The Last Protector
Read The Last Protector Online
Authors: Daniel C. Starr
Twilight Times Books
twilighttimesbooks.com
Copyright ©
This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Daniel Starr
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Twilight Times Books
P O Box 3340
Kingsport, TN 37664
www.twilighttimesbooks.com/
Cover art by Kurt Ozinga
Electronically published in the United States of America
There is really only one appropriate dedication for a book that includes the line, “What do you mean, ‘we,’ Ranger?"
And so, this book is dedicated to Tonto, the faithful companion who never actually uttered that line ... but probably wanted to.
This book would probably not have been written, let alone actually published and offered for sale, without the help of:
My daughter Hannah, who kick-started the whole process eight years ago, by showing me a Japanese cartoon that made me say to myself, “I could write a better ending than that.” After spending a sleepless night doing just that, I found I had the climax of an entirely different story, which eventually became this book.
My wife Kim, who has put up with an Author in the House for seven years (so far). This, I think, qualifies her for automatic sainthood.
Vic Steerup, who contributed the title to Chapter 25, and co-wrote “The Waddling Song” and “Lucky Me, I Can Pee Again.” I think he was the first to notice the similarity between a certain fast-food franchise restaurant and a church—an observation that eventually turned into the Church of Spafu the Friendly Dragon.
Mark McCandless, who slogged his way through the enormous and undisciplined first draft of this book, patiently reminding me to focus.
John Unruh, who provided me with a ten-year-old Mac laptop on which a goodly portion of this book was written and revised. The computer's tiny, gray-scale screen had a dream-like quality that was just perfect for writing flashbacks.
Sue Petersen and Barb Ingersoll, who insisted that I think about the “relationship issues” in the story.
David Schmaltz, whose conviction that the world needs books like this kept me going through the long winters spent collecting rejection slips.
My three editors at TT Books: Dr. Bob Rich, Robina Williams and Leslie Holman-Anderson. Dr. Bob made the story much better, and kept me up late every night of my cross-country motorcycle vacation, by observing that of course the bad guys would tie up the good guy after taking him prisoner (oops). In addition to teaching me that the phrase “scantily clad serving wench” isn't hyphenated, Robina taught me a new word, “tussock.” It was the perfect word for the scene, and it's lots of fun to say (if you don't believe me, try saying it a few times). And thanks to Leslie, the book no longer ends with a long speech explaining why everything had to happen just the way it did.
Finally, an awful lot of the details in the story are Based On True Events that I saw or heard at one time or another. If you recognize yourself anywhere in this story and are pleased, then know that I probably based the scene on you, and accept my thanks. If you're not so happy, rest assured I was thinking of somebody else.
She wasn't wearing much: just a short, lace-trimmed leather skirt and bustier. The outfit exposed a lot of nicely tanned leg and midriff, and called even more attention to what little it covered. She was taller than the other girls serving drinks in Syb's Tavern, as tall as most of the men, and her serving tray often grazed the low ceiling as she wiped off tables, handed out beers and collected empty glasses. Long, dark brown hair swirled around her head as she slipped gracefully through the dense Saturday-night crowd, more dancing than walking.
At the other end of the pub, Scrornuck Saughblade sipped a pint of Heavy Duty Night Time Porter and watched the wench glide into the back room with a tray full of empties. Aside from the beer, she was the only bright spot in this otherwise dismal joint. Syb's was a place where the ceiling creaked ominously every time somebody in the upstairs brothel shifted position, a place where the lights were dim, not to create a romantic mood, but because the gas lamps had never been cleaned. He found the serving wench far more entertaining than the third-rate singer on the tiny stage, and when she stepped back into the bar carrying a tray of fresh drinks, he felt an almost irresistible urge to meet her.
So, it appeared, did the gentleman sitting at a table near the stage, a man far too well-dressed to be drinking in a dive like Syb's. He grabbed her wrist, nearly spilling her drink tray as he pulled her close and whispered something in her ear. It wasn't the right thing, for she jerked her arm away and smacked him, sending his drink flying and almost knocking him from his chair. For a moment, he rubbed his bright-red cheek as the server angrily pointed to the door. Then he sat up straight and snapped his fingers. Immediately, seven big thugs jumped up from an adjoining table and lunged for the serving girl. A large man in a ruffled Elizabethan shirt and tights threw a punch that sailed harmlessly through the space where she had been. She tripped him with a casual flick of her foot, sending him face-first into a chair. Another came at her from behind, only to have a sudden backward jab of her elbow knock out several of his teeth.
