Returning from the little gnome's room, Bup clambered back up onto his chair and smiled when he saw that his friend had ordered another round.  "Ah, you're a good fella, Korbus.  Did I miss anything?"

The old man nodded towards the castle.  "Some sorta commotion over there.  Quite a few of them soldier types have hightailed it back inside.  And judgin' by how fast they hightailed, I'd say somebody's in for it."

Bup inspected the thinned but still numerous ranks of soldiers.  "Maybe Lord Vardie-Dardie needed his arse wiped?"

Korbus sniffed.  "I reckon there'll be more arse-kicking than wiping.  And I suspect none of the arses in question will belong to Vardun Ri."

"Well, ya never know."  Bup picked up his tankard and took a generous swig.  "A gnome can always hope.  After all, when yer mostly arsehole, there's plenty of arse to kick."

Only the high colour in Vardun's cheeks indicated that he was anything other than calm, as he summoned Karzil Li into the dungeon that had formerly housed Laya and Danus.  However, the warlord was no fool, and at the sight of the upturned table and the empty shackles, he knew precisely what that colour foretold.

"Ah, warlord.  So good of you to join me.  Unlike our former guests, who seem to have taken their leave.  Perhaps you would care to explain?"

A succession of excuses cycled through Karzil's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to voice any of them.  From the moment he'd walked into the room, he'd known his fate; no amount of undignified groveling would change it.  "No, my lord.  I only ask your forgiveness, for failing in my duty."

"My forgiveness?  Oh, you may certainly have that, my dear fellow.  Please, consider yourself forgiven."

Karzil blinked, and shifted nervously on his feet.  "Thank you, my lord."  This was not what he had expected.

"Not at all, not at all.  Of course, I will require a little more than an apology, by way of recompense."

"My lord?"

"Tell me Karzil, did you know that an organised mind is one of the key attributes required for effective leadership?

"I...no, my lord.  Er, I mean, yes, my lord.  That sounds right."

"Of course it's right.  And an organised mind is, of course, a prepared mind.  You see, Karzil, I had prepared my mind for certain activities, this morning.  Activities which have now, through your sheer, infuriating, idiotic incompetence, been denied to me.  A denial which has left me with a perturbed mind.  Now, we can't have that, can we?"

"My lord, I—"

"No!" snapped Vardun, eyes burning a dull red, his calm facade vanishing in an instant, "we cannot.  And we will not."

The warlord's eyes widened, as realisation dawned.  "No, please.  Kill me, but not...that."

"Come, my good man.  As you are responsible for disturbing my equanimity, surely it's only fair that you will provide the means by which it will be restored."

Karzil stood motionless for a few seconds; the blow, when it came, was lightning fast and devastatingly powerful, driven by muscles of iron, forged and tempered on a hundred battlefields.  Almost too fast to see, it flashed towards his master's face, fueled by rage, by desperation, and by fear.  It was a killing blow, delivered by a killer.

But it never landed.  Vardun Ri caught the imposing warlord's fist, stopping it so cleanly and so abruptly that every bone in Karzil's wrist shattered.  Smiling serenely, he squeezed the fist he had caught, tendons and bones audibly breaking, in a grim little symphony of pain and destruction.  Whimpering in agony, the hulking warrior fell to his knees.

Vardun turned to Karzil's second-in-command, who had accompanied him into the dungeon, and was now staring with wide eyes at the cowed, abject figure of the warlord.  "Shackle this refuse to the wall.  Then, go and find the prisoners.  Kill all but the woman, and then bring her to me.  Fail me in this, and you will find yourself joining your former master."  He bent and selected an implement, from those that had fallen from the table.  "Oh, and close the door, on your way out."

"Laya, I'm hungry."

The young woman turned from her perusal of the apparently empty landing that her little group had to cross, in order to make it to a staircase, which lead to a hallway, which she really hoped would take them somewhere towards her ultimate goal, which was to get the hell out of this seemingly endless maze of a castle.  Having grown up in a house with four rooms to its name, she couldn't believe how difficult the simple act of buggering off was proving to be.

"Danus, I'm hungry as well.  I'm also tired, frustrated, cranky and starting to have violent urges.  Unless your bruise wants a friend, I suggest you suck it up, and more importantly, shut up."

"Now, now, my dear.  No need for testiness.  After all, we have boldly shaken free the shackles of our unjust incarceration, and it can be only a matter of minutes before we find ourselves once again glorying in the sunshine of—"

"It's funny," interrupted Marie.  "I always liked fairies, so you wouldn't think I'd find the one in my dream so annoying."

Laya wasn't quite sure what to make of the strangely dressed woman they'd rescued from the dungeons.  Apart from her little misunderstanding with Danus, she seemed glad to be rescued, and had followed them willingly enough, but until now, she hadn't really said much.  Possibly that had been a good thing.  "Your dream?"

