Warily, Laya peered around the corner of the dank corridor along which lay the stronghold's dungeons, and contemplated the dimly-lit staircase leading back up to the castle proper.  She knew from her entry to the dungeons that a guardroom lay at the top of those stairs, and unfortunately, in her (admittedly limited) experience, guardrooms usually contained guards.  The clue was in the title.

Crouched just behind her, Danus gave her a poke in the back.  "I still can't believe they didn't lock the door of our room."

Laya hadn't quite been able to believe it either, but then, after some consideration, she had realised that locking the door of a room in which the prisoners were chained safely to the wall probably was a bit redundant.  Even if their current situation tended to suggest otherwise.

She had explained this to Danus, but he didn't seem to be able to let it go, possibly because for the first time in his his life, he'd been the beneficiary of somebody else actually being less smart than he was.  "Yes, Danus.  That's the sixth time you've told me.  Now, you need to keep your voice down, because we're almost at the guardroom."

"Okay—how's this?" he asked, in the sort of stage-whisper that any self-respecting thespian, trying to project their sepulchral tones to the back of a particularly large theatre, would have been proud to produce.

"Great, Danus.  Excellent.  In fact, it's such a good voice that I don't think we should waste it. How about we save it up, in case we need it for later?"

"OK, Lay—" began Danus, before stopping abruptly.  He smiled, gave her an elaborate wink, and then made a zipping gesture across his lips, followed by a thumbs-up.

Not quite able to believe that her ploy had worked, Laya returned to her contemplation of the staircase.  She had no idea how they were going to get through the guardroom, but at least now she could think in pea—

"Hey, Laya?"

With a ferocious scowl, she whirled around and grabbed the big youth by his lapels.  "Danus!" she hissed.  "I know they left the door unlocked, I know you can't believe it, and I know that for some inexplicable reason you want to keep talking about it.  But I don't!  If I hear about that bloody door being bloody unlocked one more time, I'm going to punch you again, and this time it will be somewhere much more painful.  Are we clear?"

Danus hung his head.  "Yes, Laya," he replied, abjectly.

Feeling slightly guilty, Laya let go of his shirt, and tried half-heartedly to smooth out the worst of the crinkles.  "OK, good.  Now let me think."  She turned back to the stairway.

"Um, Laya?  It's just that..."

Slowly, she turned back around.  "Yes, Danus?" she replied. Her voice was soft, but not the kind of soft that made you think about pillows or kittens or marshmallows.  It was more the kind that made you think of quicksand, or possibly, a silk garrote.

Danus correctly interpreted the variety of soft, but taking a deep breath, ploughed on regardless.  "You know how they left our door unlocked?"

Laya managed to stop grinding her teeth long enough to growl, "Yes."  Menacingly, she made a fist, and even more menacingly, lowered it.

Subconsciously, Danus pressed his knees together.  "It's just that I can't help but wonder," he stammered, "whether they might have left some other dungeon doors unlocked.  And if they did, then we could maybe, you know, sort of rescue some people.  A bit."

Laya considered this.  She blinked.  "You know what, Danus?"

He closed his eyes tightly.  "You're going to hit me now?"

"Nope, I'm going to give you a hug.  And then we're going to go check those other dungeons."

"Oh.  That's good.  Just mind the bruise, OK?"

It was a bruised, battered, somewhat fruit-splattered but reasonably hopeful George who finally took a seat in the legged carriage, getting purple blungo-juice all over the plush upholstery in the process.

Despite the seeming impossibility of fending off two stick-wielding assailants, while simultaneously dodging overripe fruit projectiles, by the end of Grandpa's long, strenuous and seriously sticky training session, he'd found—to his considerable surprise—he was actually making a fair fist of it.

With every parry, every block and every fend, the Blade had seemed to become more and more an extension of himself, understanding and executing his intentions with a smooth and balletic grace that completely belied his usually sadly limited coordination when it came to any kind of physical activity. He just wished one of the long list of his despairing former PE teachers could have seen the moves he was pulling off.

