Read Online The Last Protector by Daniel C. Starr - Free Book Online Page B

moment he savored the rush of wind and the feeling of weightlessness. As the ground came up to meet them, he gripped her more tightly, bent his knees just a bit, and forced his legs to relax and let the boots do the work. The landing was perfect: his toes touched the ground first, followed by his heels, and then his knees bent until he came to rest in a near-squatting position. The boots sang as they soaked up the force of the landing, making a sound rather like somebody sliding a finger down the string of an electric guitar. As he stood up straight, the tops of the boots gently released his upper legs and rolled back down below his knees.
    "I thought I was supposed to count to three,” Nalia protested as he gently set her down. “I never even got to two!"
    "Well, I said it was a leap of faith."
* * * *
    Scrornuck had opened his share of beers—bottles, cans, barrels, kegs, buckets—but he'd never opened a beer container as perfect as a bottle of Batatat's Extra Black Taupeaquaahn Stout. It was the shape of a classic pint glass, topped with a large white cap that was neither a twist-off nor a pull-tab—instead, when he flipped the cap's little raised spot with his thumb, it leaped from the bottle, did a graceful somersault and disappeared into a fine white dust that drifted away on the breeze. With the cap gone, the bottle's contents, as tar-black as the name implied, suddenly frothed and foamed with a hissing and sizzling sound, churning to within a fraction of an inch of the bottle's top, never quite foaming over. As the beer frothed, it became cold, reaching the perfect temperature of forty-two degrees as it separated into body and head, the black liquid streaming downward as the tan foam rose, until after about half a minute he held a perfect pint. It was a wonderful show, and the beer itself was as good as anything he remembered from his last visit to Dublin. Maybe, he thought as he stretched out on his plaid blanket and sipped, it really doesn't get any better than this. He gazed up into a sky that was almost as black as the beer, trying to count the stars as he watched the dragons swooping and circling high overhead.
    Dinner had been most satisfying, making him loosen his belt a notch. Jape retired to his tent immediately after dinner, but the softscroll's dim glow made it clear he was still awake. Nalia sat comfortably on a spare log, sipping from the wineskin and watching the fire burn down. Scrornuck found himself taking a real liking to her. Not only was she easy on the eye, but he liked her attitude, even if she did make him feel like something of a fool now and then. Yeah, he thought, I could get to like this place, and I could get to like her. Wouldn't be hard at all.
    He took another sip and sighed a contented sigh. “Sky's beautiful tonight."
    "It's Sunday,” she said, as if that explained everything. It didn't, but he was too taken by the view to ask further questions. He looked up at the stars and moon shining in the clear black sky, and suddenly burst into a long, loud song.
    "What was that?" she asked as he finished.
    He realized that he'd shifted from the Common Tongue spoken by Jape and the Taupeaquaahns into the ancient language of his home land. “Sorry. I know so many languages that sometimes I forget which one I'm using. This was a sword song, something a warrior would sing. It just says things like I've got a really nice sword, I really like my sword, and so on."
    "Sounded better when I didn't know what it meant."
    "A lot of songs are like that."
    "Still, it seems right for you—that's some sword you have."
    "Yeah, Ol’ Red is something else.” He idly pulled the sword-grip from its sheath and gave it a gentle squeeze, making four feet of wickedly-curved blade appear. The sword was a liquid thing, at once transparent and luminous, its edges shimmering and sparkling in shades of gold, silver and blue, its point a brilliant white. It changed shape as he shifted his fingers, becoming long,