The Last Protector (22 page)

Scrornuck couldn't speak, only gulp and nod. He'd never forget.

Ghostly wisps of fog swirled about the ruins of the ancient castle, lit by the full moon and fires flickering atop the walls. Five men and four women of the Rangers stood in a circle, holding candles. At the center of the circle, facing Jape, Scrornuck knelt and accepted his vows.

"Will you go where I go, no matter how far, no matter how strange, no matter how dangerous?” Jape asked solemnly.

"I will,” Scrornuck replied.

"Will you defend me against all threats, all enemies, no matter how powerful, no matter how outnumbered we are, without regard for your own safety?"

"I will."

"Will you accept pain, suffering and death for the sake of the Mission?"

"I will."

"And do you pledge your life to the Mission, until all the worlds are saved?"

Scrornuck didn't really understand this last bit, despite Jape's efforts to explain about multiple worlds, but he understood the nature of his commitment. “I will,” he replied.

Jape drew a small dagger and expertly punctured the tip of Scrornuck's index finger. A single drop of blood oozed out. An instant later, Jape punctured his own finger and pressed it firmly against Scrornuck's. “Then it is done,” he intoned, staring at Scrornuck with those bottomless blue eyes. “We are bound together, Ranger and Protector, joined until the Mission is complete, or until death. So be it."

"Ranger and Protector,” chanted the Rangers gathered around them. “So be it."

"Now rise,” Jape said. As Scrornuck got to his feet, he felt, more than he ever had in his life, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

"Do you intend to keep your promise?” Jape's soft voice brought Scrornuck back to the present.

Scrornuck felt dizzy. He couldn't stop staring into Jape's bottomless blue eyes. He felt the rough bricks of the wall against his back as he slid down, down to the pavement.
I will,
he had said, over and over. It still sounded so noble—why did it have to hurt so much?

"I thought I could depend on you.” Jape's soft voice filled with a deep sadness that made Scrornuck hurt far worse than shouts of rage ever could.

Scrornuck closed his eyes, unable to stand Jape's gaze any longer.

"We are here to save the world. Will you throw that away because you have a crush on a woman?"

Scrornuck forced the name out. “Nalia..."

"Is paid in gold to hang around with us,” Jape said. “Or have you forgotten?"

Keeping his eyes closed, Scrornuck shook his head slowly.
She's just in it for the money.
His thoughts returned to his promises.
Pain, suffering and death,
he'd agreed to accept for the sake of the mission.
Until all the worlds are saved.

"Maybe you'll find true love someday,” Jape said. “But if you and I don't keep our promises, there won't be any ‘someday.’ Look.” He held out his hand. “Look, Mister Saughblade!” Scrornuck opened his eyes, and his heart sank as he saw the ring, glowing a bloody scarlet. “We have eight days before this world, and everyone in it—including Nalia—is dead. I'm grasping at any straw I can find, and as slimy as he is, Tremmlowe is the only straw we've got. Do you want me to throw that away?"

Scrornuck closed his eyes again as the accusations hit him like a series of kicks in the stomach.
You failed. You called yourself a warrior and swore your life to a noble cause—but when it really mattered, you ignored your promise and thought only of yourself. You'd sacrifice the world to satisfy your own desires. You worthless liar. How can anyone ever trust you? Go back where you belong and dig vegetables out of the mud.

"If you really want to get out of your promise, go ahead.” Jape's voice was so soft that Scrornuck could barely hear him. “Chase Nalia if that's what you want. But you'd better plan on a short happily-ever-after, because in eight days it's all over—and without your help, I can't stop it."

Scrornuck slumped to the ground in total submission, back against the wall, arms wrapped around his legs with his head bowed and eyes closed, breathing in long, rasping sobs.

Jape squatted, getting face-to-face with Scrornuck, and whispered, “I'm going to ask you again—do you intend to keep your promise?"

Scrornuck's body shuddered in time with his sobs, but he said nothing and kept staring at the ground.

"Mister Saughblade, look at me!"

