“Traveling at the speed of dark again Nottingham?” Sara’s words echoed through Ian’s memory. They always did. She said them often enough so that now they sounded more of a statement in his mind than a question.
He stood alone. In the faint candlelight Ian’s mirrored reflection looked all the more like a dark specter against the backdrop of his sparse living quarters. With only a low pallet of a bed and a simple clothing wardrobe, the space lacked any of the extravagant luxuries typically pervasive throughout Kenneth Irons’ estate.
“The speed of dark…” Ian softly whispered as he gazed into the mirror. “How fitting,” his reflection replied.
Ian Nottingham. He was many things – assassin, servant, protector, watcher…gifted at all and lacking at few. In spite of that, he always felt the same sense of incompleteness when he stood alone in the blackness. It was at these very moments when the void in his soul broke free of his command.
Who was he really? He begrudgingly played the pawn of Kenneth Irons. He instinctively played the pawn of the Witchblade. He definitely was not yet his own man. Who was he turning into? So often he chanted the mantra: “I am not my father!” How many times had he uttered that? Too many. Ian thought for he had long lost count and still has yet to move any closer to fully believing those words.
After all, aren’t I the one who took out the hit on Sara? Wasn’t I the one who hired the Black Dragons? Ian pondered silently to himself. True… I was possessed at the time but I –allowed- myself to fall into that snare. He pounded his chest with his right gloved hand. What of those other times? How can I explain searching Aras so she could assume control of the Witchblade? Or when I retrieved Irons reincarnated corpse? Or—
The list was endless. Ian felt like he is sinking in quicksand… deep, black, quicksand. He feared he was becoming less of Irons’ sword and more of his clone. As the weapon, Ian was cold, calculating, and indifferent. He could easily separate himself from the duty. The mind knows not what the hand does, he thought almost fondly of days long gone. Now, he knew that as Irons’ duplicate, he learned to enjoy the manipulation of the prey …molding, twisting, and bending them into his desired shape. How did this happen? He wondered.
“Too many questions and not enough answers,” Ian lamented, shaking his head. A stray lock of midnight hair slipped out of place and Ian carefully tucked it back behind an ear. His eyes drifted downward as he attempted to still his inner voice of the questioning. Almost bracing himself in preparation, Ian knew he was about to be summoned. I always know. Beyond instinct, his precognition grew stronger since Irons’ return. The young assassin turned quickly towards the door.
“Ian,” Irons beckoned, his voice sounding almost melodious.” I require … your assistance.”
The master calls. Ian’s thought resonated full of resentment. Must I follow?
The fireplace in the great room was set ablaze. Kenneth Irons sat silhouetted against the red-orange tongues of flame. He was in his favorite chair. Designed with a high back padded in soft crimson velvet and intricately carved gargoyles in the armrests, it was an imposing piece that coupled nicely with Irons’ own intimidating posture. He purchased it for that very reason. Now, Irons dressed as though about to attend a business meeting. Yet, there was no meeting. Tightly wrapped within layers of thick blankets, Irons huddled deeper into the warmth of the chair and moved closer towards the fireplace. Since his return, he has lost his own internal fire. His skin paled a white to match the color of his hair. His true age began to reappear. The wielder’s blood seemed to have lost it affect on assuaging the process.
Ian appeared silently. With head bowed, he quickly assumed his place alongside Irons.
“Ian,” Irons said with a voice that still possessed its strength. “An object of power has come to my attention –one that I may be able to use.”
“Use against the Witchblade?” Ian asked giving Irons a sideward glance. How could that be possible? He’s already failed with the Lance. What could possibly be stronger than the object that pierced the side of a god?
“To obtain the Witchblade,” Irons scowled at Ian’s insolence. His glare caused Ian to instantly redirect his own gaze back to the floor. Fighting back a shiver, Irons added, “and to bring back life to this useless shell.”
“What is this object?” Ian asked flatly.
“Do you recall the tales of Merlin and Arthur?”
“Arthur was a legendary peasant waif who pulled a sword from the stone and became a king. Merlin was his guide. Some say he possessed a great magic.”
“His magic was limited!” Irons said adamantly attempting to stand but his strength failed him and he returned to his seat. “At least it was by the time of Arthur,” he continued more recomposed. “Merlin had long before infused his greatest magic into the sword, Excalibur.”
“Excalibur” Ian asked and turned to face Irons. “Wasn’t the sword lost after Arthur’s fall?”
