Sword is looking for a very specific combination of skills, talents, potential, and, of course, honour."

  I'm really beginning to like this guy.

  Aaron touched the woman's shoulder gently, and gave her a reassuring smile as he stepped away from her. The young woman returned the smile, wrapped her fingers around the obsidian blade's hilt, and pulled. When it resisted her, most everyone in the cave (with the obvious exception of the Texan) seemed to vocalize their disappointment. She smiled, raised her arms in mock defeat, spoke a quiet "Thank You" to Aaron, and moved to the back of the cave as her husband rubbed her back supportively.

  "Like I said," spoke up Aaron. "Please don't take it too hard, any of you, should you fail. After all, it has been eighty years since the last Flaming Knight, and hundreds of years since the one before. One could say that Kathryn is extremely...choosy." Once again, most of us laughed, and the tension in the cave was pretty much broken.

  "Who's next?" asked Aaron. The young student responded by raising her hand, and stepping forward. Aaron moved to the side to let her pass. She took hold of the gilded hilt, tugged on it first gently, and then a little harder, but ultimately with no luck. When she had stepped back from the wall, Aaron turned his head towards me and Dirk, silently indicating that it was our turn. Behind me, Dirk nudged me with his elbow, pushing me forward.

  It's likely just a broken hilt cemented to the wall, I could hear Dirk's voice saying in my head.

  I approached that hilt warily. Slowly even. I didn't want to rush this, even if I had spent most of my adult life dreaming of pulling this very Sword out of the wall and becoming the chosen one.

  If I just turned around and left right now, I could continue to fantasize about being the Flaming Knight; my dream would continue. But, on the other hand, if I pulled on the Sword, and it didn't come out... Well, then my dream was truly dead. Truth be told, this logic was probably a contributing factor in why it took me so long to finally make the trip here to New Santorini.

  I could hear people around me shifting their weight uncomfortably-perhaps impatiently-but nobody spoke. The only sound was the persistent dripping of water off the mossy ceiling.

  Finally, I stepped all the way forward, took up a solid stance right in front of the Sword in the stone, and reached out and touched it with my finger tips, brushing them across the stylized cross guard and then down along the leather wrap. It was surprisingly warm to the touch, probably because of the others who been holding it ahead of me. Then, slowly, I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, took a deep breath, went to my happy place in my head, and tugged.

  I might just as well have been pulling on the rock wall itself.

  I pulled lightly at first, but when it obviously didn't move, I pulled harder, and then harder still.

  It took a while for the message to reach my brain that it shouldn't be this difficult, because I was still pulling. I even tried wiggling the hilt up and down a little, like it was a key that wouldn't turn in a lock, and I even pushed on it a little, just in case it operated like the latch on a stereo cabinet.

  Nothing worked.

  I have not been chosen by the Sword, I thought, even as I could hear the voice of my Grade 10 English teacher telling me not to use the passive voice.

  Fine Dr. Vandelinde. "The Sword rejected me." Better?

  I could sense Dirk's presence beside me, and felt his reassuring hand on my lower back. Despite all his derogatory comments, he knew what this meant to me, and for once he remained silent.

  I held on to the hilt for a long time, mostly because I knew that I would never get a chance to touch the Sword again. I would never be this close to this legendary blade again. There was so much going on in my mind, but I knew that I'd have plenty of time to think about it later so, finally, I let go of the dagger, and stepped back, away from the wall.

  "Did you want to try next?" I asked Dirk with as much stiff-upper lip as I could muster.

  "Are you kidding?" he answered jokingly, and more than a little sarcastically. "I barely have enough time for life as a part-time vigilante. How am I going to handle life as a full-time superhero?" He stepped between me and the wall, physically separating me from it. "You and I both know that this is all an overhyped tourist attraction," he continued as he put his arm around my shoulders to pull me away. I let him move my body, but my eyes remained fixed on the blade.

  He was still speaking, trying to reassure me as we moved away when, out of the corner of my eye, I could see a loose strap on his laptop bag snag the hilt of the Sword, and I watched in amazement as the blade was pulled slowly out of the crevice in the wall as we moved away from it. What was even more shocking was that Dirk wasn't even aware that it was happening.

