Put Me Back!

By Morgan J. Manns

Heart pounding, I scanned the abandoned castle courtyard where ancient stones lay scattered like forgotten memories. The harvest tournament would begin any minute. Should my foster brother enter without a sword… I swallowed hard, reconsidering whether to bring Sir Kay something that might imperil my own neck. He’d likely have my head either way. What kind of squire forgets his knight’s weapon?

Something shimmered in the sunlight, catching my eye through the latticework of overgrown brambles. My heart leapt. Could it be?

Drawing near, I brushed aside a lock of dried ivy. Beneath, a shimmering silver pommel reached toward the heavens. I removed the rest of the foliage, hope bubbling in my chest. The pommel belonged to a blade sticking downward into weathered stone. Odd choice of sheath, but I was out of options. Hopefully it wasn’t dull.

I peered into the shadows of the towering castle walls. Not a soul in sight. Everyone was at the tournament, their cheers a distant echo against the silent keep. Drawing a deep breath, I grasped the hilt, first with one hand, then with both. This better work. Clenching my teeth, I pulled.

The sword slid effortlessly from the stone, gliding like a knife through softened butter. I stumbled backward, the blade scraping along the stone. Regaining my balance, I smiled, relieved. The sword was perfect. Intricate engravings adorned its length—ornate and beautiful.

I thrust the flawless weapon above me. Perhaps my head was saved! Time to—

Put me back this instant!

My smile faltered. “Who said that?” I demanded, stifling the quake in my voice.

The courtyard lay empty.

‘Tis I! You blaggard. Stop waving me around like a bride’s bouquet and put me back!

Unexpected heat seared my hands, and I dropped the sword. Flinching at the clatter, I scanned the courtyard. “Who goes there?”

Only the rustling of red and gold leaves answered. I sighed and stepped forward, rubbing my smarting palms together. Stress was getting the better of me.

I hesitantly touched the hilt of the sword. “Huh.” It was cool. Perhaps the direct sunlight had caused the leather hilt to warm for a moment.

Retrieving the sword, I turned toward the tournament grounds. Faint cheers erupted in the distance. Sir Kay would be waiting, mounted on his prize steed. I must bring him this sword before—

Unhand me, lad, lest you cut yourself!

I gawked at the weapon in my grasp. “Are y-you speaking to me?

Ah, he does have some wits about him. Yes, I’m speaking to you.

“In m-my head?”

Do you see a mouth anywhere?

“I, uh, suppose not…”

It’s been quite some time since someone sought to draw me from the stone—forgot to pay attention for a minute. Now put me back! The sword vibrated, emphasizing its point. I await the chosen one!

“The chosen one?” I held the sword at arm’s length. It was perfectly balanced, like it was made for my hand.

Mm-hm, when Britain’s true king draws the sword from the stone, he shall be revealed as the rightful heir to the throne… blah, blah. Ask Merlin to recite the rest.

“Merlin? The sorcerer?”

Indeed.

Recognition dawned. This wasn’t just any sword; this was the legendary Sword in the Stone, and I’d just drawn it from its resting place! My lips tightened. Maybe my brother would want to be king… Tentatively, I asked, “How do you identify the chosen one?”

I can discern the chosen one’s purity of heart from how he intends to use me. The sword sighed, a sound like a whetstone scraping the blade’s length. Now, you are much too young. Place me back, and all will be forgiven.

“My apologies, Sir… Sword?” Did swords bear titles? “However”—I took a deep breath, still thinking of my neck—“might you participate in a tournament with my brother? I forgot his sword, you see. I’ll replace you when I find another.”

The sword fell silent. Was it considering my offer?

You do not wish to be king?

I laughed. “No, I simply want to ensure my brother doesn’t lop my head off. If I spend any longer talking to you, I fear my life is forfeit.”

The hilt grew comfortably warm in my hand. Sensing its contentment, I frowned. If it relished the thought of severing my head, that was certainly cruel.

Perhaps I miscalculated, Sir…

“Arthur.” I raised an eyebrow. “Arthur of House Ector.”

No, I see it now. You may be the one I’ve been waiting for…

My heart skipped a beat.

I’ve grown weary of men trying to draw me for their own means. Perhaps it’s no mere coincidence you were able to remove me. Yet, I must be certain. Prick your finger on my blade.

Odd request, but… I shrugged. I’d likely gone insane anyway. I ran my index finger against the edge and winced as blood ran down the steel.

The sword gasped. My King! It is you. Long live King Pendragon!

I sucked in a breath and dropped the sword again. It clattered on the ground. Hastily, I picked it up. “Did you say Pendragon?”

Aye. Now, could you stop dropping me? Kings usually have a better handle on things. Not a great image, throwing weapons all over the place.

“Sorry.” I mumbled, still reeling—either from the sight of my own blood or the unbelievable news that I was from a royal bloodline. Was the sword really telling the truth? “Look, can we speak of this later? My brother still needs a sword for the tournament.”

Fine.

“But perhaps don’t, um, speak? It might unnerve him.”

The sword huffed.

A smile tugged at my lips. I ran through the courtyard, legendary sword in hand. Another uproarious cheer erupted from the tournament grounds, spurring me onward.

I desperately hoped to keep my head because this encounter felt like a story that needed to be told. What’s more believable, I wondered, a boy king or the talking sword that chose him?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Morgan J. Manns is a speculative fiction writer who firmly believes that the world needs more stories filled with magic and wonder. Captivated by the realm of intricate world-building since composing her first fantasy tale at the age of ten, she now ventures beneath the endless Canadian prairie sky with her supportive husband and two hobbit children, all while eagerly contemplating her next literary creation. While her current occupation is that of an elementary school teacher, her dream job will always be dragon rider, soaring through the skies of her imaginings.

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