The Last Protector (53 page)

No other memories came. Tired, sore, hungry and thirsty, he briefly wondered how Jape and Nalia were doing after their escape. Then he closed his eyes, sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed.

Cleo's leather shop had closed a couple hours ago, but the regulars hung around, swapping stories and enjoying some excellent Bavarian beer.

The conversation turned to earrings, which most of the bikers had. Scrornuck passed his battered but beautiful ring around. By the time it came back, the decision was made: this ring was too good to languish in his sporran—it must be worn.

Cleo produced a sharp tool, intended for attaching studs to saddlebags, and deftly punched a hole in Scrornuck's left earlobe. It was larger than needed and bled profusely, so he plugged the hole with the earring, blotted the blood with shop rags, and called for another pint as anesthesia.

Scrornuck awoke to a sound strangely like somebody setting down a six-pack. You wish, he thought, but as his eye roamed about the dim cell, he saw a nervous-looking guard setting a six-pack of Batatat's just inside the gate. The guard cautiously locked the gate, and disappeared into the darkness with an audible sigh of relief.

Blinking in disbelief, Scrornuck sat up. His head felt heavy, as if he were wearing some kind of helmet. He reached up and felt a sharp, bony structure, about eight inches high with fluted sides, rising from the top of his head. Great, just great, he thought, wondering what his body would sprout next. As if to answer, the skin of his shoulders itched fiendishly. He reached over his shoulder, finding a pair of swollen pods, about an inch thick and squirming as if something were about to burst forth. Probably a set of spikes, he thought. He started to scratch, and suddenly yanked his arm back—his nails had grown into a set of wickedly sharp claws, and he'd almost ripped the pods open.

With a sigh, he looked at the six-pack. It could be poisoned, but if Draggott wanted him dead, he'd already had many opportunities. Jape says the microbots burn alcohol, he thought, so I'm not going to get drunk. And he was desperately thirsty. He popped the top off the first bottle, downed it before the head fully settled, and promptly opened a second.

By the fourth beer, his thirst was sufficiently quenched that he could sip and think. His body carried the dragon's strength-enhancing microbots, not the repair-and-improvement devices that had turned a warrior into an unkillable Beast. And when he awoke at Kurzitskogorsk-Seven, he'd left the Beast's contamination behind. “No body, no microbots,” Jape had said. Scrornuck had brought with him only his kilt, the stone hanging around his neck, and the ring in his left ear.

The earring?
Why had he dreamt about the sloppy ear-piercing? He took the gold ring from his ear and carefully inspected it, holding it up in the dim light, exploring its crevices with the razor-sharp tips of his claws, letting his dragon eyes search for tiny details.
There.
In a tiny groove by the piercing-stud, he saw a few particles of blood, hard and black, scorched, roasted and frozen all at once.

Opening a fifth beer, he pondered: the blood trapped in his earring must have been full of the Beast's microbots. Perhaps, exposure to space during the battle that killed his original body had weakened them, making them sleep until the dragon's devices invaded his body. In that case, he might not face the same fate as the Beast.

Holding to that hope, he put the ring back in his ear and tried to get comfortable on the too-short wooden bench. In minutes, he faced the consequences of drinking five beers—his bladder was ready to explode. His cell contained no facilities, not even a chamber-pot—just piles of the plastic breastplates and helmets worn by the Captain and her troops. He picked up a helmet, and a wicked grin slowly spread across his face. A few minutes later, feeling much, much better, he lay down on the bench, read a few reassuring psalms from his prayer book, and fell into a deep and wonderful sleep.

"What are you today, demon?” the Captain muttered as she led her guards to Scrornuck's cell.

"Come closer, my pretty,” he hissed, “and you'll find out.” She gasped as she flipped on the light, for the bony crown atop his head nearly brushed the ceiling, his arm-spikes were longer and sharper, and his limbs seemed little more than skin and bones—though his muscles moved beneath the skin like taut steel cables. “Do you like my nails?” He held up a hand tipped with wickedly sharp claws.

Several guards poked spears through the bars of the cell, forcing him back as the Captain unlocked the gate. “You can come peacefully,” she began.

