The Last Protector (6 page)

"Watch and learn.” The stranger swung the beautiful sword over his head, in front and behind him, spinning, whirling, coming so close to the tip of Scrornuck's nose that he could feel the wind of its passing. As he whirled and swung, the stranger spoke, giving names to the moves he made: “Eviscerator. Kidney pie.” One that swung within a hair's breadth of Scrornuck's groin: “Soprano.” After a minute or so he brought the weapon to a stop an inch from Scrornuck's nose and bowed slightly. Scrornuck bowed in return, happy he wasn't a soprano for real.

The stranger sheathed his sword. “I have been told your village is under attack."

Scrornuck nodded as he translated. In the last month there had been three raids by barbarians from the east. “Have you come to protect us?” he asked.

The stranger shook his head. “It is better that you protect yourselves, for I will be with you only a short time. Tell your leader to select the four who are most skilled with the sword, and I will teach them."

At this, Scrornuck's heart sank, for he knew that he would not be included. For a moment he was tempted to mistranslate in a way that would allow him to study under the Master, but honesty compelled him to deliver the message unaltered. As soon as he had spoken, two men and two women stepped forward.

The stranger inspected his four pupils. “These are the most skillful? Good. Tell them to return here at sunrise tomorrow, with their weapons. As for you, Mister Saughblade, I assume you will stay on to translate?"

Scrornuck nodded enthusiastically. Of course he'd be the interpreter, if that gave him the chance to learn about swordplay.

"Then I will see you all in the morning.” To Scrornuck he added, “And bring your sword—I may need a bad example.” With that, he turned and walked briskly around the corner of the ale-house. Scrornuck hurried to follow, but when he rounded the corner the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

"No!” Scrornuck's father roared, throwing his son against the wall of the family's sod-and-fieldstone cottage. “You will spend tomorrow in the fields, where you belong!"

"But I'm just going to use my Gift..."

"And then what? You spend time with a Sword-Master, next thing you know you'll be off in a strange land, getting yourself killed. Listen to me; we are farmers and timber-cutters, not warriors!"

Scrornuck wiped a bit of blood from his nose. “Then why did you give me a warrior's name?"

"You know why.” The old man's voice fell to a sad whisper. “It belonged to my grandfather. I had barely learned to speak when he rode off to battle. He promised he would return, but only his sword came back. I will not lose my son that same way!"

Scrornuck thought about spending the rest of his life digging in the mud of the south fields, about the stranger's piercing blue eyes, about the raiders, who came more and more often, and he felt something calling. “I am going,” he said at last.

"You would disobey me?” Moving quickly, his father blocked the doorway. “Do you think you can?"

Scrornuck, realizing that the time had come, lowered his head and charged. His father caught him, threw him to one side, tackled him, and the match was on.

They fought through the night. Scrornuck was younger and stronger, his father more crafty and experienced, and when the first light of morning streaked the sky outside the cottage, the two men were on the dirt floor, covered in mud and blood, still wrestling, neither able to claim victory, neither willing to concede defeat.

"Will I have to kill you to make you obey?” Scrornuck's father grunted, wrapping his hands around his son's throat.

Scrornuck shoved a knee into his father's chest. “Will I have to kill you to make you let me go?"

"Would you do that?"

Scrornuck went limp. “No, I would not."

"Neither would I.” The old man released his grip and got slowly to his feet. “Clean yourself up. I will be back."

While Scrornuck dipped some water from the cistern and scrubbed off the worst of the fight's grime, his father disappeared into the dark, windowless storage room. A few minutes later he returned, carrying a dusty leather scabbard. He handed it to Scrornuck and said, “Know that I disapprove—but if you must do this, I will not let you leave without my blessing."

With something approaching reverence, Scrornuck fastened the scabbard to his belt and unsheathed the heavy iron sword. Its blade was almost three feet long, dirty and a little rusty, but still sharp.

"This belonged to my grandfather,” the old man said. “Your namesake. May your fortunes be better than his.” Fatherly concern crept into his voice. “Just promise me this, my son—if you must get yourself killed, make sure you do it for a good reason."

