The Blade

Chapter 31

Feeling an odd sense of detachment, George watched Vardun advance toward him.  The youth knew that he was afraid; he could feel his heart thudding in his chest, and he was aware of a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.  He registered these sensations, yet, strangely, it felt as as if they were being experienced by somebody else, or as if they were somehow artificial or make-believe.

Until, that is, the moment that Vardun's blade penetrated his flesh.  That sensation he felt.  And then, suddenly, the situation became all too real.

He had expected there to be a period of watchful circling, some testing of defences, possibly the odd feint or two, and given his brief experience of Vardun, probably some more monologuing.  There had been none of these things.  Instead, without preamble or warning, the older man had simply attacked, his twin blades a whirling, gleaming blur of silver.

Desperately, George had leapt back, wielding the Blade in defence.  He'd managed to parry one of the hissing rapiers, however it was only his rapid evasive maneuver that prevented the other from inflicting more than a shallow, stinging abrasion, diagonally across his chest.

Vardun smiled pleasantly at him.  "You are quite fast.  Good.  I would hate for this to be over too soon."  He paused to inspect the crimson stain now adorning the tip of his weapon.  "So, first blood is mine.  Only a trace, but even the greatest of floods begins with but a single drop.  Soon, your blood will rain down like—"

"Don't you ever stop talking?" interrupted George, provoking a ripple of laughter from the crowd, and a hint of surprise at himself.  Where had that come from?  He wasn't usually the interrupting type.  But then, he wasn't usually the battling-an-evil-tyrant-with-a-magical-weapon-for-the-fate-of-the-world type, either.  He was in uncharted waters.  He should probably expect the unexpected.

Vardun's smile became slightly strained, and a hint of colour appeared in his cheeks.  "Very well.  If you prefer death, to conversation, then so be it."  And with a swish of steel, he stepped back into the attack.

George was again forced to retreat, frantically parrying and dodging, using every ounce of his Blade-enhanced skill to stay alive.  Vardun's method of fighting was methodical but efficient, his twin rapiers ever in motion, ever seeking an entry through George's desperate, frantic defences.

It was the two weapons that George was finding to be his greatest challenge.  Despite his limited experience, he was almost invariably able to deflect at least one of the flashing blades, but when it came to the other one, he was left with no other option but to somehow just get out of its way.  Something he managed to achieve most of the time, but not always; he soon wore new slashes and cuts in addition to the one gradually painting the front of his shirt red.  And still he was forced back, ever back, moving gradually across the courtyard, concentrating fiercely on keeping his footing, fully aware that the slightest stumble would be fatal.  Attack was out of the question, the entirety of his universe was rapidly shrinking down to the simple, desperate act of somehow staying alive.

Vardun, for his part, was exultant, his frustration at the old man's unexpected interference, and his anger at the onlookers' disrespect both forgotten.  Although a little surprised that the young Blade was still standing (clearly the weapon was already having its effect on him), the boy was obviously outmatched, and it could only be a matter of time before he succumbed to a fatal wound.  The object that Vardun had yearned for, hunted for, killed for, the single thing he had desired above all else, for more years than he cared to remember, was just moments away from his possession.

And yet, despite his fierce joy, his anticipation of the boy's imminent death left him feeling strangely dissatisfied.  It simply did not seem enough.  Woefully inadequate as he may be, his opponent was a Blade.  The last in a long line of legendary figures, a cast of characters featuring heroes beyond measure.  Admittedly, the boy was a rather pathetic example, but he was still a Blade, nonetheless.  Plus, he had defied Vardun.  Angered him.  Delayed him.  The cur warranted a lingering, painful death, not the quick ending that his rapiers would soon provide.

The tyrant was sorely tempted.  Why not simply maim the boy, before taking the Blade from him?  His mages and alchemists were quite capable of keeping even those with grave injuries alive, at least for long enough for them to pay for their transgressions.  And for Vardun to experience the intense, drawn-out, prolonged satisfaction of exacting that price.  Tempting indeed, particularly once the boy backed into the wall, and could retreat no further.

But, no.  He would not take that chance.  Not when his goal was so close, not when there had been so many complications on the road to reaching this point of resolution.  He would not risk another.  As much as he longed to hurt the boy physically, he would simply have to be satisfied with torturing him mentally.  Fortunately, he was exceptionally practiced at both techniques.

Hard up against the wall, wide-eyed and breathing heavily,  with the Blade held unsteadily before him, George watched Vardun.  He would do his best to keep fighting, but in his heart, he knew it was over.  Unable to retreat any further, he wouldn't be able to avoid both rapiers.  He braced himself for the killing blow.

Which didn't come.  At least, not yet.

Vardun paused in his attack, although the gleaming rapiers remained raised and ready.  "You fought well, boy.  Not well enough to alter your fate, however.  Listen closely now, to the last words you will ever hear.  In just a few moments, I will kill you.  You know this to be true.  You will be dead, your lifeblood flowing freely across these cold, hard cobbIestones.  I will take the Blade, from your lifeless, cooling hands.  And then, just on the off-chance that your wretched grandfather is still alive enough to watch, I will use it to dismember and decapitate your corpse.  If he does happen to still be alive, I will then use the Blade to dismember and decapitate him.  That, I will particularly enjoy.  You have no idea how many times I have dreamed of killing that old fool.  Of course, I will make sure that you mother has a wonderful view of these proceedings.  I would not want her to miss—"

"Bloody hell, for once in your life, would you kindly please just shut the...fudge up?"

George was not a swearer.  Despite the ongoing bafflement, more-or-less constant encouragement and not infrequent derision of his more linguistically relaxed friends, he'd just never really gotten the hang of proper cursing.

He wasn't sure why. And it wasn't as though he'd never tried. In fact, it would be fair to say he'd been something of an early adopter, coming home from his first day of third grade with a whole selection of exciting new words to try out on his sisters—until his mother overheard him.

Expecting fireworks, he'd been surprised and relieved to receive nothing worse than a sad look. A sad look, accompanied by a simple question, "Oh, George—what do you think your father would say, if he heard you speaking like that?"

So, perhaps he did know why, after all. In any case, he'd found himself negotiating his teenage years in a largely profanity-free manner—with all the attendant social challenges that brought.

But, for once in his life, he didn't care about sounding like a dweeb. After all, when it came down to it, he was a dweeb.  But he was a dweeb who'd been pushed too far.  George's fear was gone.  His pain was gone.  His uncertainty was gone.  He didn't know how, he didn't know why, he just knew they were.  He was not angry.  He was not confident.  He was not calm, but nor was he panicked.  Frankly, he didn't know what he was.  But the one thing he did know, above all else, was that he had had enough.  Enough of feeling lost, enough of feeling bewildered, enough of feeling overwhelmed, inadequate and above all else, powerless.  From the moment he had taken that phone call from Grandpa last night, right up until this very moment, he had been set adrift upon a tumultuous river of events and consequences, not of his own choosing and rarely under his control.  No more.

The other thing he knew was that right now he wanted nothing more than to teach this arrogant, monologuing, evil, twisted, great big, steaming pile of...poop the biggest lesson of his life.

You don't mess with a Blade.

Or his mum.