"You know better than that,” he replied, and the battle was on. The guards stabbed him several times, and he laid open several arms and legs with his claws. Somebody knocked over the helmet he'd used as a chamber-pot, spilling its slippery, smelly contents across the floor. One guard attacked from behind, and Scrornuck skewered the hapless soldier on his arm-spikes—but as he did this, shoving the screaming guard against the bars of the cell, another soldier slid a rope between the bars and looped it around his throat. Two guards grabbed each end of the rope and pulled. Slowly, struggling for air, Scrornuck blacked out and slumped to the floor.

He awoke on his back, in a pool of stale urine, with a half-dozen spear points grazing his chest. Stout ropes encircled his wrists and ankles, each held by several guards. “Come, monster,” the Captain said. Prodded by the spears, Scrornuck got to his feet and followed. She drew the long ceremonial knife and ran her thumb along the edge. “Once Lord Draggott's finished with you, we have an appointment."

The Captain led Scrornuck to the domed room on the lower level of the central tower. Pulling heavily on the ropes, the guards forced him to his knees before a ratty old office chair. A wheezy, whiny voice greeted him. “Welcome to Darklord Castle—guest,” Lord Draggott said, rising from his makeshift throne.

In the light, Scrornuck saw that the warlord's imposing black robe-and-mask ensemble was in fact simply a rubberized black raincoat and a standard particle-and-pollen filter, the kind worn by outdoor laborers and people with severe allergies. Draggott sneezed, an odd and rather funny sound inside the mask, and Scrornuck chuckled sarcastically. “Hay fever acting up?"

"No more than usual, Mister Saughblade. We trust you are well-rested—our accommodations are rather plain, but we do what we can."

Scrornuck shrugged. “At least there was a pot to piss in."

"Yes there was, and you made my Captain quite angry by using it.” Draggott wheezed what might have been a laugh. “But that is between you and her. We have other business.” He pulled Ol’ Red from his robes, and waved the sword-handle around as if it had a blade. “We have been studying this weapon of yours...” Holding the grip in both hands, he furrowed his brow in concentration and eventually produced a short, bent blade which quickly disappeared. “So far, the results have been disappointing."

"I'd be happy to demonstrate,” Scrornuck offered.

"We suspect you would, but that would defeat our purpose. This weapon is special to us—as are you. Would you like to hazard a guess why?"

"You have a thing for redheads?"

Draggott laughed. His laugh turned into a wheeze, followed by a cough and a string of sneezes. For a moment he turned his back, and pulled an inhaler from his robe. After two gentle hisses, he stopped sneezing and turned back to face his captive. “You are a nuisance, Mister Saughblade, nothing more than a drunken lout who distracts your betters from serious business. And yet, you have made yourself remarkably inconvenient. For that reason alone you should have been quietly eliminated.” He slowly turned Ol’ Red over in his hands. “But you have given us cause to desire more for you than a quick, efficient end—you hurt us the first time we met, hurt us badly. Do you recognize us?” With a flourish, he removed his mask.

"Aw, shit,” Scrornuck said, staring into the warlord's eyes.

Tremmlowe, the oily information broker, stared back. “Are you surprised, Mister Saughblade?"

Scrornuck sighed. “I should've figured it out when I learned the bitch was working for both of you."

Brandishing her skinning-knife, the Captain took an angry step forward. Her master waved her back, saying, “Patience, servant—your time will come.” He turned back to Scrornuck. “Tell us: did your master not find it suspicious that Tremmlowe appeared from nowhere, knowing all about Lord Draggott, at exactly the moment he sought this information? Is the brilliant Ranger Phelps losing his touch?"

Scrornuck pulled against his bonds, wanting to tear the slimeball's face off. “I should've killed you when I had the chance,” he snarled.

The black-clad warlord smirked. “Life is full of missed opportunities, is it not? A bungled assassination, an ill-advised moment of mercy...” He paused to blow his nose and take a snort from his inhaler. “Do you recall your words from last Saturday morning?” He carefully squeezed Ol’ Red's grip and a short, bent blade emerged. “We are going to take you apart, starting with the painful bits and ending with the vital ones."

"Remember the other thing I said,” Scrornuck spat. “The next time I see your face, you won't live to see sundown."

"You are hardly in a position to act on that promise."

"It's a long time till sundown."

