Arthur Pentdragon

Prologue-The Sword in the Stone
A dark shadow flickered through the dense woodland. The time was coming. It was moving quickly, quicker then it had in many a year. The time was coming. This was the time to end the strife and war that had engulfed the land; all the warlords had gathered in one place. The time was coming, it’s time. The shadow got quicker.

* * * * *

The glittering blades of the many armies that had been arrayed by the powerful men of the country could be seen miles in the distance. These men had given themselves many grand and haughty titles ranging from lord to earl and some even dared to name themselves king! The men had gathered at this misty isle’s capital, Lundene. A few months earlier a proclamation had gone out to the far reaches of the land decreeing that who ever stood victorious at a great battle fought here, outside Lundene itself would be named King. The shadow was coming.

Hundreds of knights had gathered with the lords, all of them armed with a long lance, a sharp sword, a shield showing there personal crest and a monstrous pride. All were fighting for a lord but also for themselves, fighting with the hope to give them a reputation that would stand out amongst his fellows. Along with this pride was the dark and gnawing fear that the battle would bring their own death. So they were all getting ready, sharpening there swords and praying to God. The shadow was coming.

Amongst the knights was a young squire, a youth of about sixteen with blond hair, startling blue eyes and a noble face. He was gazing around eagerly at the various camps and the horde of men. He pulled out his own sword. It was old and rusted but it had been given too him a few months earlier upon becoming a squire and he was absurdly proud of it. When he thought about the morrow and what it would bring he had been surprised he didn’t feel fear, just a nervousness which he assured himself all men had before their first battle. The shadow was coming.

The night began to fade and the darkness fled leaving a green glade; on one side sat the city, the second a mighty river swept past and the third an unmoveable mountain. The final side was backed by a huge cliff with a forest spreading far in to the distance, further then the eye could see. It was the perfect killing ground, a stadium where the only audience were the clouds that were beginning to gather in the blue sky. The shadow was coming.

Throughout the field, in every camp, men were ready. All the knights sat atop mighty horses, from stallions to chargers, and all had a sword slung over there left shoulder so they could draw it if they were knocked from their horse. Under their right arm were the lances that would see their enemies spilling to the ground and on their left arm hung their shields boasting their family’s crest. Now they were so close to battle even the bravest man was hesitant to start the fight, as before battle every man is accompanied by a great fear. The shadow was coming.

Suddenly a big man, one of the most powerful warlords, urged his horse forward. He pointed his lance out in front of him, bellowed his war cry and charged. His men emboldened by their leader’s nerve moved with him. Suddenly nature’s peace broke and every man started forward yelling wild noises to bolster their nerve. The shadow was coming.

The big man was an intimidating sight, he had long greasy hair that followed him like a banner, his face was fierce as if he was made for fighting and he sat upon a night black charger. Perhaps the most dominating thing about him though was his crest, a ravens head was stuck to the front of his shield and it always seemed to remain intact. The last thing you saw before he killed you was the black merciless eyes of the raven! The shadow was coming.

He still went by the mere title of a lord, the one he had been given under the last high king. He saw no reason to try and compete with his vain rivals; he was simply better then them. Soon he was riding down upon his first victim, the first person to die that day. His lance was about to pluck him from his seat. The shadow had arrived.

* * * * *

The shadow looked over the cliff and saw that he was just in time; he was humbly dressed with long, flowing hair and an even longer beard, both greyer than granite. He was in a cloak with a hood that protected his face from sight. It was earth brown as if it represented his role in the world; after all he was the guardian of this land, the island of Britain. He saw the scene below in a matter of seconds and with force full of hidden power bought his staff down in to the ground. Merlin had arrived.

The shock waves from the blow were felt many leagues away but many of those in the field fell to the floor as it moved from beneath them. Before anyone could react a thunderbolt struck the ground between the lord and his victim forcing his horse to rear and sending him tumbling from its back.

A terrible voice echoed through the glade,
“Stop! The war is over and the time to choose the true heir to the throne has come. Who ever pull’s the sword from the stone will be the High King of all of Britain!” At this many of the men began to murmur to themselves, this man was offering an even greater prize then they had intended. They’d been about to fight for the Kingdom of England, now the mountainous region to the north and the strange lands to the west were being included in the bargain. Such a kingdom hadn’t existed since the death of the last High King, Uther, fifteen long years earlier.

