The Last Protector

by Daniel C. Starr

  "The Setron is not for sale!” Tremmlowe shouted, jumping to his feet. “Especially not to a worthless drunkard like you!” He threw his glass to the floor, shattering it. “Do not make us take it from you!"

  "Do you think you could?” Scrornuck asked softly.

  Tremmlowe's face quivered with rage, and for a moment he was unable to speak. He slammed his fist on the table, sending the cheesy snacks jumping from their bowl.

  "Gentlemen,” Jape said, gesturing for calm. “I'm sure we just have a misunderstanding here. I don't think Mister Saughblade is trying to steal this instrument. He'd just like to play a few more songs. Isn't that right?"

  Reluctantly, Scrornuck nodded. He wanted to play a lot more music, a lifetime's worth—but Jape's proposal would keep the Setron in his hands for the time being.

  With some effort, Tremmlowe brought his quivering face under control and smiled his oily smile. “By all means,” he said, “we would love to hear a few more songs.” Scrornuck smiled back, though he suspected Tremmlowe would really prefer to hear the screams of a certain redhead being drawn and quartered.

  The regular singer was returning from his break. Giving quick kisses to Blondie and Blue Eyes, Scrornuck grabbed the Setron and jumped up to meet him. The two performers whispered quietly for a few minutes, and Scrornuck scribbled some lyrics on a slip of paper borrowed from a serving wench. The singer nodded and took his place behind the piano as Scrornuck turned to face the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “it is with great pleasure that Syb's announces the World Premiere of a future Number-One-On-The-Charts Hit!” He turned to the singer and whispered, “Remember—I sing the first line, you sing the second, we do the third together and whatever you do, don't whine!” Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the Setron's grip, ripped out a few bring-it-up-to-speed opening chords and began the number he'd composed earlier in the evening:

  Sittin’ on a bar stool

  Feelin’ like a damn fool

  Baby went and left me again.

  Order up another beer

  Wonder what I'm doin’ here

  Starin’ out the window, and then

  I see her comin’ up the steps

  And that's the hardest part

  'Cause I got a full, full bladder

  And an empty heart.

  He let the piano player carry the tune as they sang the second verse:

  I say it's a cryin’ shame

  'Cause I know I'm the one to blame

  My foolish words were hurtin’ us so.

  She says she wants to make it better

  Says we oughta stay together

  "Honey, I don't wanna let you go"

  Then she puts her arms around me

  And the lovin's ‘bout to start

  But I got a full, full bladder

  And an empty heart

  He pranced about the stage, hair flying as he wound in some serious electric-guitar wailing and signaled the piano-player to sing lead on the bridge section:

  And I know that those last five beers

  Were just a big mistake.

  'Cause I'm losin’ my chance to get my baby back

  With every piss I gotta take.

  And we both wanna get it all back together

  We're ready for some sweet romance.

  But how do we bring back that lovin’ feeling

  When I'm about to wet my pants?

  To his delight, Scrornuck found the squeeze that made the Setron wail like a raunchy sax through a short solo. Meanwhile, the piano-player hammered his keyboard as if trying to pound the instrument back into tune. Then, together, they delivered the final chorus:

  So did we have a chance at love

  Or were we doomed right from the start?

  By a full, full bladder

  And an empty heart.

  By the time the song ended with another short solo and a repeat of the final verse, the people in the bar were singing along, stomping their feet and clapping. Scrornuck leaned over the piano and whispered, “I think you're a hit. Keep up the good work, and remember, don't whine!"

  As he returned to the table, he felt an odd tingling in his right hand, as if the instrument were trying to tell him something. Wondering just what sounds might come forth, he squeezed the grip just so and stroked his fingers over the Setron's fretboard one more time. Though a few of its frets flashed, the instrument made no sound. He shrugged, took his seat and reached for his beer.

  "You know, that bridge doesn't work,” Jape said. “You don't wear pants."

  "No shit, Sherlock!"

  Jape rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Now you'll be saying that every time I turn around!"

  "With variations!” Scrornuck chugged about half his beer, which finally seemed to be working. “No crap, Cromwell! No feces, Ferdinand!"

