The Last Protector (44 page)

Jape looked at the longneck lager for a few seconds, and then turned away. “Um, none for me right now, thanks."

Scrornuck shrugged, and he and Nalia lifted their bottles. “To forgiving!"

"To forgiving,” Jape said, toasting with the last of his coffee. “Now let's get to work. There's a world to be saved!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

"Hitchhike?” Nalia asked.

Scrornuck closed up the pack. “Yep, stick out our thumb and pick up a ride."

Jape looked up from the Traveler. “We need to catch up with Taupeaquaah's army pronto. Lucky for us, the Southern Road is pretty close to major highways in a lot of other worlds, so we should be able to catch a faster ride. Ah, this looks good: Current year 2006—they'll have vehicles. We're right next to Kansas Route 99, and the world has lots of stable connections. Ready?"

"Let's hit it!” Scrornuck threw the pack over his shoulder, Jape flipped the switch and Khansous shimmered out of existence around them.

"Welcome to Kansas,” Jape said, “home of sunshine, sunflowers, and lots and lots of wheat."

Nalia sniffed a chest-high, golden plant. “This is wheat? I've only seen flour in sacks at the store—uh—ahh—” She began sneezing uncontrollably, one nasal explosion after another. “What's—
achoo!
—going—
achoo!
—on?"

Scrornuck pulled her away from the plant, “That's not wheat—it's good old Yellow Kansasian Sneezeweed."

"And it seems you're allergic to it.” Jape tossed her his handkerchief. “I have the remedy right here.” He held a small injector to her arm. She jumped, more from surprise than discomfort, as the injector hissed. “There,” he said, “give it a minute and you should be just fine."

"Yeah, I'm starting to feel better already.” She blew her nose and held out the soggy handkerchief. “You want this back?"

A short, sneeze-free stroll through knee-high wheat brought them to the road. To the north, it stretched off to the horizon, black and straight. To the south, it disappeared over a very slight hill. Seeing no traffic in either direction, Scrornuck pulled off his jacket and sat on the backpack to wait.

The sun rose higher in the sky, and the temperature rose with it. Scrornuck and Nalia donned their sun-hats, while Jape pulled the hood of his cape over his head and turned the cooling unit to maximum. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea,” he said. “We've been here what, twenty minutes?"

"Want to walk?” Scrornuck suggested.

"Too hot for that. Let's give it another half hour. If we don't get a ride by then, we'll go back to Nalia's world—the walking's easier there."

Scrornuck grabbed a beer, pulled off his shirt and boots, and stretched out to catch some rays. “Ain't summertime great?"

"I wish I could do that,” Nalia said.

"What, have a beer? There's still a few left."

She wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I wish I could take off some of these hot clothes."

"Go ahead. It won't bother me at all."

"Yeah, right. And where am I supposed to change without doing a public strip show?” As well as being flat as a board, the land was utterly devoid of any cover, not even a tree.

"What's the big deal? You said the woman Acolytes go topless."

"That's different—it's an observance at the Temple. Respectable women just don't get naked in public!"

"We'll look the other way,” Jape said gallantly.

"Speak for yourself,” Scrornuck said, earning a light tap upside the head from Nalia's foot. “Hey, just kidding!"

"Well, okay.” She looked in her pack and found the server's uniform she'd worn when working at Syb's. “No peeking, now!” She changed quickly, and stretched out on the grass next to Scrornuck. “Is the beer still cold?” she asked. He said nothing, but gently set the bottle down on her stomach. It was plenty cold, and she squealed and jumped when it touched her. “All right,” she growled in mock anger, “you're going to pay for that,” and grabbed for the bottle with both hands. For the next few minutes they wrestled and giggled, each trying to touch the other with the cold bottle, until they decided that wrestling and kissing were more fun than beer.

Jape frowned briefly. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to watch the road.

"Hey Jape, look at this!” Scrornuck pointed to his leg, where one strip of wound-repair tape after another was curling up and falling off. “Talk about a strong batch of goo!” The ragged gashes from the dragon attack and the deep cuts from the battles on the island had completely healed, leaving only neat, pink scars. “Think they've changed the formula?” He knew the medical kit made the stuff on demand, according to a formula transmitted from Jape's world, and the recipe was occasionally improved.

