F3 The Enchanted Sword

     That was definitely a sword in a rock. Back home it was straight out of King Arthur. Here, there was one in every village and kingdom. They were all variations on a chosen hero. Some of the stones lay forgotten in forests. Others rested in places of prominence. Still more were in ruins or guarded by fierce creatures designed to test the bravery.

     The particular town I was in today had there's in the city square, and this happened to be a festival day where every would-be hero would test his mettle by trying to draw the sword.
     Every young buck walked proudly up to the sword, grasped the hilt, and heaved, only to have the sword remain static. The line of people extended back nearly to the edge of the village. The baker's daughter, Miriam, handed me a sweet roll as I watched.
     "Are you not going to try?" she smiled at me. "You could be the hero."
     That was all the incentive I needed not to try. A lot of trouble with being a prophesied hero. I'd stick with my gig. "I already tried. Years ago." The lie was easy. She would be too young to accurately remember I've never been here before.
     "Still, the sword might yield to you this time."
     "Maybe. I'll let everyone else try, first."
     I paid for the roll, and walked to the town fountain, sitting down on the coping. I didn't want to tell her, but no one in this village would be able to pull the sword. I pulled out the leather-bound chronicle of the village, which had a different prophecy than the plaque on the stone.
     Enchanted swords. Nothing but trouble.