Page 5 of The Sword & the Stone

"In here," Merlin hissed, yanking me into a darkened alcove between two ramshackle houses. We pressed ourselves back into the shadows, hardly daring to breathe.

Heavy footsteps splashed past our hiding spot, accompanied by crude curses and threats. I counted at least five men, maybe more. Ames and Reeno's friends were out for blood.

My vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges as I sagged against Merlin's side. His arm tightened around my waist, taking more of my weight. "Stay with me, Arthur," he whispered fiercely. "We're almost there."

Almost where? I wanted to ask, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy in my mouth. Merlin half-carried, half-dragged me onward, my feet stumbling over the uneven ground. The rain had lessened to a steady drizzle, but the chill had sunk deep into my bones. Or maybe that was just the blood loss talking.

Merlin's labored breathing sounded loud in my ear, punctuated by the occasional pained grunt as he shouldered my dead weight. Guilt clawed at my gut. He was running himselfragged, burning through his magic reserves, all to keep my sorry hide alive.

The thought startled a weak chuckle out of me, sending fresh agony lancing through my side. Merlin shot me a concerned look, brows pinched. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I rasped. "Just...imagining the bards singing of your daring rescue one day. Hauling my ass out of the literal and metaphorical fire, as usual."

Merlin's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "Well, I did swear to be your sword and shield, didn't I? A regular knight protecting his beautiful princess.”

I barked a laugh that turned into a groan, clutching at my side. Angry shouts erupted behind us, far too close for comfort. Merlin cursed under his breath and urged me to move faster, practically carrying me now as my legs turned to rubber.

We staggered into the village square, a wide open space dominated by a massive stone plinth in the center. Atop it, gleaming golden even in the weak predawn light, was the fabled sword. Excalibur.

Every child in Albion grew up hearing the stories—only the true ruler of Camelot, the Once and Future King, could draw the enchanted blade from its stone sheath. For generations, people had come from far and wide to try their hand, from farm hands to princes and kings. The sword had never budged.

I'd always scoffed at the tales, putting no more stock in them than any other fireside faerietale. But now, with Merlin's ragged breathing in my ear and the shouts of our pursuers ringing off the shuttered storefronts, that sword was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. An impossible chance at salvation.

Maybe if I pulled hard enough, I could snap the steel and use it as a knife.Or maybe losing so much blood was making me delusional.

"The sword," I croaked, my split lip oozing fresh blood as I spoke. "Help me get to the sword."

Merlin's eyes widened, flicking from my face to the sword and back again. "Arthur, you can't possibly think?—"

"Please, Merlin," I rasped, desperation clawing at my insides. "It's our only chance."

For a heartbeat, he looked torn, probably thinking I’d lost my damn mind. He shifted his grip on me, taking more of my weight, and together we stumbled towards the plinth.

Up close, the stone monolith was even more imposing, easily twice my height and wider than three men abreast. Intricate runes were carved into every inch of its weathered surface, the swirling patterns mesmerizing even to my untrained eye. And there, jutting proudly from the stone like a beacon, was the sword Excalibur.

Its golden hilt gleamed as if lit from within, the leather wrappings supple and unblemished despite years of exposure. The blade itself was a work of art, its polished length mirror-bright and sharp enough to split a hair. Power seemed to thrum in the air around it, raising the fine hairs on my arms.

Merlin helped me stagger up to the plinth, my blood-slick fingers scrabbling for purchase on the cool stone. This close, I felt the sword's ancient magic thrumming through the rock, resonating in my bones like a struck bell. It felt...familiar...somehow, like an old friend welcoming me home.

I wrapped my trembling fingers around the hilt, the leather warm and supple against my palm. For a moment, I simply savored the weight of it, the rightness of it in my hand. Then, with a deep breath, I pulled.

At first, nothing happened. The sword remained stubbornly sheathed in stone, mocking my idiotic efforts. Behind us, the sounds of pursuit grew louder, the clatter of booted feet on cobblestones, the ring of steel being drawn.

We were going to die tonight.

"Arthur," Merlin warned, his voice tight with strain and barely leashed panic. His hands braced my shoulders, pouring his strength into me.

I clenched my jaw and tightened my grip, ignoring the white-hot agony searing through my side. Gritting my teeth, I threw every last ounce of my will into one final, desperate heave.

And the sword moved.

It moved.

Itfuckingmoved!

It came free with a sound like a sigh, like a held breath that was finally released. Golden light exploded from the stone. It raced up the blade to wreath the hilt, dancing over my hands in warm, tingling waves. I felt it pouring into me, a rush of ancient power, heady and so fucking intoxicating. My hurts fell away and my wound knitted back together instantly.

Merlin gasped behind me, staggering sideways. "Holy gods…" I turned to face him, the sword blazing in my hand. His blue eyes were wide with awe, lips parted in shock. "Excalibur chose you.”

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