George sipped cautiously on his second tankard of ale, still half expecting the Volandan version of a police officer to leap out from somewhere and demand to see his ID.  Not that he'd even really wanted an ale.  He'd just mentioned he was thirsty and Wuk had materialised with a tankard.  And then another one, when the first was empty.  A pleasant warmth was spreading throughout his body, and for the first time in what had been a very long, tiring, traumatic and above all, weird day, he felt himself beginning to relax.

His injured arm throbbed, but not painfully so.  One of Noho's best doctors, whom to George's barely concealed astonishment was also a fairy, had stitched him up, applied some sort of sweet-smelling goo, and reassured him that in a few weeks he'd be as good as new.  All his other assorted scrapes, cuts and slashes had been cleaned and dressed, and at the moment his greatest physical issue was simple tiredness.

Somewhat naively, George had assumed once he stuck a sword in the bad guy, that would be that.  Evil defeated, good triumphant, everyone living happily ever after, etc, etc.

As it turned out—not so much.

It appeared Vardun had believed in a somewhat top-heavy system of government, consisting of him at the summit, a handful of warlords way down below him, and then, way, way, way down below them, everyone else.  With the tyrant dethroned, the warlords had seen the writing on the wall and promptly buggered off, leaving precisely nobody in charge.

Except for, as it turned out, the new Blade.  Without the slightest hesitation or the tiniest hint of doubt, the entire population of Noho had assumed that having sorted out Vardun Ri, George would now sort out the governance of Volanda.  Which he couldn't help but feel was a big ask for somebody who was from another world, particularly when that somebody wasn't even old enough to vote yet.

Still, that was a problem for tomorrow.  Unless it already was tomorrow; he'd lost track of the time.  Having commandeered one of Vardun's staterooms, and with Lob as his self-appointed doorkeeper, he'd spent the past several hours dealing with the requests, complaints and congratulations of a steady stream of former Volandan dignitaries, officials, bigwigs and who-knew-whats, who had magically rematerialised the moment their oppressor had fallen.  George had rapidly discovered the value of the grave nod, along with the usefulness of phrases such as, "Indeed," and, "I'll see what I can do."

If only Grandpa was around to offer some advice.  Which would no doubt be accompanied by additional useful phrases, such as, "Piss off, dickhead," and, "Blow it out your arse, sunshine."  But Grandpa was irrevocably, inescapably gone.  By the time a bleeding and battered George had made it to the old man's side, he was dead.  Doctors, mages and alchemists had been summoned, but all to no avail.  Grandpa was beyond any help they had to offer.

George was unquestionably sad about this, but it was a curious, muted kind of sadness.  Rather than fading away in a nursing home, Grandpa had died saving a world, not to mention seriously pissing off the bad guy.  He had—quite literally—gone out in a blaze of glory.  Safe in the knowledge he wouldn't have wanted it any other way, George felt it would be somehow churlish to be too sad.  And he was trying hard not to be.  But that didn't mean he wouldn't miss the cantankerous, irascible, incorrigible old sod.

He stifled a yawn. One more.  I'll see one more lot of Volandans I don't know, asking me about things I have no idea about, and then I'm going to bed.  He'd been grappling with the dilemma of whether to stay in Volanda as the Blade, or go back to Earth and simply be George, and the last few hours had made the decision a little less of a no-brainer than it had originally seemed.  Suffice it to say, exams no longer seemed quite so daunting.  Stretching, he called out, "Next," to Lob and took a swig of ale.

The gnome stuck his head around the door, bright-eyed and seemingly tireless. He was glorying in the apparent confirmation of his position as Awesome Grand-High-Keeper of the Blade, especially now that there was actually a person attached to the sword.  "Right you are, lad.  The next mob are the leaders of the Zamar Valley rebellion."

It took George's fatigued, and frankly, slightly drunk, brain a few moments to recognise the young woman and the tall youth, but once he did, his heart started hammering in his chest and his pleasantly relaxed state vanished.  Wow, she really is pretty.  Stay calm, George. Play it cool.  He arranged his features into what he imagined was a determined and in-control, yet still welcoming (and possibly, just a little bit sexy) smile.  And then, casually, said, "Hello."

Or at least he would have if the mouthful of ale, which he'd completely forgotten about, hadn't poured out of his mouth the moment he tried to speak.

Blinking sleepily, Arnutz attempted without much success to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden stool positioned in the hallway outside Marie's room.  He was tired, he had a sore bum, and he was faced with the prospect of a sleepless night, but there was nowhere he'd rather be.  He'd insisted on being allowed to guard the love of his life, and somewhat to his surprise, nobody had stopped him.

Hailed as something of a hero following his role in Vardun's defeat, Arnutz had found himself in the completely unprecedented position of not only being noticed, but of actually being paid attention to.  It was heady stuff.

