Emirate of Transjordan

November 1941

The Underground Cathedral was cool and damp, a relief after the long drive through the desert. Julien Arnault wiped sweat from his brown curls with a dirty sleeve. He held a flickering torch in his left hand as he navigated through rows of sandstone arches. His right hand rested on the handle of a Colt .38 revolver. Whether the rumors of the Order’s power were true or not, no one would cheat him out of his prize.

It had taken the French Resistance eighteen months to find this repository of the Order of the Burning Sword—self-appointed guardians of legendary artifacts like Zeus’s master bolt, Moses’s Urim and Thummim, and countless others. The Catholic and the Orthodox churches called them heretics, while archaeologists denied their existence. Julien was surprised that they hadn’t tried to stop him yet.

Why wouldn’t they guard this weapon? And why haven’t they used it?

He felt a flicker of indignation. The Order was selfish if they would not use their artifacts to save lives. He thought bitterly of everyone he had lost since the war began. Of Camille—dear, sweet Camille.

You thought God would save us from the Nazis. But if he will not give us help, I will take it from him.

Among their treasures, the Order supposedly held the true spear of Saint Longinus that pierced Christ’s side on Mount Calvary. Legend said no army could stand against its power, and the ruler who possessed it never lost a war. Even now, powers on the European continent searched for it, while the Führer claimed to possess it.

But Julien knew that he was mistaken.

The arches ended at two large, mahogany doors. Julien lifted the latch, and the hinges creaked and groaned as he pushed through. He stumbled into the nave of a chapel, more elaborate than he had imagined with a high-ribbed vault ceiling and light streaming through stained-glass windows behind the altar.

There lay his prize, on the altar in a glass case.

Julien walked down the center aisle, hands trembling in anticipation. Peering into the case, he could see it at last—an iron spearhead resting on a red velvet cushion. Beneath it was a stone marker with a Latin inscription:

LANCEA LONGINI

The Lance of Longinus! Julien’s lips curled upward in triumph. Trembling, he drew his Colt to smash the case.

“Stop! In the Lord’s name!”

Startled, Julien turned and saw a towering man standing at the far end of the chapel, by the doors he had entered through. The man wore leather armor and chain mail, and his eyes were hard as flint. He brandished a longsword that glinted in the light.

Julien raised the revolver. “Stay back, mon ami.”

The knight didn’t flinch. “The Lance of Longinus is not yours for the taking, lad.” He  took a step forward.

Julien gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. The muzzle flashed, but the knight swung his sword with unnatural speed. The bullet pinged off the blade and ricocheted harmlessly into the wall.

Julien recoiled. None of his research had suggested that the Order had supernatural powers. Is it the knight’s power? Or his weapon’s?

 “You have been deceived, lad.” The knight’s expression softened as he took another step. “Whatever power you seek, you will not find it in the lance.”

“You lie! Why else would you guard it?” Julien sneered, glancing from the knight back to the case. No army who possessed the lance was defeated… “This is the Holy Lance, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it is. But there is not an iota of supernatural power in that iron. Christ had great power because of who He was, lad—not because of what was in His blood.” The knight shook his head. “My order was charged by God to guard these relics from those like you.”

Julien edged closer to the case. “Like me?”

“Anyone who would lead others to worship the creation rather than the Creator.” The knight’s eyes pleaded with him. “There is hope for you still, lad. Leave this place, and forget you ever saw it. Trust God to fight your battles for you. Not these dusty relics.”

Julien had to act before the knight reached him. “You can keep your god, and I will take the Lance back to my people. In the right hands, it could destroy our enemies forever.”

The knight gave him a hard look. “And I suppose that is for you to—?”

With one swift motion, Julien swung the revolver down onto the case and shattered the glass. Dropping the torch, he boldly grasped the spearhead to his chest and roared, “Vive la Résistance!”

He charged, firing the revolver. The knight ran to meet him, parrying every shot with his sword. Julien screamed and lunged—

And then searing pain exploded in his side. He stopped still and looked down, where the knight’s longsword had pierced him. Gasping, he met the knight’s eyes.

The knight only looked at Julien sadly as he withdrew his blade.

Julien’s vision swam, and he dropped the spearhead as he faded into unconsciousness.

***

“Are you awake?”

Julien opened his eyes and squinted. He was in a small room with mud brick walls. A young woman in a white uniform stood over him. “Where…Where am I?”

“The Church Missionary Society hospital in Amman. A man brought you here five days ago.” The nurse smiled. “Thankfully, your wound was not too severe.”

Wound… Julien’s heart sank. So, the knight had told the truth. The Holy Lance had failed to protect him. It would have been useless to the Resistance after all.

And yet… just because the Lance failed did not mean the Order did not possess… something. The knight–he had power that the Holy Lance did not. What was it?

“Trust God to fight your battles for you.” He heard the knight’s words, in Camille’s voice.

Trust God? Julien wasn’t there yet, but… maybe the Order held answers.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zachary Shields is a superhero with storytelling powers, who keeps a secret identity as a mild-mannered journalist. He is a firm believer that God can use stories to mend broken hearts and souls. Zachary has published a short story, “New Beginnings,” in H.L. Burke’s DOSA Files superhero anthology. In his spare time, he enjoys reading, writing, and visiting faraway places.

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