The Last Protector (5 page)

They walked on to the Sunset Stone, a three-story lump of pinkish-gray rock that was the largest of the Standing Stones surrounding the plaza. While Jape and Nalia waited in the plaza, Scrornuck pushed the cart behind the Stone, made sure nobody was watching, and blew a small whistle that made an altogether unpleasant sound. The surface of the rock became milky and translucent, and with a feeling not unlike slipping into water he stepped inside.

The Stone's interior was a storeroom, filled with leftovers from Taupeaquaah's construction. Scrornuck stuffed the contents of the shopping cart into a large, metal-framed backpack that already contained their camping gear. From time to time he glanced up from his task to check on Jape and Nalia, whom he could see fuzzily through the one-way translucent wall of the Stone. Nalia watched with interest as Jape took some kind of measurement, holding his hands outstretched as if attempting to feel the sky, slowly turning, watching the flickering jewels in his rings.

As he lifted the heavy pack, feeling its straps settle comfortably onto the shoulder-guards of his jacket, Scrornuck remembered one final necessity. In the corner of a big duffel bag, in its own sealed compartment, he found a small plastic sack labeled in Portuguese. He sniffed cautiously. It smelled like crap. Still good, he thought, stuffing it into his backpack.

He stepped through the wall of the Stone and walked around to join Jape and Nalia. “Think we need to return this?” he asked, pointing to the now-empty cart.

"Nah, you're guests,” Nalia said, giving the cart a shove into the plaza. Before it rolled thirty feet, one of the roving Cast members intercepted the cart and quickly wheeled it toward the City gate.

"Now that's service,” Jape said.

Inspired by the yellow brick pavement, Scrornuck hummed tunes from
The Wizard of Oz
as the three started down the road. He looked forward to the long journey on foot—for one thing, it would give him plenty of time to get to know Nalia better.

About an hour out, he heard a loud whistle. Jape and Nalia had stopped about twenty yards back to take another measurement. While he waited for them to catch up, he played with a pebble he found alongside the road, tossing it from one hand to the other, over his head, bouncing it off his pack, his foot, his shoulder, his elbow. “Think fast!” he shouted, tossing the pebble in Nalia's direction.

"Huh? What? Ow!” She didn't duck in time, and the pebble struck her shoulder.

Oh, shit! he thought. “You okay?"

"I'm fine. I guess I'm just a little slow."

"You were pretty quick last night,” Jape said. “I watched; you were ducking before the other guys threw their punches."

"Yeah, you think I can read their minds. Let's not go there."

"They never landed a punch on you. How do you explain that?"

"Lots of ways.” She counted on her fingers. “I read their body language. I've been in a lot of fights. These guys were pretty predictable. Their boss had the hots for me, so they weren't trying to hurt me. Want some more?"

"No,” Jape said. “But I wonder—why did the idea of mind reading pop into your head so quickly? I didn't bring it up; you did."

"You suggested it just a couple hours ago."

"And just now I was thinking really, really hard,
Nalia can read minds."

She turned away. “This is ridiculous!"

Jape stared into her eyes. “Before you dismiss me as a total fool, do you feel anything in your left hand?"

Nalia paused, thought, and said, very, very slowly, “It feels cold. Real cold, and a little wet.” She stopped and shook her head. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but it feels like I'm holding a piece of ice."

"Like this one?” He pulled his left hand from the pocket of his cape and showed her a small piece of ice. “I've been concentrating on how cold it is."

She shook her head, hard, as if trying to dislodge something. “There's got to be a logical explanation."

"I'm just a dumb sword-swinger,” Scrornuck said, “but isn't the simplest explanation the best one?"

"And the simplest explanation,” Jape said, “is that you're a mind reader."

She thought for a moment. “Let's pretend I believe you. Then how did you figure out I can read minds? You weren't playing ice-cube games with the other women in the bar last night."

He held up his left hand and pointed to a ring with a small blue gem that flickered with its own light. “This instrument says you're a mind reader. Not very strong, but enough to detect.” He held up a different ring, the one with a purple jewel that glowed very faintly. “My instruments detect something else out there—a mind reader of sorts, but a different kind. Intuition tells me there's something important about two different kinds of mind readers."

