The Hunt for Excalibur

25 Court’s War

When Sam arrived in Glasgow, he set his GPS to take him to Maverick Street. The morning was still relatively dark and sleepy. Traffic was lighter than in the week, which helped Sam make good time. Into Maverick, he noticed the long row of cars parked in the street, lining it with color on both sides because of the lacking parking space of the poor man’s buildings and houses. Slowly he cased the entire length of the street, looking for a blue house. He was fairly certain that there would be no courthouse in such a residential area.

The small blue house with the ivy screen appeared to his right. “Bingo,” Sam muttered, and doused his cigarette in the ashtray. He double-parked his truck in front of the house. It was alright, he reckoned. He was not planning to stay long. The place was dead quiet, while most other houses had some lights on. In fact, the door was slightly ajar when Sam came up the five steps to the front porch. His hand fell to his side, just to make sure his gun was strapped to him.

Inside there was movement, but no talking, which indicated that it was an intruder like himself. Either that or the two kidnappers were operating in silence. Sam entered the house with his gun pulled. Inside, his heart was pounding and his hands sweaty on the trigger, using the barrel to point the way through the house. Near the bathroom, Sam heard a commotion under the floor. It sounded like wild rummaging in the work light hanging from a rusty hook on the wall of the cellar-come- crawlspace, and Sam dropped softly to his knees to peer into the trapdoor.

As he did, he could hear the mad muttering and sobbing of a lone man, on his haunches, desperately trying to find something. His head and face were badly bruised and the bandages on his hands were bespeckled with old blood. Sam took aim at the man before clearing his throat to announce his presence. The man turned, facing Sam with tears streaming over his face.

“I cannae find it. I swear to Christ, this is where I put it. But it is gone. It is lost! We are all lost now! All for a fucking sword from a storybook!” the man raged. “Just go ahead and kill me, man! Just fucking do it, but you let my wife and daughter go! They did nothing!”

“Wait, wait,” Sam answered, holding up his hand in surrender, allowing the gun to swing from his finger. He could see that the frantic man was not a threat. “My name is Sam. I am just looking for Brian.” Sam hoped that the mention of the boy in his own house would establish some sort of trust with the man, and as usual, the seasoned journalist’s instincts were dead on.

“Who? Br-b… you know Brian?” the man gasped. He propelled himself forward to where Sam was lowering himself. “How do you know Brian? Is he alright? He is alive?”

“Aye,” Sam affirmed, dusting off his jeans.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you! Thank God!” he huffed, wiping tears and sweat from his face. “How do you know of him?”

“One of the teachers from his school is harboring him,” Sam said, keeping his voice calm and even. “I just thought they would be here.”

“No! Oh God, no. Do not let him come here!” the man warned. “They have a man here waiting for me to delve out the thing they want. How did he not see you? I thought you were him when you looked down through the hole.”

“No, I did not see him when I came in,” Sam assured him. “And you are?”

“Oh, Court. Court Callany,” he answered, and shook hands with Sam. A bell went off in Sam’s head. ‘Of course! The Court that Prof. Barry was speaking of!’

“What are you looking for?” Sam asked, while his other senses remained perked for any movement or sound up top.

“The bloody scourge of my existence,” Court moaned. “Listen, I need to tell you something, just in case they kill me… which they are going to if I do not give them what they want right now. They have my family, Sam. Until I give them an antique sword thing, a sheath, they will not let my family go, you make?”

“I make,” Sam agreed with Court. “What is Brian to you? Your grandson?”

“Aye,” Court said. “My boy. Jaysus, I am so glad he is alive. All this is my fault. I stole that sheath, along with some other stuff from this rich bloke called Hall.”

“What?” Sam gasped. “The guy who died during the robbery?”

“Aye. A mate who organized the raid… Paul Willard, he was killed during the robbery. Sam, I do not give a flying fuck how insane this sounds, but the sheath thing kept me from getting shot by the cops that night. That thing is… I dunno, magic or something. That is what I have to give them and I cannae find it!” he raved. “The men who abducted my family, they say it is the sheath that held Excalibur! Excalibur, the sword from King Arthur? That is what they are looking for!” Sam put his hand over Court’s mouth and pointed upward, gesturing the danger of being heard by shaking his head.

Sam whispered. “Court, your grandson had the scabbard. That is why you cannot find it.”

Court’s eyes stretched wide as his mouth fell open. “W-What?” he whispered. “Alright, so where is he? We have to find him.”

“Look, if they are actually hunting Excalibur, the why bother with the sheath at all?” Sam asked him.

From the hole in the trapdoor floor, a voice answered. “Because the Warkadur holds the way to Excalibur. Without it we could not find the sword. Of course, now, we have it. That makes you and your family expendable, Mr. Callany.”

By the look of raw horror in Court’s face, Sam reckoned that the man behind him was one of the kidnappers. He did not turn around; for fear that the man would see his weapon. Court shook like a reed at the confrontation, and Sam realized that the man had to be the one who gave Court his fresh scars.

Court’s tears wet his face again. “I guess that teacher did not protect my grandson well enough?” he whispered to Sam.

“Turn around, Mr. Cleave,” Yiannis ordered. “Or else I stab Court in the eye and skull-fuck him.”

