Jack had often wondered exactly where the ridiculousness had begun. The Renaissance perhaps, when sculptures and paintings of naked people had gripped the minds of anyone who saw?

Nowadays, that kind of thing was considered ‘not safe for work’.

Or maybe at the birth of humanity, as a vaguely-coherent cloud of space dust managing to become haunted was the height of absurdity.

But it could even have been before that, born on the twin homeworlds of the Fae.

In any case, it was certainly before the time period Jack had landed in.

“I’m sorry,” he said, perplexed, “but did you just say you want me to jump over a candle to prove I’m not a demon.”

“Not just one candle,” said the farmer. “The whole lot.”

He rolled his eyes. “How’s that supposed to tell you I’m not a demon?”

“Don’t be stupid.” The farmer folded his arms, dirty shirt rustling. “Everyone knows that demons are incapable of jumping over an open flame.”

“Since when?!” Come to think of it, most answers to that question wouldn’t help. He didn’t even know what year it was.

“You could always ask.”

Nodding, he said, “what year is it?”

The farmer narrowed his eyes. “Coming here in the dead of night, wearing clothes I ain’t never seen before, asking stupid questions—all seems very demonic, if you ask me.”

That just made it worse!

Razor responded with silence and the vague feeling of reproachment.

“I didn’t ask you,” said Jack, pointing toward the flickering pricks of light. They seemed to wind around something, curving before they reached the larger light of the village. He could see its outline now. Small and compact, with a windmill rising from its centre.

“Just gotta jump over all them candles, right? Like a hurdle race—easy enough.” Stretching out his leg, he leaned back, warming up his muscles. If it got him to civilisation, he’d humour this idiot. It was too cold to argue.

The farmer pulled a wooden hourglass—around the size of a drinks can—from within his tunic. “You have two minutes. Ready, go!” He flipped it, sand trickling toward the bottom.

Jack gawked. There was at least a quarter of a mile between them and the village, not accounting for the curve. How was he supposed to do that?

“Only a demon could do that in two minutes, you moron!”

“One minute fifty-four.”

Growling in frustration, he took off at a sprint. The first candle was around ten feet in front of him, so with a running start he cleared it with ease. The next was another ten feet. They were all spaced the same, such that he didn’t need to break his stride while running. It was still slow going, though, and he found his guts in knots as he felt the limit approaching.

What would the farmer do to him if he failed?

He found a rhythm, and soon found the reason for the dirt path’s winding—it curved around a lake, water still in darkness and surrounding trees rustling in the breeze. There wasn’t much time to appreciate the greenery, though.

After a while, he hopped over the last candlestick, panting and sweating. He halted and bent over, hands on his knees.

It was lucky he hadn’t passed out.

“You barely made it,” said the farmer.

Leaping out of his skin, Jack looked up. Stood before him was the farmer, basking in the distant glow of lanterns, his face ominous in the shadows. He pointed out to the lake beside them.

Jack had thought the candles reached the village, but they didn’t. It still lay some distance away. He’d covered just over half with his sprint; it looked like the lake overlapped the hamlet, providing water for its residents.

“Time for your next challenge,” said the farmer.

“Who are you, R*chard H*mmond? You never said there was more than one!”

“Technically, he never said there was only one, either.”

Either say something useful or shut up!

An image popped into his mind of a woman sticking her tongue out.

“There are three trials in all,” said the farmer with a sage expression, “each more trying than the last.”

Jack licked his teeth. “Alright, whatever; just get on with it.”

“Swim to the other side of the lake and back.”

“Really?” said Jack, raising an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

The farmer nodded. “That’s it. If you’re a demon, the Lady of the Lake will drag you to the depths.”

Wait, what? Being dragged down didn’t concern him—being completely human, he didn’t have to worry. But the Lady of the Lake? That was an Arthurian legend, if he recalled, so that should put him somewhere in England.

Maybe time travel didn’t move one in space. Was he in ancient Blackpool? Probably not; there was no lake there in the future, and he couldn’t see the coast. Looking beyond the village, he saw hills that weren’t present in the future either, steep peaks too tall to be hills but too small to be mountains. Just black lumps in the night.

Whatever, he thought, stripping himself down. Even if the hurdles had warmed him up, he didn’t need to spend the rest of this freezing night sopping wet.

With a running start, he dived in. A tremendous splash broke the silence, the water surprisingly warm and pleasant against his skin. To his dismay, he discovered that Razor had somehow attached herself to his naked waist. He wasn’t even wearing underwear.

Paying it no mind, he started swimming.

Something grabbed his leg.

He thrashed, gurgling as the thing pulled him under. Water invaded his lungs, choking and retching and inhaling more liquid as he sunk further. No escape. The grip was like a vice.

His eyes rolled back into his head, and blackness surrounded his vision. He couldn’t see anything anyway, but this was different—like the dark itself was holding on to him.

This was it.

“You really are very dramatic.”