  "Keep that up and it's going to be no beer, Bubba,” Jape said, sliding Scrornuck's pint away.

  "No ... kidding?” Scrornuck slid his beer back and clutched it possessively. “Yeah, the bridge sucked. But it was easier to rhyme. Besides, the other guy sang it, and he had pants on."

  The evening went on. The singer remembered not to whine, the beer kept flowing, Nalia quietly held hands with Tremmlowe, and Scrornuck enjoyed the attention of the two chickaderos.

  Sometime during the singer's fourth set, a barmaid placed yet another pint before Scrornuck and handed Jape a key. “Hey, Mister Saughblade!” Jape called.

  "Huh?” Scrornuck pulled his nose out of Blondie's ample cleavage. “What?"

  Jape drained his longneck and held up the key. “How ‘bout you three take yourselves somewhere more comfortable."

  "I'm pretty comfortable here!"

  "Well, I'm not!” Jape tossed the key. “Scram before I start selling tickets!"

  Blondie caught the key and dropped it into her bosom. “If you want it, tiger, you have to chase it!” She and Blue Eyes each grabbed an unopened bottle of that nasty champagne and headed for the stairs.

  "Rowrrrr!" Scrornuck got up and headed after them.

  Tremmlowe stood up, coughing and wheezing, and proclaimed, “A toast!” He lifted his glass. “To young lust!"

  "To young lust!” the patrons shouted back. Scrornuck glanced over his shoulder and saw Jape raising the newly delivered pint of Batatat's. Well, he thought, the guy's finally showing some taste in beer.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eleven

  "Tarts Aren't On the Menu"

  Jape was right, Scrornuck decided. A night of rest and recreation was exactly what he needed. Music, drinks, and the chickaderos had delivered the recreation. Now, dozing in the upstairs bedroom, his arms around the two ladies, he was ready for a well-deserved rest.

  A movement roused him from pleasant dreaming to partial wakefulness as Blondie and Blue Eyes quietly got out of the bed, dressed and departed. On their way to the next customer, no doubt. Then again, they'd left the door ajar. Maybe they were planning to come back, with another bottle of that nasty-but-strong champagne and some new tricks. In your dreams, he thought, as he rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep.

  A floorboard squeaked in the hall, and seconds later the door quietly swung open. Scrornuck opened one eye, and quickly realized this wasn't going to be a night of rest after all—unless Blondie and Blue Eyes had grown about four inches and taken to wearing all-black outfits, he was getting a visit from a pair of assassins.

  He let his left arm drop over the edge of the bed, searching the floor for Ol’ Red. The two intruders cautiously approached the bedside. One drew a long, flexible blade, while the other produced some kind of strangling-cord. Scrornuck waited until the two assassins were practically on top of him. Then, with a shout of anger at those who would kill a man in his sleep, he brought his knee straight up into the swordsman's cojones, taking that man out of the fray for a few seconds. The other assassin shoved a knee into Scrornuck's chest, got the strangling-cord around his neck and started to pull.

  Scrornuck
wedged his right hand under the strangler's cord. His left, searching desperately under the bed, closed around Ol’ Red's grip. He brought the weapon up to the strangler's belly, and the assassin had just enough time to utter a choked wurgh? before the blade went through him, erupting from his back in a spray of blood and bone chips. As the strangler's body slid over the edge of the bed, Scrornuck saw in his face no fear, no pain, just an overwhelming sense of surprise.

  The strangler's cord was fastened with some sort of one-way knot that Scrornuck couldn't untie. Since it wasn't tight enough to choke him, he could worry about it later. Right now, the remaining assassin was back on his feet. As Scrornuck kicked off the blankets and jumped out of bed, the swordsman darted forward and jabbed him in the left side. It was just a tiny nick, but it burned ferociously. Bloody hell, he thought, the thing's poisoned!

  A warm numbness spread through Scrornuck's left side and arm, and in seconds he could no longer squeeze Ol’ Red precisely enough to slice off the assassin's blade. His mind was wandering as well, thinking about how he really hated going into combat butt-naked. Though his ancestors had terrorized the Romans by charging into battle without a stitch of clothing, he found the random flapping of his various parts and pieces to be distracting.