"I don't know if I like this,” she said nervously. “You don't know what might happen when we find this other mind reader."

"No, I don't,” Jape said. “But since you're just pretending to believe me, you shouldn't have anything to fear.” He smiled. “Right?"

A few colorful dragons circled overhead as the perfect morning gave way to a perfect afternoon and the three travelers reached a place where the road from Taupeaquaah met other paths from the South and West. A line of thirty-foot-tall concrete towers paralleled each road, and some enterprising soul had strung a triangular canopy of meshed rope between three of them. In the shade beneath the canopy stood a roadhouse and beer garden whose sign announced:

They chose a table in the beer garden. Like their breakfast table, it sported three comfortable chairs and one ornate throne decorated with images of Spafu the Friendly Dragon. Scrornuck was curious about this, but lost interest when the serving wench arrived with the first round. He read from the label on his big draught of Batatat's Stout:
"Black As Tar And Twice As Thick.
Let's see if it lives up to its name.” He removed a big gold ring from his left ear and dropped it into the beer. “Even pure gold can't shine through a really strong stout.” He peered into the glass and saw no sign of the earring. “Looks like this is the good stuff."

"Used motor oil with a head on it,” Jape retorted. “And how are you going to get your earring out of that sludge?"

"That's the fun part.” Scrornuck drained the pint and signaled for a replacement.

"Can I have a look at that?” Nalia asked as Scrornuck set the earring on a napkin to dry.

"Sure,” he said, sliding the napkin across the table. The earring was almost an inch and a half across, in the form of three intertwined, intricately detailed serpents. It was also seriously beat-up: off-round, bent in a couple places, flattened as if by a hammer blow in another, discolored as if by extreme heat. She picked with her fingernail at some hard, black crud in a deep crevice. “You know, there are artists in town who could melt this thing down and remake it as good as—"

Before she could speak the word “new,” Scrornuck plucked the earring from her hand and returned it to his ear. “I like it this way,” he said firmly.

Nalia shrugged and sipped her glass of Gentle Afternoon Red wine slowly. After a moment's contemplation, she set down the glass and said, “I've been wondering about this since last night—you guys have some pretty strange names. Do they mean anything?"

"I told you about mine last night,” Jape began.

"But that's just the cover story,” Scrornuck interrupted. “Truth is, his name's an old word for a joke."

"A joke?"

Jape sighed. “I'm afraid so. I've heard it so many times I've memorized it:
Jape: a joke, a gag, a bit of mischief. See ‘shtick'.
"

"Fits you like a glove.” Scrornuck cupped a hand over his mouth and stage-whispered to Nalia, “It's also an old slang term for sex."

As she giggled, Jape pulled out his softscroll and with mock anger said, “Watch it, big guy—I'm going to show her what your name means!"

"What?” Scrornuck said. “I'm named for a great hero! Why, I could tell you stories..."

"And no doubt you will,” Jape interrupted. “But first, let's see what the archives say about your name.” Using a small stylus, he printed the word “SCRORNUCK” in a box on the scroll's surface and tapped a button.

Within seconds the scroll chimed softly. Nalia read the response and giggled. “It says you're a bug!
Scrornuck: a large, stinging insect found in tropical regions.
There's a picture, too.” He looked over her shoulder and saw a large insect that was at once beautiful and vaguely disturbing, sporting brightly colored, butterfly-like wings, long barbs on its legs, and a big, sharp stinger.

"Well, I've been called worse..."

The scroll chimed again. “Hey, there's more!” Nalia said.
"Scrornuck: the name given to an insane, unstoppable warrior found in an obscure legend in many time streams."
She paused. “Time streams?"

"Just a fancy phrase for different places,” Jape said.

