The Last Praetorian (10 page)

“
I suppose I got cold feet!” Tarion replied with a bitter chuckle. He entered the makeshift shelter and sat down. “Little did I realize that my feet would be frozen instead!”

“So the Prophecy has come true; the Wanderer has returned,” Alexandrus muttered. After a long sigh he admitted, “As learned as I am, I was beginning to doubt.”

“Don’t stop doubting Alexandrus, he’s here but he needs finding,” Tarion informed him. “That’s why I’m here. The signs point to Trondheim; at least that’s what Freya says.”

Alexandrus’s expression hardened, and he said grimly,
“That may not be as easy as it sounds.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you are going to find him, you must first survive the night. That’s something none of us have done in the last age. In fact, we’ve only a few moments. As soon as the sun has gone below the limb of the sea it starts.”

“What starts,” Tarion asked
?

A chorus of howls broke the stillness of the night.

CHAPTER 5:  Cries in the Wilderness

“To arms, werewolves are upon us!” shouted Hrolf, rousing the men from their meals, “Use silver or magic if you have it; to arms!”

“You see,” Alexandrus said evenly. “There’s some deviltry about this, no doubt something foreseen by the Dread Lord!” He leaned forward and the carpet whisked out of the trees. “I think I should take you out of
this Praetorian; we’re expendable, but you must survive!”

Tarion unlatched his wrist-blade. Glancing darkly at the wizard, he told Alexandrus, “I’ll see you in Hell before I abandon a battle!”

“Stubborn, just like father! Call if you need aid; I will do what I can! Remember, this trap is set for you! The Destructor baited you; he’s had this set for an age! Good luck Praetorian, but remember, you at least must survive!” Alexandrus flew higher into the air, heading in the direction of the howls.

 
 Tarion stared after the wizard, but he had no time to dissect his words or meaning. The howling grew louder. He trotted toward the gathering Norse. He knew the were-people well, or the lycans, as they knew them in the west. They became a terrible scourge after the battle of Vigrid. It all had to do with Luna, the Moon. Throughout all of history, the lycans turned into their bestial forms during the full moon. They lived relatively normal lives excepting that terrible time of month and Tarion even had a few friends with the affliction. That all changed after Vigrid. When Thor struck the Destructor with his hammer, Luna shattered and gathered around the globe in glowing rings. Now, every night filled with the silver light of the Luna’s rings, the Godsbridge folk called it. Though beautiful, it meant that every night became a nightmare for the lycans and their prey.

The mastodon rider, Hrolf led the company to the crest of the knoll. It wasn't much of a defense, but the slope protected them somewhat and behind was a precipice. He directed the Norseman to form a semi-circle just beneath the crest.

A tinge of admiration coursed through Tarion’s heart. Were-creatures were rare in the North Country and the Norsemen weren't ready for such an attack, but there was no sense of panic. Like the hardened veterans they were, the warriors sorted themselves out for the onslaught. Those with silver gilt weapons or charmed metal rushed to form the line. Those without such weapons rooted through their packs for anything made of silver: combs, picks, knives, even bags of silver coins. Unfortunately, there was little time for preparation. Even as Tarion planted himself in the shield wall, shaggy shapes with glowing red eyes loped out of the darkness.

H
undreds of werewolves ran across the snow in a mangy black wave of glistening fangs, claws and fur. It was astonishing, even to Tarion who had experience with these creatures. Lycans were solitary hunters! They never congregated in numbers unless it was a family or a mated pair. Something or someone of extraordinary power and evil was behind this, but who and why?

 
 “Stand fast! The legions of Hell are upon us!” Hrolf cried.

 
 The Norse roared in answer, letting loose their battle cries, taunting and cursing the monsters, building their own courage for the defense, working themselves into a frenzy of bestiality to match the terrors approaching them. Tarion felt the familiar comfort of ice-cold clarity encompass him.

 
 A mangy tumult of red eyes and claws fell upon Tarion and the Norse. His wrist-blade shone in the night, piercing and ripping the hides, turning the raucous howls into piteous screams. Still, there were many more lycans than he’d ever fought before. They attacked like beasts with mindless ferocity and he was feeling pressed when something whooshed over his head. Alexandrus flew past on his carpet. Crackling lightning sprang from his wand. The wizard cast his magic on the cursed creatures, swooping over them, sending silver fire through the dark ranks.

The rest of the horde came on, adding to the lycans already pressing the Norse back. Swords and spears hacked and thrust at the slavering monsters. A score of lycans went down in that first wild moment of the melee and the Norse roared in triumph. Yet these weren't men. The following wave clutched at their shields,
ripping them out of the warrior's grasp with demonic strength. Monsters poured through the holes, rending and tearing. Other monsters leapt clear over the men, running wild amongst the Norse without charmed weapons, or turning and rending the ranks from behind. Gaps formed and the line wavered. The Norse retreated into knots of resistance, fighting back to back, desperately trying to stay alive.