  The assassin clobbered him in the face with a broken chair leg. The blow hurt, but it focused his attention. Time to finish this. Ignoring the flapping body parts, he deflected the intruder's next jab and brought Ol’ Red down in a swing that nearly split the man in two. As he and the eviscerated assassin collapsed onto the bed, one final thought crept into his mind: the housekeeper's going to kill me when she sees this.

  For a long time, Scrornuck dreamed a dream in which one man after another tried to kill him, with swords, ropes, clubs and every weapon imaginable.

  He awoke to find something heavy and sticky resting on his chest. With a great effort, he shoved the mutilated body of the second assassin aside, wondering why the bad dreams so often continued after he woke up. The good dreams never did. His left side felt heavy and tingly, a hangover from the poison. And a hangover from the champagne, he thought, clutching his throbbing head as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  He spotted a chamber-pot in a far corner, and with an almost super-human effort, he staggered across the room and knelt before the porcelain shrine. There, he upchucked what felt like a gallon of good beer and lousy champagne, along with a few artificial-cheese-flavor snacks that still retained their orange color.

  After rinsing his mouth with a carafe of water he found on the nightstand, he felt human enough to turn up the gas lamp and examine himself in the room's small mirror. You look like ten miles of bad road, he thought. There was an ugly gash in his cheek, and half-dried blood in his hair, in his beard, everywhere. Finding a small basin of water and a towel, he wiped off the worst of the blood. Then he turned his attention to his clothing. The black leather shirt was ruined—on the floor underneath two very bloody corpses—but his plaid, belt and sporran, carefully hung across the back of a chair, had escaped with only a few small spatters of blood. Lacking the ambition to fold and pleat a proper kilt, he simply wrapped the plaid around his waist and secured it with his belt.

  Something hard and sharp-edged irritated his neck, and he unconsciously reached up to pull it off. Making a soft zipping noise, it tightened around his neck. He gasped as he remembered what it was—the strangler's cord. Struggling to breathe, he extended a sliver of Ol’ Red's blade and carefully cut the garrote. As he caught his breath, he examined the device—an oversize plastic zip-tie, the kind used for securing bundles of electric cables. Where'd the son-of-a-bitch find one of these, he wondered. Thinking Jape might find it interesting, he dropped the cable-tie into his sporran. Then he slipped on his boots, offered a quick prayer for the dead and set about investigating the two would-be killers.

  He found a Residence Pass, similar but not identical to Nalia's, on a chain around the dead swordsman's neck, and dropped it into his sporran. Another clue, he thought. The strangler turned out to be one of the Servants of Spafu who'd attacked him the previous night. In a sheath on the man's belt Scrornuck found the long, curved knife that Ferinianne had pulled. My souvenir.

  A sudden stab of pain in his left side made him drop the knife. It struck the floor with a clunk that made his head throb, and he realized this was the first sound he'd heard since waking up. Where's all the noise, he wondered—Taupeaquaah should never be this quiet. Rubbing his sore side with one hand and his aching head with the other, he limped to the window. A few people sat in the street below, a few more leaned against buildings, but nobody moved or spoke. “Oh, no,” he muttered, remembering the last time everyone else had been frozen like this.

  When he opened the door, another black-clad figure tumbled into the room, still breathing, eyes wide open, and completely unresponsive—the third assassin, Tremmlowe's bodyguard. Resting a hand on Ol’ Red's grip, he pondered what to do with her—while she'd clearly been a part of the plot, in her current state she posed no threat. Executing somebody in her condition offended his sense of justice, so for the time being, he simply shoved her inert form into the room and locked the door.

  Holding his sore side, he limped down the stairs to the bar. Jape sat alone at the table, behind a mug of Batatat's Stout, staring vacantly into space. Sheeyit, Scrornuck thought. The one night I don't watch over this guy, and look what happens. He waved a hand in front of the Ranger's eyes, shouted in his ears, shook his hands, and even gave him an open-handed slap across the face, but Jape remained in his trance. Noticing an odd, nasty aroma, he sniffed Jape's beer—and almost upchucked a second time. Stuff turns to absolute shit when it gets warm, he thought, shoving the mug far, far away.