“Objects of power are never lost,” Irons replied. “Excalibur is like the Witchblade. It chooses its wielder. One birthed from the Tree of Life; the other forged from the bowels of the Earth. One rests on the wrist of a woman; the other to be clasped in the fist of a man.” With this, Irons clenched his wrinkled hand.
“Your fist?”
“Mine.” Irons smiled as he passed Ian a gray folder with the Vorschlag logo across its cover.
Ian nodded silently but did not open the dossier. He knew what its contents held. It is useless to question him. Ian knew those consequences all too well. It would be best to find the sword and be done with it. Yet, what would –those- consequences be? If he managed to find the sword then it would bring full strength back to Irons. If that happened Irons would definitely try to use it against the Witchblade… and against Sara. How could he let that happen? How could he not? Guard Irons. Guard the Witchblade. Guard Sara. The ordering made everything far too complicated. Being in Irons presence only added to Ian’s internal conflict. Without comment he turned to leave.
“And Ian,” Irons voice stopped Ian’s retreat. “You should be aware that Morgan le Fay was a former wielder of the Witchblade….”
Excalibur was not to be in found in a museum, or exclusive gallery, or even hidden away in an antiquities collector’s humidity controlled vault. The blade was in a most unlikely place. Ian stood across the pothole ridden street, staring at the plain brick building. A layer of dust hazed the windows of the store front. Ian could barely make out the wording on the store’s shingle: “A Little ‘O This, A Lot ‘O That.” He shook his head. Excalibur may be obtained from a small pawn shop on Roosevelt Ave in Flushing. Ian had a difficult time believing the dossier the first time he read it. He was having an even more difficult time now.
Ian made his way across the street. He opened the store’s door with his usual swift motion, setting off the long chain of rusted greeting bells. He scowled at the noise. The stale smell of dust and age drew his attention. He sniffed almost holding back a sneeze. Ian scanned the store quickly. Its name reflected its contents. There was a lot of everything and it was just about all… Junk, Ian thought to himself. An object of power found in this mess?
“Need some help? Or are you just … window shopping?” The shop keeper asked as he looked up from his newspaper. He chewed on the butt end of a cigar, sending a puff of fowl smoke into the air. “Maybe you’re interested in selling something? Are you a little low on cash?” He laughed.
Ian’s eyes darkened. He slowly moved towards the counter. The shop keeper threw his paper aside, atop a pile of other discarded papers, and stood. He was a short, squat man who seemed almost as wide as he was tall. “I am here,” Ian spoke in a low voice, “To obtain an item.”
“And what sort of item might you be interested in?”
“You have recently come into possession of a sword.” Ian paused momentarily as he placed his gloved hands on the counter, “An old sword.”
“Yeah, a guy came in a couple of weeks ago desperate to get rid of a sword. Really nervous, that guy was. I asked him if it was hot.” The shop keeper narrated as he wandered through the store looking through piles. “I told him I don’t take stolen stuff. Don’t need any problems with the cops.”
Ian raised an eyebrow response.
“Yeah… anyway, so when I took a look at the thing I knew no one in their right mind would lift a rusty old piece of crap like that sword. So I gave him a couple of bucks and took it. The guy didn’t even want his claim ticket….Ah, here it is.” He lifted the sword out of a dented umbrella stand. “Not much. Here, have a look if you want.”
Ian reached for the sword. Rust encrusted much of the blade and hilt. The grip’s leather frayed. Could this really be Arthur’s sword? Ian wondered as he began searching for the identifying marks mentioned in the dossier. He traced his fingers across the hilt. His eyes narrowed. Through the rust a scrolling pattern began to emerge. It seared through the oxidized metal until a clean layer of iron shown through. The once frayed leather rewound itself tightly around the grip. The cracks in the broken jewel of the hilt fused into a sparkling gem. Ian grasped the sword.
What magic is this after so many centuries? He thought as he turned the sword in his hand. Its balance is perfect… unflawed. It is just as a weapon should be -- a natural extension of one’s arm. He smiled slightly at how comfortable the blade felt in his hand. It was all a little too comfortable…and definitely all too familiar.
The stench of battle reeked throughout the night air. The wounded moaned in pain. The stillness of death was unsettling. “We have a rare moment of quiet,” a pensive king mumbled barely audible as he walked among tents and men huddled around fires.
“Sire?”
“What are our numbers, sir knight?”
“We’re taking heavy loses.” The knight shifted his weight. His armor clinked with every movement. “Mordred’s forces are… impressive.”
“You know as I do that it is not Mordred’s forces that inflict the damage against us.”
“No Sire…His mother, Lady Morgana is quite formidable on her own. What is this weapon she wields?”
“I know not.”
