The Last Protector

by Daniel C. Starr

  As the three joined the Army, Draggott's troops resumed their disciplined pincer maneuver: one group blocked the gate, two more came around the central tower, and soon the Army was surrounded.

  "Nalia,” Jape called, “can you influence Draggott's soldiers?"

  She shook her head. “The only thoughts I can hear are yours and the Army's. It's like Draggott's people aren't here."

  "Well, they may be immune to mind games, but they're not immune to Ol’ Red!” Scrornuck yelled. “Follow me!” He rushed forward, staggering a bit as he cut his way through the enemy. Nalia drew her sword and followed, with Jape in between.

  The Army, still mired in confusion and fear, didn't follow, and in a few seconds Scrornuck, Jape and Nalia were surrounded by Draggott's troops. “This doesn't look good,” Jape said.

  "No shit, Sherlock!” Scrornuck jabbed his right elbow back, impaling a soldier who'd tried to attack from behind.

  Jape touched something on his sleeve. “I've got one trick left.” Scrornuck heard a faint humming beneath the sound of battle—the Ranger was charging his last Dragonsneeze.

  "Stay here!” Scrornuck shouted, shoving Nalia against Jape as yet another wave of soldiers attacked. Ignoring the pain in his knee, he staggered forward, going through Draggott's army like a timber-cutter clearing a forest.

  Never looking up from the charge indicator, Jape shouted, “Now!” Scrornuck, a good fifteen feet from the Ranger, had just enough time to think, Oh, shit, this is gonna hurt! Then there was nothing but a roar, and scorching heat, and a brilliant white glare as the Dragonsneeze sent him flying.

  As the light and heat dissipated, he crashed to the ground, in the middle of Draggott's soldiers. His hands were empty, and he realized he'd lost his sword in the blast. He struggled to his feet and saw that the Dragonsneeze had cleared a path, incinerating or blowing aside the soldiers who blocked the way to the exit tunnel. The Army of Taupeaquaah surged into the gap, sweeping Jape and Nalia through the tunnel and out of the castle.

  Scrornuck felt strangely calm as Draggott's army fell upon him with a vengeance. Jape and Nalia had made it to relative safety, he'd done his duty as their Protector, and whatever happened to him now didn't matter. It's finally over, he thought, as blackness engulfed him. At last, at long last, he was done killing.

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  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "I Just Want To Hurt You Like the World Has Hurt Me"

  Scrornuck jolted to a sitting position, awakened by a searing pain in his left leg. By the dim light shining through a tiny slit-window, he watched the internal splint work its way through his skin and fall to the floor with a soft clink. He stared at the splint—even with the first-aid kit's goo, a broken leg took at least two weeks to heal. Slowly and carefully, he stood up and tested the leg. It supported his weight without discomfort. He realized that the knee he'd injured in his last jump no longer hurt, either. What was going on?

  Searching for words of comfort, he opened the little red book and found a short prayer that seemed to ask the very question hovering in his mind—why am I still alive? Given the Captain's hatred, he should have been skinned and sacrificed by now. Words came unbidden: Your battle's not finished yet. Pondering this, he put the book away.

  Where am I? In a prison cell—or a storeroom that had been hastily pressed into service. Three of the walls were bare cinder block, while the fourth was made of steel bars and included a locked gate. Heaps of the plastic armor worn by the Captain's soldiers filled the corners, and a rough wooden bench served as a bed.

  How'd I get here? He slowly recalled the battle with Lord Draggott's soldiers, and a sudden attack that drew him outside the eight-foot zone of protection just as Jape fired his last Dragonsneeze. Man, don't that make your ears ring! His clothes were scorched, torn and spattered with dried blood, and he hurt, in a number of places—though not as badly as he expected. The wounds he'd received had, like his broken leg, already healed. Being a monster may not be all bad, after all.

  He looked through the cell's tiny window, and saw the moon shining in the dark sky. Where'd the time go? He reclined on the bench, emptying his mind and letting his thoughts wander. In time, memories came.

  The soldiers dragged Scrornuck through the dark halls of the castle and up a long, long spiral stair surrounded by pipes and wiring, coming at last to the bloated sack of violet-white electricity squatting atop its rickety pile of pallets—the Orb. The masked and hooded form of Lord Draggott stood nearby, with the Captain at his side. How nice, Scrornuck thought. All my special friends are here tonight.