So, step one in his plan—to get close to Marie—had gone off without a hitch.  Now it was time for step two—convincing her to stay in Volanda.

Never having gotten a plan past step one before, he was at a bit of a loss as to how to achieve step two, but he wasn't worried.  He had all night to think about it.

Usually quiet of an evening, the Goblin's Pancreas was tonight packed full of revellers, celebrating their liberation from the the dark tyrant's tyranny.  Upon their return to the tavern, Korbus and Bup had been appalled to find their table occupied, and it had taken a good ten minutes of Korbus talking politics to drive the interlopers away.

Safely ensconced back in their rightful positions, the two friends sat and contemplated the day's events.  Korbus took a sip of his whisky (they had decided that a glass or four of the hard stuff was entirely justified, given the momentous nature of the occasion).  "Well, that were some day, weren't it?  How do you reckon the new Blade will do?"

Looking thoughtful, Bup took a contemplative sip of his drink.  He gazed around at the revellers.  He turned back to Korbus.  He placed his glass on the table.  He steepled his fingers, raised an eyebrow and looked his old friend right in the eye.

"What new Blade?  And who the hell are you?"

Korbus sighed.  "Time for another pill, eh?  C'mon, I'll take ya home."

The gnome looked a little uncomfortable.  "Ooh, I dunno, mate.  Look, I'm flattered and everything, but..."

George had rapidly discovered Laya was far more than a pretty face.  She was also a real hard-arse.

"Okay, so let's just recap.  You want me to sort out the Zamar Valley's irrigation, you want a new school built, the roads need fixing, the orphanage needs a new kitchen, you want the elders to include some youngers, the hospital needs a new roof, and you want all of this done pretty much straight away.  Does that cover it?"

"Well, it'll do for a start," replied Laya.  "I can make you a full list once I get back there."

George nodded gravely.  "I'll see what I can do."

Laya thumped the table, making him jump.  "Don't give me that!  Just do it."

He felt his patience beginning to wear a little thin.  "Look, I've been in this world for about a day.  I've been in this job about half of that.  When I say I'll see what I can do, I mean it.  I just need to figure out how stuff works here."

"But I can tell you how stuff works here."

George rubbed his eyes.  "Fine.  How about I put you in charge of the Zamar Valley, and then you can organise all that stuff?"

Laya blinked in surprise.  "Me?  I just want to go back to my family and my farm.  I don't want to be in charge of anything."

George stopped rubbing.  Taking his hands away, he stared at Laya.  "You don't want to be in charge?  Of anything?"

"No, of course not.  I can't think of anything worse."

Slowly, George grinned.  "Well, in that case, I have some bad news."

Laya frowned at him.  "What bad news?

"I think Volanda may have just gotten itself a new queen."

Lob frowned up at the closed door.  "Bloody hell, they're having a good old shouting match in there."  He turned to Wuck, who was keeping him company.  "What do you reckon is going on?"

"Well—"

"I hope the lad is behaving himself.  Maybe he decided it was time to do something about the no-girlfriend issue, and the lass wasn't so keen."

"I—"

"Or maybe she is keen, and the other lad, the big one, is a bit peeved.  Maybe he's got a thing for the lass."

"But—"

"Not much of a talker, are you?  Dunno why I even bother, sometimes."

Weary beyond words, George sat on the edge of the bed, in the suite of rooms he'd been allocated.  It felt extraordinarily soft and comfortable, but he was so tired he suspected he'd sleep just as well on the floor.

After their shouting match, Laya had stormed off, declaring that she would never be queen, but George was confident she'd come around.  She didn't seem to be the sort who could stand anybody else doing a job she thought she could do better.

Plus, her name was Laya and she'd been the leader of a rebellion, which was practically the same as a rebel alliance.  It was clearly destiny.  It was just a shame he couldn't make her a princess, rather than a queen.  He wondered if she ever wore her hair in side-buns.

Apparently Volanda had never had a queen before, but as far as George was concerned, it was about time they started living in the 21st century.  Or whatever century it was here.  Plus, he suspected if Danus was appointed co-regent, or whatever other grand title he could come up with, that would probably settle a few ruffled chauvinistic feathers.  The big guy didn't seem to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but it was clear that his heart was in the right place, and George figured that had to be a good start for a leader.

But then, what did he know about leadership?  The highest office he'd ever held was vice-captain of the school table-tennis team, and that had consisted of two people, including George.  Feeling a little daunted and lost, he picked up the Blade, seeking the reassurance just simply holding the legendary weapon always seemed to provide.

"Hey there, boy."

