The Last Protector

by Daniel C. Starr

  "An eternity of walking barefoot and stealing shoes?” Scrornuck said. “Sounds like hell to me."

  "Hell?” she asked.

  "The nasty afterlife, the one for people who did bad things?"

  She looked puzzled. “Everybody goes to the same afterlife."

  "Really? No judgment, no reward, no punishment?"

  "Sure, there's reward—the more stuff you sacrifice, the more you'll have."

  "Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  "If you don't have a heaven or hell,” Jape said, “what do you mean when you say ‘to hell with this’ or ‘what the hell is that'?"

  "What do they mean?” she replied. “It's just a figure of speech. It doesn't have anything to do with religion. Does it mean something different for you?"

  "We say the same things, but the words have a religious meaning, too."

  She shrugged. “Maybe you should ask a Priest."

  "Oh, yeah,” Scrornuck said. “I bet he'd be real helpful."

  * * * *

  "Is that a sword in your pocket,” Nalia asked with a giggle, “or are you just happy to see me?"

  Scrornuck looked down. Ol’ Red, stashed in a hidden pocket of his surfer jams, was indeed creating a rather suggestive bulge. Blushing slightly, he quickly rearranged things.

  Jape stood on the pool's edge. “Last one in is a rotten egg!"

  "Here I come!” Scrornuck said, pulling off his shirt.

  Nalia gasped. “An unauthorized dragon!” She pointed at the tattoo that covered most of Scrornuck's chest: a fire-spitting dragon, ridden by a skeletal warrior. Flames trailed from the dragon's wings, over his shoulders and across his back, and merged into the flaming-snake tattoo on his right arm.

  "A what?” Jape asked.

  "This—this isn't proper!” Nalia stammered.

  "Why not?"

  She pulled her eyes from the tattoo and seemed to regain her composure. “Maybe you guys really are from another world,” she said, nailing Jape and Scrornuck with that how-dumb-can-you-be look. “Everybody knows Spafu is the only Dragon worthy of art—and the art has to be blessed by the Priests and the proper fees paid to the Temple."

  "Trademark protection and royalty payments?” Jape mumbled. “Amazing."

  "What?” Nalia and Scrornuck both asked together.

  "Just thinking out loud again,” Jape replied. “Well, it appears we have a problem."

  "No, the lizard-boys have a problem,” Scrornuck said angrily. “We don't.” He clenched his fists. “I'm going for a swim—and I'm not wearing a shirt in the pool!"

  "You'll do what you have to do, Mister Saughblade,” Jape said icily. “Nalia, how serious is this?"

  Her eyes went back and forth between Jape, the few people around the pool, and the tattoo. Finally she said, “This is a resort, you're guests—even if you're not True Guests—and the rules say guests are to be respected. I think you're okay here. Anywhere else, especially near the Temple, you'd better keep it covered."

  Jape thumped the tattoo. “We've lived with worse. Right, Mister Saughblade?"

  Scrornuck nodded. “We've been places where the swimsuits are a couple bottle-caps and a string up the butt, and I get arrested for having a tattoo. Go figure."

  She was staring again. “They say those things hurt a lot."

  "I wasn't exactly there when they did it."

  "I asked a tattoo artist that question,” Jape said, “and she said, ‘After an hour or two my wrist gets a little sore, but no, they don't hurt me much.'” He drummed a little rim shot on a nearby table.

  Picking up on the gag, Scrornuck strummed an air-guitar and sang:

  Got a lady tattoo artist, I think she must be insane—

  I pay the regular price but she always gives me extra pain!

  My dentist is a woman, when I got a tooth to fill,

  She don't believe in Novocain, but she sure do love to drill!

  I got the blues, I got the blues, I got the blues.

  These nasty women leave me sore.

  They hurt me and take my money,

  But I keep on comin’ back for more.

  As he started the second verse, the one about the pain of writing checks to an ex-wife, Nalia shoved him into the pool. “Critics!” he sputtered as he surfaced.

  She jumped in and started swimming toward the far end of the pool. “Race you!"

  "You're on!"

  She was waiting when he surfaced. “Beat you!"

  "Yeah, but I swam it under water,” he gasped. He stood and flipped his head back, throwing droplets in a graceful arc. For an instant, he stood beneath a rainbow. Then, with a soggy splat, the hair slapped against his back, knocking him forward a half step.