“The weapon changes almost at will. It is some sort of witch magic…”
“As mine own Excalibur is,” the king touched his sword, gaining strength from the cold metal, “Tis late. You have your orders and battle plans.”
“Aye Sire.”
“See to them,” he nodded before entering his dark tent. Two sentries stood guard. The king sighed. How was he expected to sleep when his troops were dying by the moment? How much longer could this war against Mordred go on?
“Alone at last, Arthur,” the familiar voice of his half-sister chimed. “It has been too long my brother.”
“Morgan,” Arthur whispered her childhood name as he drew his sword. Instantly the quillions stretched and morphed into talons that pierced the king’s hand. Man and sword were now one. Arthur turned with blade poised to strike. Excalibur met the Witchblade with a violent union.
“What welcome is this brother?” She demanded as she threw off Arthur’s sword.
“Why hide in darkness my sister? You steal through the night like a thief.”
“Ah dear brother, I bring tidings of your son Mordred … our son.”
Arthur winced. “Guards!” he called.
“They will not come…their evening drink was tainted.” She smiled, knowingly. “By now they should be foaming to their deaths.”
Resigned that aid would not come, the king asked “So what of Mordred? Has he decided to end this folly?”
“He is dead.”
“Dead?” Arthur asked. Startled, he withdrew Excalibur. “By who’s hand?”
“By your hand,” she hissed. “At least that is how history will recount it. It will be as legend will tell of your own death by Mordred’s very hand.” Morgana slashed her mark across the king’s chest. The gauntlet sliced through Arthur’s chain mail as if it were mere cloth and not metal. “It will be a touching tale. Son kills father… father kills son. They die reunited in each other’s arms. The balance re-established.”
Morgana drew the Witchblade back and plunged it deep into Arthur’s chest. “And you see it’s almost true,” she whispered in Arthur’s ear as he dropped to his knees. He clutched his bleeding chest, dropping Excalibur. “You killed your own son from the moment he was born. You killed him every time you denied his existence or his paternity. In the end it might as well have been your hand instead of his at the end of that dagger. The poison tipped dagger that was meant for you. In your death, my brother, justice is mine.”
Morgana sharply withdrew the Witchblade from the king’s chest as she watched him gasp. Blood gurgled up through his mouth and slowly seeped down from his nose and ears. The Witchblade returned to its bracelet form. Its eye darkened as several knights stormed into the tent to watch their king take his last breath. A new tale… a new story… a new history… all was rewritten in only a few moments at the dawn of a new day.
Ian gasped to catch his own breath and closed his eyes. His hand clutched the throbbing in his chest as he shook off the fog of his vision. At a distance he could barely hear the pawn shop owner talking. He looked down at the sword. No longer a polished blade, it had returned to its tarnished state. How much did the owner see? Ian wondered to himself. Did he see anything at all?
“Hey mister, you okay?” The pawn shop owner grabbed Ian’s shoulder. “You kind of zoned out there for a moment. Look if you don’t want the sword…”
Ian turned. “How much do you want for the sword?”
“Well for a sword of its obvious age…”
Ian scowled and unfolded a new bill in front of the owner. It was worth a hundred. The owner’s eyes danced. “I take it this will satisfy you?” Ian asked, knowing the true value of blade but also knowing the owner thought it nothing more than a worthless bit of rust.
“Nice doing business with you,” the owner quickly snatched the bill. “Come back again.” He called after Ian as the assassin turned to make a quick leave of the place.
Unlikely, Ian thought. Very unlikely.
Irons had some explaining to do, a lot of explaining to do. While Excalibur was an object of power it was no better than the Witchblade. Like the Witchblade it could abandon its wielder at the time of greatest need. Excalibur could not save King Arthur. What makes Irons think it could save him? Ian thought as he returned to the mansion. Clouds were beginning to roll in across the sky. Flashes of lightning electrified the air. A storm impended. And what makes him think that he can use it to obtain the Witchblade?
Ian entered the great room to find Irons reposed by the fire. “Did you get it?” Irons asked. His voice sounded weaker.
“Yes,” Ian replied taking his position with head lowered and hands behind his back. Excalibur was secured in a scabbard beneath his long coat.
“Let me see it,” Irons hissed. “Give it here.”
Ian withdrew the sword from the scabbard, grasping the hilt full in his hand. In one moment he was about to hand the blade to his master. In the next, the quillions were entwining his hand in long tendrils of metal. Ian’s eyes widened.
“Ian! Give me Excalibur!” Irons reached for the blade.