And more than that, the magical weapon seemed to be somehow, in some way, suggesting the right moves to make. The feeling was so subtle, so vague that George wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it, but more than once he'd found himself in just the right position to simultaneously block one attack while ducking under or leaping over another, without really knowing how he'd gotten there.

The idea that he was bonding with the sword, that he was actually, properly becoming the Blade, in more than just name, was strange, unsettling—and not a little exhilarating.

Grandpa took a seat across the aisle from him. "Could've been worse, boy. You actually show some potential."

As by Grandpa's usual standards this qualified as high praise, George allowed himself a tired smile. But not for long.

"But you can wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your dial. You still wouldn't last two minutes against Vardun, or any of his warlords, for that matter. You can bet they're going to throw a lot more than fruit at you. So when the shit hits the fan, keep your sword up, your head down, watch your arse and do as I say. Potential's not going to keep a blade out of your guts."

Smile gone, a chastened George nodded, as the carriage began to move. "Yes, Grandpa."

Despite Lob's somewhat dubious driving skills, and the irregularity of the forested slope they were traveling down, George was surprised by the smoothness of the legged carriage's motion.  There was a slight swaying, and the odd judder as Lob dealt with the occasional low-hanging branch by simply driving straight through it, but otherwise their passage was quiet and quite comfortable.  So much so, that Grandpa dozed off, although George knew from long experience that quiet and comfort weren't actually necessary conditions for this to happen.  Grandpa had refined the art of dozing to an almost zen-like level.

He turned around to Wuck, who was seated in the chair behind him, staring out the window and humming quietly to himself.  "Hey, Wuck.  What is this thing?"

"What thing, mate?"

"This thing we're riding in."

"Oh that.  It's a carriage, mate."

"Yes, I realise that, but what kind of carriage?"

"Um.  A red one?"

"No, I mean how does it work, what powers it?  You know—how does it go?"

Wuck gave him a puzzled look.  "Didnya see the legs, mate?"

Not for the first time, George became aware that there was a fundamental disconnect between his world view and that of the residents of this strange land.  Which, now that he thought about it, probably wasn't all that surprising.  Living in a different world no doubt lent itself to having a different world view.  As tempting as it was to give up and just enjoy what he suspected was going to be the last bit of peace and quiet he'd be experiencing for a while, he decided to keep plugging away.  He was in Volanda now, so it made sense to learn as much about the place as he could.

"Yes Wuck, I saw the legs.  But what makes them go?"

"Oh, right.  Now I get what you mean.  Lob makes 'em go, mate.  When he pulls on that lever up the front there."

Gently, George began head-butting the back of his chair, until he was interrupted by the sound of Grandpa chuckling.

"Georgie, my boy," said the old man, apparently now wide awake, "trying to get sense out of a gnome is like trying to get you to clean your room.  Theoretically possible, seems like it should be easy, but almost never happens.  Lad, the thing that makes this carriage go is ke mana."

"Ke mana?  What's that?"

"The thing that makes this carriage go," replied Grandpa, with a grin, but seeing the look on George's face, he relented.  "It's a little hard to explain, boy.  It's sort of like an energy field, that permeates all of Volanda.  Machines like this carriage can tap into it, and there are people who can channel it.  People like our friend, Vardun."

"So, it's like magic?" breathed George, wide-eyed.

"Don't be stupid, boy.  Of course it's not bloody magic, despite what half the idiots here think.  There's no such thing.  It's just a property of this world, like sunshine or radiation or gravity.  It's just not one we have on Earth.  It's a bit like the trunk, Georgie.  It doesn't pay to think too much about it; you'll just give yourself a headache."

"But where does it come from?"

"Where does gravity come from, boy?  It just is.  Ke mana is the same.  I'll teach you more about it, if ever we get the chance.  Right now, it's not important.  We'll be in Noho soon, and I need to give you a bit of a history lesson before we get there.  So, shut-up and listen."