  They climbed out and sat on the pool's edge, dangling their feet in the water. Nalia grabbed a handful of his hair and started squeezing it dry. “Ugh, this stuff weighs a ton!"

  "Yeah.” He sat for over a minute, letting her squeeze the water from his hair, before he got up the nerve to ask, “Nalia, do you like me?"

  She released his hair. “That's a hard question. If I hadn't met you, I'd still be waiting on tables and getting into fights with jerks like Leondo. But you scare me. I'm not used to people being killed around me, and I don't think I want to get used to it.” She looked into his big green eyes. “And this stream crossing thing Jape talks about is a week from Saturday. Even if I'm just pretending to believe, I know he takes it seriously. Saturday comes and goes, life goes on, he'll say ‘Ta-daa! We saved the world,’ and you'll be gone."

  "Yeah,” Scrornuck said glumly.

  She grinned mischievously. “But what the hell—yeah, I like you. I guess I'll just miss you when you're gone.” She reached beneath his hair and pinched. “And you've still got a nice butt."

  Scrornuck looked at her for a second. Then, screaming “Woo-hoo!” at the top of his lungs, he leaped into the air, did a somersault, and came down in a belly-flop that splashed water on people twenty feet away. The landing stung like hell, but he was too happy to notice.

  * * * *

  "Even the Cast Quarter joints require shirts and shoes,” Jape warned. He sat at the suite's table, fully dressed and carefully making sure that each hair was in its place.

  Scrornuck, meanwhile, slouched on the sofa next to Nalia, wearing only his kilt and a smile. “I've got just the thing,” he said, pulling a wad of cloth from his bag of personal stuff. Nalia giggled and Jape frowned as Scrornuck displayed what could loosely be termed a shirt. Originally black, it was now dull gray, decorated with a faded skull-and-crossbones and the single word “REQUIRED.” Sleeves, collar, and a fair amount of the shirt's body had long ago been torn off, and what remained was more holes than fabric. “You said I have to keep the dragon covered when we're not at the pool,” he said, slipping it on. “This covers the dragon."

  "That's about all it covers,” Jape said. “Nalia?"

  She chuckled. “Well, technically it's a shirt. And he's a guest. They might let him get away with it."

  Jape sighed. “Whatever."

  "Hey, what's this?” Nalia pointed to the floor, where a small card made of white parchment had fallen when Scrornuck pulled the shirt from his bag. She picked up the card and stared at it for a moment. “I can't read this."

  "Wow, I still have one of these?” Scrornuck muttered as he took the card. “It's been a while...” He translated:

  "HAVE SWORD—WILL TRAVEL

  General Freelance Heroics

  Dragons Slain, Damsels Relieved of Distress

  Villains Vanquished, Monsters Relocated

  Devil-Spawn Returned to Sender

  Reasonable Rates (Plus Expenses)

  Scrornuck Saughblade—Ezekiel's Pub"

  Nalia chuckled. “A dragon-slayer needs a business card?"

  "How else does a freelance hero find work? Hey, Jape, do we have time for a story?"

  "A short one. Try not to make us late for dinner."

  "When have I ever been late for a meal?” Scrornuck pulled
a big, spiky brush from his bag and began the long process of untangling his hair. “Okay, this guy walks into a bar..."

  Scrornuck washed out a beer mug and thought about what he'd do when his shift ended. Maybe he'd wander around to the customers’ side of the bar and try to exchange some piping for drinks. Perhaps he'd go down the street to that other tavern, where a young lady had taken a fancy to him the previous night. He knew he should search for the answer to the Great Riddle of Life, but his encounter with the Knight was starting to seem like little more than a dream.

  A Stranger arrived, average in height and ordinary in appearance, and ordered a light lager in a longneck bottle. It took Scrornuck a moment to realize that while he understood the language spoken by his customer, it was not the local tongue, nor was it the language of his own land. As he washed out another mug, he wondered where he might have heard the Stranger's speech.

  About halfway through his beer, the Stranger produced one of the small slips of parchment that Scrornuck had been tacking up around town. “A man who can read this says it's your card. Are you available for a Dangerous Mission?"

  "If the price is right."