Scrornuck jerked his head up. Tears streamed down his face as he looked into Jape's eyes.

"Do you intend to keep your promise?"

"Yes.” Scrornuck formed the word slowly, moving his lips before finding breath.

Jape stood up, said “Good,” and started to walk away. After a few steps he stopped, turned, and walked slowly back. He went down on one knee, put a hand on Scrornuck's shoulder, and said in a soft—and warm—voice, “I'm sorry I had to do that.” He stood, took Scrornuck's hand and gave it a hard pull. “C'mon, get up, let's get going."

Scrornuck got up, accepted Jape's handkerchief, dried his eyes and blew his nose.

"Maybe we've both been working too hard lately,” Jape said. “Maybe we've been trying too hard to force things to happen. Maybe we're missing something important because we're looking too hard. Maybe we just need to let things take care of themselves for one night."

Scrornuck blew his nose again. “How?"

"Tremmlowe's provided the documents he promised. There's nothing we can do with them tonight. I think we should take a night off for rest and recreation.” He swept his arm before the doorway. “Let's have a good time now and worry about things in the morning."

Scrornuck blew his nose a third time and nodded.

"Yes, just for tonight, let's eat, drink and be merry.” Jape looked at Scrornuck with a sly expression. “You know, those two
chickaderos
have been giving you the eye all night. Give them half a chance, and you could have a pretty entertaining evening."

"Uh, yeah.” Maybe it was the beer talking, but Scrornuck found himself warming to the idea. After all, Nalia hadn't really said anything to indicate she had a serious interest in him, other than as a way to get those three gold pieces a day. And he could offer her little beyond a quick fling before he and Jape left town. Maybe the Ranger was right—maybe it was time to let go and have a little fun.

Jape shook Scrornuck's hand with mock seriousness. “So that's tonight's plan, Mister Saughblade. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we save the world!"

"For tomorrow we save the world!” Scrornuck blew his nose one last time, then held out Jape's dripping handkerchief. “You want this back?"

There was no evidence of the near-brawl when Scrornuck and Jape returned. The table was upright and topped by a fresh round. Nalia sat at Tremmlowe's side, smiling as he whispered in her ear. Meanwhile, two ladies who were no doubt very, very good at entertaining a man waited for Scrornuck, and somebody else was picking up the tab. Take me, I'm yours, he thought, putting an arm around Blue Eyes and kissing her full on the lips in the way that he'd longed to kiss Nalia. After an instant's surprise, she responded in kind, and a moment later he felt Blondie's hand sliding up under his kilt. This was going to be an entertaining evening indeed.

"Excuse me!” Jape spoke in a stern voice, but when Scrornuck looked up he saw the Ranger was grinning. “Do I have to get you three a room?"

"Maybe.” Scrornuck stole a quick glance at Nalia, who quickly looked away. “Probably."

"But not yet,” Tremmlowe said, as serving wenches brought several bottles of champagne. “It is time to celebrate!” He popped the cork on the first bottle, poured a round, and clinked his glass against Jape's. “To our successful relationship!” He then raised his glass to Scrornuck. “You seem to be well-versed in the ways of drink, Mister Saughblade. Tell us, how would you describe our Taupeaquaahn bubbly?"

Scrornuck took a mouthful—and nearly spat it out. How would he describe this swill? Carbonated industrial solvent, fermented in tank cars? For use as motor fuel only? Trying to kill the champagne's taste, he grabbed a handful of bright-orange snacks from a bowl in the center of the table, only to find they tasted like cellulose-foam packing peanuts dusted with artificially flavored plasticized process cheese substance.

"Ah,” Tremmlowe said, dabbing his nose again. “You have discovered this tavern's specialty.” He took a handful of the snacks and consumed them delicately, one at a time. “You may have wondered what brings us to a—forgive the blunt language, but no other word fits—dive like Syb's.” He tossed down another piece. “These are the finest snacks in the land, and no other place has them."

