Ergan Pu was a confused man. Although admittedly, for him, this wasn't a terribly unusual state of affairs. Ergan spent a good part of his life being confused. Take boots, for example. Something as simple as boots were a dilemma, for Ergan. Firstly, which pair to wear? He didn't always have two to choose from, but when he did, a good part of his morning could be spent on the decision. Then, with that sartorial conundrum resolved, there came the issue of figuring out which boot went on which foot. He'd worked really hard on this, and despite the occasional misadventure with a hand, and on one unforgettable occasion, his head, these days he generally managed to get it right, most of the time. Except for the occasions when he got it left. But even then, after having negotiated this minefield of possibilities, he still regularly found that he'd forgotten to put his socks and/or trousers on, prior to putting on his boots, and therefore had to go through the whole process all over again.

Suffice it to say, higher order thinking was not Ergan's forte.

Which is not to say that he didn't have a forte. As it turned out, his forte was being a henchman. It was almost as if he was born for the role. Strong, good with a sword, just barely smart enough to take instructions, but far too dumb to question them, he was practically perfect for the job. The fact that he liked hurting people was just cream on top.

So, excellent henchman material, but as the Agency's director was rapidly discovering, almost useless as a source of information. The director drained the dregs of his cold coffee, and contemplated the man seated on the other side of the table. Even dressed in orange coveralls, rather than the black leather gear they'd found him in, he looked somehow wrong. The director couldn't explain it, but like a cricket-bat at a baseball match, or lasagna in a Chinese restaurant, Ergan Pu somehow just didn't quite fit. Plus, pretty much everything he said sounded like a load of rubbish.

"So, let me get this straight. You're telling me you came here on a rock?"

"That's right, yer honour."

"A flying rock?"

Ergan blinked. "Well, a non-flyin' one wouldn't be much good. Them buggers can't walk very fast."

"You mean this rock of yours has legs?"

Ergan began to wonder if this was one of those very rare occasions when he was the smartest person in the conversation. "Erm. That's right, yer honour. Makes for a pretty rough landin', without legs. Don't rocs have legs here, then?"

The director leaned forward, and fixed Ergan with his best steely glare, which after thirty years in the agency, was very steely indeed. "No, Mr Pu, they don't. Nor do they have wings, and in general, they don't go in for flying. Rocks around here tend to not do much of anything. So how about you shut up about this mythical flying rock of yours, and tell me about the giant bird, instead?"

Ergan opened his mouth. He closed it again. He scratched his head, wincing as he touched the bruise left by his encounter with the Blade. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what the hell was going on, and he didn't know who any of these strangely dressed, bizarrely ignorant people were, but one thing he did know was that he never wanted to be anywhere near that bloody kid or that bloody sword ever again, for as long as he lived. He turned pleading eyes on the director. "Please, orificer. I'll tell ya whatever yer want, but I dunno what yer mean. How can I tell ya about the roc if'n I has to shut up about it?"

The director's glare intensified. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Um, sir?" The tentative interjection came from the agent operating the camera recording the interview.

"What?" snapped the director, his glare now reaching hitherto unprecedented levels of steeliness

The agent quailed. "Uh, it's just that I play Dungeons and...er, I used to play Dungeons and Dragons, sir. Years and years ago. When I was a kid. Or, at least a friend of mine did, anyway..."

The director absorbed this, without any visible change of expression. "Agent, you've got about five seconds to tell me how the hell that's relevant, otherwise you're going to find yourself scrubbing the toilets at HQ, the day after curry night."

The agent swallowed. "Well sir, in Dungeons and Dragons, there's a giant bird, that's known as a roc. Maybe that's what Mr Pu is talking about?"

"Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Yes, sir."

Steeliness waning, the director rubbed his eyes, and sat back in his chair. "Naturally. Cutlery-based murders. Magical swords. Man-eating birds. Runes. Why the hell wouldn't there be Dungeons and Dragons? Makes perfect sense." He shook his head. "Is that right, Mr Pu? When you say 'roc' are you talking about the giant bird?"

Ergan grinned with relief. "That's right."

"OK then, so this roc. How did it get here?"

"Oh, right. That's an easy one, yer honour. The roc got here through rock."

There was a long pause, before the director spoke again. "Mr Pu?"

"Yes, yer honour?"

"In all of my very long career, out of all of the thousands of suspects I've interviewed, all the evil, twisted, disturbing or just plain obtuse people that I've been forced to converse with, did you know that you are unique, in a very special way? Do you know what that way is?"

"No, yer honour."

"Well, Mr Pu, I can safely say that in all of my years in the agency, I have never wanted to shoot anybody more than I want to shoot you, right now."

"What do you mean, there's no guards?' demanded Laya. "It's a bloody guardroom!"

