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Obsidian Fire: Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood
Obsidian Fire: Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood
Obsidian Fire: Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood
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Obsidian Fire: Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood

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“Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood” is the second part of the twelve-part “Obsidian Fire” serial, a superhero style adventure that is heavily inspired (admittedly on the verge of plagiarism at times) by the Arthurian legend of the Sword in the Stone.

The saga is told almost entirely from the point of view of a reluctant sidekick, who must watch as somebody else gets thrust into the role of the hero. Together, the two join forces with the members of an ancient Brotherhood to battle a threat the likes of which the world hasn’t seen since medieval times.

The second episode picks up where the first one left off, with Dirk trying to convince the reluctant head of the Obsidian Brotherhood that he is worthy of the Flaming Sword that he initially rejected. But, the Grand Master isn’t the only one trying to keep the Sword away from the new Flaming Knight. Forces nobody quite understands are determined to take the mystical blade away from Dirk before he even figures out how to use it, and they just might succeed.

For his part, Mark is feeling a little overwhelmed and learning the full meaning of the term “be careful what you wish for”. Unable to go back to the life they’d left behind before going to Scotland to seek out the Sword, Mark and Dirk have no choice but to rely on the mysterious ancient Brotherhood that, even as it reveals some of its secrets, is no easier to trust, let alone understand.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 7, 2015
ISBN9781928015017
Obsidian Fire: Revelations of a Secret Brotherhood
Author

Dwayne R. James

Writer and watercolour artist Dwayne James lives outside of Lakefield, Ontario where he writes and paints as often as he can, that is when he's not spending time with his very forgiving family.Dwayne studied archaeology in University, and as a result learned how to write creatively. "The most important skill I learned in University," he says, "was the ability to pretentiously write about myself in the third person."With no formal art training, Dwayne has always preferred the self-guided, experimental approach. In fact, he taught himself how to illustrate archaeological artifacts while completing his Master's degree at Trent University. Said his thesis supervisor at the time: "There might not be much in the way of coherent theoretical content in Dwayne's thesis, but damn, it looks pretty!"After spending close to a decade as a technical communicator at IBM, Dwayne opted to look at their Jan 2009 decision to downsize him as an opportunity to become a stay-at-home Dad for his young twins, and pursue his painting and creative writing whenever they allow him to do so. It is a decision that continues to make him giggle with wild abandon to this very day.

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    Book preview

    Obsidian Fire - Dwayne R. James

    OBSIDIAN FIRE

    BOOK TWO:

    REVELATIONS

    of a

    SECRET BROTHERHOOD

    by

    DWAYNE R. JAMES

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright 2015 by Dwayne R. James

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    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 my friend Henry V.

    Who taught me that things are not always as I assume them to be.

    Especially when it comes to the difference between the active and passive voice.

    Table of Contents

    Prelude

    Into the Lion’s Den

    Homecoming

    A Brother’s Secret Revealed

    Home Sweet Home

    A Cold Shower

    Also by Dwayne R. James

    About the Author

    PRELUDE

    May 1933, a tiny island somewhere off the coast of Scotland

    The fog on the Hebrides that morning was as thick as the old man had ever seen it. Maybe thicker.

    Still, he wasn’t here to stare at fog. Although, ironically, he wasn’t able to stare at much of anything, at least not anymore. The ceremony was over already, pretty much as soon as it had begun.

    If the group gathered that morning on the western rocks of the island were hoping for a long and dramatic exit of the Flaming Knight’s funeral boat, they had been quickly disappointed. The boat had disappeared so suddenly into the whiteness that, for a moment, the old man was sure it had been swallowed by one of the Sword’s damned portals.

    The old man closed his eyes and, turning his head slightly, cocked his ear. Being blind at sea wasn’t anything unusual for him. He’d spent his youth on a fishing boat, where his father had taught him how to rely on his other senses whenever his sight was impaired—whether by the dark, or by thick fog like this one. It was a skill he had never forgotten, even if he hadn’t consciously used it in years.