George just about jumped out of his skin, dropping the sword to the floor with a clatter.  That was Grandpa's voice!  He could have sworn it.  Warily, heart thumping, he looked around the room, and feeling a little foolish, even checked under the bed.  There was nobody there.

Clearly he was even more tired than he'd realised.  Time for sleep.  Shaking his head, he leaned over and retrieved the Blade.

"Bloody hell, can't a man even say hello without getting dropped on the floor?"

George thrust the sword out in front of himself, spinning around as he once again searched for the source of the voice.  "Who said that?  Who's there?"

"Who do you think it is, sunshine?  It's me, of course."

"Grandpa?"

"None other.  How's things, Georgie?"

"But...but...I thought you were dead!"

"No flies on you, boy.  Course I'm dead."

"I...but...so, you're like, a ghost?"

"Don't be stupid.  If I was a ghost, do you think I'd be wasting my time here, talking to you?  Not bloody likely.  I'd be off chatting up Marilyn Monroe, or giving that Hitler clown a kick up the arse, for being such a knob."

"Well then, what are you?  Where are you?"

"In the sword, of course, boy.  And that means I'm in your head, whenever you hold it.  I didn't get a chance to tell you about that little feature—it only kicks in when the former Blade dies, anyway.  But when I became the Blade, Georgie, it didn't just become part of me—I became part of it.  It absorbed some of my essence."

"You mean, it's kind of like you're still alive in there?  Inside the Blade?"

There was a disembodied sigh.  "Pay attention, boy.  I already told you  I'm dead.  If you were the new-age, hippy dropkick type, you might say the Blade captured part of my soul or spirit, or some such nonsense.  But that'd just be a load of crap.  All I am is a collection of memories.  But a bloody useful collection, even if I do say so myself."

"Um, oh-kay.  But, why are you in there?  What are you for?"

"To help you out, of course.  The Blade stores the wisdom of its former bearers, to advise and counsel the current one.  Neat, huh?"

"So there's more of you in there?"

"Oh yeah, stacks of us.  Some good fellas, but some right knob-ends, as well.  I just told 'em all to pipe down for now, while you get your head around the idea of us being around.  But whenever you're holding the Blade, if you need us, we'll be here."

George flopped back onto the bed.  "Whoa.  This is heavy."

"Look, get some sleep, boy.  We can talk more in the morning, but for now I just wanted to let you know I was here.  And to tell you how proud I am of you, for killing Vardun.  You did good, Georgie."

"Thanks, Grandpa.  But Vardun isn't dead.  At least not yet, anyway."

There was a lengthy pause.  "What did you say?"

George shifted uneasily.  "Er, yeah.  Turns out he kind of didn't die.  But some doctors had a look at him and they said he will, soon.  They said nobody recovers from that kind of wound.  So I had him stuck in a dungeon, locked up and with a bunch of guards.  Until he, you know—dies."

"Georgie, Georgie, Georgie.  Why didn't you just lop his head off?"

"Well, because I kind of feel a little uncomfortable about the whole lopping heads off thing.  I feel bad enough that I actually stuck a sword through somebody.  I figured if he was going to die anyway, then I'd just kind of leave him to it."

"Boy, do me a favour, and get your pacifist arse down to that dungeon.  I need to know that bastard is dead."

"But I was just about to go to—"

"Georgie, humour me.  Go and take a look. Just to be on the safe side."

George was taking a look, but really wished he wasn't.  As evil and irredeemably cruel as Vardun had been, it was hard not to feel at least a little sorry for him.  His lifeless form lay sprawled on the hard bunk which was the only furniture the gloomy dungeon boasted, his glazed and unblinking eyes staring blankly at nothing.

The young Blade turned to the doctor, who was hovering over his patient—literally hovering, as it was the same fairy who had tended to his wounded arm.  "Um," he said, feeling more than a little foolish for asking, "is he dead?"

The fairy gave him a look which suggested very strongly to George he would dearly like to roll his eyes, but was restrained by professional courtesy.  He contented himself with raising an eyebrow.  "Yes," he replied, as he flew down a little lower and gently closed Vardun's eyes.  "He is very definitely dead."

"Oh, good.  Er, I mean, I'm sorry to hear that.  Although, I guess not really.  Well, I'm sorry your patient died.  But not really sorry that patient died.  Well, maybe a bit.  Um...I guess I'll be going.  So, ah—thanks.  I'll leave you to do...er, what ever it is you guys do.  Bye."

With a last awkward smile, hurriedly replaced by a look of grave seriousness, George made his exit.

For a few seconds the doctor watched the closed door, before drifting down towards the corpse below him.  Gently, with the lightest of touches, he placed his tiny hand on Vardun's cooling forehead.  Still watching the door, he smiled.

And in the dull gloom of the now silent dungeon, his eyes, normally bright-emerald green, began to glow red.