 
Minutes went by, as long as hours. The line on either side of Tarion disintegrated. A pack of lycans surrounded him, but they’d never dealt with anything like him. Lycans were ferocious, but they fought like beasts. Tarion knew how to deal with them. He didn’t worry about killing blows. A slash of his silver edged wrist-blade on any part of a lycan burned them like fire. They swiftly forgot about all else, howling with their wounds, blind to his killing blows. He dispatched five lycans and found himself free of the monsters. Now he ran from one group of Norse to the next, attacking the lycans from behind, restoring the balance of the battle. He slew one werewolf after another, yet men were falling all around. At this rate, the two parties might annihilate each other—something had to be done.

 
“To me, all men who can follow,” he ordered, gathering the men around him. “Into ranks and follow me!” A group of twenty or so men gathered around Tarion, the largest cohesive group of men on the battlefield. Having witnessed his valor it was natural for them to obey. He formed them into a single line and started them at a trot. Down the hill was a knot of a dozen Norse. Twice that many lycans surrounded them, but Tarion and the Norse hit them with a shout, smashing the evil creatures between the anvil and the hammer. The werewolves couldn't withstand the attack. Several loped away, trailing black blood, but the rest succumbed and their evil spirits fled into the cold arctic night. The Norse roared in triumph, their hope renewed. Tarion added the men to his force and led them to the next batch of beleaguered men. In a few moments, he’d assembled fifty angry, eager, bloodthirsty warriors. He scanned the field and turned as a voice called his name. It was Alexandrus.

 
“Tarion, below by the cliffs, the body of lycans presses our men,” he cried, pointing toward the bottom of the. “If we hurry we can trap the lycans against the cliffs. Victory is in our grasp!”

 
Tarion knew the risk of leaving the protection of the high ground, but Alexandrus was right—this was an opportunity to finish this. “To the right; hurry!” The Norse turned awkwardly, but turn they did. The solid block of Norse ran down the slope toward their comrades. Tarion was in the center, shouting for the Norse to hold their line and for the ranks that followed to watch their flanks. There were several small pockets of fighting enroute to the cliffs. They hewed down the werewolves and picked up stragglers and survivors along the way. As they approached the failing men, Tarion called, “Hold fast; have hope!”

 
The werewolves ignored the approaching Norse. The two dozen or so were too intent on their blood lust to realize their danger. Tarion and the Norse crashed into the monsters with Alexandrus sending silver bolts of flame into them from above. The werewolves, however, did not lose heart at the turn of events, but turned even more bestial. With slavering fangs and iron hard claws, they tore mindlessly at the Norse. The ranks dissolved into a tangled mass of fur, fangs and iron. Shouts mixed with growls, screams with howls, yet slowly inexorably, the balance pitched in favor of the Norse.

“
We have them!” Alexandrus called as he felled a great werewolf chieftain with a forked torrent of flame. Yet as he reveled, a werewolf scrambled up the rock wall and leapt from the cliff. It latched onto the carpet, bearing it and Alexandrus down. The carpet flew in wild corkscrews as the werewolf grappled hand-to-hand with the wizard.

At that instant, a new sound assailed the Norse. It was lower than the werewolves’ growls, deeper and more powerful. A dozen huge shaggy shapes ambled over the crest of the knoll and towards the Norse at breakneck speed. “Werebears, this is an evil night!” Tarion breathed, but he had no time for trepidation. Alexandrus was in desperate straits.

Tarion was the wizard's only hope. In desperation, he slammed a lycan to the ground with his shoulder. Another lycan barred his way, its huge mouth agape in mid roar. Tarion punched his wrist-blade through the soft palate and into the bestial brain. Snatching a spear from the bloody snow, he vaulted onto a boulder. Every one of his senses focused on the werewolf engaged with Alexandrus. His sight sharpened, picking out the hollow between the shoulder blades, watching the muscles ripple beneath the hide as the monster tore into the wizard with claw and tooth. He had to think himself through his cast, using his left hand instead of the instinctive right, but Praetorians were proficient with either hand. He landed on the rock, setting his left foot, then his right and throwing his shoulder into the cast. Tarion let fly his spear. The heavy weapon sped through the air and buried itself in the werewolf's back even as the two combatants disappeared over the precipice and into the darkness.

