"Lithen, old man.  I know that'th my carriage, becauth it wath my crew what nicked it in the firtht plathe.  Tho you can jutht thut-up up about mithunderthtandingth and thertificateth of ownerthip and all that kind of thit.  Now pith off, before I put a bolt through your young friend'th head—I wouldn't wathte one on the liketh of you."

Although George  was finding his fang-induced lisp a little hard to understand, the message conveyed by the crossbow the gnoblin-leader was pointing at him was all too clear.  "Uh, Grandpa...?"

"Quiet, boy.  The grown-ups are talking.  Look, fang-face, you and I both know you're not going to shoot some kid in the middle of the road, in broad daylight."  He gestured at the rows of double-storey wooden dwellings that lined the street.  "Too many witnesses.  Somebody would call the Watch."

"The Watch?"  Muckflap grinned happily.  "Not from around here, are you, old-timer?

"You'd be surprised," muttered Grandpa.

The gnoblin gave no sign of having heard him.  "Trutht me," he continued, "the Watch ith of no conthern to the Nithe Boyth.  They mind their own buthiness and we mind ourth.  And ath for witnetheth?"  He glanced around at the windows that opened onto the street, before bellowing, "Any witnetheth here?"

With impressive coordination, and even more impressive speed, every window slammed shut.

Muckflap turned back to Grandpa, with a sad shake of his head.  "Thocking, ithn't it, the lack of thivil conthern in thociety, thethe dayth?  Now, I believe you and your grandthon"—George did not like the emphasis the gnoblin gave the word (or the spray of saliva that accompanied it)—"were jutht about to pith off."

Grandpa sighed the sigh of a pet-owner confronted with a particularly recalcitrant puppy, who absolutely refuses to whizz anywhere but on the kitchen floor.  "Fine, have it your way.  I've got better things to do than waste my time standing in the street arguing with a thick-headed gnoblin gangster.  We'll just collect our gnomes and be on our way."

"Your gnometh?  I don't think tho, popth.  It wath one of them little baththardth who thtole my property.  He'th gotta pay the prithe."

From the vicinity of the carriage, a faint, "Stole?  Stole?  I procured.  I appropriated.  I attained.  I—" could be heard.

Grandpa considered for a moment.  "Fine, whatever.  In that case, we'll just collect our gnome and be on our way."

"Grandpa!" protested George, "we have to—"

"Shut it, boy," barked Muckflap, reinforcing the instruction with a threatening waggle of his crossbow.  "No gnometh are going anywhere.  It was Pubeflange what thaw the nicking, but given them two little buggerth look pretty much the thame, he'th not actually thure which one it wath.  Tho they'll both be getting the treatment, alright?  Now, for the latht time, pith off!"

Grandpa shrugged.  "Fair enough.  C'mon, Georgie—you can't say I didn't try.  Let's get out of here."

"What?  No!  Grandpa, we can't."

"We can and we will.  Look, boy, sometimes you have to know when you're licked.  You have to know which battles are worth picking—and this one isn't.  So, shut your face, and move."

"You heard grampth, runt.  Off you go."  A leering Muckflap pointed the way with his crossbow.  "Move fatht enough and maybe you won't hear the thcreamth."

George cast a desperate glance at his grandfather, but the old man was already walking away.  He turned to the gnoblin, but one look at that face was enough to convince him any pleas for mercy would be nothing more than so much hot air.  Finally, he looked back at the carriage, to see two diminutive, solemn (and in one case, slightly outraged) faces peering back at him through the windscreen.  Squaring his shoulders, he swallowed, and took a deep breath.

"I'll fight you for them."

There was a moment of disbelieving silence.  Grandpa froze mid-stride and Muckflap's yellow eyes widened in surprise.  "What did you thay?"

Every fragment of common sense George possessed, every last iota of self-preservation in his body screamed at him to reply, "Nothing, nothing, just clearing my throat, my what nice fangs you have, my compliments to your dentist, have a good day, check you later."

Instead, inexplicably, his mouth formed the words, "You heard me."

"George," Grandpa's tone was low and urgent, "shut up."

Slowly, Muckflap lowered the crossbow.  He took a step towards George.  "No, I don't think I did hear you, thcumbag.  'Cauthe it thounded like you thaid you wanted to fight me.  Now, that'th tho thtupid  I'm gonna give you the benefit of the doubt, and athume either I mith-heard you or that you're a moron.  Maybe it'th both, who'th to thay?  Either way, thith ith your latht chanthe—beat it."

"You didn't mishear.  I will fight you for the gnomes' lives.  And if I win, you have to leave them alone."  With an enormous effort, George forced his features into a sickly grin.  "Or are you too thcared?"

"Georgie, no!"  Grandpa lunged towards the pair, but finding himself held back by a couple of burly gnoblin henchman, dropped one with a hearty knee to the groin, before breaking the nose of the other in a crunching headbutt.  He managed another couple of steps before three more gang-members—suddenly and forcibly made aware that the helpless old geezer, while undoubtedly old and indisputably a geezer, seemingly wasn't so helpless after all—bore him to the ground.  "No!"

