Order of the Black Sun Box Set 8

by Preston William Child

  “Kostas, are you wearing steel tip shoes?” Purdue asked.

  “Yes, why?” Kostas responded, and then his face lit up. “A magnetic metal!”

  Purdue was excited beyond words. He motioned for Kostas to bring the shield to the left side mound. “Wait!” Sam exclaimed. “I have to get footage of this.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Investigative Journalist,” Nina said. “Whip it out!”

  Sam slung down his bag and pulled out his big Canon high definition camera. Purdue walked up the mound with the shield and held it up like a mirror, circling the crown of the unknown cairn. Sam filmed from a few meters back, just in case they found something. Above them, the thunder began to rumble. Nina felt secure about lightning since she was wearing the scabbard, but she was worried about the shield’s potency for drawing a bolt. “Be careful, Purdue! I do not trust the weather.”

  Nothing happened. Purdue shrugged. “Wrong key!” he said.

  “Wrong lock, maybe,” Kostas mumbled, cowering from the angry skies.

  “You are right!” Purdue grinned. “Let me try the other one.”

  Sam moved to the other side and kept filming while Nina guided his way by pulling at his shirt. They both watched Purdue angle the shield over the small rock that marked the Bronze Age burial mound and waited. Eventually Purdue got bored, but he inched side to side to cover all angles. A deafening crack of thunder shook the ground, giving them all a heart-stopping start. Nina cried out from the sudden scare, but she stood her ground. The sky lit up like a flash from a camera and a split second after, the shield received a buzz of electricity from it.

  “Aow!” Purdue yelled in pain as the electrical current snapped at his hands.

  “Hold it! Don’t drop it!” Sam shouted. The charged shield hummed from the current it held. Next to the marker rock, the ground began to well up through the grass. Spellbound, they all watched as Purdue maneuvered the magnetic shield lower to the ground. The lower he brought it, the stronger the effect.

  “Oh my God, I wish Brian was here to see this!” Nina exclaimed excitedly. In Sam’s camera frame the tall, white haired explorer towered over the rock on the mound, manipulating an intensely charged battle shield. From the surging earth that broke up through the surface, a dirt-laden relic came into sight. First to surface was a black hilt of enormous size, aptly accompanied by the clap of thunder over the Isle of Arran. Purdue’s mouth was agape at what was happening. The electrical surge washed through him, making his entire body tingle and forcing the mighty sword out of the stone, so to speak.

  “I cannae believe this,” Sam smiled. “Holy shit! It is Excalibur!”

  Nina could not contain her emotion. She wept with joy and awe. Kostas was on his knees, speechless and ecstatic at the event he was privileged to be part of. When the sword protruded halfway out of the rock, Purdue laid the shield down and pulled it from the mound.

  The monumental experience had them all emotional, but the weather was becoming too dangerous. Flying would be perilous at the time, so they elected to find a bar to kill the time in. Made of iron and magnetite, just like the shield, Excalibur was magnificent. Far from the shiny, perfect prop used in countless films, it denoted true battle efficiency in its worn metal. There was no denying that it was a formidable weapon made with impeccable artistry. Its steel sang softly as Purdue swayed it while they walked.

  “Mind if I slip my sword into your sheath?” he teased Nina, aiming the huge sword for the scabbard on her hip. Her look of warning had the men laughing. She took a deep breath and thought about the man who pulled the sword from the stone. He was a king, he had a castle, complete with his own Round Table, after all.

  She winked at Purdue and said, “Well, maybe just this once.”

  END

  Quest for the Holy Grail

  1

  Crosses of Crimson

  Peniche, Portugal

  “Hurry up!” Mrs. Cruz cried, trying to get her children to move more swiftly up the hill. “We are going to miss the fireworks!” She laughed as she bore ahead of the two small ones, finding glee in the way their young legs hurried after her. Panting profusely, the two children tried to catch up to their mother, but the hill was steep. It was still warm, even for this time of year, and above the three, seagulls occupied the beautiful blue.

