He turned on the lights and I looked around, amazed at what I saw. The room was large and airy and seemed to be living quarters and garage all rolled into one. At one side of the room was a kitchenette and living area with a large table, sofa and TV, and in the other half, parked in front of the double doors, was an old Rolls-Royce armoured car. The car was of heavy riveted construction and had emergency lights like a police car. Two twin-tone sirens were bolted to the turret and all over the vehicle were sharp copper spikes, protruding in every direction like a large metallic porcupine’s, and which reminded me of the armour that Dragonslayers and their steeds donned all those years ago.

‘A Rolls!’ I exclaimed.

‘It is never a Rolls, young lady,’ admonished the old man. ‘Neither is it a Roller. It is a Rolls-Royce, and don’t you forget it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Times have moved on a bit, you know,’ he went on. ‘I started with a horse but changed to the Rolls-Royce when they demolished the stables to make way for the shopping precinct. I’ve never used it although it remains in tip-top mechanical condition.’

I followed the old man over to the far wall, upon which hung a long lance, whose sharpened tip glistened dangerously, and on a table beneath it lay an exquisite sword whose long blade ended in a large hilt, bound with leather and adorned with a ruby the size of an orange.

‘Exhorbitus,’ said the old man in a soft, reverential voice. ‘The sword of a Dragonslayer. Only a Dragonslayer or his apprentice may touch it. One finger of an unauthorised hand and “Voof!”’

‘Voof?’ I queried.

‘Voof,’ repeated the old man.

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast, who understood something important when he heard it.

‘Someone tried to steal it once,’ continued the Dragonslayer. ‘Broke in at the back. Touched the ruby and was carbonised in less time than it takes to wink.’

I withdrew my hands quickly and the old man smiled.

‘Watch this,’ he said, picking up the sword with a deftness that belied his old age. He swished it about elegantly and then made a swipe in the direction of a chair. I thought he had missed, but he hadn’t. He prodded at the chair and it fell into two pieces, neatly cleaved by the keen blade.

‘Impressive?’

I nodded.

‘It’s power-assisted,’ he explained. ‘I’d never be able to heft it at my age. If you thought that was cool, watch this.’

He laid the point of the sword on the concrete floor and leaned gently on the hilt. The blade sank slowly into the hard floor as though it were mud. When it was embedded a good ten centimetres the old man stopped pushing. It stood upright in the floor, humming gently to itself and still sinking – carried by its own weight as it cut through the concrete.