Jape consulted his map. “We're only an hour or two away. We can get there before dark."
Scrornuck shook his head and strode toward the clearing in a way that left Jape and Nalia little choice but to follow. “We stay here tonight. We'll have plenty of time to get there and back before dark tomorrow.” He looked at Jape with a mixture of affection and mild annoyance. “Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."
"I'm a Ranger,” Jape said. “Getting in trouble is my job."
"And getting you out of it is mine. I don't need you getting eaten by wolves ‘cause you were in a hurry."
"What kind of job gets you in trouble all the time?” Nalia asked.
"Saving the world.” Jape spoke in a most matter-of-fact manner.
She looked up at the beautiful sky, blue turning to indigo with just a few puffy clouds for variety. “Hardly looks like the world needs saving."
"You'd be surprised."
"Yeah, right. And just what do you save the world from?"
"Mistakes,” Jape said. “Mistakes that will cause pain and suffering and death and destruction.” A touch of bitterness crept into his voice. “Stupid, arrogant mistakes that people made when they played with forces they didn't understand."
"You're serious, aren't you?” she said, a bit of fear creeping into her voice.
"Deadly serious."
She shivered slightly. “Is the place we're visiting one of these ‘mistakes'?"
"We won't know until we get there,” he replied. “I hope it is, because we can't fix the mistake until we find it."
"And we'll worry about that tomorrow,” Scrornuck said firmly. “For now, let's have some dinner and a good night's sleep.” He pulled a silvery device with a plunger handle from the pack and went over to the spring. “Might as well get some water going."
Jape dipped a finger in the spring and let a drop of water fall on one of his rings. “Don't bother; it's safe."
"What's all that about?” Nalia asked.
"Some of the places we go, the water's not safe to drink. It can be bad for the digestion, shall we say..."
"Gives you the screaming squirts,” Scrornuck clarified.
"Thank you, Mister Saughblade. Anyway, this device purifies the water so it's drinkable, no matter how nasty it was."
Scrornuck put the device away. “If you really want to be safe, you can just stick with beer. Want one?"
"Umm, no thanks,” she said. “I don't think I can drink anything right now.” Her face reddened slightly. “I sort of have the opposite problem."
"Oops,” Scrornuck said, embarrassed. “I forgot you can't just use the side of the trail.” He grabbed the folding shovel that was strapped to the outside of the pack, picked a spot among the bushes that offered some degree of privacy, and quickly dug the necessary pit. “There you go—all the comforts of home!"
"I'm supposed to go—there?"
"It could be worse,” Jape said. “Could be raining, could be snowing..."
"And we have this stuff,” Scrornuck said, placing a roll of toilet paper on a stick. “It works a lot better than leaves!"
Nalia rocked back and forth as a debate went on between her dignity and her bladder. Eventually her bladder won. “All right,” she said, “but no peeking!"
While Nalia answered nature's call, Scrornuck rummaged around in the pack and came up with a pair of cloth rolls. Each contained a teepee-style tent just large enough to accommodate one person. He set them up at opposite sides of the clearing, about thirty feet from each other.
By the time the tents were up, Nalia had finished her business. “Why so far apart?” she asked.
"You'll see.” He tossed a sleeping bag into each tent. “This one's yours,” he said, and Nalia obediently tossed her small pack inside.
She looked at the other tent dubiously. “How are both of you going to fit inside one of these?"
"I don't sleep in a tent.” He spread a beat-up red plaid blanket on the grass about midway between the tents. “Couldn't keep a proper eye on things if I did.” He pointed at Jape, who gazed into his many rings, already lost in thought. “When this guy gets into heavy thinking, he wouldn't notice a dragon carrying him away. Somebody's got to protect him."
"Protect him from what? If he's really saving the world, who'd want to stop him?"
"You'd be surprised how often the world doesn't want to be saved,” Jape said. “We risk life and limb to straighten things out, and the next thing you know some warlord's coming after us with blood in his eye."
"And a big knife in his hand,” Scrornuck added. “You'd think they'd be more grateful, but they never are. Jape gets in trouble, and I get him out of it. Almost got myself killed a few times."
