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...
"Holy coconuts, Dad—I was this close to scoring with Aluluei's niece. Tarissan, I think her name was, or something like that. Maybe it was Phiko? I dunno, doesn't matter. Anyway, what's so important?"
Perched atop his coral throne, Lugeilan frowned down at his errant son. "The niece of the most powerful god among us, Olifat? Really? Did you learn nothing during your banishment?"
"Oh yeah, I learned some great moves. You can say what you like about those humans, but they've got seriously inventive imaginations. Maybe the whole being mortal thing tends to focus the mind, I dunno. For example, there's this one thing they do, where they—"
"Enough! I did not summon you here to learn of your so-called moves."
Olifat shrugged. "Your loss. It's never too late to learn a few new tricks, big man. Anyways, what's up?"
Not you for very much longer, I suspect. "Volanda," growled Lugeilan.
The younger god's expression was blank. "Um—gesundheit?"
"Volanda!" repeated the senior deity, in exasperation. "The land of your banishment. The land you scarred forever, with your ridiculous shark-teeth and scorpion-stings and stolen embers. The land where you left behind your ill-begotten progeny."
"Right, right, right—that place. Yep, that was a fun coupla centuries. What about it?"
"Trouble is brewing."
"Pfft. Dad, it's the mortal realm. Trouble is always brewing."
"Perhaps. But this is different. This trouble is of divine origin. Specifically, of your divine origin."
Yawning, Olifat scratched his crotch. "What, the kid? Don't worry, I left him one of my old swords. Or was it a bow? Dunno, whatever. Anyway, I'm sure he and all his sprogs have done just fine. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll just be getting back to...um, to..."
"Silence," commanded Lugeilan. "I do not speak of your offspring, although heaven knows they have caused more than their share of trouble. No, this problem does not pertain to them, or at least not directly. This problem is the consequence of yet another one of your brainless, reckless actions."
Leaning forward, he fixed his son with an ominous glare—and nobody did ominous quite like a cranky god.
"And as this problem is of your creation, so it is yours to resolve." He leaned closer. His features grew more ominous.
"By whatever means necessary."
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In a dilapidated shack, perched precariously on the windswept slopes of a bleak, forbidding mountainside, an old crone huddled over a pile of wood. She picked up one of the pieces and, squinting ferociously, inspected it from all angles. She rapped on it with her knuckles and then, holding it to her long, warty nose, gave it a good sniff.
Pine. She'd explicitly asked for cedar, and her wood guy had bloody well given her pine. No wonder her prophesising had been a bit glitchy of late . How the hell was she supposed to accurately judge the arrival of doom, without the right bloody hardware?
She was interrupted in her angry mutterings by knocking, loud enough to rattle the flimsy walls of the shack. Muttering with renewed vigour, she made her way over to the door, and threw it open.
Standing on her threshold was a wild-eyed man, wearing a ragged suit. He flashed a badge at her.
"Eric Kowolski, federal agent. I need to use your phone, or equivalent local communication device."
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A/N: Thanks for making it all the way to the end. If you're keen for more, George's adventures will continue (at some point in the not too distant future) in 'The Ember'. Stay tuned.