    Sure enough, with no other noises to offer up anything in the way of a competition, it didn’t take long for the old man to zero in on his target. Somewhere relatively close by, he could hear the wooden planks of the tiny boat creaking, as well as the sound of water as it slipped almost grudgingly along her hull. He estimated that it was moving away steadily to the north-west at a vigorous clip, so vigorous that it wouldn’t be long now until it was beyond even his ability to perceive.

    Taking a deep breath, the old man held it for a moment before letting it out slowly through his nose. He couldn’t help but be relieved that the funeral boat hadn’t actually disappeared magically; he didn’t think that he could handle another inexplicable mystery right now.

    Like, just what was that small room, and how was it possible to have seen what I did there?

    Opening his eyes again, the man stared out into the swirling mists that danced on the still salt water. He was standing alone on top of a large flat rock at the edge of the cobblestone beach where the rest of the mourners had gathered. Mercifully, they had all left him alone; no one had even so much as looked at him on his perch during the ceremony. Like him, they too peered out into the fog. Like him, they seemed taken aback that it was over so quickly. Still, they persisted though. Still, they plied the gloom.

    After a time, the old man began to feel uneasy. He couldn’t help but feel that the whole scene seemed a little too familiar, eerily so.

    He smiled grimly when the reason finally dawned on him.

    A boat being sent off into the mists carrying a Knight who once wielded a mystical Sword, he thought. The whole thing is unapologetically Arthurian.

    His smile receded.

    Yet, just how much like the Arthurian legend is it?

    Is Gilmat—like Arthur—predestined to return in the future when the need is greatest?

    There was movement on the beach at long last. The group gathered there had finally begun to disperse, all with the exception of four mourners: a gaunt middle-aged man, and three, almost identical-looking, young men. Unperturbed by the mass exodus taking place all around them, the four were holding on, peering resolutely out into the fog, presumably hoping for one last look at the former Flaming Knight.

    From the top of his rock, the old man watched the stubborn hangers-on with a quiet detachment.

    Mr. Harburn’s not happy, Grand Master, said a voice behind him and to his left that he knew instinctively belonged to Fitch. It didn’t come as a surprise, as the old man had first heard the sounds of his assistant approaching a full minute earlier, his identity made obvious by the tapping sound that the crutch had made on the uneven rocks as he hobbled over them.

    He’s getting around remarkably well considering the shape he was in just a week ago.

    The Grand Master responded to his assistant, even as his eyes remained fixed on the subject of their conversation on the beach below them. Would you be? he said. Can’t say as I blame him.

    Harburn’s even more skeletal than he was the last time I saw him. But, although he’s shaking, and letting his sons support him, he’s not crying. His damnable British pride is too strong to let him show that much weakness in front of others.

    Are you going to talk to him? asked Fitch as he came to a stop just off the old man’s right shoulder.

    What do I tell him when I don’t even know what happened myself? He never wanted this. It was supposed to be his firstborn, not the youngest. Not… well, the Sword had other ideas didn’t it?

    The old man grunted, making it clear that it was the only answer he was willing to give. Fitch seemed to comprehend it anyhow. I don’t blame you, the younger man offered, which only left the Grand Master wondering if the aide had really and truly understood what had not actually been said.

    The assistant continued unabated. His youngest son… ah, William… has asked to join the Brotherhood. The father disapproves naturally, but I don’t think it will deter the young man.

    Beneath them, the three sons were trying to pull the older, frailer man away from the water, but he was fiercely, and quite successfully, resisting their efforts.

    Fitch observed, Determination that borders on obstinance runs in that family.

    Heh. Although the Grand Master’s wry laugh had been internal, his body had acted it out anyhow, with a shrug of his shoulders that was obvious enough that Fitch noticed it.

    Obstinate, the old man thought. That’s what she always called me.

    "Obstinate and arrogant."

    Had she been right though? Could I have caused all of this by stubbornly refusing to listen to others? By not listening to her when she…

    When will you, ah, be returning the Sword to the cave wall? asked Fitch, unaware that he’d interrupted his Master’s internal dialogue.

    Next month, answered the old man straightaway, almost as if he had anticipated the question.

    Fitch opened his mouth to ask a follow up, but apparently thought better of it, because he closed it again almost immediately without uttering a sound.

    He thinks I’m unwilling to let go. That I’m delaying it.

    The old man grunted.