  A few other customers sat at stools or leaned against walls, in the same kind of trance as Jape. Nalia and Tremmlowe, however, were nowhere to be found. “Knew I should have broken that little shit's face,” Scrornuck muttered, as he headed back to search the upstairs. He used Ol’ Red to pick the rather simple lock on the room across the hall from his. To his momentary surprise, he found a frozen threesome of Blondie, Blue Eyes and a man he recognized from Sunday's parade as the Mayor of Taupeaquaah. Tremmlowe, it appeared, had hired the best hookers in town for his little plot. Scrornuck felt vaguely honored.

  Justice shall be done, he thought as he retrieved the third assassin and stripped her naked. Grinning and thinking about how there were punishments worse than execution, he installed her in the middle of the threesome and tied his distinctive red bandanna around her neck as a calling card.

  He worked his way down the dimly lit hall, picking one lock after another. Place even looks like a whorehouse, he thought, looking at the garish pink-and-red curtains covering the walls. In the rooms he found people sleeping off a night of overindulgence, high-stakes card games stalled in mid-deal, and ladies of the evening frozen in the middle of their business. He wondered just how much of the City was playing this game of living statues.

  In the last room on the left he found Tremmlowe, fully clothed and sitting in a chair with the same vacant expression worn by everyone else. Then he saw Nalia.

  "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shee-yit!" he said. She knelt on the floor next to a big black basket, her hands gripping its top edge as she stared vacantly into space. Tongues of violet-white energy slithered out of the basket and licked up her arms, reaching most of the way to her shoulders; the same stuff he'd seen a week earlier in the courtyard of the ruined Palace, but brighter, louder, and more electric.

  He edged closer and looked into the basket. The purple ball had doubled in size and seemed to be growing before his eyes as its crackling tendrils engulfed more of Nalia's arms and shoulders. The white light at the ball's center flickered brightly, and the fluid within churned vigorously. For a moment he glimpsed something that looked like a good-sized fish in the violet murk. The fish paused as if looking back at him, flicked its tail and vanished.

  I'd rather be knee-deep in r
attlesnakes, he thought, planting his feet on either side of Nalia's and holding his hands a few inches from her wrists. Electricity crackled from the tongues of violet light, making the hairs on his arms tingle.

  Muttering “no pain, no gain,” he grabbed Nalia's arms. He instantly forgot the soreness in his side as violet-white fire shot up his arms and chased about his shoulders, filling the air with sparks and smoke, sending his muscles into tremors and spasms. He struggled to pull her away, but his body refused to cooperate, and it seemed as though the glowing ball was trying to drag him closer.

  More by luck than by plan, his legs gave way and he tumbled backward, dragging Nalia with him. Tongues of energy flashed from every opening in the basket as he rolled and kicked to get away. Thing hates me, he thought. As if agreeing, the fire nipped at his toe. He yelped, and scrambled a few feet further away.

  Not wanting to leave Nalia in the same room with the ball of light, he carried her downstairs and carefully propped her up in a corner by the piano. She dozed peacefully, and he expected that she, like Jape and everyone else in the area, would be out for a while. Meanwhile, he had business to attend to.

  Giving the basket and its sizzling contents a wide berth, he searched Tremmlowe's room and found the Setron stashed inside the nightstand. Screw the gold pieces, he thought as he slung it over his shoulder. This thing's mine. In a pocket of Tremmlowe's coat, he found a small pouch full of white pills. This he added to the collection of clues in his sporran. Then, having finished his search, he gave Tremmlowe a hard punch in the belly. It made him feel much better. “What happened?” Tremmlowe mumbled as he slowly opened his eyes.

  "A little shit tried something really dumb,” Scrornuck said, “and now the little shit's going to pay.” He grabbed Tremmlowe by the collar, hustled him out the door and shoved him down the stairs, enjoying the grunts and groans as the little shit tumbled and bounced into the alley. Scrornuck followed, muttering “it's payback time” as he shoved Tremmlowe up against the wall and held Ol’ Red's blade to his throat.