  In the mild winter wind, the boy and his sister raced. Two years apart in age, with him the junior, they laughed heartily at the lost feat to catch up to their mother. She was only thirty-three years old, still very athletic and quite unmatched at sprinting. At the top of the hill, she waited for them with a big smile. Her dress whipped wildly, as did her dark shoulder length hair. “Anda cá!” she hollered over the whistle of the gusts, beckoning her children to come to her.

  Mario and Carla giggled as she swooped them up in her arms and twirled with them. Their father was less enthusiastic. Intoxicated, he sat at the fireplace inside the beach cabin, waiting for the clap of the fireworks. There was a festival in the coastal town, but he forbade his family to go, to their dismay. Being a man of fickle temperament, they knew not to nag or argue. It was because of this that Sonia Cruz took pity on her kids and assured them that she would make sure they get to see the fireworks from the top of the sandy hill.

  “Mama, can I fly my kite?” Mario asked.

  “Not now, lindo,” she smiled, spreading her palm over the crown of his head.

  “But the wind is perfect! Look! And from up here my kite will reach heaven!” he insisted in a scrawny voice over the howl of the warm wind.

  “Alright, but after the fireworks,” she conceded. “Carla can go with you.”

  “Go where?” they heard Carlos thunder from the porch. “You are not going anywhere. Any of you!”

  Apologetically, Sonia shook her head to explain. “No, Carlos, we are staying right here.”

  “We are going to fly Mario’s kite from the beach just down here, Papa!” Carla grinned. Her father’s favorite, she had not an inkling of fear for him or his bombastic attitude. “You can come too!”

  “No, no,” Carlos declined in loving surrender of his daughter’s invitation. “I am going to sit in front of the fire and relax. You two can fly the kite, but not too late.” He looked at his wife, his smile fading into discontent. “Why the hell are they shooting off fireworks in broad daylight, for Pete’s sake? It is bloody stupid.”

  “It is, I know,” she agreed, looking over the horizon slightly inland from the beach where the town was in full merriment. “Listen to them. Already well into the party,” she sighed with bridled yearning. Carlos leered at her before going back into the house.

  “There will be more fireworks tomorrow, I think,” she said to the children. “Maybe we can persuade Papa to let us go then, right?”

  “Yes!” Carla smiled. “So?”

  “So?” Sonia asked.

  “So, if we are going to see the fireworks tomorrow anyway, we can go and fly Mario’s kite now already,” the little girl suggested. Her little brother, five years old, leapt like a newborn lamb at the idea. They circled their mother, chanting some unintelligible mantra, beseeching her to allow it, until she caved.

  “Go already, then. Go!” she chuckled. “I will just have those cookies by myself then.”

  Her attempt bore no fruit. Before she could finish her teasing, they had grabbed the plastic kite. Carla carried it for her brother, and as he darted down the sandy hill in cheerful abandon, she noticed a friend from school on the beach. Crying out to her friend, a girl in her class, Carla waved madly with a mighty squeal of delight. Her friend, surrounded by five siblings and her parents, was ecstatic to see her as well, and cried out to her.

  Carla quickly raced down the thick sand and caught up with her little brother. She stopped him and shoved the kite firmly under his arm. Holding his hand in hers, she thrust the reel of fishing gut into his hand and said, “I am just going to say hello to Franka, okay? Can you fly this by yourself or do you want to wait?”

  “No,�
� he moaned, feeling frustrated at his sister's change of heart. “You do not need to help me. Papa taught me well enough.”

  “Well good then,” she snapped, and left him to fly the kite by himself while she met up with her friend in the distance. Mario was not too upset. After all, with his sister away, he would not have to worry about her nagging him all the time. Do it like this. Do it like that. The little boy was remarkably accomplished for his age, and expertly readied his new kite for its maiden flight over the azure breakers.

  On a towel not far from him sat an elderly man, looking across the ocean without even noticing him. He appeared to be in some state of trance. Mario cocked his head, thinking the old man was a dead man with open eyes, but soon the lone man moved his hand into the canvas bag set down by his side. Relieved that the man was indeed alive, Mario could continue with his task.