Jape struggled to suppress his laughter as Scrornuck struggled to suppress his gag reflex. “Interesting,” he said, tasting a single morsel. “What do you think, Mister Saughblade—Premium Coach?"

Scrornuck shook his head and cleared his palate with a big slug of beer. “More like Standby Steerage Class."

The whiny singer finished his set, and Tremmlowe stood, slowly and wearily. “Your attention please,” he said, raising a hand full of large gold coins. In an instant, the room went silent. “We wish to make an offer.” He stacked the coins neatly on the table and opened a dusty leather case. “This is called a Setron. According to legend, it makes the most beautiful music.” He held up a device that looked more like a sheathed samurai sword than an instrument: about three feet long including its two-handed leather grip, gently curved, about an inch thick by three inches wide. An elaborate Japanese dragon design in gold leaf graced one side of the instrument's flat-black body, while glassy, translucent frets adorned the other. A strap connected the root of the grip to the end of the instrument, as if it were to be slung over one's shoulder. “Alas,” he said, “we are not particularly musical. And so, we offer these gold pieces to any man who can play it."

Almost involuntarily, Scrornuck rose and wrapped his right hand about the part that looked like a sword-grip. “I'll give it a try."

"The Setron is a musical instrument, not a liquor bottle,” Tremmlowe said, maintaining his hold on the device's body. “You would have little use for it."

Scrornuck ignored the insult, fascinated by the way the instrument's grip felt slightly warm, almost alive, like Ol’ Red. Closing his eyes, he squeezed it the way it wanted to be squeezed. Hearing a collective murmur, he opened his eyes and saw the raised designs on its fretboard glowing in shades of red, yellow and green. Tremmlowe, a look of shock on his face, let go. Scrornuck threw the strap over his shoulder, took a deep breath and let his left hand roam over the sparkling lights of the fretboard. For the next minute, a rich, multi-layered harmony of strings, horns, bells, and voices filled the air.

Scrornuck gazed at the instrument, feeling like he already knew how to make it produce any sound he wanted.
One way to find out.
He thought about acoustic guitars, gave the grip a gentle squeeze, and ran his fingers along the frets. The sound of a guitar strumming filled the room.

"Do you think you can play an actual tune?” Jape asked. “Perhaps one of those lilting Irish ballads?"

Scrornuck nodded and confidently stepped onto the bar's tiny stage, still running his fingers over the fretboard. The instrument's feel was nearly irresistible. “Lilting Irish ballad, you said.” Guided by the soft throbbing of the Setron's grip, he made a few adjustments. There, he thought, doing something that he somehow knew would make the machine play loud, very loud, that ought to be lilting enough. “One, two, three,” he shouted, stomping his foot on the stage, “nine, ten, forty-six, hike!"

His left hand danced over the fretboard, selecting a string of lead-guitar power chords, while his right hand gently told the grip how he wanted bass and percussion to follow. Drinks quivered on tables, chips and nuts skittered to the floor, and a few patrons ducked for cover beneath their tables.

The song was a standard party-till-you-puke number with a few suggestive lines, the kind of thing a tenth-rate rock band would use to start a set. But it worked—the crowd got up, clapped and danced. Seeing Blondie and Blue Eyes giggling at one of the risqué lines, he held the instrument in a suggestive position and ran his hand up and down its length in a manner that was blatantly obscene. The move made lousy music, but it sent the crowd into a frenzy of hooting and cheering. He ended the song with a quick repeat of the chorus, and flopped back down in his seat, setting the instrument on the table before him.

"Lilting Irish ballad?” Jape asked.

"Irish side of Detroit, I think,” Scrornuck said, reaching for his beer.

Tremmlowe pushed the stack of gold coins in Scrornuck's direction. “Very impressive,” he said, reaching for the Setron.

Scrornuck snatched the instrument off the table an instant before Tremmlowe's fingers touched it. “Tell you what,” he said, sliding the coins back. “You can't play this thing, so why don't I just take it off your hands?” He gave the grip a gentle squeeze, and felt it purr in response. “I think it likes me."

"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.