Although momentarily nonplussed by the boy's defiance, Vardun found himself pleased by it.  Killing an abjectly terrified, cowering victim, although no doubt deeply satisfying, was never quite as much fun as putting an end to a defiant one.  He was going to enjoy this.  Although, first of all, he had to satisfy his curiosity on something.

"Tell me, what exactly is fudge?"

George's steely expression wavered.  He blinked.  "What?"

Vardun sighed.  "You told me to 'shut the fudge up'.  I can't very well do that if I don't know what fudge is, can I?  So, kindly elucidate.  What is fudge and how does one shut it?"

"Um, I...er, it's...don't you have that word here?"

"No, my young friend, we do not.  But I am always interested in learning more of the habits and folkways of your world.  Who knows when the information may prove useful?  Please explain."

George was at a loss.  Seconds after experiencing a near-death epiphany, he found himself debating the best way to define the concept of 'fudge' for the benefit of a person who was trying to kill him, when the word had been used in a context entirely unrelated to its actual meaning.  Eventually he decided that perhaps the best option was to just not bother.  "Tell you what—why don't you just sod off and go look in a dictionary?" 

Vardun smiled.  "Perhaps I will.  Now, as you seem reluctant to prolong our conversation, back to business."  Fast as lightning, he lunged forward, thrusting one rapier at George's midriff, while swinging the other at this neck, both blows intended to be fatal.

Equally as quickly, George allowed his knees to buckle, dropping under the latter attack, while swinging the Blade up to block the former.  But he was not merely swinging in defence.  For the first time, George (or possibly the Blade itself, he couldn't tell which) had an ulterior motive.  His opponent's lunge had brought the two of them closer than they had been at any point during the fight so far, and George used the opportunity to send the tip of the Blade smashing into the very base of the rapier, right above the hilt.

Mere millimetres before it pierced George's stomach, the weapon was torn from Vardun's grasp, and flung spinning across the courtyard, gleaming and flashing in the bright sunlight.

There was a moment of stunned silence.  George, on his haunches, and Vardun, standing over him, both watched the tumbling trajectory of the rapier, arcing across the open space until it clattered to a halt on the cobblestones, some twenty or thirty metres away.  It lay at the feet of the astonished crowd, until—almost faster than the eye could see—a pair of tiny hands darted out from among the legs and snatched it away and out of sight.  The silence lingered for a heartbeat longer, and then the cheering started again, now redoubled.

Slowly, George stood up.  This time, he was the one who smiled.  "OK, arsehole.  Let's dance."  For the first time that day—and probably, in his life—he went on the offensive.

Vardun had already recovered from the shock of being partially disarmed, and if the young Blade had expected an easy victory, he was soon disappointed.  He could feel the knowledge, the skill, the power of the Blade flowing into him, and he knew he was fighting at a level he had never dreamed of, even in his games.  But Vardun was matching him, blow for blow, his single rapier dancing and weaving, parrying and attacking.

Back and forth, across the courtyard they dueled, steel ringing and sparks flying.  George could feel himself tiring, but was buoyed by the first sight of his opponent's blood, flowing freely from a shallow cut on his cheek, as well as by the cheering of the crowd, rapturously acclaiming every move he made.

He had known that he was not just fighting for himself, but the audible, visceral, vocal support of the people was bringing home the reality of this.  These Volandans weren't just cheering for his victory, or for Vardun's defeat.  They were cheering for their future, for their children's future, for the hope of a better tomorrow.  And they were placing that hope squarely on George's slight shoulders.  He couldn't let them down.  He wouldn't let them down.

With renewed vigour, he increased the intensity of his attack, driving the tyrant before him.  From the periphery of his vision he caught glimpses of those supporting him.  He spotted his mother, face anxious, but cheering nonetheless.  Faltering for just a moment, he glimpsed the crumpled form of his grandfather, no longer glowing.  He saw humans, he saw gnomes, he saw people whose species he couldn't identify.  He saw an attractive young woman, and a towering youth, alongside his mother.  But on each and every face, he saw hope.  And faith.

Faith in the Blade.  Faith in him.  He had to show them that it was justified.

With mounting unease, Vardun could see the transformation taking place in his young foe.  The boy's skills were increasing, his confidence was growing, and to his utter disbelief, he could sense that this Blade would soon outmatch him, if indeed he did not already.

Outmatch him in swordplay, at least.  But not, he told himself, in knowledge.  Nor in wisdom or hard-won experience—Vardun had been winning battles since before this boy was born.  It was time to make that experience count.  He had to find a chink in the young Blade's defenses, mentally, if not physically.  There had to be a way.

Vardun had been aware for a little while now that the old man's blockage of his ke mana had ceased, presumably because the wretch had fallen unconscious or—more likely—was dead.  He had been too occupied with fighting the boy to make use of this, but now, desperate for any advantage, he diverted just the tiniest part of his attention from his swordplay, sending a trace of his consciousness questing across the short space between them and into his young opponent's mind.  Seeking an opening.  Seeking an advantage.  Seeking weakness.

And finding it.

