The Last Protector

Chapter One

"One Name Is Enough For Anybody"

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.