Marie smiled benignly at her.  "Yes, all of this.  Flying on a giant bird, being locked in a dungeon, annoying fairies.  Clearly, it's all a dream.  It's very strange and wonderful, but I really hope I wake up soon, as I'm getting a bit over it.  No offence."

Laya had justified rescuing any and all of Vardun Ri's prisoners on what she felt were the entirely reasonable grounds that anybody that bastard didn't like had to be alright.  Possibly, she had been a little hasty.  It could be that the woman had been locked up because she wasn't just a fan of fairies; maybe she was off with them, as well.

Roderund smiled indulgently.  "Madame, while I can fully understand how you may be under the misapprehension that my pleasingly contoured countenance could only be the product of a fantasy, fortunately I can reassure you that I do indeed exist.  Whilst I will no doubt feature heavily in your future dreams, alas, the here and now is all too real."

Still smiling, Marie shook her head in wonder.  "Amazing.  So annoying.  I think I might need to cut down on the red wine before bed."

"There they are!  Get 'em!"

Whirling around, the little group was appalled to see a phalanx of soldiers, racing towards them along the corridor they had just traversed.

"Lady, if you don't want your dream becoming a nightmare"—grabbing Marie's arm, Laya dragged her towards the landing—"run!"

Convulsively, George gripped the hilt of the Blade, hoping to find some inspiration, or at least some comfort.  There was none.  "But...but...we can't just give Vardun the Blade.  Can we?"

"Course we can, boy.  The Volandans have been bumping along for their whole existence, without any input from you.  No doubt they'll survive whatever Vardun has in store for them.  Most of 'em, anyway."

"But if we're just going to give it to him, why didn't we do it back on Earth?  Why did you drag us all the way here, if we're just going to give up?"

"A couple of reasons, Georgie.  First, I didn't want Vardun getting the Blade in our world.  I doubt he has any plans for there, but who knows?  Better safe than sorry."

George absorbed this.  "And the second reason?"

Grandpa sighed.  "The second reason is that since the encounter in the living room, I've had some time to think.  Time to think about whether I want my grandson inheriting the life I worked so hard to escape."

George frowned.  "But, the Blades have been heroes!  Making sure that Volanda is ruled by the right person, fighting people like Vardun, keeping the Volandans safe—just like in your stories.  What's wrong with that life?"

"What's wrong with it, boy, is that real life is not a story.  Oh, the Blade does all those things, I'll grant you.  But do you know how?  By force.  By intimidation.  By killing.  Do you want to be a killer, Georgie?"

George looked at his grandfather, his expression bleak.  "Surely it doesn't have to be that way?"

Grandpa sat back in his seat, and rubbed his eyes.  "Boy, in the few hours since that wretched sword came back into my life, I've already lost count of how many people I've killed.  And that's without even being the Blade.  That's just from being around the bloody thing.  So, you want to be a pacifist Blade?  Ha!  I guess nothing's impossible, but I reckon that must come pretty close."

George hung his head.  He didn't want to kill anybody.  He just wanted his mother back.  He wanted to be back in his room, slaying virtual bad guys, instead of facing the real thing.  He wanted normality.

But, on the other hand, what was so great about his normality?  On Earth, he was faced with exams that he hadn't studied enough for, a girl he liked, who didn't know he was alive, and the sad fact that the most exciting prospect in his immediate future was finding out what mysteries lay hidden in the lower levels of the mess that was his bedroom floor.

The last twelve hours had been the most thrilling of his life.  Bizarre, frequently gut-wrenchingly terrifying, but thrilling nonetheless.  There was a heritage, a backstory, a world that he was part of, yet knew almost nothing about.  How could he give that up?

But, on the other, other hand, whatever mysteries lay in the depths of his bedroom, they weren't likely to kill him.  At least, not without a decent incubation period.

He swallowed, and took his hand off the hilt.

Grandpa let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.  Lob swore quietly, and kicked the wall of the carriage.  Tentatively, Wuck spoke.  "Um.  Excuse me, Mr George?  Can you just wait a bit, afore you hands over the Blade?  I've got mates in Noho, and if you gimme a half hour or so, maybe I can give 'em a bit of heads-up.  Give 'em a chance to head for the hills.  Y'know, before the bad stuff starts."

George raised his head.  He looked into the pleading, sad eyes of the gnome.  He blinked.  And then—slowly, deliberately—he put his hand back on the hilt.  "No need, gnomes.  If Vardun wants this sword, he's gonna have to take it off me.  I am the Blade.  And, now"—standing up, he drew the magnificent weapon, its razor-sharp edge gleaming in the early morning light—"I want my mum."