  The Stranger produced several large gold coins—enough that Scrornuck briefly wondered how they fit inside his small purse—and dropped them on the bar. “A retainer, with more to come when the mission is complete. Deal?"

  Scrornuck stared at the “retainer.” It was more than he made in a month tending bar—and more was promised? He extended his hand. “You've just found your hero."

  About two hours before sunset they headed east, following a narrow trail that rose from the golden prairie into wooded hills. Scrornuck carried a hefty pack containing a little food and the Stranger's rather large collection of gear. As they walked, the Stranger explained that they were to rescue a beautiful woman, held prisoner in a mountaintop tower by a terrible monster. Scrornuck was a sucker for beautiful women in distress, and the more he heard, the faster he walked, at times making it hard for the Stranger to keep up.

  They camped a little after sundown, sharing a modest dinner and some wine before retiring. The Stranger slipped into a warm sleeping bag, while Scrornuck removed his kilt and wrapped himself up in its comfortable plaid. The sky was clear and the stars seemed close enough to touch as he dozed off, thinking of the beautiful woman they were going to rescue.

  He awoke strangely disoriented. The sun shone through the trees, but it was in entirely the wrong place. His eyes told him it was mid-morning, yet his body insisted it was the middle of the night. Despite the blue sky and bright sun, a chill wind blew wisps of cold fog through the camp. Strangest of all, he was certain he could hear the sound of waves breaking on a beach, though he knew they were many miles from the nearest ocean. Holding his long linen nightshirt against the wind, he walked slowly toward the source of the sound.

  A hundred feet from camp, he found himself atop a high cliff, staring down at a cold, blue-green sea that stretched to the horizon. What had happened to the prairie and forest through which he and the Stranger had traveled? He shook his head once, twice, three times—but the scene remained unchanged. Finally, he shrugged and headed back.

  As he approached the camp, he heard voices, the Stranger's and two others’ that he didn't recognize. “This is as close as we could get?” one asked.

  "It's a good day and a half to the mountain,” the other added.

  "Best we can do,” the Stranger said. “Ranger Deanne seems to be safe for now, so we have time."

  "But will It stay around?"

  "We'll just have to wait and see.” The Stranger spun about suddenly, a broad smile on his face. “Ah, Mister Saughblade, I see you're back! Allow me to make introductions—Mister Wallace, Mister Stuart, I'd like to introduce you to Mister Saughblade, our new freelance hero.” The other two men smiled cordially and got up to shake Scrornuck's hand. “Mister Saughblade has a reputation as a great swordsman. Would you like a demonstration?"

  Wallace and Stuart nodded, so Scrornuck somewhat nervously drew Ol’ Red and extended the great blade. Grasping the weapon's slightly warm, purring grip made him feel more comfortable and confident. He took a step back, away from the others, and whipped the sword through a series of formal moves, slicing low-hanging limbs off trees, curving the blade back over his head, splitting it into multiple blades. Wallace and Stuart applauded politely, though they looked less than impressed.

  After breakfast, Wallace and Stuart engaged in a lengthy conversation with the Stranger while Scrornuck shoved the gear into his backpack and performed the folding, pleating and belting needed to turn his plaid blanket into a proper kilt. He felt a bit left out, but gave the matter little thought, focusing his attention on the gold coins in his sporran and the chance to rescue a beautiful woman.

  A short walk brought them out of the woods, and Scrornuck saw in the east a range of mountains, taller than any he'd seen, deep purple, capped with white. The Stranger pointed to the tallest mountain, a near-perfect cone with a thin plume of smoke drifting from its summit. “Our destination."

  They climbed into a wagon drawn by two horses, and as the Stranger drove, the two other warriors told Scrornuck a bit about what they would encounter atop the mountain. “The thing that's up there—folks say it can't be killed.” Wallace suppressed a slight shudder. “You wound the thing, it just heals instantly, like nothing happened."

  "Don't forget the blood,” Stuart said. “If even a drop of it gets into you, it's just a matter of time—a few weeks, a month at the outside. Then you die—or you'll wish you had."

  Wallace shrugged. “I think that's just a rumor. After all, nobody's actually survived a fight with this thing!"

