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...
The junior constable blinked. "Sir, you only just got here. Don't you wanna investigate the crime scene? Check out the victims? You know, look for evidence and stuff?"
Senior Detective Barry Ronson gave the young man a pitying smile, envying his enthusiasm, if not his naivety. "Son, take a look around. We've got electrocuted stiffs, strangled stiffs, one with a walking stick through his guts, and another one who looks like he's been tortured. Not to mention the one with death by cutlery. In a frigging nursing home! And half of 'em are wearing robes. Robes! What the hell is that about? This is a sleepy town, constable, and I like it that way. You know how many murders I've had to investigate, in my thirty years here?"
"No, sir."
"Precisely zero, son. Now we got seven, in one day. This shit-storm is way above my pay-grade. Something seriously twisted went down here, and the sooner somebody else takes charge of it, the happier I'll be. Put up some police tape, don't touch anything, and call the feds, now."
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Thoroughly confused, George wiped the rain out his eyes, and looked down at the base of the trunk, on which he still stood. He jumped, as the knocking beneath his feet repeated itself.
"Hello? Wakey wakey, sunshine. Don't mind me, I'm happy to stay in here all day. NOT!"
Hurriedly, George clambered out of the trunk and warily backed away, watching the base as he did so. After a few seconds, it swung up, as if hinged at the back of the trunk, and light spilled out of the opening, bright in the gloom of the rainy night. Moments later a small, disheveled head emerged.
"Ah crap. You coulda told me it's raining." A diminutive body followed the head, as the newcomer clambered out. "Night-time, too. Black as Caroon Fa's armpit." Spotting George, he grinned and gave him a wink. "But a tad more fragrant, eh lad?"
"Whuh," said George. "I...um...huh?" He wiped his eyes again, wondering if he was hallucinating. The stranger was male, seemingly middle-aged, dressed in what appeared to be a somewhat worse-for-wear tuxedo, and was basically person-like in pretty much all respects, with the exception of one thing—his size. He looked to be all of about thirty centimetres tall.
The little man grimaced. "Ah great, he's an idiot. I shoulda stayed in bed. Although, I s'pose being an idiot don't mean you can't be the Blade."
Once again, old memories shifted in the depths of George's mind. "Wait, what's that about the Blade? How do you know that story? What the hell is going on? And, what are you?"
"What am I? You're a real charmer, ain't you? Offended, that's what I am. Wet, too."
George gave his head a shake, wondering how what had started out as a perfectly ordinary evening had finished up with him soggy, standing in a field, and apparently inadvertently insulting a miniature person, who lived in a trunk. "Sorry. Who are you?"
