Bloody drizzling again. John Croft looked up at the grey slab of sky.
âBollocks, Iâll be bloody soaked by lunch, he muttered.
He fetched his spade from the back of the van. Grimsditch council decided the Arch Road sidings needed clearing. Who was he to argue? Heâd worked the Road Crew for years. Twenty years. But fuck it, crack on.
âOi! John! Wait for the digger, yer daft bugger!
Cliff Barnes. The foreman. Proper lazy bastard. Didnât work a spade or anything else if he could help it.
âItâs fine mate, too narrow here, innit? Iâll make a start.
Cliff nodded and jumped back in the van. He wasnât planning to help. Terry, the other member of the crew stayed in the van as well. John sighed. Normal form. Working the wet soil on his own wouldnât be too bad. Once he broke the top layer. Digging it out to stop the road flooding felt like good work.
He drove his spade into the earth. It sunk in. He drove again, forming a clod. He lifted it out into the coned off area. The digger driver would scoop it up later.
He stopped.
The smell. It crawled into his nostrils, pungent and not the smell of damp earth. He drove his spade in again. Lifted out another clod of earth. Starting to form a channel along the side of the road.
The smell got stronger.
âWhat the fuck? John muttered.
It smelled rotten. Like decaying rubbish, or worse. He placed his spade and stood on the tread. Only letting the spade sink so far. He heaved out another clod of earth and choked. The smell attacked his nostrils. A foul stench like stagnant water or dead animals. Could be both.
John pulled the collar up on his jacket to cover his nose. Then moved along to start extending the channel he was digging. He drove the spade into again. And once more, pulling up another clod of earth. The smell, foul and putrid, lingered.
His next drive into the earth with his spade resulted in a loud metallic clang.
âBugger. Somethinâ in here, he muttered.
John walked over to the van and tapped the window.
âWe alright to dig this out? No services along here?
Cliff looked through paperwork in his zipped case.
âNah, mate, all good. Why?
âIt fucking stinks and Iâve hit something.
âTold yer to wait for the digger.
John waved a dismissive hand and went back to the channel Heâd dug. Using his spade, he continued to dig around the object buried in the earth. He had to get it out. It was More important than the roadside trench.
Yes, one more careful earth removal. He nodded to himself. Easing first away from the object. He saw it. A gleam. Something shiny. He dug and scraped like his life depended on it.
The first part of the object appeared in the mud. A shell guard. He scraped away more. Wrenching at the clay soil to oppose more of the⊠sword. He smiled to himself. Heâd dug up a sword. But this thing looked old. And valuable.
The sword had a slight curve in the blade. It looked razor sharp. John reckoned it was around 26 inches long. The shell guard⊠it had markings, something written in an ancient script. John stared at it for a moment. What a brilliant find.
He glanced back at the van. The lazy bastards called his crew were sitting inside drinking tea. No way would he share the find with them. No chance. The sword was his. The grip looked bound in something old. There were cracks in it, but still attached. He picked up the sword by the grip.
And it burned.
Pain shot through his hand. Up his arm. Fire flooding through his flesh. Under his flesh. The hilt glowed, bright and the guard shone like silver. He tried to drop the sword. But it wouldnât let go.
That was it. As though the sword gripped onto him.
He couldnât drop it. No matter how hard he tried. A loud yelp erupted from him and he twisted around, trying to shake the sword loose.
The burning stopped.
In an instance. The hilt stopped glowing. The pommel still had a slight red glow. John stared at the wicked blade. An idea, a diabolical one, formed in his mind. Yeah, those lazy good-for-nothings in the crew. Always leaving him to do the work.
He could fix them.
Easy.
The sword. It told him he could. Made sense. It was ancient, there was no doubt about that. John knew, he didnât know how, but he knew it was from the time of the Civil War.
âHa! Fool. I know because the sword told me, he said out loud.
He looked back at the van. Cliff had spotted him. He was staring at him, pointing at the sword. John held the grip tighter. It was his. He strode towards the van as Cliff slid out from the driverâs seat.
âWhat yer found there, mateâ
He got no further. The sword swung, John knew his arm was doing it. But he wasnât in control. But his anger burned.
The blade struck Cliff on the neck and sunk in breaking the surface of his flesh. Piercing the subcutaneous fat below.
A pink mist of blood hit the air.
John sidestepped to avoid the mist. But blood sprayed up his arm anyway. He didnât care. The sword led him to the passenger side. Terry, another lazy bastard, leapt out and tried to run. John moved. At a speed he didnât know he had.
Another sweeping arc with the sword.
It cut deep into the back of Terryâs head. A huge gash opened up. Bright crimson blood shot out covering the front of Johnâs jacket. He didnât care about that either. John stabbed again. The point of the blade went in deep to Terryâs side. He had to yank hard on the sword to pull it back out.
The blade split Terryâs liver like it was stiff gelatin. There was a loud, wet sucking noise. The hemorrhaging was instantaneous, heavy, and dark venous maroon. Internal blood pressure dropped in Terryâs body. he turned grey, went limp and fell in a heap. Blood pooling under his body.
The pommel glowed bright on the sword. John smiled a twisted malevolent smile.
He turned away from the van. And starting walking towards the woods.