George felt something.  He wasn't sure what, something like the whisper of a ghost through his mind.  The sensation passed as quickly as it began, and he dismissed it from his thoughts, throwing everything he had into finally defeating his seemingly tireless opponent.  Who, for the first time since the loss of the rapier, chose this moment to speak.

"She is attractive, isn't she?"

"What?" snapped George, annoyed at having his attention diverted, but still swinging.

"She really is very pretty," repeated Vardun, parrying the blow.

Despite himself, George paused in his attack.  "Who?"

Vardun pointed, with his chin.  "The young lady standing by your mother.  The one you noticed, just before."

George didn't know quite what to say, although he was surprised to find that he knew exactly who Vardun meant.  "I don't know what you're talking about.  Now, shut up, and—"

"And what?  Prepare to die at your hands?  Prepare to be defeated by the dashing young Blade?  She would like that, don't you think?  I'm sure she would be very impressed."

George shook his head, impatiently.  "Why should I care what—?"

"Why should you care about impressing an attractive young lady?  Why, indeed?  Maybe because you have never had a girlfriend?  Maybe because you know that girl back on Earth, the one you like so much, will never be yours?  Will never even care whether you live or die?  Maybe because, way down deep inside, you worry that you will never find someone?  That you don't deserve to be loved?  Maybe because with that young lady over there, if you impress her enough, maybe you would stand a chance?  She really is quite beautiful, you know."

And, despite himself, George looked.  Against all reason, against all common sense, against all of his instincts, he looked.  Suddenly no longer the long-lost champion of a long-forsaken world, suddenly anxious and uncertain, and once more a mere teenage nobody, a wretched collection of insecurities and unfulfilled hopes, just for the barest moment, he looked.

It was a moment too long.

Even as George's head started to turn, Vardun's remaining rapier was in motion, flashing across the short space between them.  Catching a glimpse of the gleam from the corner of his eye, George tried desperately to parry the blow, but it was too little, too late.  The razor-sharp blade slashed across his right forearm, just above his wrist, and involuntarily, despite his best efforts to resist, his now nerveless fingers relaxed, releasing the Blade.  The weapon fell to the cobblestones, the clatter shockingly loud in the sudden silence.  Lunging for it with his left hand, George was brought up short by the tip of Vardun's rapier, pressed against his throat.

The tyrant shook his head in mock sympathy.  "Oh dear.  How sad.  Undone by love.  Actually, not even love.  Undone by the mere hope of love.  You poor, pitiful fool.  Let this be a lesson to you, dear boy.  Never trust in love.  Never.  Love is good for nothing."  Slowly, he smiled.  It was an immensely self-satisfied, gloating smile.  "Well, except for maybe one thing.  There is something that love is good for.  And do you know what that is?"

George glared at him, and remained silent.

"What's the matter, boy?  Lost for words?  Or is this possibly how you shut the fudge up?  Hmm?  Excellent demonstration, I must say.  Now, where was I?  Oh, yes.  The one thing that love actually is useful for.  Love, my dear soon-to-be-dead ex-Blade, is good for hurting the ones who feel it.  For that one purpose, love is exceptionally useful.  You have no idea how much pleasure I take from imagining the anguish your mother will feel, as I dissect both you and your grandfather.  Not to mention the delight I will feel at your anguish, when I tell you that after your mother has endured these pleasant scenes, I will torture and kill her.  Ah, there it is.  That look on your face.  That is what love is good for.  Pain."

The fingers on George's left hand flexed, as he longed to pick up the Blade and wipe the smug smile off this arrogant, heartless bastard's face.  "You leave her alone, you arsehole."

"Oh, I  don't think so.  No, no, no.  You will die, safe in the knowledge that your mother is going to experience pain that you cannot begin to imagine.  Anguish that you—"  Frowning, the dark lord stopped speaking, and it was a moment before George realised why.  He was being attacked.  Attacked by one of his own guards.

Bravely, passionately, furiously, but completely ineffectively, Arnutz was pounding on Vardun's back.  "You're talking about the woman I love, you stinker!  You stay away from her!  I'm going to marry her!  You leave her be!"  Not having thought to retrieve his spear, he was weaponless, but this hadn't stopped him from charging across the courtyard at the first mention of Marie being harmed.  Armed only with his love, he was determined to defend her at all costs.

Unfortunately, his love was proving to be an ineffectual weapon.  Turning his head slightly, Vardun reached back with his spare hand and pushed the guard effortlessly away, sending him tumbling.  He would kill the insubordinate wretch once he had finished with the Blade.  He turned back, only to find that the Blade had other ideas.

Moving faster than he thought was possible, Arnutz's distraction had been all the time George needed to duck away from the rapier at his throat, tumbling to the ground and snatching up the Blade in his left hand as he did so.

For just the briefest of moments, Vardun gaped stupidly into the empty space at which his rapier still pointed.  And then, thrusting with all the strength he could muster, George plunged the Blade up and into his foe's midriff, hard enough for the weapon to emerge gleaming from his back.

Breathless, in pain and just a little nauseous, the young Blade locked eyes with the skewered tyrant.  "Hey," he panted, "looks like love is good for something else, after all.

Disbelief and outrage at war on his features, Vardun stood motionless for several long seconds.  Then, like a rag doll, he crumpled and fell.