"Killed?" Her face had gone white.
"It's a rough business. Sometimes we go to some pretty bad places. People get hurt, people die..."
"Well, the world looks pretty safe tonight,” Jape said, putting an end to the discussion. He glanced at the green jewel of the big ring on his left hand. “Yes, quite safe. Anyone for a fire?"
"There's no wood on the ground,” Nalia said, scanning the lower limbs of the trees. “There!” She pointed at a big, dry, dead branch about thirty feet up, and in a smooth, fluid movement swung herself into the tree and started climbing.
Scrornuck watched for a moment, quite pleased by her graceful climb. Then, positioning himself directly beneath the branch, he wiggled his toes just so, feeling a warm pressure as the tops of his boots unrolled and wrapped themselves around his knees and thighs. He bent his knees and jumped, soaring into the air and alighting on a branch just below the dead one a moment before Nalia reached it.
"What the—” she said. “How'd you get up here?"
He grinned, and helped her the rest of the way onto the branch. “It's the shoes.” He pointed to the array of tubes, rods, cylinders and patches of shiny blue-black material woven through the brown leather and fringe of his boots. “They give me an assist. I can jump almost fifty feet straight up if I'm careful."
"And if you're not careful?"
"I, uh, hurt myself,” he said sheepishly. “Broke my leg a couple times.” He pulled out the sword-grip, squeezed it gently and called forth five feet of faintly glowing blade that sliced through the dead tree branch like it was butter, cutting off everything from kindling to chunks of log that would burn all night. “Want to come down with me?” he asked. “The boots absorb the shock when I come down, too."
"Okay,” Nalia said. “But try not to break another leg!"
Scrornuck scooped her up. “I never try to break anything,” he said. “But landings can be a bit touchy. Every jump is kind of a leap of faith. Now close your eyes and count to three."
She counted. “One—"
He stepped off the branch, and for a moment he savored the rush of wind and the feeling of weightlessness. As the ground came up to meet them, he gripped her more tightly, bent his knees just a bit, and forced his legs to relax and let the boots do the work. The landing was perfect: his toes touched the ground first, followed by his heels, and then his knees bent until he came to rest in a near-squatting position. The boots sang as they soaked up the force of the landing, making a sound rather like somebody sliding a finger down the string of an electric guitar. As he stood up straight, the tops of the boots gently released his upper legs and rolled back down below his knees.
"I thought I was supposed to count to three,” Nalia protested as he gently set her down. “I never even got to two!"
"Well, I said it was a leap of faith."
* * * *
Scrornuck had opened his share of beers—bottles, cans, barrels, kegs, buckets—but he'd never opened a beer container as perfect as a bottle of Batatat's Extra Black Taupeaquaahn Stout. It was the shape of a classic pint glass, topped with a large white cap that was neither a twist-off nor a pull-tab—instead, when he flipped the cap's little raised spot with his thumb, it leaped from the bottle, did a graceful somersault and disappeared into a fine wh
ite dust that drifted away on the breeze. With the cap gone, the bottle's contents, as tar-black as the name implied, suddenly frothed and foamed with a hissing and sizzling sound, churning to within a fraction of an inch of the bottle's top, never quite foaming over. As the beer frothed, it became cold, reaching the perfect temperature of forty-two degrees as it separated into body and head, the black liquid streaming downward as the tan foam rose, until after about half a minute he held a perfect pint. It was a wonderful show, and the beer itself was as good as anything he remembered from his last visit to Dublin. Maybe, he thought as he stretched out on his plaid blanket and sipped, it really doesn't get any better than this. He gazed up into a sky that was almost as black as the beer, trying to count the stars as he watched the dragons swooping and circling high overhead.
Dinner had been most satisfying, making him loosen his belt a notch. Jape retired to his tent immediately after dinner, but the softscroll's dim glow made it clear he was still awake. Nalia sat comfortably on a spare log, sipping from the wineskin and watching the fire burn down. Scrornuck found himself taking a real liking to her. Not only was she easy on the eye, but he liked her attitude, even if she did make him feel like something of a fool now and then. Yeah, he thought, I could get to like this place, and I could get to like her. Wouldn't be hard at all.