  He could hear his sister and her friends cackling on the wind as he released the kite gradually, wary to not give it too much leeway until the wind could lift it up. The bay was filled with a mellow calm, the anticipation to the fireworks show soon to commence on the other side of the peninsula. Mario’s stretch of beach was lined with colorful rowboats, as the local waters brimmed with yachts. Parties echoed from these luxurious vessels that bobbed on the swells, all apparently waiting for the crackling fun to come.

  Mario’s kite lifted up into the air, flapping loudly in the force of the wind. As it ascended, its bamboo spine and cross spar reminded Mario of the symbol his mother wore as a pendant and he found himself in awe of its angelic quality. Slowly, he released bits of tether to help the kite elevate into the atmosphere as he walked toward the edge of the water where his feet found the fizzing foam.

  “Mario!” his sister screeched from a way away. “Mario, you are not allowed to go in the sea, Mama said!”

  He looked at his sister, reduced to a stick figure in the distance, gesturing to get out of the water. To appease her, he retreated onto the wet sand, but he still had plenty of line to give. From the beach towel, the old stranger watched in amusement. He looked pallid and sickly, but he was in good spirits. Dressed in brown pants with suspenders over his white shirt, his fisherman’s hat kept the Portuguese sun out of his eyes. Bare feet dug into the mild sand as he watched the child’s kite take flight, dipping occasionally. He could see that the boy was trying to get the kite to fly farther over the water, so he got an idea.

  “Boy!” he shouted, barely strong enough to be heard. The child did not hear him at first, but he kept hollering over the gust until the boy turned his head and looked at him. He saw the old man saying something, but he could not hear, so he slowly walked his kite along the edge of the shallow breakers until he was closer.

  “Are you talking to me?” the boy asked.

  “Yes,” the man replied. “I was saying that you can get the kite further over the sea if you take a row boat. See?” He pointed to the weatherworn boats rocking on the wet shore. Mario thought about it. His mother told him not to go in the water. On a boat he would not be in the water, right?

  With one eye pinched shut from the sun, Mario smiled at the man. “That is a good idea, but I cannot drive a boat.”

  “Drive a boat?” the old man chuckled. His voice was hoarse and sore. “No, my boy. I meant I can take you a few meters in if you want. You just fly the kite and I will row and steer.”

  Mario did not give it a second thought. Keeping the tail of the kite low enough to control it, he shifted sideways toward the light blue wooden rowboat the old man staggered towards. “This one,” he told Mario. “Be careful not to step on my shoes in the front when you step on.”

  Without any consideration for his sister, Mario stepped on the boat while keeping the kite flying. The cross stood out against the red from where he sat. While the old man rowed laboriously in the heaving blue rise and fall, Mario thought of his mother’s pendant again, and how it differed from his father’s pendant. Both were crosses, but his father’s was even sided. Unlike his mother’s, which was one long and one short. But even though his kite had his mother’s cross shape, it had the color of his father’s cross.

  “Far enough?” the old man asked.

  “No,” Mario said, looking quite despondent. “We are still right at the coast.”

  Take aback by the boy’s resolute answer, the old man shook his head and smiled before taxing his frail body to row deeper into the sea. Mario looked around.

  “How far is far enough then?” the poor old man huffed.

  “There, by that big boat,” Mario pointed.

  Frowning, the old man gasped. “That is a yacht, my boy.”

  “Yes, row me to it, please,” the boy insisted so politely that his ferryman could hardly refuse at the risk of his sore bones. Finally, the rowboat reached the yacht. The old man wheezed and grabbed for a canteen in his canvas bag, while the little boy stood up to let the tether go to its full extent. It was wonderful to see his face light up when the kite careened through the sky, so small in the distance.

  “What is your name?” the old man asked. “You are a good pilot.” He gulped thirstily at the neck of the canteen. Rivulets of water spilled form his old wrinkled lips as he pulled away the container to survey their surroundings. He put back the canteen and took a goblet from the bag. In his other hand, he gripped a scalpel.

