OBSIDIAN FIRE
BOOK ONE:
THE CAVE
of the
SLEEPING SWORD
by
DWAYNE R. JAMES
Copyright 2013 by Dwayne R. James
The Obsidian Fire Chronicles
A twelve-part serial available from www.obsidianfire.ca
Available Now
The Cave of the Sleeping Sword
Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood
Coming Soon
The Dawn of the Flaming Knight
Knight Fall
Coming Soon-ish
Dragon Fyre
Assault on Castle Redstone
The Obsidian Knight Rises
Inside the Mind of a Madman
A Brotherhood Torn Apart
The Man with the Obsidian Heart
Proterion's Dream
The Final Battle
Also by DWAYNE R. JAMES:
Gingers and Wry
www.gingersandwry.com
Princess Etheria and the Battling Bucks
www.princessetheria.com
Disclaimer
This book has been written with a young adult audience in mind and, as such, it contains some of the language that these young adults so love to use. Most of it is fairly mild, but parents should still keep this in mind so that, if you're reading it to young children, you're ready with an appropriate substitute word. Personally, I recommend "Flickerdoodle" because who could possibly be offended by being told to Flickerdoodle themselves?
Dedication
For Rick.
Although I always treated him like my sidekick,
it was really always the other way around.
Table of Contents
Prelude
Chapter 1 - The Cave
Chapter 2 - The Obsidian Brotherhood
Chapter 3 - Glasgow Green
Also by Dwayne R. James
About the Author
PRELUDE
June 1933, a tiny island somewhere off the coast of Scotland
The old man stood at the tower window and stared out across the sea at the setting sun. The cold wind stung his cheeks, and waves beat so violently against the castle wall below, that he could taste their salty spray even at this height.
Reluctantly, he closed the window.
Maybe it was his age; maybe it was the circumstances, but, now more than ever before, he found himself missing the calmer waters of the calderas, and the warm Aegean breezes of his youth. Behind him, a wireless radio sparked and hissed while a newsman's voice fought through the static to be understood.
"... been more than two months since the Flaming Knight was last seen in action," spoke a voice in a crisp British accent. "This is the longest that the Knight has been out of sight since he first appeared dramatically some five years ago wielding his mysterious fiery red Sword."
The old man turned away from the window, walked to the middle of the room, and took a seat behind a large, ornately carved oak desk. Resting on the blotter in front of him was a small Sword-no bigger than a large dagger-its blade like carved red glass, and its hilt burnished gold with a dull orange stone embedded in the pommel. The old man pulled at his thick grey beard thoughtfully as he stared at the dagger in front of him.
"There was a time," the newsman continued, "when the Flaming Knight seemed to be everywhere at once, so the fact that he's disappeared completely is all the more unusual. There are still so many unanswered questions about his origins, as well as the nature of his Sword's apparent magical properties, although there are critics who suggest that the Knight was little more than a skilled illusionist practiced in the art of mass hypnosis. For now, the search continues, and we will keep you informed should anything change. In other news, in Germany today..."
"Turn it off Fitch," the old man whispered brusquely, his voice sounding weary, as if it hadn't been used in several decades.
A second man, standing by the polished wood cabinet that housed the wireless, obediently reached down and twisted a dial to shut it off. As he turned to face the old man behind the desk, he spoke up tentatively. "We're going to have to go public Grand Master," he offered kindly as he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. "Another Flaming Knight will needs be found."
The Grand Master exhaled heavily as he picked up the red-bladed dagger. "It's not up to us," he answered finally. "If I've learned anything in my years guarding this Sword, it's that somebody worthy will appear-eventually-but not until the time is right. Not until the need is great."
"But the need is great," the other man countered. "Gilmat failed, Arakanean is still out there..."
"I know!" interrupted the Grand Master, a little more forcefully than he had intended. He composed himself before continuing more quietly, "It was the last thing that..." He stopped, as if he couldn't say the Knight's name, almost as if he'd momentarily forgotten what it was. He started again. "It was the last thing that Gilmat said to me."
Well, not the last thing, he thought. There was more, and I will continue to ponder the significance-as well as the oddity-of it later. Alone.
The old man stood up, giving strength to his voice, and adding weight to his next words. "And if this is the case-if Arakanean is indeed alive-then this is our call to action, and we must do all that we can to make the brotherhood stronger, considering the power that he now commands." The old man walked out in front of his desk as he spoke. "But, as for choosing another Sword bearer, I will say it again: it's not up to us." He was now holding the hilt of the tiny Sword out in front of him, so that its finely knapped blade was pointing up at the ceiling. He stared at it intently as if willing it to come to life. "Though oft is the time, I've wished that it was."