  The guards added him to a line of prisoners, many of them members of the Army of Taupeaquaah, then marched their captives in two and threes up to the Orb and roughly shoved their heads into the crackling ball. Tendrils of violet energy swirled over their shoulders and down their backs, and when the guards pulled them out, the prisoners moved slowly and mechanically, as if in a trance.

  Then it was Scrornuck's turn. The soldiers dragged him to the Orb, which sizzled with electricity as if looking forward to the meeting. He fought desperately, and it took eight men to force his head through the Orb's surface. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever experienced—his body had flopped and squirmed uncontrollably as bolts of violet lightning coursed through his muscles, while bits of black, confetti-like material rode in the swirling storm of energy, raking his face with their sharp edges. In this insane snowstorm, illuminated by flashes of blue-white lightning from the Orb's center, he made out something big and black, an immense shark with a mouth full of sharp teeth and glowing orange eyes, heading straight for him. For an instant, the shark's eyes met his. And in that instant came a vision:

  A man and a woman kneel, side-by-side, on a stone platform before the Orb. The woman is unfamiliar, but the middle-aged, balding man is unmistakable: McGinn. They raise their arms and rest their palms on the Orb's surface as violet energy surges around them.

  Time passes. The two slowly fall forward, their heads entering the Orb. Scrornuck knows they are dying.

  More time passes. Within the Orb, a tiny shark wriggles out of McGinn's eye socket and swims freely in the violet fluid. After a few circles, it turns toward the woman's head, and begins to feed.

  Still more time passes. The bodies on the platform dry, shrivel and rot away, leaving only skeletons. The Orb shrinks, leaving the bones to bleach on the stone. And the shark circles slowly inside its shrinking world.

  The vision came to an abrupt end as Scrornuck tumbled backward, out of the Orb and into a scene of pandemonium: smoke everywhere, people scattered as if thrown by an unseen hand, some apparently dead. Draggott stood on the tower roof, staring at the chaos as if bewildered by what had just happened. Scrornuck struggled to his feet, trying to take advantage of the confusion. His legs jolted and spasmed as if still receiving shocks from the Orb, and he tumbled head-over-heels down the scaffold's steps. Before he could get back to his feet, the guards were on him, dragging him down the stairs and locking him in this cell.

  No other memories came. Tired, sore, hungry and thirsty, he briefly wondered how Jape and Nalia were doing after their escape. Then he closed his eyes, sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed.

  Cleo's leather shop had closed a couple hours ago, but the regulars hung around, swapping stories and enjoying some excellent Bavarian beer.

  The conversation turned to earrings, which most of the bikers had. Scrornuck passed his battered but beautiful ring around. By the time it came back, the decision was made: this ring was too good to languish in his sporran—it must be worn.

  Cleo produced a sharp tool, intended for attaching studs to saddlebags, and deftly punched a hole in Scrornuck's left earlobe. It was larger than needed and bled profusely, so he plugged the hole with the earring, blotted the blood with shop rags, and called for another pint as anesthesia.

  Scrornuck awoke to a sound strangely like somebody setting down a six-pack. You wish, he thought, but as his eye roamed about the d
im cell, he saw a nervous-looking guard setting a six-pack of Batatat's just inside the gate. The guard cautiously locked the gate, and disappeared into the darkness with an audible sigh of relief.

  Blinking in disbelief, Scrornuck sat up. His head felt heavy, as if he were wearing some kind of helmet. He reached up and felt a sharp, bony structure, about eight inches high with fluted sides, rising from the top of his head. Great, just great, he thought, wondering what his body would sprout next. As if to answer, the skin of his shoulders itched fiendishly. He reached over his shoulder, finding a pair of swollen pods, about an inch thick and squirming as if something were about to burst forth. Probably a set of spikes, he thought. He started to scratch, and suddenly yanked his arm back—his nails had grown into a set of wickedly sharp claws, and he'd almost ripped the pods open.

  With a sigh, he looked at the six-pack. It could be poisoned, but if Draggott wanted him dead, he'd already had many opportunities. Jape says the microbots burn alcohol, he thought, so I'm not going to get drunk. And he was desperately thirsty. He popped the top off the first bottle, downed it before the head fully settled, and promptly opened a second.