  “Mario. Mario Cruz,” the boy announced, keeping his eye on the kite while concentrating on balancing upon the unsteady boat.

  “Your papa is Carlos?” the old man asked as he stood up behind Mario.

  For the first time the boy turned to look at the old man. Amusedly, he cried, “Hey, how did you know my papa’s name?” But his last word was cut short on his tongue as the silver flash blinded him in the sun. Little Mario’s body collapsed into the arms of the old man, who was tapping his blood into the pale bronze goblet for consumption.

  Somewhere in the little boy’s dying ears, the fireworks clapped. His big brown eyes stayed on the falling cross of the diving kite. Crimson like his blood. Crosses like his mother’s god. Nothing.

  The old man quelled his other thirst quickly, drinking his fill before the fireworks would cease and the yachts would depart. Before the boy’s sister would realize that he was gone…and gone. From the ancient goblet he drank until he vomited, and then he drank some more. When the child was colorless and the man had had enough, he pulled the boat up to his yacht and tied it. In the shade of the yacht, his recovering limbs and eyesight afforded him a comfortable dismount onto the steps that ran along the side of the hull. He returned with a huge sledgehammer which was no problem for him to wield now.

  From the shore, the clap of fireworks successfully concealed his destruction of the boat floor, and the shattered wreck swiftly sank into the depths of the ocean. With it, the lifeless child. From the shore, Carla looked for her little brother, searching the kite in the sky to mark his location. But the kite had disappeared, and with it, her brother.

  2

  Roots

  London, United Kingdom

  Kingsley felt the blow of the stranger’s fist before it even struck him. One after the other they came, working his jaw and his cheekbone until his brain was on fire. He kept his eyes closed, much as he wished he could use them to record the features of the attacker. There was no sense in trying and risk being blinded. It was clear already that the three-hundred-pound man was trying to get at his eyes for some reason. In fact, it was the reason for the fight in the first place.

  There was a choking amount of mire gathering rapidly around his head, oozing in from all sides as the attacker’s boot sole increased pressure against his skull. Kingsley could not help but inadvertently recall the cursed phrase his old sensei used to employ continuously – where the head goes, the body goes. Of all things darting through his mind as he rapidly approached the imminent cessation of his heart’s beat, he did not need Sensei Kim’s ridiculous, let alone erroneous, mantra. If anything, the correct take would have been when the head is trapped, the body i
s done for.

  Kingsley had no way of escaping the downward, crushing snare of the stranger’s size thirteen. As soon as the man had subdued him successfully, the incessant stabbing at his eyes resumed. Such an odd assault baffled the rapidly fading logic in his mind as he gasped for even the smallest bit of breath without swallowing more mud. A sharp jab to his right eye had him screaming like a freshly shot fawn in the grasp of a cruel hunter.

  Warm and gently he felt the blood soothe his face like the tender caress of a mother’s hand. Wailing in the overwhelming struggle, Kingsley tried nonetheless to free himself from the onslaught. Deep behind his eyeball, a throbbing pain ate into his brain, further impairing his ability to efficiently formulate a cogent plan. Normally, a vain man like him would be bothered by the repercussions of the injury, but not this time. Kingsley would be happy just to survive this ordeal.

  He had to react quickly and catch the attacker off-guard. Kingsley mustered his strength and tried to wriggle free of the vice grip, but he did take note not to make the attempt too violent for fear of snapping his neck in the process. The man with the massive boot had Kingsley’s head properly pinned, outweighing the theatre actor by at least forty kilograms and a shit load of nasty.

  “Please!” he groaned eventually. “Please don’t kill me! I can help you find it.” He was lying through his teeth, but he had to say something to keep him alive to see another year. His attacker kept the pressure on his head, while the mud made its way through the closed lids of his left eye, leaving him sightless.

  “How can you suddenly help me?” the man asked in a hateful sneer. “A few minutes ago you knew nothing, mate. You did not know what I was talking about. You had no idea what I wanted, remember?”