"Fascinating, just fascinating. Many of the symbols bear some resemblance to the Elder Futhark alphabet, but with a host of variations I've simply never come across before. And if I didn't know better, I could almost believe there are some Egyptian hieroglyphics up there, as well. Now, that grouping on the left, that could almost pass for—"
Politely but firmly, Kowolski cleared his throat, interrupting the philologist's rambling but increasingly excited monologue. It had taken some convincing to get the little man into the cave, but one look at the rune-covered back wall had been enough for him to completely forget his claustrophobia. "That's great," said the agent, tiredly. "But what does it mean?"
The academic gave him a scornful look. "What does it mean? What it means, young man, is that I have many days, possibly many weeks, of study ahead of me. Who knows how significant this find is? It may be a whole new language. It may even indicate the discovery of a whole new culture. Each rune will need to be carefully documented, catalogued and studied. The orders, the groupings, the orientations, will all need to be assessed and analysed. This could very well be the crowning glory of my career. What does it mean? Oh, please."
Kowolski grimaced, and despite the 'young man' thing, managed to suppress the urge to draw his gun. "Okay, I understand that. But I'm not after an exact translation, here. All I want is some sort of broad sense of what it might mean. Nobody's going to hold it against you if you get it wrong. We have three people missing, and these runes may contain some sort of clue to their whereabouts. Anything you can tell us might be useful—anything."
The philologist harrumphed and seemed about to argue, but the expression on Kowolski's features gave him pause. Gun or no gun—deprived of sleep, full of caffeine, recently stitched back together and then forced to hang about in a dank cave—the agent was still capable of producing a quite significant degree of intimidation.
"Yes, well, let's see. There are many symbols that I don't recognise, which of course might change the meaning entirely. Or there may be several messages. But in any case, there's a symbol there which is very much like 'mannaz', which is the Futhark rune for man. That one on the lower right resembles the hieroglyph for 'bâ' or the soul, and the one next to it is basically the rune 'raidõ', which means travel. So, broadly, and I must stress that this is a very rough reading, which is quite likely to be subject to error, and that I take no responsibility for it, but broadly, it might be detailing some sort of journey or passage, possibly for the soul. Perhaps it might be referring to the afterlife. Or it may even—"
A journey or a passage, thought Kowolski, tuning out the remainder of the academic's speculations, as he placed a hand on the cool rock surface. He felt the slightest of tingles, so faint that he might have imagined it. Or maybe it was just the caffeine. He sighed. But a passage to where? And how do I get a ticket?
The creak of the door woke Marie from the fitful doze into which she had finally lapsed. For a moment she had no idea where she was, but then the sensation of the bindings around her wrists, and the memory of two red eyes glowing dully at her through the dark of the night, brought it all crashing home. She blinked in the light spilling through the now open doorway—dim, yet momentarily dazzling after the near total darkness of her cell.
As footsteps advanced towards her, she cowered away, wondering what new horrors this strange and terrible night was about to unleash. A figure approached, its enormous form silhouetted against the doorway's light, rendering it featureless and dark. Standing before her, it paused for a moment, before slowly leaning over and grasping one of the bindings on her wrists.
Gritting her teeth, Marie yanked her wrist away and then, utilising all the power that her Zumba-toned muscles could provide, putting her whole body into the effort, she delivered an enormous, lusty and spectacularly well-aimed kick to the area between the newcomer's legs.
Who stood frozen for a few seconds, uttered a strangled, shuddering groan, and then slowly, but remorselessly, toppled over, like a felled tree.
"Danus!" snapped Laya, from the doorway. "Where are your manners? Don't you think it might have been polite to let the lady know you were setting her free, before going ahead and grabbing her wrist? Who knows what the poor thing must have thought?"
"Mrrrrghhh," responded Danus, as contritely as he could, given the circumstances.
Laya approached Marie, making sure to stay safely out of what she judged to be her kicking range. She held up her hands in placation. "It's okay. We're not going to hurt you. It's just that we're escaping and we wondered if you might like to come along."
"Oh yes, you absolutely must, dear lady. What a lovely band we shall make, and what a truly wonderful adventure this will be. I have the sonnet half-composed already."
Wondering why the young woman's voice suddenly sounded deeper, it took Marie a moment to realise this last statement had actually come from a small person hovering just above her left shoulder. She blinked in disbelief, and shook her head. The person was still there. "You're a...a..."
Gracefully, the little man drifted down to her eye-level, his wings a shimmering blur in the dungeon's half-light. He gave an elaborate, mid-air bow. "A sight for sore eyes, good lady? Or possibly a sound for sore ears, ha-ha? Of course I am. Roderund Lancelight, at your service. Troubadour, bard, and a fellow inmate of this wretched, dreary penitentiary, or at least I was until this heroic young damsel was so kind as to restore my tragically, not to mention unjustly, stolen liberty. Now I am free to once more roam this splendiferous land, gracing all and sundry with the wit of my mind, the tenor of my tongue and the genius of my—"
"Roderund?" interrupted Laya.
