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Excalibur’s
Master
raked down this peculiar sight, she saw, etched in the stone, a short
inscription.
‘Whoso Pulleth Out This Sword of this Stone and Anvil is
Rightwise King Born of All England.’
She was so engrossed in contemplating the lettering, that she
didn’t notice Wart had joined her. He too was staring at the sword
with utmost awe.
‘Can you hear that?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Hear what?’
‘That – that whispering,’ he murmured, slightly dazed.
‘You mean the whispering of the crowd?’ Gwen asked confusedly.
‘No, no. It’s like the sword – it – it’s calling my name.’
Gwen looked at him. ‘The
sword
is whispering
Wart
?’
‘Not Wart,’ he said softly, ‘my real name…’
Just then, a muscly, thin-faced, scarred man strolled slowly up to
the sword, and placed his hand upon the hilt. A green light, like the
one Gwen saw in the woods, illuminated the sword. The crowd
seemed not have noticed anything, but Wart suddenly fell to his
knees and clapped his hands over his ears.
‘Wart? Wart! What...’
‘The sword,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘It’s screaming.’
Gwen heard nothing, but a sense of dread came over her as she
recognised the scarred man. He was Sir Lucif, the most ruthless and
twisted of knights, who had a reputation as a servant-killer, and who
had long since tried to find a way to the throne. If he succeeded in
pulling out that sword, he may have a genuine claim for it.
Lucif curled his fingers around the handle and gently pulled, and
the sword came out noiselessly, to apparently everyone but Wart, who
fell on his side, and groaned in agony from the sounds in his head.
Lucif held out the green-tinged sword with a sneer and opened
his mouth to speak –
And suddenly Gwen wasn’t there anymore. She was above the
scene, in the bell tower of the church, Wart kneeling beside her.
‘What – ?’
‘This is not meant to be. Someone has meddled with destiny.’
An old man with a snowy white beard, and matching hair as long
as Gwen’s own stood before them.
‘Lucif should not be king; a magician of Chaos is interfering with
an act of God.’
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