The Blade

Chapter 6

In the echoing silence that followed the scream, time slowed to a crawl, and George's heart felt as though it had stopped altogether. Dully, he registered the sound of the Blade hitting the floor, but only on some remote distant level, separate from the plane of existence he seemed to be inhabiting. He stood frozen, for a moment that felt like eternity.

Until, in a sudden rush, reality clicked back into focus, his heart began to race, and he found that he could breathe again.

Frantic, he scrabbled for the sword, snatching it up and sprinting for the hatchway, arriving just as the top half of a dark-clad stranger emerged from it. Shocked, he skidded to a halt.

The newcomer, dressed in some sort of black leather armour, gave George an appraising look, before climbing the rest of the way into the attic.  Grinning, he slammed the hatchway cover closed and drew a sword from the scabbard slung low on his waist.

"There ya are, ya little shit. And yer got the Blade. Good lad, ya saved me the trouble a lookin' for it.  Give it 'ere, or I'll spill yer guts."

George held the Blade defensively in front of himself. "Wh-who are you?"

The stranger's grin became avaricious. "I'm the man what's gonna get a tasty reward for findin' the Blade. Not to mention choppin' ya head off. Now, give it 'ere, ya little bastard."

George stepped back, as the henchman advanced. "Why would I give you the sword, if you're going to chop my head off anyway?"

"'Cause I'll chop some other bits off first, if ya don't. Hand it over, and I'll make it quick."

Over the entirety of his life, George had been in a grand total of two fights, neither of which he had instigated, and both of which he had lost—comprehensively.  He'd chosen to believe this was because he must be a lover rather than a fighter, but in the unfortunate absence of any actual evidence, this was currently only a working theory.

In any case, he had long since decided to restrict his fighting to virtual worlds, rather than the real one.

But now it seemed it was time to revisit that decision. He was going to have a hard time saving his mother with key bits of his anatomy chopped off, so it he was going to have to try for third time lucky. Steeling himself, he swallowed, and raised the Blade a little higher.

"You want this? Come and get it."

The handler had to raise his voice to be heard over the baying of his dogs.  "There's a definite scent-trail, but it ends here.  It's like they just disappeared."

The federal agent considered this.  They were standing in the street, half a block or so from the nursing home, and he was becoming conscious of the scrutiny of some of the local residents, peeking through their windows at the commotion disturbing their neighbourhood's normally peaceful evening.  "Can you quiet those dogs down?"

"Usually, yeah.  But whatever they smelt, it's driving 'em crazy.  They want it, bad."

"Any ideas as to what it could be?"

"Not really, but I'm  guessing some kind of animal.  They wouldn't generally go this nuts over a person."

The agent shook his head.  "An animal?  Great, that's all we need.  So, what's the deal when the dogs lose a scent?"

"Well, all we can really do is cast around the area and try to pick it up again."

"Right, do it.  Check out the surrounding few blocks, and see what you can find.  But try to do it quietly."

As the henchman approached, it was rapidly dawning on George that despite the countless hours he had spent battling ninjas, the numberless dragons he had slain and the millions of villains he had sliced and diced, he didn't actually have the first clue as to how to fight with a sword.  Not with a real one, anyway.  He felt like this was going to be a problem, particularly as the man in black was handling his weapon in a way that suggested he knew exactly what to do with it.

Fortunately for George, he was now equipped with a weapon that was finely tuned to respond to whatever it was his brain and his muscles wanted it to do.  And as his opponent lunged at his midriff, what he very badly wanted it to do was stop him from being skewered, like a pig on a spit.

And it did.  Clumsily, and with a complete lack of anything resembling style, but it did.  Undeterred, his opponent swung for George's head, but again he managed to bring the Blade up in time to deflect the blow away, staggering as he did so.

The stranger laughed.  "Who taught yer to fight, boy?  Me granny swings a sword better'n you." Smiling, he leapt to the attack again, but after being repulsed another half-dozen times, the smile faded.  He paused, breathing deeply.  "Yer takin' beginner's luck a tad too far, yer slippery little bastard."

Far from being encouraged by his survival, George was finding the whole business of having somebody trying to kill him to death seriously traumatic.  In games, he'd died more times than he cared to remember, but he was horribly aware that if he slipped up now, he wouldn't be respawning anytime soon.  The raw brutality of it all was shocking—this person wanted to kill him, was enthusiastically trying to do so, and nobody was trying to stop him.  All that stood between George and a horrible, bloody death was a sword he didn't know how to use and his own obviously limited skills.  He badly needed this fight to be over, otherwise he suspected he was going to throw up.

Having caught his breath, the henchman launched a new attack, a lusty two-handed swing, which the Blade only just managed to parry, the blow coming within a hair's breadth of George's ribs.  Thrown off-balance by the force of his attack, the black-clad man staggered, momentarily unsteady and vulnerable.  Sensing the opportunity, George attacked for the first time, but as the razor-sharp edge of his sword arced downwards his opponent's neck, he realised at the very last moment that he had no desire to kill anybody, even if they were trying to kill him.

He twisted his wrist, and true to his wishes, the edge of the Blade turned away, the flat of the weapon slapping hard onto the bare skin, with an enormous, meaty THWACK!

"OW!" Dropping his sword, the henchman clutched his neck and began howling in pain, hopping around ludicrously.  "Ow, ow, ow, ow, owwww!"

George blinked in surprise, but after a moment's hesitation, stepped in to press home his advantage.  Once again using the flat of the Blade, he swung it as hard as he could into his foe's stomach, and when he doubled over in renewed pain, smashed him over the back of the head, hoping to knock him unconscious.

No such luck.  The henchman fell down, but only yelled all the louder, as he tried to crawl away.  "Ow, ow ow!  Ooooh, me head, oooh, me guts!  Owwww!  Stop it, stop it, no more!  Owww!"

Nonplussed, George stood and watched, uncertain as to what to do next.

Lob cleared his throat.  "Er, lad?  Mind if I give you a tip or two?  You're s'posed to use the sharp bits.  Or the pointy bit.  That's a good bit, too."