"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."

Sombrely, George regarded the gleaming weapon he held before him. The centuries-old, magic-infused, divinely forged weapon which had been passed down through countless generations of his forefathers, which had traveled between two worlds, which had inspired myths and legends without number. The weapon that was now clutched in his unworthy, untrained, and slightly unsteady grasp. He swallowed.

"Okay. So...how long does it take to get good at sword-fighting?"

Grandpa raised an eyebrow. "Properly good? Oh, years. Years and years."

George's face fell. He lowered the sword. "Oh."

"Don't worry, lad." The old man grinned at his despondent grandson. "I know a few shortcuts."

On a dimly-lit landing, at the very top of the tallest tower in his stronghold, Vardun Ri stood and regarded an entirely unremarkable door. Despite the several hundred steps he had climbed, despite the lateness of the hour, and despite having endured what had been a long and trying day, his breathing was steady and even, his features serene.

And yet, this appearance of calm was nothing more than that—an appearance. At the prospect of opening the door, at the merest thought of passing through the simple stone threshold and into the small chamber that lay beyond, the tyrant's heart hammered in his chest and cold sweat beaded his forehead.

Vardun Ri feared neither man nor beast; no weapon, no warrior, no witchery Volanda could offer gave him pause. In his long reign, and even longer life he had faced untold challenges, overcome uncounted enemies and without exception he had stared—or more often, struck—down each and every one. Whether it be in battle, in intrigue, or in sheer, barefaced treachery, his skill, his knowledge, his mastery of of both the ordinary and the arcane was simply unmatched.

What lay beyond that door was there entirely at his discretion. What lay beyond that door was the culmination of years, decades of relentless, tireless investigation, interrogation and research, the final result of countless dead-ends, wrong-turns and endless misdirection, interspersed with all-too-rare discoveries, subtle hints and obscure clues. What lay beyond that door was the stuff of myth and legend, a phantasm he had eventually begun to suspect was nothing more than fiction.

Until he found it.

What lay beyond that door was the potential, the power to fuel the raging, ever-hungry flames of his ruthless ambition. The power to rule. The power to subjugate. The power to tear the Blade from the cold, dead grasp of that wretched boy, and to then to finally destroy his intensely aggravating bastard of a grandfather.

In short, what lay beyond that door was the power to fulfill his wildest dreams, and to at long last achieve what he knew, deep in his dark heart, to be his true destiny.

Unfortunately, what lay beyond that door also happened to scare the absolute willies out of him.

"You know, this doesn't really seem very fair."

"Fair?" Grandpa gave George a hearty poke with the roughly sword-shaped stick he'd foraged from the nearby woods. "Fair? A strapping young fellow like yourself, against a decrepit old-timer and a couple of stinking gnomes?"

"Hey!" protested Lob, looking angrily around the end of his own stick—a stick which inconveniently still possessed most of its original leaves.

"Oh yeah, sorry," apologised Grandpa. "What I meant to say was, a couple of stinking, good-for-nothing, stupid gnomes, who can't even be relied on to track down a decent fake sword."

"Hey!" protested Wuck, struggling to hold up the slightly rusted, tarnished weapon he'd procured from somewhere, its blade nearly twice as long as he was.

"Where the hell did you get...?" Grandpa shook his head. "Never mind. I said to find yourself a fake sword, numbskull. We're trying to train the boy, not give him a tetanus infection. Bloody gnomes."

"Oh, right." Unperturbed, Wuck heaved the sword over his shoulder, before setting off towards the woods. "Just give me a sec."

"Never mind, never mind," grumbled Grandpa, looking around the clearing and surrounding woods. "Right, see those blungo trees? Get your scrawny arse over there and collect a few of those fallen blungoes, and when I say so, you hurl 'em at the boy, while Mr Grand-Keeper and I go at him with these sticks."

"What?" squawked George. "How the hell am I going to fight off you two and dodge...blungoes, whatever the hell they are?"

"Blungoes?  A kind of Volandan fruit, Georgie.  Bit like a peach.  Good eating, and good hurling, too.  As for how you're going to dodge them, well—let's find out."

"But...but...aren't you going to teach me some—you know—some techniques or something? Show me some moves? Give me some tips?"

"Tips? Oh yeah, sure thing, Georgie. Tip number one"—moving more quickly than a man his age had any right to, Grandpa gave George a sharp crack on the head with his stick—"think fast."

"Hey!" More surprised than hurt, George gingerly rubbed his scalp. "No fair."

"Fair?" Grandpa swung again, delivering a stinging blow to George's arm. "Fair?" he demanded again, his next swing barely missing George's legs, as his grandson hurriedly leapt back. "There's no fair here, boy," he continued, raining down blow after blow, most of which George managed to clumsily parry, as he staggered backwards. Most, but not all.

"We don't have time for lessons, we don't have time for moves, and we most certainly don't have time for fair." He feinted at George's right, and as the teen turned in that direction, swept his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick from his left. Expression pained, clutching his back, he glared down at his grandson.

"This is no game, Georgie. There are no rules here. Pretty soon now, there's every chance people are going to try to kill you. You hear me? Kill you. You think they're going to care about fair? Not bloody likely. So, quit your moaning, get back on your feet, and get yourself ready. If I can put up with my bursitis, you can certainly deal with a few love-taps and the odd bit of fruit."

Face contrite, George stood. "Yes, Grandpa."

"Right, that's better. Now, I could fill your head with technical stuff like parries and ripostes and feints and lunges and all that kind of crap. And if we had a few weeks up our sleeves, maybe I would. Swordfighting is an art, boy, and it's an art worth learning." The old man's severe expression softened a little. "Hopefully, when all this is done and dusted, I'll get the chance to teach you properly. But for now, the best I can do is give you a crash course in defence, AKA not getting dead.

"Trust in the Blade, Georgie. You're right, it will help you. But it can't do it all—you need to contribute. You may not know the finer points of swordsmanship, but you're young and you're quick and don't forget you're also part-god. A teeny-tiny part, but it's there. Have faith in yourself. Now, are you ready?"

George raised the Blade. "Ready."

Grandpa grinned. "That's what you think. Righto, gnomes—attack!"