Free The Last Protector by Daniel C. Starr Page A

sword at your neck. Do we have a deal?"
    "I swing first,” Scrornuck said. He knew the legends about strange visitors and beheading games, and had no intention of getting caught in a sucker-bet.
    The Knight nodded and knelt. “Do we have a deal?"
    Scrornuck nodded agreement, drew his sword and removed the Knight's head with a single swing.
    "Yuck! You chopped his head off?” Despite the cheery firelight, Nalia's face looked more than a bit green.
    "Yeah. The Elder was really pissed about the mess."
    "But you killed him, just like that?"
    "Well, not exactly."
    Scrornuck's blood ran cold as the headless Knight stood, gracefully glided a few steps, picked up his head and set it back in place on his shoulders. Within a few seconds the blood had stopped flowing, within a few more seconds the eyes opened, and a few seconds after that the Knight spoke. “I believe it's my turn.” A sudden shock released Scrornuck's grip on his sword, and the weapon seemed to leap into the Knight's hand. “You will have no further need for this. Now kneel, Mister Saughblade."
    Taking a deep breath, hoping that those around him did not sense his fear, Scrornuck did as the Knight ordered. He recalled his father's words: “If you must get yourself killed, make sure you have a good reason.” He'd sure failed in that.
    The Knight whirled the sword over his head in a move that looked strangely familiar. “Trust me; you won't feel a thing. I'm very good at this. I will give you a few seconds to make peace with your deities."
    Scrornuck searched his memory for a good prayer, found one that was more or less acceptable, and spoke it quickly, in a cracking voice. A strangely calm corner of his mind wondered just what it would feel like to have his head cut off. Prayer finished, he waited for the answer.
    And he waited, and waited, and waited some more.
    Finally, the Knight's voice boomed across the throne room. “Arise, Mister Saughblade. You are a rash young man who needs to learn some lessons. I grant you a reprieve.” Grateful beyond words, Scrornuck got to his feet. The Knight stared down at him. “In six months, you and I shall return to this room, on the afternoon of the fall equinox. If, on that day, you have discovered the answer to the Great Riddle of Life, I shall spare you; if not, I shall collect on our bargain.” He gazed straight into Scrornuck's eyes as he said it again: “Understand this: you will be here, in this place, six months from today, and you shall give me your answer.” It was not a request, or even a command; it was a simple statement of fact.
    Scrornuck stood dumbly as the Knight gracefully left the hall. Then, suddenly, he realized that he had not the slightest idea what the Great Riddle of Life might be—or perhaps he had too many ideas, too many riddles. Which one did the Knight have in mind? He ran from the hall in hot pursuit, but by the time he reached the street, the Knight was nowhere to be seen. He ran up one dirt street, down another, seeing no sign of the visitor, and eventually found himself in the square, wondering what to do now.
    "Looking for something, Mister Saughblade?” The Master stood in a shadowy doorway, holding out the old iron sword that had belonged to Scrornuck's grandfather.
    A great wave of shame washed over Scrornuck. He had let the Master down so badly, even losing his wonderful silver sword. He stared at the ground, almost wishing the Knight hadn't given him a six-month reprieve.
    "Look at me, Mister Saughblade.” The Master didn't raise his voice, but Scrornuck nonetheless found himself staring into those bottomless blue eyes. “A hero setting off on a Sacred Quest needs something better than a rusty piece of junk, does he not?” He held up the old sword. “Yes, you need something much better, for you have a long road to travel.” Setting down the iron weapon, he reached into his cloak and pulled out what looked like the handle to a magnificent sword—a red leather grip with a