Exams, no girlfriend, a cantankerous grandfather - George has it tough. And that's even before the assassins come for him, he discovers the magical sword stashed in the attic, and finds out he's responsible for saving a world he didn't even know ex...
Expression dispassionate, Vardun Ri looked down at the sprawled, lifeless figure at his feet. Although he was loathe to admit it, the old goat had impressed him. He hadn't breathed a word, despite taking enough punishment to kill half-a-dozen younger men.
In actual fact, it was the grey-headed bastard himself who had killed half-a-dozen younger men. Specifically, half-a-dozen of Vardun's men. The kettle-powered electric trap strung across the doorway had accounted for two of them, a precisely thrown fork to the eyeball had taken out another, the sharpened walking-stick through the entrails had nailed a fourth to the wall, and the old man had crushed the windpipes of two more in hand-to-hand combat, before finally being overwhelmed.
An admirable effort, but ultimately fruitless. Information gleaned from the dead could be patchy, and the process was undeniably tricky, but at least there was none of the annoying resistance that live prisoners so often displayed. From long experience, Vardun had found that nothing was quite so acquiescent as a corpse.
As he watched with detached interest, the necromancer placed the device on the dead man's chest, and the spider-like contraption stirred into life. Multiple tendrils emerged from its pitch-black carapace, lazily waving back and forth, as if testing the air. Then—slowly, remorselessly—several snaked their way into the nostrils, ears and mouth of the deceased old man, while the remainder did likewise with the necromancer.
The corpse twitched and shuddered in a sad parody of life, as the probes invaded deeper into the brain, tracing and recording the memories still held tenuously in the rapidly failing synapses, before transferring them to the mind of the necromancer. In a few minutes, the process was complete. The tendrils withdrew and, somewhat unsteadily, the dark mage got to his feet—the process was a taxing one.
Vardun raised an eyebrow at him. "Well?"
"The mind was old, great one, and the memories weak. And there was significant trauma from the, ah...the questioning."
Almost imperceptibly, Vardun leaned towards the necromancer. "Do you presume to question my methods?"
The mage took an involuntary step backwards. "No, my lord, of course not."
Vardun's smile was pure ice. "I'm delighted to hear it. I am of course aware of the importance of preserving the brain, and took great pains to do so. I suspect any trauma present was due to the multiple times the old fool head-butted my men, as they tried to overcome him. I'm sure I heard more than one nose break. In any case, there is no time for your excuses. Every moment we tarry here increases the chances of the boy and the Blade escaping. Do you have a location"—the smile disappeared, but the eyes remained glacial—"or do you not?"
The necromancer swallowed. "I do, my lord."
"Excellent. Then let us waste not a moment."
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George ran up to the attic. Common sense dictated that he should head straight to the nursing home, to find out what the hell was going on there, but he'd never really been one to let common sense get in his way. Plus, he'd promised Grandpa he'd look in the trunk, and while he'd be the first to admit to a more than healthy collection of character flaws, breaking promises to grandparents wasn't among them—common sense notwithstanding.
A quick check of the trunk, to make the old man happy, and then he'd head straight down to The Norville Cheery Haven for Seniors.
Solid and seemingly immovable, the trunk was right where it had always been, for as long as he could remember—lurking in the far back corner of the attic. Hiding spots didn't come much better, particularly as the spiders were an effective additional deterrent for any particularly arachnophobic seekers, or as they were sometimes otherwise known, sisters.
After snapping open the latches, he heaved up the lid and carefully perused the bare base of the trunk. There was no sign of a secret compartment, but then he supposed if there was, it wouldn't be all that secret.
Although his fingertips could just reach the back right-hand corner, he couldn't apply much pressure, or not enough to release any hidden latches, anyway. After a moment's hesitation, he gave up leaning and straining and simply climbed into the trunk, like he'd done so many times as a boy.
He pressed firmly on the back right-hand corner. Nothing. He pressed harder. Still nothing. He leaned down with all of his weight and felt the base move slightly, and give a gratifying click. He repeated the process. Another click. Holding his breath in anticipation, he pressed a third time. For a moment nothing happened.
After that moment, quite a few things happened.
There was a third click, this one louder and somehow weightier than those that had preceded it, followed by a mechanical whirring sound. By the time George realised that this was the sound of the lid closing, he was too late to do anything about it.
Plunged into darkness, he barely had time to comprehend his situation before the floor beneath him seemed to fall away, as if the trunk had been dropped off the edge of a cliff. Breathless with terror, he'd just managed to get enough air into his lungs for a really good yell, when abruptly the falling sensation stopped. The whirring noise repeated itself, and the trunk lid re-opened.
Which came as an intense relief to George, right up until he realised that he was being rained on. Figuring the attic roof must have somehow sprung a leak, he looked up.
No roof.
What the hell? He looked around the attic, in search of an answer.
No attic.
George stood up, and slowly spun around, blinking the rain out of his eyes. There was no sign of the attic, there was no sign of his house, in fact there was no sign of any buildings whatsoever, although being night-time, it was hard to see much of anything. As best he could tell, he appeared to be in some sort of field.
He tried to think of a logical explanation. He failed.
How much weirder can this night get?
He was startled from his contemplation by a sudden knocking sound from beneath his feet, followed by a muffled voice. "Hey, you up there! Move your fat arse!"
