The Blade

Chapter 17

"Just hold on a second, my boy."

"Huh?" George paused in the act of climbing into the vividly red vehicle. "Grandpa, we've already wasted a whole night—we need to get moving."

Running a hand through the grey stubble that now covered his cheeks, the old man gave his grandson a speculative look. "Oh, we will, Georgie. We will. But first I reckon it might be time for a bit of swordplay 101."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're going to need a few pointers on how to handle that overgrown steak knife hanging off your belt. Running off to save the day with a magical sword is all very well in theory, but it's going to end in tears if you don't know which end to poke the bad guys with."

George felt this was just a little unfair. "What about Vardun's grunt? Up in the attic? I beat him."

"Is that right? Ran him through, did you? Lopped off some vital bits? Nudged him off this mortal coil? Sent him to meet his maker?"

"Well, I...not exactly. But I did give him some seriously nasty bruises."

"Bruises?" scoffed Grandpa.  "Boy, as far as evidence for being able to handle a sword goes, bruises tend to rank pretty low on the list. Don't get me wrong, they have their place. A pair of bruised nadgers will tend to make a man rethink his priorities, pretty damn quick. Bruises are all well and good, but they're not really the Blade's forté. Holes are more its thing. Gaping wounds and dismemberment; it's pretty handy for those, too."

"Well, I could have done those things.  It's just"—George swallowed—"I didn't want to."

"You didn't want to? Oh, well, that's alright then." Grandpa shook his head. "Georgie, this is no time for squeamishness. You got lucky in the attic; next time you probably won't. If we're going to have any chance of getting your mother back, you need to know how to fight properly. Now, shut your cakehole, draw that sword, and get your butt over here. School's in."

Reluctantly, George did as he was bid. "But shouldn't I just know what to do? I thought it would be kind of automatic, now that I have the Blade. Now that I am the Blade. That's what happened, against Vardun's guy. I've never handled a sword before in my life, but somehow the Blade helped me to still come out on top. I guess I thought that's how it would always be."

"Georgie, Georgie, Georgie. You think that sword makes you invincible? That's it's turned you into some sort of world-beater? Let me set you straight, here and now. It doesn't and it hasn't. You're no super-hero.

"What you are is a boy, with a trace of the divine in your DNA, wielding a sword made for a god. The Blade will help you to utilise, to magnify, to squeeze every last trace of skill out of your scrawny arse. Which is all well and good, provided there's some skill to squeeze." He poked George's chest. "Let's face it—you and I both know that's a cupboard that's pretty damn bare."

George opened his mouth to protest, but then, in the absence of any actual evidence with which to do so, closed it again.

"Most Blades are trained from childhood," continued Grandpa. "Not just with the sword, but also in unarmed combat, strategy, statecraft, philosophy, logistics, languages and all that kind of crap. Bored me to tears, as a kid. But the point is, most budding Blades are ready, when they get hold of the actual weapon. They're already skilled swordsmen, even before their god-given top-up.

"Georgie, to be the Blade is to become an amalgamation of both man and sword. It's a partnership, in which the whole is so much more than the sum of its parts. And the better the man, the more powerful the partnership becomes. Wielding the Blade, a no-hoper"—he gave George a significant look—"will become a mediocre swordsman. But somebody with real skill? A master in the art of swordplay? Well, they're pretty much unstoppable."