"Call the feds."

The junior constable blinked.  "Sir, you only just got here.  Don't you wanna investigate the crime scene?  Check out the victims?  You know, look for evidence and stuff?"

Senior Detective Barry Ronson gave the young man a pitying smile, envying his enthusiasm, if not his naivety.  "Son, take a look around.  We've got electrocuted stiffs, strangled stiffs, one with a walking stick through his guts, and another one who looks like he's been tortured.  Not to mention the one with death by cutlery.  In a frigging nursing home!  And half of 'em are wearing robes.  Robes!  What the hell is that about?  This is a sleepy town, constable, and I like it that way.  You know how  many murders I've had to investigate, in my thirty years here?"

"No, sir."

"Precisely zero, son.  Now we got seven, in one day.  This shit-storm is way above my pay-grade.  Something seriously twisted went down here, and the sooner somebody else takes charge of it, the happier I'll be.  Put up some police tape, don't touch anything, and call the feds, now."

Thoroughly confused, George wiped the rain out his eyes, and looked down at the base of the trunk, on which he still stood.  He jumped, as the knocking beneath his feet repeated itself.

"Hello?  Wakey wakey, sunshine.  Don't mind me, I'm happy to stay in here all day.  NOT!"

Hurriedly, George clambered out of the trunk and warily backed away, watching the base as he did so.  After a few seconds, it swung up, as if hinged at the back of the trunk, and light spilled out of the opening, bright in the gloom of the rainy night.  Moments later a small, disheveled head emerged.

"Ah crap.  You coulda told me it's raining."  A diminutive body followed the head, as the newcomer clambered out.  "Night-time, too.  Black as Caroon Fa's armpit."  Spotting George, he grinned and gave him a wink.  "But a tad more fragrant, eh lad?"

"Whuh," said George.  "I...um...huh?"  He wiped his eyes again, wondering if he was hallucinating.  The stranger was male, seemingly middle-aged, dressed in what appeared to be a somewhat worse-for-wear tuxedo, and was basically person-like in pretty much all respects, with the exception of one thing—his size.  He looked to be all of about thirty centimetres tall.

The little man grimaced.  "Ah great, he's an idiot.  I shoulda stayed in bed.  Although, I s'pose being an idiot don't mean you can't be the Blade."

Once again, old memories shifted in the depths of George's mind.  "Wait, what's that about the Blade?  How do you know that story?  What the hell is going on?  And, what are you?"

"What am I?  You're a real charmer, ain't you?  Offended, that's what I am.  Wet, too."

George gave his head a shake, wondering how what had started out as a perfectly ordinary evening had finished up with him soggy, standing in a field, and apparently inadvertently insulting a miniature person, who lived in a trunk.  "Sorry.  Who are you?"

The little man gave an elaborate bow.  "Lob Gremsploon, at your service."

"Er, hi Lob.  I'm George."

Lob rolled his eyes.  "Well, duh.  Think I don't know who you are?  I've only been living in your attic for the last thirty-seven years."

"What?  Living in my attic?"

"Yep."

"In that trunk?"

"Yep."

"You?"

Lob sighed.  "Bloody hell, he's even thicker than I first thought."

Deep in the shadows of his cowl, Vardun Ri's eyes briefly glowed red.  "They are not here."

Standing beside him in the darkness, watching the house to which the old man's memories had led them, the necromancer swallowed.  His master had spoken softly, but the mage had learned from long experience that that was when he should be most afraid.

"This is the abode, my lord.  There can be no doubt."

The cowl turned towards him.  Even in the darkness, the underling could feel the cold regard of that piercing gaze.  "No doubt?  There is no doubt of your incompetence.  There is no doubt of my displeasure.  And there is no doubt that neither the boy nor the Blade are here."

"My lord, we haven't yet searched the building.  Perhaps they are concealed somewhere within, hidden—"

Sudden pressure on the mage's throat choked off any further words, and it took him a moment to realise the source of that pressure was a hand, gripped tightly around his neck.  Vardun Ri's movement had been too fast for him to perceive.

"They are not here," hissed the imposingly tall, black-clad man.  "Do you think I would not be able to sense their presence, if they were?  In all the years I have sought the Blade, I have come this close on three occasions.  Each time, I could feel it.  Each time, I could sense the raw power calling to me.  Each time, it was snatched away.  As, it would seem, it has been again."  Gurgling incoherently as the grip on his neck tightened, the mage's limbs twitched, stiffened, and then fell limp, and wordlessly, Vardun tossed the lifeless body away.

He turned to his remaining men.  "Surround the house.  No-one enters, no-one leaves."  He pointed.  "You and you—you will search the house.  You will capture anybody you find.  And you will bring them to me, alive."  He turned and regarded the house.  "I will speak with them."

Lob sighed again.  "Look, it's really simple.  I'm the Awesome Grand High-Keeper of the Blade, dedicated to protecting the ancient weapon.  The Blade has been in the box for thirty-seven years, so that means I have been, too."

George raised an eyebrow.  "The Awesome Grand High-Keeper?"

Lob puffed up his minuscule chest.  "That's right, mate.  They don't come much more important than me.  So just you show a bit of respect, alright?"

"I don't remember Grandpa taking about any Grand High-Keepers in his stories, awesome or otherwise."

Lob looked slightly shifty.  "Well, he probably thought I was too important.  Thought I was best kept secret, I reckon."

George was sceptical, but decided there were more important issues at hand.  "OK, whatever.  What I'd like to know is, what am I doing here?"

Lob used a finger to vigorously clean one of his ears.  "Lad, I'm the one who's been in the box.  Why don't you tell me what's been going on?"

George did so, starting from his Grandfather's phone call.

The miniature man's expression grew grave.  "Bugger.  That sounds bad, mate.  How the hell they found a way to your world, I've got no idea.  But, it's bad.  I reckon that's why the old man wanted you gone.  They musta been on their way to your place.  You're lucky to be outta there, I reckon."

"My world?  What do you mean?  Who found a way there?"

"Well, that a long story, mate.  But the short version?  Evil bastards, that's who."

George sat on the edge of the trunk, trying to process what he was being told.  Suddenly, his blood ran cold.  "You say they're coming to my house?"

"Yeah, I reckon."

George grabbed the tiny man by his tiny lapels.  "Well then, we've got to go back.  My mother's still there!"