  I grabbed his shoulder to stop him just as the Sword tumbled completely from the fissure, and fell to the cave floor with a loud metallic clang.

  Everybody in the cave froze as Dirk and I, both holding our breaths, looked down.

  Lying on the ground between our feet was an object that could best be described as an angry ruby. From tip to hilt, the leaf-shaped Sword was about a foot long. It was the first time that I, or anybody else for that matter, had seen the stone blade in some eighty odd years, and it was glorious. Lantern light danced across the glossy, finely knapped surface of the red obsidian that was thin enough so that I could actually see the sand beneath it through the uniquely coloured glass.

  The legend is real, I thought.

  Sure, I'd honestly hoped that it was, but some rational part of me had admittedly never really fully bought into it. Now here was proof that the Sword was genuinely magical, because it had finally chosen somebody.

  And that somebody was ... Dirk?

  Silence permeated the cave-at least until the skirmish broke out.

  Somehow, I knew instinctively that the scuffling sounds I was hearing were coming from the Texan. I mean, who else could it have been? I also knew intuitively that he was going to try and grab the Sword before anybody else could. That, of course, made us a target.

  I looked up quickly, just in time to see the big man making a dash for the front of the cave towards the dagger. One of the monks had already tried to stop him, and I watched as the young man was laid out flat with a heavy backwards swipe of the Texan's huge hand.

  Immediately, my reflexes kicked in, as everything began to move in slow motion, a state of perception I was very familiar with thanks to my vigilante work.

  "Dirk, grab the Sword!" I yelled, even as I stepped in between the dagger and the stampeding Texan. He'd already built up a considerable amount of speed, so when he reached me, I decided that, instead of trying to simply stop him short, I would use his own kinetic energy against him. Ducking under a brutish and clumsy swing of his arm, I stepped to his right, and twisted myself around behind him, while simultaneously planting my foot directly in front of his right leg. When I felt that leg touch mine, I pulled back on it quickly with my own, while simultaneously grabbing his right wrist at the end of its arc. In this manner, I was able to actually steer his momentum so that he slammed head first into the cave wall at full speed.

  The impact, I'm sure, would have been enough to take out an elephant, but all it did to the Texan was to knock off his signature hat. In fact, it barely slowed him down because, amazingly, within seconds, he was back up on his feet, and staring intently at the Sword that, for some reason, was still lying unclaimed on the floor. Dirk was standing above it, his hand barely reaching out. He seemed to be stuck in place, as if he was unsure of what to do.

  "DIRK!" I repeated more forcefully this time even as I moved to block the Texan again. "The Sword! Pick it up!" Out of the corner of my eye, I could see others moving arou
nd in the cave. Even though the uneven light of the lanterns made it difficult to figure out exactly what was happening, I could at least confirm that the monks were ushering the other tourists out into the corridor, and out of danger.

  Good thinking. Leave the beast to me. I flexed my hands, squeezed them into loose fists, and directed them defiantly towards the big man.

  To my relief, I could see that Dirk was moving again, my words apparently having snapped him out of his temporary indecisiveness. He was finally reaching to pick up the Sword, so I turned my full attention to the big man.

  The Texan was still standing with his back to the wall, looking a little dazed from the head-on collision, but he appeared about ready to try another rush. Before I could open my mouth to dissuade him however, Aaron was suddenly standing beside him. I couldn't tell what the monk was doing exactly. At first, I thought that maybe he was applying pressure to a point on the man's neck, but he might just as well have been whispering something in his ear. Whatever he did, the effect was immediate, and the big man simply collapsed unconscious.

  At that very moment behind me, I heard a whooshing sound, like the noise that a BBQ makes if you let the propane run too long before you finally light it. In front of me, and in response to whatever had made the sound, Aaron looked up and immediately froze, his mouth agape. At the same time, all around me, I could see light and shadows dancing on the cave walls that hadn't been there before.

  What in blazes?

  Slowly, I turned, and my expression immediately plagiarized the one that I'd just seen on Aaron's face because, in the spot where Dirk had been standing mere moments before, there was now an armoured figure of a man, and that figure was holding a long Sword of red glass that-perhaps most significantly-was on fire.

