The commotion from upstairs only confirmed what Vardun had already sensed; the Blade was near, back from wherever it had been hidden. He smiled pleasantly at Marie, held captive in an armchair by the henchman standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder and the other holding his knife to her throat.

"It would appear that my vassal has encountered your son. No doubt he's killing the young fellow, right at this very moment."

Despite the knife, Marie made to get up, drawing blood before the henchman shoved her violently back into the chair. "He's just a boy, you monster. Leave him alone!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, my dear lady. As pathetic as I'm sure he must be, he is a potential threat to my plans. I do not tolerate threats—I eliminate them."

Again, the pinioned woman struggled to rise, but the vice-like grip holding her down was too strong. She sobbed. "Who the hell are you people?"

"That's rather a long story; far too long to bother to relate to someone who will quite likely be dead soon. It would be such a waste of my time. Let's just say we're related by marriage. Now, be silent."

Ignoring Lob's constant stream of advice as to where he should stab him and/or which bits he should chop off, George locked the whimpering henchman securely in an old wardrobe. Cautiously, he opened the hatchway cover and started to descend.

"Good luck, mate," said Lob. "I'm more cut out for the sword-minding side of things, rather than the actual sword-fighting, so I'll just stay put and keep an eye on things up here for you. Just remember, use the pointy bit, lad, the pointy bit. Cupboards are all well and good, but when it comes to evil bastards, coffins are better."

Pushing aside a packet of incontinence pads, the federal agent placed his tablet on the desk he'd commandeered from the nursing home's night supervisor. Frowning, he scanned the preliminary reports on the IDs of the attackers.

Facial recognition—zip.

Fingerprints—zero.

Dental records—zilch.

DNA—not a damn thing.

Six corpses, without so much as a single identifying feature among the lot of them. It was unprecedented. He sighed and flicked to the report on the apparent single victim of the attack.

Despite the extensive injuries the old man had suffered, ID was no problem in his case. Being killed in your own room tended to make that a bit of a non-issue.

Skimming through the report, the agent shook his head in wonder. The old guy had apparently put up a hell of fight. He considered this. The file showed no record of any military service, no mention of any history of combat or martial arts training.  Yet the evidence suggested that a doddery old pensioner had somehow managed to kill six men less than half his age.

Clearly, they were missing something. The agent's frown deepened, but his train of thought was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone.  Glancing at the screen, he saw it was the dog-handler calling.  Hoping they might be finally going to catch a break, he answered.

"Kowolski here.  What have you got?"

The handler sounded out of breath and took a moment to reply.  "Uh, yeah," he panted.  "We, um, we picked up that scent again."

Kowolski waited for more, but just got heavy breathing.  And not the good kind.  "And?" he demanded.

"Well, I was right about there being an animal."

"OK, right.  So, what was it?"

"Um.  It was a bird."

"A bird!"

"Yeah, a big bird."

Kowolski found himself becoming frustrated by the handler's seeming reluctance to provide any details.  "What, like an ostrich or something?"

"No, not like an ostrich.  Much bigger.  And more like an eagle."

"An eagle bigger than an ostrich?"

"Oh yeah.  Way, way bigger."

Kowolski shook his head, and made a mental note to check the handler's file for any record of recreational drug use.  "What the hell are you talking about?  Where's this giant bird now?"

"Um, same place we found it, I assume."

"What do you mean, you assume?"

"Er, well—after it screeched at us, all of my dogs ran away.  So I kind of did, too."

"You ran away?"

"Yeah."

"From a bird?"

"A really, really big bird," replied the handler, tone defensive.  "With great big talons."

Kowolski took a moment to absorb this.  "Okay.  So, where are you now?"

"Um, in a box."

"A box!"

The handler cleared his throat.  "Yeah.  A cardboard box I found in a stormwater drain.  Look, those talons were seriously big.  And don't get me started on the beak."

The agent sighed and grabbed a pen.  "Okay, whatever.  Just give me the address where you saw this bird."

George stood on the landing, and pondered his approach.  On reflection, he reasoned that if discretion was the better part of valour, then reckless stupidity could well be the better part of cowardice, so after taking a deep breath, he charged down the stairs three at a time, holding the Blade in front of him.  Bizarrely, he felt slightly guilty about this, due to the innumerable times his mother had told him not to run with scissors.

He barreled into the living room, skidding to a halt as he took in the tableau laid out before him.

"Greetings, my young friend," said Vardun, standing calmly alongside the chair in which his mother was being held.  "I see you survived the attentions of my vassal.  Well done.  Please don't let it go to your head, though.  Trust me, he really wasn't much of a challenge."

George took in the sight of his mother, twin trickles of blood marring her neck and wine stains down the front of her blouse, which he assumed to also be blood.  He shivered, feeling suddenly cold.

"Who are you?" he asked, hating his voice for the way it  wavered.  "What do you want?"

"Who am I?  I am the rightful owner of the Blade.  And what I want, is my property returned to me.  Hand it over, or your mother will die."

George considered this.  He knew from Grandpa's stories that the Blade was a powerful weapon, and if—as was becoming increasingly evident—the stories were true, then he shouldn't let it fall into the wrong hands.  But at the moment, he couldn't care less about that—he just wanted his mother safe.  "How do I know I can trust you?"

Vardun laughed.  "You can't, boy.  The only thing you can trust in is the certainty that your mother will die, if you don't surrender that sword."  He held out his hand.  "Time to decide."

George hesitated a moment longer, then lowered the Blade, before reversing it, and holding the handle towards Vardun.  "Fine, you win."  He took a single step, but then stopped, as the henchman holding his mother emitted an incoherent gurgle.  It took George a moment to realise this was because there was a carving fork protruding from his throat.  Clutching at the handle, the henchman gave a final, bubbling gasp and collapsed.

"No, he doesn't.  Not this time."

George dragged his eyes away from the body lying on the floor, and turned towards the source of the voice, standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Grandpa!"