The little man looked somewhat miffed at having his rhetorical flow broken, but took it with good grace. "Yes, my dear rescuer?"
"Shut your face, there's a good fairy. Danus, when you're quite done writhing on the floor, how about we unlock this lady, and get the hell out of here?"
Now that they were approaching its outskirts, George was beginning to comprehend just what a sizeable place Noho was. "Whoa, it's an actual city. I thought it'd be like a big village. You know, with pigs in the street, and ragged urchins and rustic peasants and knights and cool stuff like that."
Grandpa snorted. "Georgie, I know you learned about this place in stories, but don't make the mistake of thinking that we're in some sort of fairy-tale land. This is an actual living, breathing, functioning world. A dangerous world. You'll do well not to underestimate Volanda, or its people. They may not have internal combustion engines or electricity or stuff like that, but that's because ke mana means that they don't need to. They've developed different solutions to things like travel and power and medicine and well, just about everything. Hell, even evolution is different here."
"Evolution? What do you mean?"
Grandpa nodded towards the front of the carriage. "Take our friend the sock-thief. Seen anybody like him on Earth? And trust me, as weird and annoying as that little shit might be, he's nothing compared to some of the bizarre creatures they have here."
"Like what?" asked George, wide eyed.
"Oh, all kinds of stuff. But that's for another time, boy. Now, if you're done with gawping out of the window like a slack-jawed idiot, we can get back to the history lesson. Where was I?"
"You were telling me how Kira Qo had a son."
"That's right, so I was. Yep, when her time came, she had healthy baby boy. A son who grew up to be the first human bearer of Olifat's sword. The man who became the first ever Blade. Not to mention, a massive knob-head."
George blinked. This was not how origins stories were supposed to go. "Huh?"
"Oh yeah. He was a complete and utter tosser, Georgie. The son of a god, the bearer of a heavenly weapon—it's hardly surprising, I s'pose. He swanned about, lording it over all the lowly peasants, taking whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and giving anybody who stood in his way a taste of heavenly steel. Sad as it makes me to say it, our earliest ancestor was basically a dick."
"Oh," said George. "Well, that's a bit disappointing."
"Yep, and according to the stories, Kira felt the same way. She tried to counsel her wayward son, to teach him the error of his ways, to make him a better person, and a worthy Blade. But to no avail. Finally, frustrated and furious, she rounded up her philandering offspring and took him off to the mountains. The stories don't say how she managed that little trick, but they do make it pretty clear she wasn't a lady to be messed with."
"And what happened in the mountains?"
"Well, Georgie, the legend is pretty fuzzy on that, as well. Some say Kira challenged her son to a series of trials, stretching his abilities to their very limit and then beyond them, breaking him physically and emotionally, so that he might learn humility. Others say that Olifat came down from heaven, to set his son on the path to righteousness. Personally, from what I've heard of Olifat, I find that one a bit hard to believe. Maybe he came down and gave the lad a proper godly kick up the arse. Maybe it was all of the above. Whatever the reason, when the first Blade came back from the mountains, he was a changed man."
"So he wasn't a knob anymore?"
"Well, not quite such a big one, anyway. But the main thing was, he now had a purpose in life. He knew that as the descendant of a god, and the bearer of a legendary weapon, none could stand in his way if he decided to become the ruler of all Volanda. And in his newfound wisdom, he also knew that this was the last thing that he should do. A ruler should be humble, and humble was hard, for the Blade. So he came up with a solution."
George leaned forward in his seat. "Which was?"
"He would appoint the leader, Georgie. And so would all the Blades to follow. But, here's the kicker. The person to be appointed couldn't want to be appointed."
"Huh?"
"Between them, Kira and the first Blade, and maybe even Olifat, decided that one of the key criteria for ruling the land was that you had to not want the job. Humility, Georgie. That's what they were after. They didn't want any power-crazed fools running the land they loved."
George absorbed this in silence, for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he smiled. "The reluctant king."
Grandpa grinned back. "Now you're getting it, my boy. Ever since the very first one, the duty of the Blade has been to put the right person in charge. And then, to do everything they can to keep them there." He turned his attention to Wuck, who was staring vacantly out of a window. "Hey, gnome-face. How far to Vardun's house?"
Wuck scratched his head, and gave the buildings they were passing a good look. "Hmm, about ten minutes, I reckon." He'd no sooner spoken when, without warning, the carriage ground to a halt. Peering through the front window, George made out the reason—a line of figures stretched across the road, blocking their path. Although hardly conspicuous, the already diminutive gnome sank down further into his seat. "Ah, crap. Or maybe, you know...a bit longer than that. Um."