Muckflap gave the pinioned man a long, thoughtful look, almost as if actually seeing him for the first time.  "Hold him, but don't hurt him.  I want a chat with that old thod, after I've killed the lad."

Already beginning to regret his life choices, George's heart sank a little further at the casual tone in the gnoblin's voice.  It was clear Muckflap was a killer, thoroughly accustomed to killing.  And equally as clearly, there wasn't a shred of doubt in his mind as to which way the upcoming fight was going to go.

Somehow, Grandpa managed to force his head free of the press of bodies holding him down.  "Don't you lay a finger on that boy, you scum-sucking, rancid hunk of troll-snot!  Fight me instead, you lowdown gnoblin piece of shit.  Fight me!" 

"Maybe I will, old-timer.  Maybe I will.  But not until after I've gutted your grandthon.  Nobody maketh fun of Muckflap Grup and liveth to tell the tale—nobody.  Righto, ladth—form a thircle.  It'th thowtime!"

The Blade held limply before him, George cast a forlorn glance around the encircling ring of jeering gnoblin faces.  The modicum of confidence he had drawn from his training session with Grandpa and the gnomes—the idiotic and misplaced fledgling sense of self-belief that had led to his insane challenge—was gone.

Rather than feeling like the Blade, he felt every inch an impostor—a uncoordinated teenager who'd never even held a sword twenty-four hours ago, never mind dueled to the death with one.

Still, he reasoned, in a half-hearted attempt to reassure himself, he had beaten Vardun's man.  Kind of, anyway.  Surely that had to count for something.  Plus, he'd also managed to keep out most of Grandpa's and the gnomes' stick and/or fruit-related attacks.

Sadly, the key word there, the one that rendered his woefully inadequate attempts at self-reassurance null and void, was most.  Letting the odd blungo slip through his defences was one thing; failing to dodge a gnoblin-wielded sword was quite another.  Most likely, that wasn't a mistake he'd be making twice.

On the bright side, as Muckflap stepped into the ring, stripped to trousers and a leather harness that revealed the bulging musculature of his chest and abdomen, his purple skin gleaming in the morning sun, George realised that he didn't actually have to worry about letting a sword through his defences.

The enormous double-bladed battle-axe the gnoblin was wielding, though?  That was going to be a real problem.

To the cheers of his men, Muckflap swung the hulking weapon over and around his body, weaving an intricate, glistening pattern of sharp-edged steel, effortlessly transferring the hefty haft from one hand to the other, before tossing the spinning axe high into the air and catching it one-handed behind his back.

"Time to die, boy."

George paled, as he tried to think of a suitably fierce comeback.  "Is not."  He stifled a groan.  Even his banter sucked.

Abruptly business-like, Muckflap strode towards him.  "Well, let'th thee about that."

"Move, Georgie!"  Although still held securely, Grandpa had been permitted to form part of the ring, presumably to grant him the dubious 'pleasure' of watching his grandson die.  "You've got speed on your side—use it.  Stay out of his way, wear him out, and then stick him when you can.  Move, move, move!"

Grandpa's words alone may have been sufficient to set George in motion, but the several kilos of sharpened steel swinging towards his head put the matter beyond doubt.  He flung himself low and to the left in an ungainly diving roll, the razor-sharp blade's passage ruffling his hair, before springing back to his feet, just in time to leap clear of Muckflap's viciously fast backswing.

"Thlippery little thucker, ain't you?" commented the grinning gnoblin, to the accompaniment of a shower of saliva.  "Well, let'th thee how thlippery you are"—grin vanishing, he savagely thrust the leading edge of his twin-bladed weapon in a lightning-quick strike at George's lower extremities—"without any feet!"

Terrified, but also vividly, totally aware—nerve-ends tingling and every sense more alert than he had ever known them—George was again able to dodge the attack, leaping back like a startled rabbit as the battle-axe buried itself in the earth he had been standing on just a fraction of a second before.

Buried itself, and to Muckflap's obvious consternation, became stuck.  And as the gnoblin tugged desperately to free the weapon, his head, neck and back utterly exposed and unprotected, George suddenly and unexpectedly found himself in the perfect position to end the fight in one swift blow.

Certain the opportunity wouldn't last long, he raised the Blade and swung with all his strength at the taut sinews bulging beneath the purple skin of Muckflap's neck, the razor-sharp edge of the enchanted weapon gleaming as it arced down towards its target—and then turning aside at the last moment, the flat of the Blade slapping hard onto the bare flesh, with an enormous, meaty THWACK!

Another faint voice could be heard from the carriage.  "The sharp bits, lad—use the bloody sharp bits!"

Almost without realising it, George had once again decided he wasn't yet ready to be a killer.

Nevertheless, this was a road he'd been down before.  Confidence surging, he stepped back and raised the sword again, ready to finish the fight with a few more non-lethal blows to his now pain-wracked and defenseless opponent.

Who, unfortunately, didn't seem to be quite as pain-wracked or defenseless as George was expecting.  Clearly made of sterner stuff than Vardun's henchman, Muckflap jerked his axe free, gave his neck a cursory rub and spat at George's feet.