Roderund gave her an indulgent smile. "Be that as it may, it is currently a guardroom completely bereft of guards, my dear. My perusal was brief, but I can assure you, thorough. No guards, whatsoever. The coast is, as they say, completely clear. Now, let us depart these dreary dungeons, and wend our merry way back to sunnier climes, with a song in our heart and—"

"Roderund, shut it." Laya had sent the fairy ahead to scout, as his size and ability to fly meant he was less likely to be spotted, and that he had the best chance of getting away, if he was. Plus, if he did get caught...well, he was kind of annoying, anyway. Cautiously, she led her expanded band of escapees up the stairs, and motioning for the others to wait, risked a peek into the guardroom. It was empty.

What the hell is going on? Feeling horribly suspicious that Vardun was laying some sort of trap, she nevertheless beckoned for the others to follow her, through the guardroom and out into the castle proper.

From his vantage point high on a battlement, Karzil Li inspected the ranks of his troops arrayed before the castle, while casting a suspicious eye over the bustle of traffic on the street far below, rapidly building as the citizens of Noho began their day.

Stripping the dungeon of guards was a calculated risk, but one he'd been forced to take, if he was to meet his master's demands to double the forces around the castle. When it came to Vardun Ri, any risk was dangerous, but Karzil wasn't overly worried. The prisoners were securely chained. They weren't going anywhere.

Vardun had woken from his slumbers feeling refreshed and confident. The previous day had not gone entirely to plan, however, as was usually the case, his intellect and cunning had allowed him to adapt and overcome, and to turn the situation to his advantage.

As he finished his spartan breakfast, he wondered when it was that the old fool and the boy would come calling. Surely, it would not be long. Particularly once he started sending back pieces of the woman, as encouragement.

Not that he felt that would be necessary. He remembered the former Blade as headstrong and impetuous, prone to reflexive decisions and ruled by emotion, rather than intellect. He had been a formidable foe, in his day, but not a very wise one.

Although, Vardun had to admit, his departure from Volanda had come as a surprise, and not a welcome one, given that he had taken the Blade with him. Even now, all this time later, Vardun could distinctly recall the impotent rage he had felt, at being so completely denied that which he knew to be his birthright.

Driven by that rage, he had set about finding out where the Blade had gone, and how he could bring it back. Over many years, and at the cost of countless lives, traveling the length and breadth of Volanda, he had slowly and painfully pulled together the pieces of the puzzle. Only to discover that the portal used by the departed Blade was closed to him, unable to be accessed from the Volandan side.

More years and more lives had been sacrificed, before he had finally managed to forge his own pathway. And now, finally—most likely today—the work of all those years would finally come to fruition. The Blade would be his. Volanda would be his, beyond any dispute. And, thanks to his hard-won knowledge, so would a great deal more.

Smiling, he got to his feet. It was time to pay a little visit to the leaders of the Zamar Valley rebellion. They would make a fitting entree for what promised to be a very auspicious day.

George stared at his grandfather. "What do you mean, I have to decide what I'm going to do? I'm going to get my mother back. We're going to get my mother back."

"That's right, Georgie. That's why we're here. Now the question is how?"

"But...but...I thought you'd have some sort of a plan. Or something."

"A plan on how an old man, a kid and a couple of gnomes are going to storm a fully manned castle? I'm flattered by your confidence in me, boy. You may have the Blade, and I'm pretty handy with a pizza-cutter, but I still think we may be pushing water uphill, with a rake."

George was flabbergasted. As daunting as the task of rescuing his mother had seemed, he'd felt confident that Grandpa would have some trick up his sleeve, some sleight of hand that would save the day. Now, it appeared as though that confidence had been misplaced. "There must be some way to get her back."

"Oh, there's a way, Georgie. There's an easy way. It just comes with a price-tag."

"What do you mean?"

Grandpa sighed. "Boy, all Vardun wants is the Blade. He doesn't give a vole's gonads about you or your mother, although I suspect he'd quite like to see me dead. But it's the Blade he wants, above all else."

"Yes, I know all that. What's your point?"

"The point, Georgie, is that if Vardun wants the Blade, then the safest way to get your mother back is to give it to him. You just have to say the word, and I'll go and pay a little visit to Vardie, do the deal, and we can be back home in time for lunch."

Shocked, George sat back in his seat. "You're saying you want me to give the Blade to Vardun?"

"I'm not saying I want anything, boy. I'm just telling you how you can save your mother."

"But...what about Volanda? What about all the people here?"

Grandpa shrugged. "What are they to you? You didn't even know they existed, twenty-four hours ago. Give up the Blade, and you and Marie can go back to your lives, and try to forget all of this ever happened. The Volandans can fend for themselves."

From Grandpa's impassive face, George turned to look at each of the gnomes, both of them staring at him, wide-eyed. He swallowed.

Grandpa put a hand on his shoulder. "Time's not on our side, George. You're the Blade. You need to decide."