"Could be.” Jape tapped a command into the softscroll. “There's no mention of any update, though."

"Something's coming!” Scrornuck felt a vibration in the ground and hurriedly pulled on his boots. A moment later, a familiar rumble filled the air, and a quick jump confirmed his suspicions—a line of single headlights approached from the south. “Bikers!” Throwing the Setron over his shoulder, he strode into the middle of the highway as a dozen black-and-chrome motorcycles roared into view. The bikers came to a stop some thirty feet away, not sure what to make of the tall, long-haired guy in the bloodstained red skirt. The standoff lasted half a minute, before the leader of the pack, a tall, wide man in jeans and a black jacket, eased his bike forward.

"Who the hell are you?” he shouted over the rumble of his engine.

"Name's Saughblade, Scrornuck Saughblade."

The biker took a good, long look at Scrornuck before shutting off his engine and getting off his bike. “They call me Big Wolf."

"My friends and I need a lift.” Scrornuck gestured at Jape and Nalia.

Jape pulled several pieces of green paper from his purse. “We're prepared to make it worth your while."

Shaking his head slightly, Big Wolf turned to negotiate with the man who held the money. The remainder of the group took this as their signal to idle forward and park in a neat, tight formation.

As Jape and the big biker negotiated, Scrornuck wandered around to make small talk with the others and get a good look at their rides. Big Wolf's bike was a work of art in black paint, sparkling chrome and studded leather, but it was no show-bike—the bugs and road grime made that clear.

"What's with the dress?” one of the bikers demanded. Before Scrornuck could answer, another replied, “Don't you know nothing? It's not a dress, it's a kilt! Hey, man, where's your bagpipes?"

Scrornuck grinned at the request, for in a way he could satisfy it. “Electric!” he shouted, pulling the Setron from behind his back and ripping out a couple quick tunes. The biker, apparently of Scottish descent, flashed a thumbs-up.

"Hey, stop torturing those cats for a minute,” Jape shouted, “I can't hear myself think!"

"Loud pipes save lives! You guys made a deal yet?"

"Yep! Let's get going!"

Scrornuck closed up the pack, while Nalia put her sandals back on. “So, you're as persuasive as usual?” he asked Jape softly.

"Nalia helped—I had her stand close to the guy and concentrate on wanting to help us. Don't know if it worked, but there's always the old standby.” He held up a few fifty-dollar bills. “Dead presidents are so persuasive."

With plenty of help from the dead presidents, Jape persuaded one of the bikers to let Scrornuck ride his bike and carry Nalia on the back. The next twenty minutes were pure heaven. Scrornuck swooped the long, low machine from one side of the lane to another, glancing in the mirror and smiling as Nalia first stiffened from fear, then clung more tightly to his waist and grinned.

Far too soon, the procession reached a crossroad, and Big Wolf led them into the gravel parking lot outside a run-down wooden building. A sign above the door read:

While Jape was in a hurry, he acknowledged the need for solid food, so they went inside for lunch. Scrornuck thought the bar's stoutest offering, an amber brew, seemed to lack any real kick. Still, it was wet, cold and tasty, and he washed down his burger with more than a few of them.

"Y'know,” Big Wolf said, hoisting his glass, “when I saw you in the middle of the road, I wasn't going to stop. Then I saw those leg braces and figured you had to be crazy..."

"Leg braces?” Scrornuck asked.

"Those things.” Big Wolf pointed at the boots. “Figured you wouldn't be able to get out of my way if I didn't stop. I'm surprised you can walk with your legs messed up that bad—"

Scrornuck's laugh cut him off. “There's nothing wrong with my legs,” he said. “These boots just make ‘em better!” He eyed the bar's ceiling, a peaked roof about twenty-five feet high supported by a framework of rough-hewn logs. “Let me show you something—can I see your knife for a second?"

With a puzzled look, Big Wolf handed over a richly engraved blade with a pearl handle. Scrornuck flung the knife upward, sticking it into the highest part of the ceiling. “Think any of your guys could shinny up there and get it?"

"Hey, Monkey-man!” Big Wolf called, “Get moving!” A tall, gangly biker climbed atop the table and jumped. Grabbing the lowest part of the roof supports, he pulled himself up and started working his way toward the knife.