With a gasp, he inhaled, delicious oxygen filling him. This expelled the water, with predictable results.

He couldn’t even open his eyes as he coughed and hacked. Vomiting, he tried to blink away the tears, but more kept coming. Eventually, it subsided, and he slumped down. With a weak cough, he got his hands underneath him and struggled to his feet.

What the Hell was this place?

He stood on soil, but it was dry. In fact, there seemed to be a dome that kept the water at bay; the black depths still surrounded him. It was a large space, maybe thirty feet in diameter, filled with rocks and ferns and strange plants that looked like a cross between dandelions and daisies.

It smelled fresh and earthy, like spring blossoms and the explosion of nectar.

And sick. It also smelled like sick.

Wiping his mouth, he gaped. Sitting on one of the rocks—which was shaped like a miniature mesa—was a woman of ethereal beauty. She was translucent, and stars seemed to shift within her cosmic visage, giving the impression of a universe within her. Her colouring was entirely silver, and she gave off a glow even greater than a sun. Perhaps as bright as a car’s high beams.

When he looked at her, Jack felt safe. Like nothing could ever hurt him again.

“Good morning,” she said, her smile warmer than hugging a radiator. “I have been waiting for you.”

Heat rose to his cheeks, and he scratched his nose, chuckling. “Is, uh… is that so?”

“That is right,” said the Lady, sliding off her rock and striding over to him. She was a little taller than he was, and slender. “A righteous heart, dedicated to protecting others. It can only be you.”

His jaw went slack. Wait a second… he thought. The Lady of the Lake has been waiting for me? This is starting to stink.

She held out her hands, and they shimmered, forming into the shape of a greatsword. It was ornate, with complex carvings along the blade and a ruby set into the pommel, beneath a rectangular crossguard.

“This is the sword Caliburn,” she said. “And it is now yours.”

He drew Razor, holding her hilt-first toward the Lady. “Sounds good; wanna swap?”

His muscles tensed and his bones jolted. Electricity coursed through him, making him shudder as he collapsed to the lakebed.

Rising, he dusted off his shoulders. Was that smoke?

“Serves you right.” She sounded smug.

Gripping the tip in one hand and the hilt in the other, he placed his knee in the centre of the blade and pushed.

“Sorry,” he said. “Give me a sec—she’s a stubborn one. Possessive, too.”

“Do you forget I’m in your head? I could break you in a heartbeat.”

“Caliburn will cleanse you of your curse,” said the Lady. “Please, take it.”

He narrowed his eyes, pausing his attempts to snap Razor. “What’s the catch? There’s always a catch.”

“Not a catch, but a boon. Possessing this sword makes you the rightful king of all Britannia.”

Sheathing his sword, Jack gave her a flat stare. “Well, it was nice meeting you. I’d like to go back to the surface now, please.”

She faltered, mouth opening and closing. “But… but it is the dream of all men to become king!”

“Not this one.” He puffed his chest. “I can’t be doing with that kinda responsibility—I can’t even pay my rent on time!”

“You shouldn’t sound so proud.” Razor’s voice changed into something low and dangerous and seductive. “But I can be: well done for making the right choice, master.”

The way she said it sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn’t her master at all. He just happened to have the privilege of swinging her.

“But… you must!” said the Lady, face fraught as her arms went limp. “This kingdom needs—”

“Just wait for some guy called Arthur,” said Jack. “Besides that, who do you think you are? Some watery tart handing out swords is no basis for a system of government!”

Her face dropped. “What did you just call me?”

The next thing he knew, he was flying. A current charged him, heightening his senses and forcing a grin across his cheeks. It didn’t last long, though, and he thumped into the ground next to the farmer’s feet, bruised and shivering. Pain flared in his ribs.

“She didn’t like me,” he panted.

“But you’re alive,” said the farmer, striding past him. “Follow me for your third trial.”

Jack scampered after him, fatigue dragging at him as he danced around trying to put his clothes back on. “Haven’t I already proved my humanity?”

Glancing back, the farmer said, “you can never be too sure.”

Something flamed in Jack’s chest, but he ignored it. He needed to get into the village, at least until he got his bearings.

The farmer led him around the bank to the other side, where a copse of oak trees as tall as a skyscraper and as thick as a swimmer’s calves rose into the night. It smelled of wildlife and honey, the sound of insects buzzing around him.

“You must duel the village guardian,” said the farmer, tapping on a tree. They were in the middle of the copse.

Jack sighed. “I don’t even care anymore; just show me.”

“Very well.” The farmer rounded the tree, and Jack followed, gawking when he reached the other side.

Leaning against the rough bark was a bear. It bore only a passing resemblance to the modern creatures—being short, fat, and yellow—with a placid expression and no claws or fangs. With a sigh, the creature dipped a paw into a clay jar of honey, raising it to its mouth and guzzling it.

“This is our village guardian,” said the farmer, “Winnie the—”

“Like hell!”