Scrornuck jumped to his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists, surprised and angry that not a soul in the place was moving to the girl's defense. He glanced briefly at his traveling companion Jape Phelps, who looked up from his longneck lager and nodded slightly. Taking the nod as a sign of approval, Scrornuck headed for the fight, elbowing his way between tables and knocking over more than a few drinks. He watched the serving girl with increasing admiration as she ducked and swerved, always staying just one move ahead of her opponents.
Shoving one last table and two drunken spectators aside, Scrornuck waded into the fray. One of the thugs pointed at his kilt and sneered, “Hey, cutie, what's under the dress?” The others joined in with a chorus of wolf-whistles.
"Your girlfriend's lipstick,” Scrornuck replied, decking the man with a single punch. Then he spun around and bloodied another's nose with a hard backhand.
Punches and kicks flew, along with beer mugs and random pieces of furniture, and in short order he found himself standing back-to-back with the girl, facing the last four of the gang. “I don't remember asking for help,” she called, easily ducking a punch and sending her opponent reeling with a knee to the belly.
"Where I come from, you wouldn't have to.” Scrornuck flattened another thug with a hard right to the jaw. “Besides, I wanted to meet you."
"You like to pick up women in bar fights?” She dodged to her left and shoulder-blocked another assailant into a post with enough force to shake dust off the ceiling beams and set the lanterns swinging.
"Sometimes.” Scrornuck pitched the final member of the gang over the top of the bar. As the crowd roared its approval, he dusted himself off and held out his hand. “Name's Scrornuck. Scrornuck Saugh—"
The girl ducked. An instant later a small dagger flew through the space where she'd been and bounced harmlessly off the red fabric armor protecting Scrornuck's chest. Another instant later, the well-dressed gentleman who'd started the melee cowered against the wall as a brilliant sword-point danced about his Adam's apple. “Wanna play, Pretty Boy?” Scrornuck asked, his voice just above a whisper. The man shook his head, unable to take his eyes off the short, glassy blade whose edges sparkled with a golden light. Scrornuck shifted his fingers slightly, and the sword seemed to shorten by an inch as it pulled back from Pretty Boy's throat. “I think you and your playmates should be going,” he said, tipping his head slightly in the direction of the exit. Pretty Boy nodded nervously, and slowly stooped to retrieve his dagger. Scrornuck's hands spun, and the sparkling-glass blade jumped downward, breaking the dagger in half with a sudden
clink-thunk.
He smiled and said, “You won't be needing that."
As Pretty Boy hustled his still-groggy gang out the door, Scrornuck slipped what now looked like a short hunting-knife into a sheath on his broad leather belt. He again held out his hand to the serving girl. “As I was saying, my name's Scrornuck, Scrornuck Saughblade."
"Scrornuck? Saughblade? Who needs more than one name?” With a shrug, she took his hand and gave him a firm handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Scrornuck Saughblade. I'm called Nalia. It's the only name I have."
"Pleased to meet you, Nalia.” He smiled his best smile, a sort of lopsided grin. “Care for a frosty one?"
"The boss said I could get fired for accepting drinks from the customers,” she said, glancing around at the wrecked furniture. Then, with a short sigh, she pulled the wipe rag from her belt and threw it in the general direction of the bar. “What the hell, this job's history. You buying?"
"I don't have a penny to my name,” Scrornuck said as he led Nalia to his table. “But my friend does."
"My name's Phelps, James Peter Phelps,” Scrornuck's companion said, standing and offering his hand to their new acquaintance. “People call me Jape."
"Three names? And then you go by a fourth?” Nalia laughed out loud as she shook his hand and took a seat. “Seems to me one name is enough for anybody."
"The history of my family is in these names,” Jape said. “James, my grandfather; Peter, the rich uncle who left us comfortably well off; Phelps, the family name; and ‘Jape’ from the initials J.P., because I never really liked James or Peter."
"So it's like the name of this joint,” she said, pointing to the sign behind the bar.
"Stuff Your Belly For A Small Copper Coin,
or ‘SYBFASCC,’ or just ‘Syb's’ for short."
He nodded. “So you see, my name makes perfect sense."
She accepted a glass of Middleweight Pale Ale from a passing server and laughed. “Actually, I think you're nuts. But as long as you're buying the beer, I'll pretend it makes sense!"
"It makes sense where I come from. Of course, we're not from around here."
"No shit, Sherlock!” she said. Jape arched one eyebrow, as if asking where
that
remark came from. Nalia, meanwhile, turned and pointed at Scrornuck. “You're just the tallest guy I've ever seen. What are you, six-four?"
"Six-six, actually."
"Uh-huh.” She gave him a detailed inspection, from the bandanna holding his long red hair out of his eyes to the elaborate boots beneath his kilt. “And look how you're dressed,” she continued. “No, you're not from around here.” She then took a closer look at Jape and chuckled. “Of course, you almost make up for it. You look about as dull as dishwater."