Scrornuck gave his father an enormous bear hug, and then ran all the way to the training session. To his disappointment, the Master was unimpressed with the family sword, calling it a piece of rusty junk. More disappointing, once he'd translated the morning's instructions, Scrornuck was banished to a spot near the stables, to do his training with a wooden stick and a collection of small children from the village. The Master had bribed the children, who needed no translator when sweets were involved, and they stood in a circle around Scrornuck, throwing stones and sticks as he, blindfolded, attempted to bat them down.

After three days of this, during which he had been bruised, cut and knocked down repeatedly, Scrornuck had had enough. As the children laughed and the Master's other students snickered, he tore off the blindfold and angrily demanded to know just what this had to do with sword fighting.

The Master stared at him with those piercing blue eyes. “Do you desire to replace me?” he asked softly. Scrornuck gulped and shook his head slowly. “Then I suggest that as long as I am the teacher and you are the student, you will do as I instruct. Do you trust me, Mister Saughblade?"

Scrornuck gulped again and nodded silently.

"Then let us get back to work.” With a sigh, Scrornuck put the blindfold back on and reached for the stick. As he did so, the Master jerked his feet from beneath him, sending him sprawling face-first into a fresh cow-pie.

"Eww,” Nalia said, making a face. “My dueling teacher would never do something like that."

"Maybe your teacher had a better student,” Jape suggested with a small grin.

"It's not my fault you could never teach me math..."

"Hey, you two,” Nalia interrupted. “I want to hear the rest of this story!"

"Good idea,” Scrornuck said. “The Master had been training us for a week. Then the Easterners raided our village and carried off a dozen people as slaves..."

"Your people kept slaves?” Nalia asked. “That's barbaric!"

"We didn't,” Scrornuck said. “Slavery is un-Christian. But these raiders from the east were slave-takers, and the Elder decided it was time to do something about them. The Master gathered his students, a few others who were good fighters, and me, and we set off in pursuit. We followed the raiders into their territory and set up camp that night, planning to attack them in the morning."

"Is something troubling you, Mister Saughblade?” the Master asked. He sat on a stone near the fire, seemingly undisturbed by the damp and cold of the night.

"No.” Scrornuck pulled the upper part of his plaid, already wrapped about his shoulders, over his head to form a sort of hood. He wished he were warmer.

The Master stirred the fire with a stick, sending sparks spiraling into the fog. “It is my business to notice when something distracts my students from the task at hand.” He looked Scrornuck in the eye. “Are you troubled that you are alone when others are not?"

Reluctantly, Scrornuck nodded. The other ten men and women of the village's small force had already paired off into couples and bedded down just beyond the light of the fire, leaving Scrornuck by himself. From time to time he heard sounds—snoring, grunts, the occasional giggle—and felt envy for those who were neither cold nor alone.

"It is difficult to be alone.” The Master's voice suggested he had spent many lonely nights himself. “But sometimes the best gifts are saved for such people.” Slowly, almost reverently, he held out the beautiful silver sword. “A hero needs something more than a piece of rusty junk. It is time for us to trade."

Astonished, Scrornuck hurriedly pulled the old iron sword from his belt, nearly dropping it as he handed it to the Master. He jumped to his feet and danced around the fire, waving the magnificent silver weapon over his head.

The Master looked on, a thin smile on his lips.

The morning dawned overcast and dreary. As the fog blew away, Scrornuck saw that many members of the eastern clan had arrived during the night, and the village's little army was now outnumbered at least three-to-one. Worse, the enemy had blocked the way back to the village. Scrornuck and his friends were surrounded.

As the sky brightened to a drab, lifeless gray, the raiders closed in from all sides, advancing slowly but purposefully. They were a fearsome sight—like Scrornuck's distant ancestors, they were naked but for a string around the neck, their bodies painted in grotesque red-and-blue designs.

"We're going to wind up as slaves,” one man said.