"Right.  You've had your chanthe, thunthine—there won't be another."  And without further ado, he leapt back into the attack.

A little slow to make the mental adjustment from victor to victim, George barely managed to avoid the next swing, desperately parrying with the Blade as he leapt aside, the impact of the enormous weapon jarring his arm to the shoulder.

"Look," he gasped, ducking under another blow, "can't we talk about this?  After all, I could have just killed you."  He leaned away from the next attack, the axe passing close enough to his chest to slice his shirt cleanly from one side to the other.  "But I didn't.  Surely that should mean something?"

"Oh, it meanth thomething," growled the gnoblin, raising the axe above his head.  "It meanth you're a thtupid bathtard.  Now, thut-up and let me kill you in peath."  He swung.

And George dodged.  And then again.  And again.  For minutes that felt like hours, the fight wore on, the gnoblin attacking and the human frantically leaping, ducking, rolling and parrying, the threat of bloody, painful death and/or dismemberment constantly just millimetres away.

Finally, breathing heavily and obviously tiring, the gnoblin stumbled and George found himself with his second opportunity to attack.  Not yet prepared to give up on his make-'em-squeal approach, and hoping against hope that this time he might be able to find a more sensitive bit, he swung for Muckflap's midriff, figuring he might at least wind him, if nothing else.

Only, as it turned out, the stumble was fake, nothing more than a feint designed to lure George into attacking.  A feint that worked all too well.  Recovering with remarkable speed, the gnoblin twisted clear of the Blade, and in the same movement brought down his axe, smashing it into the magical weapon with sufficient force to tear it clean from George's grasp.  The teen barely had to time comprehend his abrupt disarmament before Muckflap's boot caught him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

Grinning evilly, and miraculously no longer breathless, the gnoblin placed the blade of his axe on George's neck.  "Not too thabby, kid.  You actually made me work for it, which doethn't happen too often thethe dayth.  But you gotta get up pretty early in the morning to get the betht of old Muckflap Grup.  I been thtreet-fighting thince before you were glint in your mother'th eye."  As the pressure on the axe increased slightly, George felt a slow trickle of blood down the side of his neck.  "Now, time to thay good—"

"Poopy Grup?"

A moment of shocked silence followed Grandpa's interjection, before the pressure on the axe eased, just a little.  Muckflap blinked.  "Wh-what did you thay?"

"It is, isn't it?"  Now it was Grandpa who was grinning.  "I hadn't caught your name until just now.  You're Poopy Grup, old Swamplip Grup's boy."

"What?  No, courthe I'm not," snapped the gnoblin.  "Bethideth, nobody dareth call me that anymore.  Tho, thut-up."

"Oh, sure," agreed Grandpa, "I'll thut-up.  But there's a lot of other folk here, so I suspect the word will get around.  What do you think your old mum's gonna say when she hears you lopped the head off the Blade's grandson?  The same Blade who saved her and her whole family—including a little, seriously incontinent lad known by the charming nickname of Poopy—from being carted off to work in one of Vardun Ri's sweatshops?  Somehow I don't think she's going to thut-up.  In fact, I think Swamplip might have a whole lot to thay about that.  Don't you?"

Eyes wide, Muckflap withdrew his axe and took a step back.  "Tho that'th who you are.  I knew I'd theen that wrinkly fathe thomewhere before—only not tho wrinkly."

"Yep," replied Grandpa, shrugging free of his captors.  "It's me alright."

Anxiously, the gang-leader shifted his weight from one foot to the other, while trying with a notable lack of success to hide the colossal battleaxe behind his back.  Any hint of bravado was gone.  "You wouldn't really tell ma, would you?  After all, I wathn't really gonna hurt the lad—it wath jutht a bit of fun."

"Oh, I'm sure it was," replied Grandpa.  "All good, clean fun.  Now, if you'll kindly help my grandson up, we'll just grab our gnomes and take our leave."

Wordlessly, Muckflap did as he was bid, hauling George back to his feet.

"Good lad," enthused the old man.  He turned and gave the length of the street a speculative look.  "You know what? These old legs of mine are a mite weary; I think we might just hang on to the carriage, as well, if that's alright with you."

Dark brows coming together, yellow eyes flashing, Muckflap opened his mouth—

"After all," went on Grandpa, "I think your mum would approve."

—and without uttering a word, closed it again.

Safely ensconced back in the carriage, untortured, unchopped, and in one particular case, completely unrepentant, the four adventurers got back under way.

Grandpa slumped in his seat. "Top marks for balls, boy, but zip for brains. What the hell were you thinking? Actually, don't answer that. I know exactly what you were thinking, and you can bloody well stop thinking it, right now."

"But, Grandpa—"

"Don't you 'but Grandpa' me, butthead. From now on, no more picking fights. And when you're in the fights you haven't picked, then no more bloody bruises, alright? I want slicing and I want dicing, you got it?"

"But, Grandpa—"

"Have—you—got—it?

Realising this wasn't a fight he was going to win anytime soon, George nodded.

"Right, good. Now, back to the history lesson."