He took another sip and sighed a contented sigh. “Sky's beautiful tonight."
"It's Sunday,” she said, as if that explained everything. It didn't, but he was too taken by the view to ask further questions. He looked up at the stars and moon shining in the clear black sky, and suddenly burst into a long, loud song.
"What was that?" she asked as he finished.
He realized that he'd shifted from the Common Tongue spoken by Jape and the Taupeaquaahns into the ancient language of his home land. “Sorry. I know so many languages that sometimes I forget which one I'm using. This was a sword song, something a warrior would sing. It just says things like I've got a really nice sword, I really like my sword, and so on."
"Sounded better when I didn't know what it meant."
"A lot of songs are like that."
"Still, it seems right for you—that's some sword you have."
"Yeah, Ol’ Red is something else.” He idly pulled the sword-grip from its sheath and gave it a gentle squeeze, making four feet of wickedly-curved blade appear. The sword was a liquid thing, at once transparent and luminous, its edges shimmering and sparkling in shades of gold, silver and blue, its point a brilliant white. It changed shape as he shifted his fingers, becoming long, then short, then broad, then skinny, then straight, then curved.
Nalia stared. “How the hell does it do that?"
He shrugged. “Jape's got an explanation. He says the blade's a bazillion little things he calls ‘long chain mono-molecular polymer microfibers,’ and when I squeeze the grip it makes ‘energy fields’ that tell the blade what shape to be. That's why it glows like that. See the colors?"
She let herself get within about six inches, close enough to hear the weapon's faint humming and see ripples and waves of light flashing through the blade. “Mono-whatchamacallits? Energy fields? Sounds like magic to me."
Scrornuck nodded. “Jape uses all these words, but in the end I think they're just a fancy name for magic.” The blade disappeared as he slipped the weapon back into its sheath.
"Where'd you ever find a sword like that?"
"Well, that's a bit of a story."
"A bit of a story, huh?” She made a show of consulting a non-existent appointment book. “Go ahead, I'm free for the evening."
"Okay, let me see: it was a month or so after our little army had defeated the clan from the east. I'd cleaned up the neighborhood with the Master's silver sword, rescued a lot of the people who had been carried off as slaves, and by the time I got done, the Easterners wouldn't come within five miles of our village."
"So you were the local hero?"
"Local hero, and local pain-in-the-ass.” He took a sip of beer. “Nobody was willing to tangle with me, so I bullied the guys and bedded the girls and made a real nuisance of myself. I needed a little comeuppance. And I got it—boy, did I get it!"
Scrornuck strode down the dirt street of the village to the Elder's palace, more than a little irritated at having been summoned from the Equinox festival almost as soon as it began. The Elder had hardly finished performing the ancient ritual with the white mare—to everyone's amusement, she was uncooperative as ever—and Scrornuck was barely halfway through his first pint, when the summons arrived. Another stranger had appeared at the palace, and Scrornuck was needed to translate his speech, kill him, or both. He resolved to dispatch his task quickly and get back to the festival to eat, drink, sing, dance and choose which of the village's young ladies would keep him warm this night.
The Elder, limping slightly after the horse had kicked him, took his ceremonial throne as Scrornuck arrived. Before the throne stood the stranger, babbling in an incomprehensible tongue. He was taller even than Scrornuck, perhaps as much as seven feet, and dressed in the clothing of a Knight. Metal armor graced his shoulders and chest, chain-mail protected his arms and legs, and a great green cape swung gently in the slight breeze.
Scrornuck listened to the stranger attentively, and realized he'd heard this language before—the babbling almost immediately formed into words, phrases, and sentences. He found his anger building. This strange Knight was venting the foulest of insults, one after the other, insulting the village, insulting its people, their ancestry, their strength, their intelligence, their morals, their virility.
"That is enough!” Scrornuck bellowed in the Knight's tongue, placing his hand firmly on his sword-grip. “One more foul word and I swear, I'll cut you down where you stand!"
