The Blade

Chapter 33

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.