The Blade

Chapter 15

As the last of the morning fog dissipated, brilliant sunlight shone down upon an imposing figure, resplendent in full battle-dress.  From the tip of his gleaming war-helm to the soles of his  armoured sabatons, he was every inch the warrior, a formidable fighter sure to strike terror into the heart of any foe foolhardy enough to stand in his way.

Regally, the figure surveyed the gently sloping hillside laid out before him, his manner sure and his bearing noble.  Purposefully, confidently, seemingly ready to surmount any obstacle, he strode forward.

And tripped over his sword, fell flat on his face, and discovered that his armour was too heavy for him to get back up.

Grinning cheerfully, Grandpa watched George flailing away in the dirt.  "I told you not to wear all that crap.  When I said to pick some clothes out of the dressing room, I meant some britches and a shirt, boy, not the whole King Arthur ensemble.  We need to blend in, not look like we're going to a bloody fancy-dress party."

Grunting with the effort, George managed to flip himself onto his back.  "I still don't know what was wrong with what I had on."

"They don't have T-shirts in Volanda, Georgie.  Particularly not Rick and Morty ones.  We need to stay under the radar for as long as possible.  Not that they have radar here, either."

George sighed.  "Fine.  So I guess I'm not ready for the Round Table.  Help me up and I'll go and change."

With some difficulty, and significant effort on both their parts, Grandpa eventually got George back on his feet.   "Go and pick out something simple, boy," he panted.  "And light.  And be quick about it, I'm expecting that freeloading gnome back before too long."

"Back?" queried George.  "Back from where?"

"I sent him to find us some transport.  I'll be buggered if I'm walking all the way to Noho."

"Noho?"

Grandpa pointed.  They were standing in a relatively level clearing, on the side of a hill, with forested slopes stretching out both above and below them.  The direction indicated by Grandpa was down the slope, and far off in the distance, George could just make out the grey smudge of a large town.

"That's it over there," said Grandpa.  "Biggest city in Volanda, so that's where Vardun's sure to be, the great knob.  I'm sure Mr High and Mighty wouldn't set up shop anywhere else.  Didn't like it, myself.  That's why I built my house up here."

George looked around, seeing nothing but grass.  "Um, where?"

"Here, boy.  Don't you listen?  Course, I burnt it down, when I left.  Didn't want to give myself any reason to come back.  And yet, here I am.  Huh, it's a funny old thing, life.  Not to mention, a right bastard."

Thoroughly intrigued, George wanted to ask more about Grandpa's Volandan life, but seeing the look on the old man's face, he felt that perhaps it wasn't the time.  He decided to try a safer topic.  "How is Lob supposed to find us some transport when he hasn't even been here for thirty-seven years?"

"Georgie, gnomes may be lying, thieving, untrustworthy so-and-sos, but they're resourceful little bastards as well.  He'll find something."

"Why is he even helping us?  I mean, you did lock him in a box for a hell of a long time.  I thought he'd take off as soon as we got here."

"Who knows how a gnome thinks, Georgie?  Maybe he doesn't think he's got any better options.  Maybe he thinks the trunk is his home now.  Or maybe he's taken a shine to you.  The Blade has that effect on people.  And little pain-in-the-arse gnomes, as well."

George nodded, thoughtfully.  "I guess that makes sense.  If you looked after a legendary weapon for years and years, I s'pose you'd become pretty attached to it."

"I'm not talking about the sword, Georgie.  I'm talking about you.  You're of my line, a direct descendant of Olifat.  Which gives you the right—the power—to wield the Blade.  Oh, any idiot can wave it about and stick it into things, but to access its divine properties, to untap its full arse-kicking potential, you need the right DNA.  Celestial DNA.  DNA that you have.  Didn't realise you were a little bit god, did you?"

George found it hard to imagine anybody less god-like than himself, but now didn't really seem the time to say so.  He thought for a moment.  "Hang on—what about my sisters?  Lucy and Beth are both older than me and they've got your DNA, too—shouldn't one of them be the new Blade?"

Grandpa snorted.  "Georgie, did Olifat strike you as the equal-rights type?  Not hardly.  Trust me, the old gods weren't really big on the whole PC thing.  Nope, as far as he was concerned the Blade was boys-only."

"Oh.  Well, that doesn't seem very...fair."  George meant what he said in a general sense, but also more specifically in his own particular case.  Having come out on the wrong side of a lifetime of sibling scuffles, he had little doubt that either of his sisters would make a more lethal Blade than he ever would.

"Nope," agreed Grandpa, "but that's the way it is.  Until yesterday, I was still the Blade, at least theoretically, even though I haven't touched that bloody sword since I left Volanda.  Not any more, though.  The mantle has shifted, boy.  Fair or not, you're now the Blade."

George opened his mouth, and then, unsure of what to say, closed it again.  He put his hand on the haft of the sword, feeling the now familiar tingle as he did so.  "Um.  I'll go and get changed."

Lob pounded on the little wooden door, built directly into a rocky section of the hillside.  "Oi!  Open up, you lazy sods!"  Without waiting for a response, he continued to hammer away.

Eventually, the door opened a crack, and a pair of suspicious eyes looked around its edge.  "Here, quit that racket.  Whaddya you want, you noisy bugger?"

Without hesitation, Lob thrust his shoulder into the door, knocking the occupant on the other side flat on his back.  He strode into the dwelling, and glared down at the dazed gnome, lying spreadeagled on the floor in front of him.  "What do I want?" he snapped.  "What do I want?  Is that any way to greet your long lost brother, returned to you after all these years?  After being kidnapped and transported to a strange land?  After battling strange creatures and barely escaping the perils of marriage?  After being forced to endure long periods of solitude, with courage, fortitude and awesomeness my only companions?  After single-handedly saving the Blade from being given the chop by hordes of evil bastards?"  Taking careful aim, he kicked the prone gnome with great accuracy, and even greater force, squarely between the legs.  "What do you say to that?"

Eyes watering, the unfortunate, prostrate figure blinked up at the irate gnome, towering above him.  Well, towering as much as a gnome is able to, which admittedly, is not very much.  "Hello, Lob," he wheezed.  "Long time, no see.  I figured you must be dead."

"Hello, Wuck.  Nope, not dead.  Just temporarily indisposed, for thirty-seven years or so.  But I'm back now, good as ever, or possibly even better.  You know, older and wiser and all that palaver.  Good to see you again, you don't look a day uglier, how's the kids, etcetera, etcetera. Now, I needs me a carriage—one big enough to carry a couple of humans.  What can you rustle up?  I'm thinking something red."