The Knight turned to face Scrornuck, seeming more to float than to move on legs and feet. For a moment he stared, with deep brown eyes that seemed to look at Scrornuck the way one might inspect something found under a rock. “Do you think you can?” he asked, disdain dripping from his words. He pulled an armored glove from his hand and let it drop at Scrornuck's feet. “I propose a challenge. I will bow, and you may attempt to chop my head off right here."
Scrornuck began to draw his weapon, eager to take the stranger up on his offer, but the Knight held up his hand. “There is a condition: should I live, I shall get in return one swing of the sword at your neck. Do we have a deal?"
"I swing first,” Scrornuck said. He knew the legends about strange visitors and beheading games, and had no intention of getting caught in a sucker-bet.
The Knight nodded and knelt. “Do we have a deal?"
Scrornuck nodded agreement, drew his sword and removed the Knight's head with a single swing.
"Yuck! You chopped his head off?” Despite the cheery firelight, Nalia's face looked more than a bit green.
"Yeah. The Elder was really pissed about the mess."
"But you killed him, just like that?"
"Well, not exactly."
Scrornuck's blood ran cold as the headless Knight stood, gracefully glided a few steps, picked up his head and set it back in place on his shoulders. Within a few seconds the blood had stopped flowing, within a few more seconds the eyes opened, and a few seconds after that the Knight spoke. “I believe it's my turn.” A sudden shock released Scrornuck's grip on his sword, and the weapon seemed to leap into the Knight's hand. “You will have no further need for this. Now kneel, Mister Saughblade."
Taking a deep breath, hoping that those around him did not sense his fear, Scrornuck did as the Knight ordered. He recalled his father's words: “If you must get yourself killed, make sure you have a good reason.” He'd sure failed in that.
The Knight whirled the sword over his head in a move that looked strangely familiar. “Trust me; you won't feel a thing. I'm very good at this. I will give you a few seconds to make peace with your deities."
Scrornuck searched his memory for a good prayer, found one that was more or less acceptable, and spoke
it quickly, in a cracking voice. A strangely calm corner of his mind wondered just what it would feel like to have his head cut off. Prayer finished, he waited for the answer.
And he waited, and waited, and waited some more.
Finally, the Knight's voice boomed across the throne room. “Arise, Mister Saughblade. You are a rash young man who needs to learn some lessons. I grant you a reprieve.” Grateful beyond words, Scrornuck got to his feet. The Knight stared down at him. “In six months, you and I shall return to this room, on the afternoon of the fall equinox. If, on that day, you have discovered the answer to the Great Riddle of Life, I shall spare you; if not, I shall collect on our bargain.” He gazed straight into Scrornuck's eyes as he said it again: “Understand this: you will be here, in this place, six months from today, and you shall give me your answer.” It was not a request, or even a command; it was a simple statement of fact.
Scrornuck stood dumbly as the Knight gracefully left the hall. Then, suddenly, he realized that he had not the slightest idea what the Great Riddle of Life might be—or perhaps he had too many ideas, too many riddles. Which one did the Knight have in mind? He ran from the hall in hot pursuit, but by the time he reached the street, the Knight was nowhere to be seen. He ran up one dirt street, down another, seeing no sign of the visitor, and eventually found himself in the square, wondering what to do now.
"Looking for something, Mister Saughblade?” The Master stood in a shadowy doorway, holding out the old iron sword that had belonged to Scrornuck's grandfather.
A great wave of shame washed over Scrornuck. He had let the Master down so badly, even losing his wonderful silver sword. He stared at the ground, almost wishing the Knight hadn't given him a six-month reprieve.
"Look at me, Mister Saughblade.” The Master didn't raise his voice, but Scrornuck nonetheless found himself staring into those bottomless blue eyes. “A hero setting off on a Sacred Quest needs something better than a rusty piece of junk, does he not?” He held up the old sword. “Yes, you need something much better, for you have a long road to travel.” Setting down the iron weapon, he reached into his cloak and pulled out what looked like the handle to a magnificent sword—a red leather grip with a shining gold, jewel-encrusted guard. But there was no blade to this sword, only a gray iron stub that looked like it might have been broken off.
The Last Protector Page 6