Sam obeyed. There was little else he could do right now. He turned, looking straight down the blade of an enormous dagger, half the size of a machete. Sam recognized the weapon from ancient warfare.

“Jesus. A makhaira?” Sam whimpered at the sight. What he expected was a gun, but he figured that a gunshot would draw attention in this residential neighborhood. The huge man in front of him looked exactly as he had imagined. Recognizing Yiannis’ voice on the voice clip, Sam knew that he had Nina and Brian.

“You know me?” Sam asked.

“Yes, we know all of you. Friends of David Purdue are never under our radar,” Yiannis told him slowly, pinning Sam with his cold, black eyes.

Sam was not intimidated. “You do realize that you are not Aryan, right? Working for the Back Sun makes you a bit of a cretin,” he informed the Greek.

“Unlike the man I work for, I am not slave to some ideology, Mr. Cleave. I only work for him until my contract is up. Do you know what an enforcer is? Do you know what a condottiere is, Mr. Cleave?” Yiannis wanted to know, playing with the tip of the makhaira under Sam’s eye.

“A mercenary,” Sam answered swiftly.

Yiannis smirked. “I like you. You know your weapons. Maybe, when my contract is up, if you are still alive, maybe you or your friend Purdue can hire me to be your enforcer.”

“A master with a price is just a slave to money, mate,” Sam shrugged. His stone face did not show it, but he was terrified. The man’s forearm boasted tattoos of various Eastern European and Hellenic death squads — not a man to trifle with in close range.

“We are all slaves to something,” Yiannis replied. Sam knew that the only method of escape against a man like this would be misdirection or surprise. Yiannis pulled Sam’s gun from his belt and tucked it into his own. “On your knees,” he ordered both men.

“Whoah, you would have to buy me dinner first, pal,” Sam mocked him. As soon as Sam finished his sentence, Yiannis struck him with the back of the hilt, just hard enough to knock him down with a little bit of incentive. Sam yelped in agony as a bolt of pain shot through his skull.

“What is going on?” Court asked.

“Execution, Court,” Sam sighed.

“How can you be so calm?” Court raved.

“Because Mr. Cleave accepts his fate with grace, Callany,” Yiannis told the terrified mechanic. While he spoke, Sam bolted forward, off his knees and into a dive roll toward the wall where Court's light was hanging from the hook. With one movement, he ripped the cord from the fixture and blacked out the room instantly. It happened in less than three seconds, giving Court the opportunity to grab the assassin’s weapon.

Sam heard the struggle of the two men in the dark and followed the sound.

“Court, where are you?” he shouted.

“Hanging from my hand,” Yiannis laughed crudely in the blackness. He had Court in a grip, holding him up by his throat, choking the mechanic to death. The sound of the massive blade skewering Court’s body overpowered his cries of pain. Sam used the position they were in to optimize his attack and swept his leg low to dislodge the Greek’s knee joints with a sickening crack. Not even a scream came from the painful immobilization. Yiannis merely grunted and panted as Court fell into the moist much of the floor.

“Court! Court, can you hear me?” Sam barked, getting no answer.

“I can hear you just fine,” he heard Yiannis growl from another direction, and then the excruciating anguish of Sam’s leg being repeatedly stabbed. Once the assassin found Sam’s leg, he knew where to grab. With his free hand he locked on to Sam’s other leg and pulled him closer with one powerful tug.

“Fuck!” Sam spat furiously, kicking wildly at where he guessed the man’s face would be. He got in a few good shots, but it only seemed to spur Yiannis on. More blows came with horrendous pain as the blade kept splitting flesh, forcing Sam to resort to schoolyard tactics. He gathered a handful of muddy earth, full of concrete chunks from the broken floor, which he shoved hard into Yannis’ face and eyes.

It seemed to repel him somewhat, giving Sam just enough time to find the generator against the wall. Fumbling violently, he managed to find the cap of the tank. He unscrewed it and propped himself up on one leg, tilting the tank over in the darkness. Yiannis was snorting and puffing to get the debris out of his eyes and mouth, betraying his position just enough for Sam to douse him in petrol.

“No! No, Cleave! You will never know where we are keeping the women if you kill me!” Yiannis threatened when he smelled the accelerant.

Quickly, Sam delved into his pocket for his lighter. Without hesitation, he flicked the flame on and aimed. “That is the advantage of two enforcers, you see,” Sam wheezed. “We can get that info from your buddy just before we light him up too.” He sank to his haunches as the fire rushed toward the screaming threat and he used the human torch to light the way to Court’s bleeding body.

“I did it for my wife and the children,” Court mustered the words just barely.

“Take it easy. Save your breath. I am calling the ambulance,” Sam advised, but Court was rapidly bleeding out from the broken vessels and exposed organs.

“Listen,” he persisted with immense effort. “Tell them I was only a thief for one night. Okay? I only did it to give them a better life, and Brian… a scholarship at a dandy school and all.”

“I will tell them, mate,” Sam promised, feeling utterly helpless. “You go on now. I will make sure they know why.”

“Thanks mate,” Court pushed out. A little smirk formed on his face as life gave way to relief. Sam sank his head and rested it on the man’s still chest. There was no heartbeat inside the body, but the warmth attested to the mechanic’s recent departure and Sam found a slightly macabre peace in it.