  It was most definitely the Flaming Knight; I recognized the costume from the historic pictures and films that I'd seen, only this was the first time I'd seen it in colour. To be honest, I was more than a little taken aback at how different the outfit was than I had expected. For one, it was a lot more colourful. For example, the tunic that covered the chainmail, and sported the same flaming Sword-in-hand sigil from the cave wall, was actually a dark purple, and not black as I had always assumed. In addition, the long cape attached to the spaulders, as well as the plume that sprouted almost garishly from the top of the helm, were both red.

  Naturally, I wondered at first if the figure actually was Dirk, or whether somebody else had rushed in to take his place while my back was turned, but then I noticed Dirk's laptop bag strung over the Knight's shoulder, as if his armour had simply formed out of thin air around it magically.

  Magically. Heh. Suddenly, that's not so far-fetched is it?

  Ironically, now it was the Flaming Knight's turn to look smaller than legend had made him seem over the years. Although the long plume made Dirk look taller than he normally was, and the bunching of the cape on his shoulders made them look wider, Dirk was still a small man, and no amount of extra armour was going to change that.

  Yeah, I know I should have been doing something; anything really, but I couldn't help myself. The analytical part of my brain had kicked in, and was taking the opportunity to closely observe the magical uniform on display before it. Many people, over the years, have described the Flaming Knight's outfit as a suit of armour, but that's actually a bit of a misnomer. As I could now definitely verify, the suit was more like a tight-fitting chainmail hauberk with mitons on the hands, boiled leather vambraces on the wrists, and spaulders on the shoulders. The only actual piece of armour was the helm that, with a closed visor, completely obscured the Knight's face. Even the pants and boots appeared to be little more than thick leather.

  My quick moment of observation came to an end abruptly as Dirk, still without saying a word, finally began to move, and his destination appeared to be the rune-covered cave wall. His movements were jerky and rushed, almost like he was barely able to keep himself under control. Placing the point of the Flaming Sword against the crevice from whence it had come, Dirk grunted in what was obviously an effort to slide the blade back into the wall. Unfortunately, the Sword was a hell of a lot bigger than it had been earlier, and there was also the nasty detail that it was now aflame. As Dirk struggled, great yellow flames were licking up the damp wall, bubbling the ancient paint of its runes and pictographs.

  Around us both, so much seemed to be happening all at once, all of it on the edge of my perception. I noticed vaguely for instance that the monks were dragging the unconscious Texan away, and then I watched detachedly as Aaron rushed by, looked at me once as if he were about to ask me to leave, but then kept going instead. I didn't see him exit the cave, as I was still too busy staring at the now-suited figure that used to be Dirk.

  The Knight had finally given up on his efforts to re-insert the Sword into the wall, and was now flicking the burning blade quickly in much the same way that you'd shake a lit match to extinguish it. In the process though, large dollops of flame were spraying off the end of the blade, one of which landed on the Texan's discarded ten-gallon hat, setting fire to it immediately. I noticed that a few blobs of flame had also landed on the sandy floor of the cave, and had continued to burn of their own accord for a time, despite the fact that there wasn't anything for them to consume.

  "Dirk?" I said finally, cautiously approaching my old friend. I didn't want to get too close, just in case he started swinging his fiery weapon in my direction in his confusion.

  He stopped shaking his Sword. I couldn't see his face, but I could tell by the fact that his helm had swivelled towards me that he was now looking directly at me.

  Was that actually still him in there? I wondered. I mean, the Dirk that I knew, or did the armour somehow change the person inside of it when it appeared? I realized that there were so many things about this that I just didn't know.

  "What the hell's going on Allen!" Dirk cried, his voice slightly muffled by the closed visor. If the tone of his voice weren't enough of a clue, I could tell he was upset by the fact that he was using my last name, something he only ever did when he was angry.

  That's Dirk all right, I thought, relieved.

  I was about to answer him, when my words were interrupted before they could even come out of my mouth by the swift entrance into the cave of the same bearded old man that I'd noticed in the village earlier, followed by Aaron and a number of other monks. The old man took a quick look at the figure holding the Flaming Sword, gasped, and then fell to his knees. The other monks followed suite.

  "Hail Gilmat!" they chanted in unison. "Hail Flamer!"

  "Hail what now?" asked Dirk. "Oh, I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

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