    He might be right. It’s not as if the Sword will come to life for me any more out of the wall than in it.

    I’m tired, the Grand Master added finally by way of explanation. I need time to build up my strength. It’s not an easy ceremony, and it’s one I’ve only ever performed once before.

    Fitch nodded and spoke haltingly, It’s just that. Well, we’ve already delayed this ceremony because you wanted more time with the body, although I’ll never understand why.

    I was looking for answers. Understandably, it wasn’t something the old man liked thinking about, and instinctively, his hand found the tiny leather pouch, newly hanging from a cord around his neck. His autopsy was extraordinarily thorough—exhaustively so—but there had been a good reason for it: he had needed to know what the Knight had been trying to tell him before dying.

    What did you find anyhow? Fitch asked innocently enough.

    The old man hesitated, not knowing what to tell his most trusted assistant, a man who had become one of his closest friends over the years. Could even he know the truth? That I still don’t really know what to think about what I found during the autopsy, let alone how it got there, and what it all says about our future.

    Without realizing it, the Grand Master had begun the grip the satchel so tightly that his knuckles had begun to turn white, and he could feel the extra weight on the cord around his neck.

    If only these damned things could talk, he thought as he let go of the leather bag. I wouldn’t have to do so much guessing.

    Finally, he answered Fitch: Nothing unusual.

    Fitch stared at his Grand Master in a way that made the old man feel as if Fitch knew he was lying, but mercifully, the assistant didn’t push the issue any farther, and began instead to talk about the menial responsibilities involved in housing and feeding so many extra guests in Castle Redstone.

    Beneath them, the sons had finally succeeded in pulling their father away from the water’s edge, and were now practically dragging him up the cobblestone beach in the direction of the castle.

    Shall we go back as well? asked the assistant.

    You go ahead Fitch, the old man answered I need to be alone for a while longer.

    Fitch acquiesced, and limped off in the direction of the castle, eventually meeting up with the Harburn men so that they could walk together. The old man watched them for a time, before eventually moving off in the opposite direction, finally stopping to stand beside an ancient looking fishing boat that was sitting under a covered shelter on the very top of the bluff that looked down onto the island’s tiny harbour.

    Hello Father, the old man said.

    This aged wooden boat, long-ago built by his father, was the only thing he had left from the man. He liked to imagine that his father still roamed the decks, there to offer a word of advice when he needed it, or to tell him that life and fishing were perfect metaphors for each other, and all you needed to know about one could be learned by studying the other.

    As he stroked the well-worn surface of the old wooden boat affectionately, he surveyed the handful of ships moored below him at the wharf, and then turned to look up at Castle Redstone where—even now—the recent damage to the walls was being repaired.

    In the ramshackle village nestled in the shadows of those walls, there was more activity than he’d seen in years, even though the buildings in the ancient hamlet were old and decaying, and those that hadn’t been destroyed in the attack were falling down of their own accord. It hadn’t made much sense to fix them up before, when nobody outside of a handful of people centered on this island had even known about the Brotherhood, let alone the mystical Flaming Sword that they had been protecting here since medieval times.

    But now…

    Now, the Obsidian Brotherhood was no longer a secret, thanks to the super heroic actions of the Flaming Knight. Membership had swelled, and there were more followers now than ever before—and in more countries around the world too. At last count, Fitch had estimated their numbers globally to be somewhere just north of five thousand.

    Impressive.

    But not enough for Gilmat’s final charge to me, and not nearly enough women for that matter either, but it’s a start.

    And here I was contemplating stepping down and finding a replacement…

    The Grand Master of the Obsidian Brotherhood narrowed his eyes as he scanned the area in deep thought, and then, quite unexpectedly, he actually laughed for the first time in weeks.

    Yes, he declared as an idea struck him. That just might work.

    back to top

    CHAPTER 4

    Into the Lion's Den

    Aaron's voice may have been muted by the thick wooden door that separated him from us, but I could still hear it well enough. Mostly because it was even now overexerting itself, as it struggled to be heard over the only other voice in the room, the one belonging to the Grand Master.

    Please Atticus, the young monk implored loudly. Be reasonable!

    Atticus! I repeated the name internally, and with more than a little relish. So, the Grand Master does have

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