Almost in response, the tendrils thrust themselves into Ian’s hand. Pain surged up his arm as he felt them bore deeper into his flesh. Blood streamed from his hand as Excalibur continued to merge with him. “It won’t let me.”
“Ian, you must obey me. I am your father!”
“You may have created me but you’ve done nothing more than that…father.” Ian returned. Muddled thoughts of the past clouded his head, disorienting him. Arthur, Napoleon, Attila…all powerful leaders… different faces to different wielders of the same sword that could take on many forms. Excalibur was not another Witchblade.
“Ian,” Irons was now standing and slowly approaching the assassin. “Give me the sword …”
“I am unable,” Ian cleared his mind. He raised his arm to show the joining of the blade. “And I am unwilling.”
“Then I will make it so,” Irons said as he removed a small dagger from his breast pocket and lanced at Ian’s hand, making a fresh cut. “I will take the blade myself.”
Ian’s eyes flared, reflecting the flames in the fire. Blood dripped from his hand and landed on Irons’ forehead. Almost instantly Iron’s skin absorbed the fluid. His wrinkles began to fade. His posture straightened. His strength returned. “It seems a new line of wielder has emerged,” his voice was elegant. “It is too bad you are not longed for this destiny Ian. It is mine. Once again you overstep your bounds.”
Irons drew another sword and assumed a ‘pied ferme’ attack. He jumped out at Ian and began a fury of slashes. The first few were for show. The next few were more of a directed attack. Instinctively Ian defended himself. His movement was smooth and eased in contrast to Irons. Is it my own training, or the sword Excalibur, or a combination of the two? Ian wondered, drawing in Irons close and then fending him back.
With each step Irons’ aggression intensified. He swung towards Ian’s head but missed, landing the blade in the back of his chair. The next blow was deflected and sent a small side table into the fire place. The flames burst up the chimney from the added fuel. Ian jumped over one move and ducked below another. Almost in desperation, Irons attempted a ‘coule’ lunge at Ian. Irons drew the blade back and plunged it full force at Ian. Ian countered. He side-stepped the attack and struck down the sword out of Irons’ hand. “You lost your hand once,” he snarled holding Excalibur to Irons’ wrist. “You do not want to lose it again.” Ian then moved the blade to Irons’ throat. “Or something more,” he added.
“I yield,” Irons replied but Ian did not move.
“I know the truth behind the sword’s nature. It is not like the Witchblade. I have seen what happened to Arthur.” Ian stepped back away from Irons. “The Witchblade bested Excalibur. Arthur was slain by Morgan le Fay. The sword failed a great king. It will do the same to a lesser man.”
“Are you certain about this?” Irons pondered the thought for a brief moment.
“I saw it in a vision when I obtained the sword,” he tilted his head in a sideward glance at the now youthful Irons. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
Irons laughed. “And what do your eyes tell you?”
“The truth.”
“The truth?” Irons laughed mockingly. “My dear boy, there is no truth!” Turning towards his gallery of Witchblade paintings, Irons seemed almost oblivious to Ian’s presence. He carefully inspected each of his painting, almost scrutinizing every nuance. In a matter of fact tone, he continued. “Ian you are like the prince in Fowles’ Magus … asking the magician for answers, when there are no answers. At least there are no answers beyond the magic. For us there is only the magic of the Witchblade. The Witchblade is our truth.” Irons looked over his shoulder at Ian with an all-knowing glance. “On second thought Ian, you may keep Excalibur… at least for now. But do not think that you hold in your hand anything other than a toy sword. It is nothing more. It will not respond to your touch as it will to mine. Do not think anything else.”
Ian bowed his head but smiled beneath his downward gaze.
Once again Ian stood alone in the candlelight of his room, staring at his dark reflection in the mirror. Excalibur was nearby but not in hand. The tendrils had retracted from his hand shortly after he left Irons’ side. The scars remained. The internal voices were mostly gone… or mostly quieted. He now knew of his own adeptness. And anyone who found themselves face to face with his skills quickly learned of them as well. They often learned the hard way
Ian was still in Irons’ employ… but only in the form of personal security. With his unnatural return from the dead, Irons kept mostly to the mansion and out of sight. He never mentioned the repartee of swords. It was almost as though it never happened. Ian knew better than that. While not at the forefront of his mind, Excalibur was still Irons’ wildcard. He would not hesitate to try to use it, especially if it meant the opportunity for obtaining the Witchblade. Yet, Ian had little to do with that. He knew the Witchblade was on the right wrist. He was done with Irons plotting. He still chose to guard the Witchblade and watch over Sara… more now than ever. Ian’s loyalties were his own.
He was not his father.