The Blade

Chapter 30

It took George a moment to realise that the storm of noise into which his consciousness had just re-emerged, was cheering.  And several more to realise that the cheering was for him.  A steadily growing throng of passers-by had gathered at the edges of the courtyard, drawn by the drama unfolding within, not to mention the chance to delay work, school, dental appointments, blind dates or any other of the countless mundanities of everyday life, even if only temporarily.

At first, the drawcard had been simply the promise of some action, a little bit of excitement to enliven an otherwise ordinary day, in what was for most people an increasingly difficult and unpleasant life.  But then, a few of the older members of the crowd had recognised the weapon wielded by the youngster confronting Vardun, while still others had noticed something familiar about the features of the old man, the one now crumpled against the wall, seemingly in dire straits.

Those few had murmured their suspicions to their neighbours, who had in turn murmured them to theirs, and like wildfire, the rumour had spread.  It was back.  He was back.  After all these years, against all expectations, the Blade was back.  And he had just defied the evil tyrant, the man they loathed above all others; Lord Vardun Ri.

Hope was springing anew in hundreds of hearts, hope for freedom, hope for the future, hope that the Blade would once again set Volanda back on the path to peace, the road to righteousness, and the highway to heaps of metaphors.

And if Vardun lopped his head off—as most of them expected he would—at least it would relieve the boredom for five minutes.

So, despite their modest expectations, or perhaps because of them, they cheered.  It had been a long time since any Volandan had cause to cheer, so now they cheered with gusto and with wild abandon.  They cheered for the Blade, they cheered for the defeat of the dark tyrant whose shadow loomed so large over their lives, and they cheered for the simple, unadulterated, all-too-forgotten joy of being alive.  Even if they were due at the dentist.

Motionless, Vardun stood and waited for the noise to subside, outwardly impassive, but seething within.  His informers would be circulating among the onlookers, and his guards would be taking note of faces and names; those who called for his downfall would meet their own before this day was out.

As the cheering faded away, Vardun and George stood and regarded each other.  It was the older, taller man who spoke first.

"So, my young friend, you have chosen the hard way.  Time for me to show you the error of your choice."

Tentatively, George edged forward.  "I'm not your friend."

"Ah, such bravado.  Admirable, in one so young.  One so outmatched.  One so clueless and hopelessly out of his depth.  Let us see how your bravado holds up, once I have shredded your wretched excuse of a grandfather."  Smiling, eyes locked on George's face, Vardun casually gestured in Grandpa's direction.  When after a few seconds there were neither the sounds of anguish, nor of flesh being removed from bones, Vardun frowned in annoyance and turned to see what had happened.

Although unquestionably unshredded, the old man still couldn't be said to be be looking his best.  The bleeding from his arm and stomach wounds had slowed, but his face was deathly pale, and his cheeks hollow.  Propped into a seated position, the wall against his back seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.  And yet, despite his obviously parlous state, one look at Grandpa was enough to make Vardun take an involuntary step back.

He was glowing.  Glowing with a pale, unearthly light, a light that was simultaneously of no colour and yet which seemed to encompass every shade of the rainbow.  The old man managed a grin, as the shards of glass that hovered around him fell harmlessly to the ground.