Finally, he lowered the dagger, and dismissed his assistant by saying, "I wish to go alone, and I will need time to gather my thoughts first."
The bespectacled man nodded his head simply, and said, "As you wish Grand Master," before withdrawing into a side chamber as quickly as his limp would allow.
The old man returned to the window to watch the setting sun. As he contemplated the ceremony that he was about to undertake, he found that his right hand had once again found the tiny leather pouch that now hung around his neck on a thin braided cord. The sack may have been new, but it already felt comfortable in his hand, and stroking it seemed a natural activity when thinking. In fact, it seemed to calm his mind, as long as he didn't give too much thought as to where the contents of the satchel had actually come from.
Ten minutes later, the now-orange sun was finally touching the distant horizon so that it seemed that the water at the point of contact had begun to boil and steam.
It is time.
He retrieved his robe from a hook beside the door, threw it over his faded tunic, pulled the cowl up over his head, and slipped the dagger into one of the cloak's inner pockets.
As he pulled the heavy door of his office open, he was once again taken aback to see the still-unfamiliar slick, black scorch mark that scarred the other side. He scowled at it as he closed the door behind him, as if challenging the burn to make some kind of offensive action. Once again, the old man contemplated replacing the ancient door outright, simply so that he wouldn't have to be continually reminded of what had so recently been lost. Yet, even as he turned to make his way down the curving tower stairs, he wondered soberly if perhaps-considering the stakes-this was not such a bad thing.
Never forget, he mumbled to himself. And never get caught off-guard again.
The tower halls and passages appeared to him to be uncharacteristically empty tonight, even though he knew that the castle was being guarded even more heavily now
since the attack. Only once did he catch a fleeting glimpse of a dark robe disappearing furtively around a corner.
They know well enough to leave me alone tonight.
At the base of the tower, the Grand Master stopped in front of another large wooden door, and withdrew a lit torch from a sconce beside it. Taking a deep breath, he placed his shoulder against the heavy door, and pushed. The ancient gate opened grudgingly, revealing a dark vaulted corridor beyond.
By the flickering light of the torch, the old man moved down the passageway, and as he reached the top of a flight of steps, he could hear the door creaking shut behind him, reminding him that he wasn't as alone as he felt. His brothers were never far away, even as they respected his desire to perform the rite by himself.
The old man began to descend the long set of stone steps slowly, as if he were unwilling to reach his ultimate destination. Nevertheless, in far less time than he would have liked, he found himself in the subterranean cave system beneath the castle, standing in front of an overly familiar cave wall that was split almost vertically by a thin meandering crack and covered in fading runes and pictographs.
Wasting no time at all, the Grand Master pulled the diminutive Sword out of his cloak, and held it above his head as he began to speak THE words. They were words he'd only spoken a handful of times, yet he knew them as well as any other incantation he'd ever used, even though, after all of these years, Proterion's dream-language remained stubbornly unfamiliar to his tongue, and tasted just as strange.
Above him, the Sword began to glow, casting a red hue on the damp walls and ceiling of the cave. For a heartbeat, the old man wondered if perhaps it had finally decided to wake up for him, but his rational mind knew otherwise. This was but part of the ceremony, for in front of him, the crevice in the wall was equally awash with a glow from within.
Finally, he stopped speaking, lowered the Sword and looked at it longingly-perhaps even lovingly-one last time. Then, he took a deep breath, stepped forward, and slid the blade easily into the crevice, a shower of sparks the only indication that the knife should have been too thick to fit in the first place. When the last of the sparks had faded away, the amber stone in the pommel of the Sword began softly to glow, throwing a subtle orange light on the old man's weathered face.
After a time, the old man reached up tentatively, gripped the hilt, and tugged on the tiny Sword forcefully. He was satisfied that it resisted his pull, no matter how much he wished it didn't.
The Grand Master leaned heavily on the wall, one hand on either side of the embedded dagger. Slowly, he looked nervously over his shoulder as if noticing the figure behind him for the first time.
"I hope this is what you wanted Kathryn," he said before turning to meet the stony glare of the woman's effigy that was sculpted out of the rock wall behind him. He looked at her wistfully. "You said that this Sword would provide the answers we needed." He turned away from her, unable even to look her likeness in the eye for very long. "I can't help... can't help but feel that you were... mistaken."
There were so many questions, and there were only two people who had the answers. One had been buried at sea less than a month ago, and the other one-he glanced at the hilt of the dagger that stuck out of the crevice-was forever out of reach.
It all seemed too overwhelming, yet...
Gilmat said that we had eighty years, he thought to himself. Although I'm not sure how it's possible to know such a thing.
Finally, he turned to leave, but had only gone a step before his sorrow finally overcame him, and he crumbled to the ground at the foot of Kathryn's statue, sobbing inconsolably.
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