  "Well, I'm taking no chances.” Stuart held up a white coverall. “Full hazmat suit, complete with helmet and respirator.” Scrornuck wasn't sure what a “hazmat suit” was, but he got the general idea that the coverall was supposed to provide protection from the monster's blood. “And to kill it, explosive projectiles.” Stuart pulled a large black weapon from beneath his seat, raised it to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Scrornuck jumped as the weapon roared, flame leaped from its tip, and a tree they had just passed exploded into splinters. “I'm gonna blow the damned thing apart from a distance."

  Wallace shook his head. “That won't kill it.” He produced a device that looked like a smaller version of Stuart's weapon. Hoses connected the weapon to a pair of metal cylinders on a backpack harness. He took pulled the trigger, and a stream of fire shot from the weapon, incinerating another tree alongside the road. “Let the thing try to heal—nothing living can survive this heat."

  Scrornuck watched the burning tree disappear and wondered—compared to the weapons Stuart and Wallace had brought, what could his sword do?

  They camped near the snowline, building a big fire that did little to relieve the cold and damp. Wallace produced some excellent liquor, Stuart got out a guitar, Scrornuck assembled his bagpipes, and the three freelance heroes took turns singing songs of their homelands until well into the wee hours.

  Scrornuck slept badly, kept awake by strange noises. Something rumbled on the mountaintop, and the clouds reflected a dull red glow. The wolves howled, and at one point the mountainside echoed with a ghastly shriek that made the hairs on his neck stand up.

  Come morning, Scrornuck made breakfast. As he cleaned up, he overheard the whispered conversation between the Stranger and the other two warriors. “Is It still there?” Wallace asked.

  The Stranger nodded.

  "How's Ranger Deanne holding out?"

  "As well as can be expected. A little hungry, but so far It hasn't found a way to get to her. She'll be happy to see us."

  "What's with the highlander?” Stuart whispered, glancing surreptitiously in Scrornuck's direction. “Bait?"

  The Stranger smiled a thin smile. “You may be surprised."

  The party reached its destination around midday. The tower that stood at the center of the small, snow-covered meadow was something
less than the great castles described by travelers—only two stories high, plain, made of drab gray stone. Scrapes and claw-marks covered its lower story and its stout oak door. Something big and powerful had tried very hard to get in.

  A woman peered from a small second-story window, the “Ranger Deanne” that Wallace and Stuart had mentioned. She was not what he expected—at least twice his age, rather ordinary-looking, and in his opinion she could stand to lose a few pounds. Moreover, she hardly looked like she needed rescuing—when they arrived she shouted a cheery “hello” to the Stranger, and casually strolled out to join them.

  As the Stranger and the woman chatted, Scrornuck wondered where the “monster” might be. Were they all going to get into the wagon, return down the mountain and collect their pay? Apparently not, for the two warriors started preparing for battle, Stuart getting into his white coverall and Wallace strapping on his fire-shooting device.

  The horses picked up the scent first, sniffing the air and stamping their feet as if they wanted to get far away from there as quickly as possible. A moment later, Scrornuck got a whiff, nearly gagging on the reek of partially-digested meat, rot, swamp gas and bad liquor.

  And then, with a roar, the monster appeared atop a cliff at the edge of the meadow. The beast was at least ten feet long, lizard-like in shape. Its head was easily three feet long, its jaws packed with rows of sharp teeth. Muscles writhed like snakes beneath the heavily scarred skin of its arms and legs. Horns and spikes grew from its head, shoulders, elbows and knees, from its huge, clawed hands. It bellowed again as it leaped down from the cliff and stomped toward the tower.

  Wallace attacked first, spraying the creature with flaming jelly. The beast disappeared into a ball of orange fire, and Scrornuck raised his hand to shield his eyes from the surge of heat. As the fireball turned into a dark black cloud and floated into the sky, Wallace advanced. The creature writhed, screamed—and jumped, twenty feet up and thirty feet forward, coming down mere inches from Wallace. Then it was the warrior's turn to scream. The beast enfolded him in its enormous arms, studded with sharp spikes and still covered with flaming jelly, bringing its fangs just inches from his face. As the others watched helplessly, the monster squeezed, digging its razor-sharp claws into the fuel tanks strapped to Wallace's back. The tanks burst and the fuel ignited, covering both the monster and Wallace in flame. The doomed fighter screamed louder, and then, almost mercifully, the monster took his head off in a single bite.