The Blade

Chapter 32

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.