"Georgie, my boy.  I see you found the Blade.  Good lad.  Although the idea was for both you and it not to be around when Mr Emo-Britches here came calling."

"Grandpa, I thought you must be dead!"

"That makes two of us," growled Vardun.

"Dead?  Huh, I may as well be, for all the visitors I get.  And my hip is playing up, something terrible.  But dead?  No, not quite."

Vardun pointed his knife at the old man.  "How in seven hells are you alive?  For that matter, how did you get in here?  I have ten men stationed outside."

Grandpa winked at George.  "Eight, I think you'll find."

Vardun's eyes narrowed.  "I can count, you old fool."

"Me too.  And I counted eight.  Oh, unless we're counting dead ones.  That would make ten."

Almost imperceptibly , the robed man's left cheek started to twitch.  "Dead ones?"

"Well, probably dead.  That garden gnome was bloody heavy, and I hit 'em pretty hard with it.  Let's just say, 'indisposed, presumed dead'."

Vardun stamped his foot.  "Will you stop killing my vassals?  They don't grow on trees, you know.  You already killed half-a-dozen at that wretched nursing home of yours."

"Oh, that wasn't me.  That was old Bernie McKay.  Put up a good fight, did he?  Good for him.  I always knew he was a tough old bird."

"Who or what is a Bernie McKay?" snarled Vardun.

Feeling completely bewildered and lost, George latched on to the one part of the conversation that actually made any sense to him.  "Grandpa, isn't Mr McKay the old man in the room next to you, at the home?  The one who has dementia?"

"Had dementia, Georgie.  Poor old Bernie will be long dead now, at the hands of Lord Evil Bastard here.  Or at the hands of his men, anyway.  Ha, the ones Bernie didn't kill, that is.  The old coot might have been a few beers short of a six-pack, but he was a still strong as an ox, and you know what they say, once a special forces soldier, always a special forces soldier.  Used to be a captain in the SAS, I think it was.  Or maybe it was a colonel in the commandos.  I don't know, something like that.  A real hard-arse, anyway."

George shook his head.  "Grandpa, what are you talking about?  Why would they kill poor old Mr McKay?"

"Because they thought he was me."

"And why would they think that?"

"Because when I heard this tosser and his thugs busting into the home, I hauled old Bernie into my room, put my bathrobe and slippers on him, and stuck him in an armchair.  Then I set up a few little surprises, barricaded the door, and hopped it out the window, while they smashed their way in.  Not before I got one of 'em good with a fork, though."

"Leaving Mr McKay to face him?"

"Oh, don't worry about Bernie, Georgie.  He hated it in that place, or at least he did when he was lucid enough to know where he was, which wasn't often.  Given the choice, he would have opted to go out swinging, and it sure as hell sounds like he did.  Plus, he bought me the time I needed to get out of there.  Win-win."

George stared at his grandfather.  "Win-win?  Grandpa, he's dead!  How can—"

"If I might interrupt this little family conversation?" hissed Vardun.  "I have a few questions, myself.  This supposed impostor of yours.  He had your memories!  That is how we found this wretched dwelling.  He can't..." He trailed off, giving the old man an appraising look.  "It was a memory transfer, wasn't it?  You transferred an imprint of your memories into this McBernie creature.  That's why my necromancer believed he was you.  That's how he knew this address."

Grandpa gave a little bow.  "Guilty, your honour.  I have to say, I was pretty rusty, but fortunately Bern was more or less a blank slate.  Although I'm bummed about transferring the address.  I thought I'd left that bit out.  Damn this getting old business."

"But your line has never indulged in such arcane procedures," protested Vardun.  "They have been the sole preserve of my line, for centuries."

Tiredly, Grandpa sat down on the arm of the couch.  "Vardun, you arsehole, do you think I give a shit anymore about which line is supposed to do what?  I opted out of all that crap years ago.  I came here to get away from it all, and I'll do whatever procedures it takes to keep me and my family out of it.  So you can just bugger off back to Volanda and take your last eight monkeys with you, before some other pensioner kills them, too."

With a menacing smile, Vardun placed his hand on the back of the chair that Marie was still seated in—pale, still and staring fixedly straight ahead.  "I must say, you haven't really done a very good job of keeping them out of 'all this crap', as you so charmingly put it, have you?  After all, here I am.  You may have killed a few menial vassals, but let's not forget who still holds the power here.  Your grandson is going to give me the Blade, and you are going to watch quietly, while he does so.  No forks, no walking sticks and no gnomes, garden or otherwise.  Because if you don't, I'm going to slit this lovely lady's throat, from one delicate ear to the other."

Grandpa sighed.  "You really are an arsehole, aren't you?  Have I mentioned that already?  Doesn't matter, it's the kind of thing that bears repeating.  You were a major arsehole when I knew you back in the old days, and somehow you've gotten even arseholier since.  It's a wonder your head hasn't disappeared up your own sphincter."

"Enough!" barked Vardun.  He beckoned to George.  "The Blade, now, or she dies."

Grandpa stood up.  "Georgie, you stay right where you are.  Vardun, you're not slitting anything.  Make a move on my daughter-in-law there, and I'll jump on your sorry arse quicker than any retiree you've ever seen.  I may be old, but I'm still pretty fast."

Vardun gave a snort.  "And then what?  Your pathetic knives and forks and sticks may be sufficient to kill my men, but you must know they cannot possibly hurt me."

"Yep, you got me there, Vardie.  You got me there.  I don't reckon any of my tricks are going to work on you.  But that's okay.  Young Georgie has a trick, that I think might just fit the bill."

"I do?" asked George, incredulously.

"He does?" asked Marie.

"He does," confirmed Grandpa.

"And what is this trick?" scoffed Vardun.

Grandpa grinned.  "Oh, it's a good one.  While you and I are having a lovely wrestle, George is going to use the Blade to chop your head off.  Pretty neat, hey?"

The scorn on Vardun's face faded away.  "You would not be fast enough to stop me from slitting her throat first."

Grandpa shrugged.  "Maybe, maybe not.  Regardless, I reckon I can hold you long enough for your head to go bye-bye.  If you make a move on Marie, she might live or she might die, but either way, you definitely die."

Vardun hefted his knife, muscles coiled like springs, one eye on Grandpa and the other on George.  Grandpa stared at Vardun.  Marie stared into space.  George's gaze darted between the three of them, as he compulsively gripped the hilt of the Blade, wondering if he had it in him to actually cut somebody's head off, and feeling horribly certain that he didn't.

Seconds ticked by.  Nobody moved.  The tension mounted and mounted, until just at the point that George began to wonder if maybe cutting his own head off might be the only way out of the standoff, there was the sudden, shocking sound of gunshots from outside.  Gunshots, followed by a horrendous screeching; an inhuman noise, that sounded like all the banshees of hell had simultaneously decided it was time for a singalong.

Grandpa glanced at the window, distracted for only a moment, but long enough for Vardun to burst into motion.  There was a swirl of black cloak, a flash of light.

And then, darkness.