Suddenly attention was swung to where the thunderbolt had struck as from the hole a sword in a stone had appeared. The stone was like nothing anyone had seen before, it was shining and white and many thought it must come from heaven. Sticking out of the stone was a sword, the hilt of which was decorated with gold and had a big ruby in the pommel. The blade was of finest steel and far out shone anything that anyone there was carrying.

Suddenly the great lord spat on the ground and hurled himself to his feet. He rushed at the blade and with all his might yanked hard expecting the blade to come free for him. To his shock he landed flat on his back. With a howl of anger he once again leapt to his feet and started pulling the blade until he nearly burst. Collapsing to the floor from exhaustion he admitted defeat.

This was a signal for all the other lords to have there turn, fighting and scrapping like dogs they all ran to the blade at once. Despite their best efforts the blade stayed lodged safely in the stone. One by one they eventually admitted defeat and the long process of everyone else having a turn began.

For the next two days all the knights took it in turn to try and succeed in this feat but no one seemed able to move it. The longer it took the further the doubt spread. Already 15 long years had passed over England with no supreme monarch and this sorcerer had promised a bloodless way to end the dispute but it seemed that no one could succeed.
Merlin was standing next to the stone, stock still, he hadn’t moved, talked or eaten for two days. He just stood there watching and waiting for the right person to step forward. All the knights had had their turn and now it was the squires turn. At the front of the queue was the young man. Nervously he edged forward; trying to get a reaction he flashed a smile in Merlin’s direction. To his shock he thought he saw the end of his lips quiver for a second. This give him confidence and he stepped forward, clasped the hilt, and pulled. To his surprise the sword moved!

Suddenly one of the people still watching the spectacle shouted eagerly and several more men rushed over. Amongst them was the big lord, five of them carried on going and the boy realising that they meant to take the sword from him, by force if necessary, moved in to the fighting position like he’d been taught.

The blade’s balance was perfect and it seemed like the hilt had been made for him, he mused for the second that he could afford, it probably was. Suddenly the first man was on him but the boy merely stepped to the side and let him momentum carry him past. Then he swung his mailed elbow in to his neck. One man down four to go.

The next man stopped in front of him and lunged with his sword, the boy parried the blow as if he was swatting a fly and with speed that no-one’s eye could follow had disarmed him and left him on the floor senseless. He was winning, and he was good.

He pulled his own sword from its scabbard and armed with two blades went forward to meet the third and fourth opponent. He blocked both blades at once and spun between the middle of them. He struck one in the back on the head using his sword like a club and he fell heavily like a log. He had a second to bring the perfect sword up to defend himself, again with astonishing speed he got in the way and swung his own sword at the mans midriff, the knight moved to parry it and before he could react the boy bought his knee up in to his crutch. Four men down, one to go.

All this had taken little more then ten seconds and so he faced his last opponent, the big Lord who had started the fight. This didn’t affect the other man’s confidence though; he had been after all King Uther’s champion, second greatest swordsmen in the entire kingdom and now he was the best after his Lord and King had fallen. Hadn’t he alone recognised that meddler, Merlin, who had been his most powerful rival at the King’s court, the person who had lead to the Kings death?

The boy threw his sword at the big mans head who bought his shield up to block it. Before he could react the boy had covered the ten meters between them and was raining heavy blows down on his head. He backed away defending franticly trying to avoid the lethal blade that had the ability to end his life. Suddenly he felt his legs give way beneath him, he’d been paying so much attention to the boys sword he’d forgotten the first rule of fighting. Watch where you put your feet! He felt the sword hovering over his neck. He had lost!

The crowd that had gathered to watch the fight started cheering wildly, over the noise Merlin stepped over to the boy and asked for his name. Still breathing heavily after the fight he answered,
“Arthur.” Merlin turned to the crowd and once again spoke in the magically amplified and haunting voice,
“I know of this boy, he is the bastard of Uther, and I was there the night he was conceived. I give you your new leader. The High King of Britain, Arthur Pentdragon!