"Twenty bucks says I'll get there first,” Scrornuck said.

"You? You're on!"

When Monkey-man was just a few feet shy of his objective, Scrornuck stood, and gently triggered the boots. He sailed upward, his hand closing on the knife seconds before the biker reached it. Big Wolf struggled without success to hide his surprise as Scrornuck handed him the knife and he handed Scrornuck a twenty. “Where the hell did you find those things?"

"A pleasant little tourist trap called Kurzitskogorsk-Seven,” Scrornuck replied, waving the twenty at the barmaid. “It's a bit of a story, but since you just bought the next round, I guess there's time."

Scrornuck awoke slowly, from a sleep that felt like it had gone on for days and still hadn't been enough. His head was full of dreams—swooping dragons, monsters that couldn't be killed, battles fought on motorcycles in the sky, a journey across a light-lager version of Hell. He recalled the nasty little spidery creatures that had chewed him up beneath the strange purple dome and shuddered—how much of him was left? Nervously, he tried to wiggle his fingers and toes. With a sigh of relief he found he still had hands, and feet.

And a bladder—he suddenly realized he had to pee like the proverbial racehorse. He opened his eyes and saw he was in a bed, lying on his back and looking up at a naked fluorescent lamp. How'd I get here, he wondered.

Answering nature's call, he sat up—and promptly yelped, as an intravenous tube jerked itself out of his right arm. He muttered an obscenity and pressed the fingers of his left hand down on the wound. His hands felt different, and the arm looked thinner than it should. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood unsteadily. Again, something felt wrong—the floor, and his bare feet, seemed further away than they had any right to be.

He made his way to the bathroom feeling lightheaded, as if none of his body parts worked quite the way they were supposed to. After finishing his business, he glanced in the mirror, stared, blinked, shook his head. The man he saw in the mirror was just wrong: skinny, scrawny, gangly, arms and legs, skin and bones. His head was totally hairless—no beard, the scalp shaved and marked with hundreds of tiny burns. He searched for something, anything, in this stranger that looked familiar, and finally settled on the bright-green eyes. Yes, these he recognized as his own.

He stuck out his tongue and shook his head. So did the scrawny, bald young man in the mirror. The hospital gown fell open, revealing bright colors. He stared, removed the gown completely and stared much more. One hell of a night, he thought: starved half to death, somebody stole my hair—and where did that come from? A tattoo of a dragon, wings spread, spitting fire, ridden by a skeletal warrior, covered his scrawny chest. Flames trailed off its wings, and as he turned he saw that they continued across his back to form a flaming snake on his right arm. The gown fell from his hands as he stared, struggling without success to recall visiting a tattoo parlor. His head spinning, he staggered out of the bathroom, crawled into the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Voices. He awoke to the sound of voices, speaking yet another strange tongue. Warily, he opened his eyes, and saw a doctor conversing with a man in a formal military uniform at the foot of the bed. He listened carefully, expecting it would take hours to pick up his language—but by the time the military man noticed Scrornuck's open eyes, he understood the language perfectly. It seemed his Gift for tongues was finally living up to its reputation.

"Take these,” the officer said curtly, throwing a bundle of clothing into Scrornuck's lap. “Get dressed.” Scrornuck looked at the clothing, a drab brown uniform similar to, but plainer than, the officer's. Sheeyit, he thought, pants again?

After Scrornuck dressed, the officer led him down a dimly lit hallway, into a large, high-ceilinged room. Rings of seats, many occupied by people in white medical coats or military uniforms, surrounded a central floor thirty feet across. The officer brought Scrornuck to the center of this floor, where he faced a soldier, dressed in a uniform like his. The soldier's eyes darted back and forth nervously. The officer quickly departed, appearing a moment later in the closest row of seats.

"Fight!” The officer's voice boomed from a hidden speaker. Scrornuck looked around, searching for its source. “Fight!” the voice repeated, louder, and this time the other soldier jumped forward to attack.

Scrornuck had no idea why he was being attacked, why the voice kept urging him to fight, why he had somehow lost a lot of weight and gained a huge tattoo, or where he was—but he knew he wasn't just going to stand there. He jumped aside, grabbed the soldier from behind, threw him against the far wall. To his delight, he discovered that he was as strong as he'd ever been, and if anything quicker than before.