"If we're lucky,” another replied.

A third drew her sword, a determined look in her eyes. “They may take us, but they'll know they've been in a fight."

Scrornuck stared at the advancing enemy, wishing he'd spent more time practicing with a real sword instead of that stick, wishing he'd listened to his father's advice, wishing he were anywhere but here.

"Nervous, Mister Saughblade?” the Master asked softly.

Scrornuck nodded.

"You wanted to be a hero, did you not?” Smiling, the Master folded his hands together and let the sleeves of his robe slide down over them. “I believe your time has come."

Scrornuck drew the silver sword. Despite the thick clouds, the blade sparkled as if it had found its own private sunbeam. The warriors of Scrornuck's village stared, amazed that the Master had chosen the “bad example” to wield his magnificent weapon.

The Easterners paused as well, but only for a moment. Then the attack began, the barbarians screaming, jumping, slashing with their weapons as the defenders stood in a circle with the Master at its center. The villagers fought hard and well, taking down several of the raiders for each of them that fell. But the Easterners had too many men and fought with a suicidal zeal. Along with the woman next to him, Scrornuck was forced to take another step back, a little closer to the Master. One or two more steps, they'd be too close together to fight, and then it would be over, captured and sold into a life of slavery, if they weren't simply butchered like cattle.

"Stand close.” He heard the Master's voice from behind him and wondered what good that command would do now. Still, he obeyed and dropped back another step, to a point where he could do little to fight off the attackers as they swarmed forward.

A click. Not a clank of sword on sword, just a soft click, followed by a humming, like bees on a summer day. Instinctively, Scrornuck turned. The Master stood as before, his hands still clasped together inside the sleeves of his robe, looking for all the world as if nothing were the least bit wrong.

And as Scrornuck watched in horror, the barbarians attacked from behind the Master. Two of them hoisted a comrade by the feet and tossed him over the line of villagers. The raider shrieked a hideous banshee wail as he flew through the air, his axe heading for the Master's neck.

Scrornuck felt himself moving, not of his own will, leaping higher than he'd ever leaped before. His right hand shoved the Master down and out of harm's way. He felt nothing as the enemy's weapon opened a bloody gash in his right arm. His left hand raised the silvery sword, and its point, seemingly of its own volition, pierced the raider's heart in a spray of blood.

Gripping the sword with both hands, Scrornuck landed in the middle of the attackers. A howling, deeper and more primitive than the wails of the enemy, rose from his throat as he launched into a wild attack...

"You—you killed them?” Nalia, visibly pale, held a hand over her mouth.

"Yeah, I ripped ‘em up, down and sideways—” Scrornuck stopped suddenly as Jape kicked him under the table.

"Ixnay on the ood-blay,” Jape whispered, giving Scrornuck's ankle another kick for emphasis. He turned to Nalia. “Let's just say that he whipped the bad guys and went home a hero. Right, Mister Saughblade?"

"Uh, yeah, right.” Scrornuck wondered why Jape wanted him to skip the best part. “I fought like I'd never fought before, and in a few minutes I'd pretty much sent the other guys running for the hills.” Those that still had legs, he thought. “Then I heard the Master..."

"Well, Mister Saughblade, it appears we've won. How does it feel to be a hero?"

"Hero? Me?” Scrornuck stared at the dead and fleeing raiders. He had done that?

The next morning, the Master inspected his little army. “I believe you have passed the audition,” he said. “My work here is done."

"You're leaving?” Scrornuck, like the others, was still hung-over from the victory celebration.

The Master nodded. “There is nothing more I can teach you. Use your new skills wisely."

Scrornuck sighed, and then slowly held out the beautiful silver sword. “I suppose you'll want this back."

"No, this sword has chosen you, at least for the moment. Use it wisely, also.” With that, the Master turned, walked quickly around the end of the stable, and was gone. Scrornuck pursued him, but just as before, the Master was nowhere to be seen.

He returned slowly. His head throbbed but his heart leaped for joy as he felt the wonderful silver sword in his hand.