"It may not be as long as you think.” The eight guards pulled their ropes, bringing Scrornuck to his knees, and Draggott swung Ol’ Red in the general direction of his groin. The sword, however, twisted and swerved, missing by a fraction of an inch. Draggott swung a second time, and a third, cursing under his breath—and each time the fibersword refused to harm its true owner.

"Sure you don't want me to show you how it works?” Scrornuck jeered.

Spewing a torrent of curses in what sounded like German, Draggott slashed at random, accidentally slicing open a guard's hand. The injured soldier dropped her rope and screamed—and for a moment the others loosened their grip.

Scrornuck surged to his feet, dragging the remaining guards, and went for Draggott's throat. Dropping the sword, the warlord raised his hands to his neck. Scrornuck struggled forward, snarling and struggling to bite. The remaining guards yanked on the ropes, hard. Draggott ducked as Scrornuck's teeth snapped inches from his throat. The wounded guard threw herself against Scrornuck's chest, sending him sprawling.

"Lose something?” Scrornuck growled, raising his head to sneer at the warlord's bloody left hand. With a wicked grin, he spat out two severed fingers.

Draggott calmly picked up Ol’ Red with his right hand as two servants hastily bandaged his left. “Pity that your sword declines to help. Oh, well, some things are best done the old-fashioned way.” A guard took this as a cue to kick Scrornuck in the stomach, hard. “A mere kick will have little effect on such a creature,” Draggott said, tucking the sword into his robe. He picked up a wooden club. “Harming this beast requires something more substantial.” Scrornuck heard the sickening crack of ribs breaking as Draggott brought the club down on his chest.

As his captive lay on the floor, gasping, Draggott returned to his throne. “Many people have scores to settle with you,” he said, gesturing to the Captain. “It appears a line is forming.” For the next several minutes the Captain, the Guards, and the Servants of Spafu gave Scrornuck a thorough beating. In time Draggott joined them, kicking him in the belly and then in the back.

Above the thudding of punches and the pounding of his heart, Scrornuck heard the warlord singing, softly:

Well, we know life's not easy, and we know life's not fair

'Cause the whole world deserves this, but the whole world's not there

A detached corner of Scrornuck's mind puzzled at the song. He knew this song. He'd even performed it—but not in Taupeaquaah, not in this world. Where had Draggott heard it?

Don't look for a moral, there's nothing to learn.

Nothing more than bad luck says today it's your turn.

Draggott delivered a hard kick that sent Scrornuck tumbling off the elevated stage, down the stairs to the main floor. Still the warlord sang:

And I just want to hurt you like the world has hurt me.

If you knew my sad story, you'd surely agree

That the whole world should suffer for what I've been through,

But the whole world's not here, so it all has to come down on you.

Then there was only silence, and darkness.

A hard punch to the belly brought Scrornuck back to consciousness, and he instinctively spat out something red and disgusting—right into the Captain's face. She pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the stuff off, and punched him again. “Soon,” she muttered, resting her hand on the grip of the big, ceremonial knife hanging from her belt.

He found he was standing, after a fashion, tied to a wooden stake at the corner of the crude scaffold atop Darklord Castle's central tower. His wrists were bound together behind the stake, and a stout rope encircled his ankles. To his left, Draggott sat in a ratty office chair, snacking from a bowl of orange-colored cheese-puffs. The bloated obscenity of the Orb, now more than thirty feet across, covered most of the platform. Tiny violet tendrils sprang from its surface, sizzling with a hostile electricity, while the liquid inside churned madly. Ripples raced across the Orb's surface as currents welled up from within, carrying countless tiny bits of black ribbon. Occasional flashes of blue-white silhouetted the dark, sinuous shape of the shark, hungrily circling at the center of the Orb.

To his surprise, beyond hunger and thirst he felt fairly good. The injuries he'd received from Draggott and his followers had already healed. Looking down, he saw a new pair of spikes protruding from his legs, pointed down, rooted between the top of his boots and the tattered hem of his kilt. The microbots, it appeared, had been busy. What am I turning into, he wondered again, uneasily.

"Behold!” Draggott announced, standing and pointing to the east, past the gloom surrounding the Orb and toward the sun-drenched desert. “The cast approaches!” Scrornuck craned his neck to see, and made out a small puff of dust speeding across the dunes—a vehicle of some sort, with Jape and Nalia at the controls.