"Oh.” She read further:
"The legend describes a warrior, sometimes possessing a magic weapon, who would appear on the eve of a particularly epic battle. He was said to be capable of defeating an army single-handed, and could not be killed by a mere mortal. In combat, the ‘Scrornuck’ is said to be indifferent to his own injuries and fights with superhuman speed and strength. In some variations of the legend, he undergoes physical changes, developing distorted features, and growing horns, claws, spikes and other bodily protrusions.
Ugh.” Nalia shuddered slightly as she looked at the picture that accompanied the description: a grotesque, half-human creature clutching an enormous, bloody axe. “Boy, I'd hate to meet one of these in a dark alley.” She looked at the picture, and then at Scrornuck, and then again at the picture. “You don't look much like that."

Scrornuck laughed. “No, I don't. I got the name from my great-grandfather."

"He was one of them?"

He shrugged. “I never met him. Maybe he was, or maybe he was named after somebody who was. Or maybe the whole thing's just a legend. My people have all kinds of stories, from the days when spirits lived in the trees, demons stalked the night, and great warriors went into battle against them. Good tales, full of truth, even if they didn't always happen."

Conversation suddenly ceased as the serving wench arrived and set an opulent platter of appetizers and sandwiches at the center of the table. “What a spread!” Scrornuck said. “What's a proper blessing for a feast like this?"

"How about, ‘Good Lord, I'm hungry, let's eat'?” Jape suggested.

"Sounds good to me.” Scrornuck raised one hand and intoned,
"Bone Domine, esurio, comedemus!"

"What's that mean?” Nalia asked.

"What Jape said—it just sounds churchier in Latin.” He reached for the biggest sandwich.

"Latin?"

"It's what people speak on the far side of the world,” Jape said. “Mister Saughblade knows quite a number of languages; he's got a gift for picking them up quickly."

"Matter of fact,” Scrornuck said, “my gift for tongues is what got me into my first big adventure. Want to hear a story?"

"Sure,” she said, reaching for an appetizer. “At the Temple they tell the same ones over and over until I'm moving my lips along with the priest. I'd love to hear something new!"

"Keep it short,” Jape said. “We still have a ways to go."

"One beer, no more,” Scrornuck promised. He closed his eyes and began the tale. “I was at that age where every farm boy gets the urge to pick up a sword and go off to become a hero, and I was no different. I dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing fair maidens and vanquishing the other clans in battle—heck, anything looked better than spending the rest of my life digging vegetables out of the mud. And one fine day, in that time of the year when the chill of winter finally looks like it's going to let go, a day when the fog lifted and the sun came out and made everything look bright and new, a stranger came to town."

The stranger who stood at the middle of a small crowd in the square was shorter by several inches than most of the men of Scrornuck's village. His hair and beard were long and silvery gray, and he wore a long, gray robe with a hood that left his face in shadow. He waited patiently, hands folded, and on his fingers he wore rings of many colors.

From time to time the stranger spoke, in a guttural, terse language unknown to the villagers, and that was the reason for the Elder's summons. While the churchmen still argued whether Scrornuck's ability to pick up new tongues was a divine Gift or a demonic Curse, all agreed it was useful.

Scrornuck stared at the stranger. The stranger stared back, his eyes a deep, deep blue, like the summer sky or the bottomless springs over the hills to the west. The stranger's words were not entirely gibberish—Scrornuck had heard something resembling this tongue before, and while his Gift was not as magical as some in the village believed, he was a very fast learner of new languages. The stranger's speech seemed to combine a little of the tongue spoken by the islanders to the east with the guttural language of the tribes on the continent and the formal language of the high churchmen. Yet it was different, as though these parts had been stirred together and allowed to ferment for a long time.

"This will take a while,” he said, gesturing to the stranger that they should retire to the ale-house for conversation and beverages—at the Elder's expense, of course.

By the time Scrornuck and the stranger truly understood each other, the moon was up and the crowd outside the ale-house was getting impatient. Listing slightly under the influence of several draughts each, they walked into the street, where the stranger spoke and Scrornuck translated.

"In my land I am known as a Sword-master,” the stranger said. “Observe.” He drew from his belt a long, slender, gently curving silver blade. A murmur passed through the crowd; the villagers’ heavy, straight iron blades looked crude and cumbersome beside this weapon. “A demonstration.” The stranger swung the blade casually, cutting through a wooden stake the thickness of a man's leg. The crowd gasped and took a step back.