  By the fourth beer, his thirst was sufficiently quenched that he could sip and think. His body carried the dragon's strength-enhancing microbots, not the repair-and-improvement devices that had turned a warrior into an unkillable Beast. And when he awoke at Kurzitskogorsk-Seven, he'd left the Beast's contamination behind. “No body, no microbots,” Jape had said. Scrornuck had brought with him only his kilt, the stone hanging around his neck, and the ring in his left ear.

  The earring? Why had he dreamt about the sloppy ear-piercing? He took the gold ring from his ear and carefully inspected it, holding it up in the dim light, exploring its crevices with the razor-sharp tips of his claws, letting his dragon eyes search for tiny details. There. In a tiny groove by the piercing-stud, he saw a few particles of blood, hard and black, scorched, roasted and frozen all at once.

  Opening a fifth beer, he pondered: the blood trapped in his earring must have been full of the Beast's microbots. Perhaps, exposure to space during the battle that killed his original body had weakened them, making them sleep until the dragon's devices invaded his body. In that case, he might not face the same fate as the Beast.

  Holding to that hope, he put the ring back in his ear and tried to get comfortable on the too-short wooden bench. In minutes, he faced the consequences of drinking five beers—his bladder was ready to explode. His cell contained no facilities, not even a chamber-pot—just piles of the plastic breastplates and helmets worn by the Captain and her troops. He picked up a helmet, and a wicked grin slowly spread across his face. A few minutes later, feeling much, much better, he lay down on the bench, read a few reassuring psalms from his prayer book, and fell into a deep and wonderful sleep.

  * * * *

  "What are you today, demon?” the Captain muttered as she led her guards to Scrornuck's cell.

  "Come closer, my pretty,” he hissed, “and you'll find out.” She gasped as she flipped on the light, for the bony crown atop his head nearly brushed the ceiling, his arm-spikes were longer and sharper, and his limbs seemed little more than skin and bones—though his muscles moved beneath the skin like taut steel cables. “Do you like my nails?” He held up a hand tipped with wickedly sharp claws.

  Several guards poked spears through the bars of the cell, forcing him back as the Captain unlocked the gate. “You can come peacefully,” she began.

  "You know better than that,” he replied, and the battle was on. The guards stabbed him several times, and he laid open several arms and legs with his claws. Somebody knocked over the helmet he'd used as a chamber-pot, spilling its slippery, smelly contents across the floor. One guard attacked from behind, and Scrornuck skewered the hapless soldier on his arm-spikes—but as he did this, shoving the screaming guard against the bars of the cell, another soldier slid a rope between the bars and looped it around his throat. Two guards grabbed each end of the rope and pulled. Slowly, struggling for air, Scrornuck blacked out and slumped to the floor.

  He awoke on his back, in a pool of stale urine, with a half-dozen spear points grazing his chest. Stout ropes encircled his wrists and ankles, each held by several guards. “Come, monster,” the Captain said. Prodded by the spears, Scrornuck got to his feet and followed. She drew the long ceremonial knife and ran her thumb along the edge. “Once Lord Draggott's finished with you, we have an appointment."

  The Captain led Scrornuck to the domed room on the lower level of the central tower. Pulling heavily on the ropes, the guards forced him to his knees before a ratty old office chair. A wheezy, whiny voice greeted him. “Welcome to Darklord Castle—guest,” Lord Draggott said, rising from his makeshift throne.

  In the light, Scrornuck saw that the warlord's imposing black robe-and-mask ensemble was in fact simply a rubberized black raincoat and a standard particle-and-pollen filter, the kind worn by outdoor laborers and people with severe allergies. Draggott sneezed, an odd and rather funny sound inside the mask, and Scrornuck chuckled sarcastically. “Hay fever acting up?"

  "No more than usual, Mister Saughblade. We trust you are well-rested—our accommodations are rather plain, but we do what we can."

  Scrornuck shrugged. “At least there was a pot to piss in."

  "Yes there was, and you made my Captain quite angry by using it.” Draggott wheezed what might have been a laugh. “But that is between you and her. We have other business.” He pulled Ol’ Red from his robes, and waved the sword-handle around as if it had a blade. “We have been studying this weapon of yours...” Holding the grip in both hands, he furrowed his brow in concentration and eventually produced a short, bent blade which quickly disappeared. “So far, the results have been disappointing."

