The Last Protector (8 page)

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 white 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.

Scrornuck took the sword-handle. It felt warm, soft yet firm, almost alive. When he gave it a tentative squeeze, it seemed to push back. “Grip it carefully,” the Master said. “Feel what it's saying to you. Close your eyes and squeeze it the way it wants to be squeezed.” Having no idea what to expect, Scrornuck complied. He felt the grip conform itself to his fingers, felt more warmth and a slight vibration, rather like a purring kitten.

"Now look."

Scrornuck opened his eyes and saw that an enormous blade had sprung from the sword-handle, at once transparent, glowing like fire and throbbing like something alive. “Demon weapon!” he hissed, dropping the sword and diving to the dirt in terror.

The Master patiently picked up the sword-handle. “Get up, Mister Saughblade."

Scrornuck crawled from his hiding place beneath a wagon and got back to his feet. “What—what is that thing?"

The Master again handed Scrornuck the weapon. “A sword. Neither demonic or angelic; simply as good or evil as the one who commands it."

Scrornuck felt the grip in his hands, warm, throbbing, almost alive. Again he squeezed it just so, letting its gentle pressure guide his fingers, and again the immense blade sprang forth, ripples of dark and light and color coursing across it. Tentatively, then with more confidence, he swung the weapon around, over his head, down by his feet. Compared to this weightless blade, even the gorgeous silver sword had been heavy and awkward. “It's beautiful."

"It's much more than beautiful,” the Master said. “It is the last of its kind, the most powerful sword ever made, and it has chosen you to be its master."

"Chosen me?"

The Master nodded. “It works for the man it chooses, and no other.” Suddenly, without warning, he grabbed the old iron sword and swung it in Scrornuck's direction. Without thinking, Scrornuck moved his fingers. The magical blade curved and twisted, effortlessly slicing the iron sword in half. The longer piece fell to the ground with a soft clank as the Master smiled. “I told you it is powerful."

Scrornuck stared. A sword that could cut through iron as if it were butter?

"If you treat it well, it will show you some of the other things it can do.” The Master smiled a thin smile as he let the other half of the iron sword fall from his hand. “Well, Mister Saughblade, I believe you are now properly equipped for your quest. Goodbye. Use your new sword wisely.” With that he turned, walked up a short way and disappeared around the corner of the stable.