  "I'd be happy to demonstrate,” Scrornuck offered.

  "We suspect you would, but that would defeat our purpose. This weapon is special to us—as are you. Would you like to hazard a guess why?"

  "You have a thing for redheads?"

  Draggott laughed. His laugh turned into a wheeze, followed by a cough and a string of sneezes. For a moment he turned his back, and pulled an inhaler from his robe. After two gentle hisses, he stopped sneezing and turned back to face his captive. “You are a nuisance, Mister Saughblade, nothing more than a drunken lout who distracts your betters from serious business. And yet, you have made yourself remarkably inconvenient. For that reason alone you should have been quietly eliminated.” He slowly turned Ol’ Red over in his hands. “But you have given us cause to desire more for you than a quick, efficient end—you hurt us the first time we met, hurt us badly. Do you recognize us?” With a flourish, he removed his mask.

  "Aw, shit,” Scrornuck said, staring into the warlord's eyes.

  Tremmlowe, the oily information broker, stared back. “Are you surprised, Mister Saughblade?"

  Scrornuck sighed. “I should've figured it out when I learned the bitch was working for both of you."

  Brandishing her skinning-knife, the Captain took an angry step forward. Her master waved her back, saying, “Patience, servant—your time will come.” He turned back to Scrornuck. “Tell us: did your master not find it suspicious that Tremmlowe appeared from nowhere, knowing all about Lord Draggott, at exactly the moment he sought this information? Is the brilliant Ranger Phelps losing his touch?"

  Scrornuck pulled against his bonds, wanting to tear the slimeball's face off. “I should've killed you when I had the chance,” he snarled.

  The black-clad warlord smirked. “Life is full of missed opportunities, is it not? A bungled assassination, an ill-advised moment of mercy...” He paused to blow his nose and take a snort from his inhaler. “Do you recall your words from last Saturday morning?” He carefully squeezed Ol’ Red's grip and a short, bent blade emerged. “We are going to take you apart, starting with the painful bits and ending with the vital ones."

  "Remember the other thing I said,” Scrornuck spat. “The next time I see your
face, you won't live to see sundown."

  "You are hardly in a position to act on that promise."

  "It's a long time till sundown."

  "It may not be as long as you think.” The eight guards pulled their ropes, bringing Scrornuck to his knees, and Draggott swung Ol’ Red in the general direction of his groin. The sword, however, twisted and swerved, missing by a fraction of an inch. Draggott swung a second time, and a third, cursing under his breath—and each time the fibersword refused to harm its true owner.

  "Sure you don't want me to show you how it works?” Scrornuck jeered.

  Spewing a torrent of curses in what sounded like German, Draggott slashed at random, accidentally slicing open a guard's hand. The injured soldier dropped her rope and screamed—and for a moment the others loosened their grip.

  Scrornuck surged to his feet, dragging the remaining guards, and went for Draggott's throat. Dropping the sword, the warlord raised his hands to his neck. Scrornuck struggled forward, snarling and struggling to bite. The remaining guards yanked on the ropes, hard. Draggott ducked as Scrornuck's teeth snapped inches from his throat. The wounded guard threw herself against Scrornuck's chest, sending him sprawling.

  "Lose something?” Scrornuck growled, raising his head to sneer at the warlord's bloody left hand. With a wicked grin, he spat out two severed fingers.

  Draggott calmly picked up Ol’ Red with his right hand as two servants hastily bandaged his left. “Pity that your sword declines to help. Oh, well, some things are best done the old-fashioned way.” A guard took this as a cue to kick Scrornuck in the stomach, hard. “A mere kick will have little effect on such a creature,” Draggott said, tucking the sword into his robe. He picked up a wooden club. “Harming this beast requires something more substantial.” Scrornuck heard the sickening crack of ribs breaking as Draggott brought the club down on his chest.

  As his captive lay on the floor, gasping, Draggott returned to his throne. “Many people have scores to settle with you,” he said, gesturing to the Captain. “It appears a line is forming.” For the next several minutes the Captain, the Guards, and the Servants of Spafu gave Scrornuck a thorough beating. In time Draggott joined them, kicking him in the belly and then in the back.