Tarion never saw if the wizard recovered or not, nor did he have time to worry about it. Several monsters tackled him from behind, driving him to the snow. Teeth and claws slashed and bit at him, but his instinct to survive snapped Tarion's last link to rationality. His sight went red and he fought as viciously as the monsters. They threw him down and he landed on his back, the jaws of a werebear reaching for his head. He slashed with his wrist-blade, bringing the charmed edge against the thick throat. A fountain of blood gushed over him. The monster backed away, shaking its head and pawing at the wound. It began to weave drunkenly as more blood poured onto the snow. Finally, it rolled onto its side and died.

Tarion staggered to his feet and looked around.

Alas, it was too late, the battle turned.

The men of Norrland, hard-bitten soldiers, every one, were overwhelmed. The battle line disintegrated as the monsters attacked from all directions. They tore into the ragged groups of Norsemen, rending and slashing, leaving limbs and entrails smoking in the bloody snow. The remnants of the Norsemen were now outnumbered, broken and scattered.

The reality of defeat welled up in him, but then something tugged hard on his cloak. He whirled, bloody gauntlet raised to strike, but it was Hrolf pulling on his shoulder.

“Come on man! Leave it, before all is lost!”

Hrolf was right. The party was over-run. Only a few men remained, fleeing down the slopes with werewolves and werebears on their heels. The victors were already feeding on the victims. Tarion and Hrolf were lost in the carnage. Hrolf's mastodon was trumpeting in fear, heading their way. He pulled Tarion toward the beast

“Grab on!”

Hrolf jumped, catching onto the long hair behind the mastodon's shoulder. Despite his bulk, the Norseman clambered up the side of the beast and pulled himself up by the saddle horn.

Tarion followed Hrolf's lead. He leapt as high as his legs could manage. Clutching onto the mastodon's long musky hair with his single hand, he dangled on the hairy flank, bouncing around like a loose saddlebag.

Hrolf reached down, yelling, “Give me your arm!”

Tarion hauled himself up with his left arm and reached with his maimed right arm. Hrolf grabbed hold of his forearm and pulled. Tarion swung his left leg up, looking to hook it over the ridge of the mastodon's backbone, but a heavy weight struck him. Claws closed over his shoulders and fangs snapped at the nape of his neck. The mastodon screamed and reared. Tarion lost his grip and his arm slipped out of Hrolf's grasp.

 
“No!” cried the Norseman, but then he was gone in the darkness.

 
 Tarion landed atop the werewolf. The hot monster's breath escaped in a convulsive gasp, lathing his neck with blood and saliva. They rolled in the snow, punching, biting and strangling. Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath them and Tarion was falling through space, locked with the werewolf.

CHAPTER 6: Ghostly Whispers

Down he tumbled and somewhere along the way, the werewolf got lost in the cold and the dark. Tarion was an experienced mountaineer and he knew that to survive he must stop his slide. First, he steadied himself, spreading out his arms and legs. That accomplished he reached for his long elven knife. Taking it out, he stabbed sharply down at the snow, holding onto it for dear life. His slide began to slow and after what seemed an eternity he came to a stop.

Panting, his lungs aching with cold, he lay there. After a while, his breathing became regular and strength returned to his limbs. Then he grew cold. Forcing himself up, Tarion looked around. The Godsbridge gave him more than enough light to see that he stopped scarcely twenty yards above another precipice. The snowy slope gave way to blackness, but further on down, huddled between the darkness of the hills and the silver splashed sea was the light of a city.

“Trondheim,” Tarion breathed. “How do I get there?” To his left the bulge of the mountain continued as far as he could see. To his right was a rocky cliff forming a wall. It fell away toward the woods below, but the broken rock might offer a way to climb down. He staggered across the slope, mindful of the fall should he slip. He made it to the rock wall and followed it down. At first, it seemed a good idea. Yet a few hundred yards down he ran into the precipice. Still, luck didn’t wholly desert him, and to his surprise, he found a narrow path running down to his right. He stepped onto it and found relief from the teething wind. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was something. There wasn’t as much snow on the path and walking was easier. The track descended steadily, but at times narrowed to little more than a lip of slippery granite. Tarion shuffled across, the stump of his wrist scraping along the rock. After some time the path widened, leveled and then amazingly enough, he reached a set of steps. Even more surprising, some enterprising builder sheathed the steps in marble.

“Who would build a marble stair in this wilderness?” he asked aloud. Perhaps the way led to a temple, hermitage or outpost—something to give him shelter. There might even be a road down the mountain. Tarion went on eagerly. The steps were old, cracked and in some areas missing, but it was a welcome change from mountaineering. After three hundred yards, the stair came to a landing. Like the steps, thick marble pavers covered the granite of the mountain, but here they appeared to be in better shape. The steps continued down on the far side of the landing, but of more interest to Tarion was the rock wall to his right. Skilled hands carved the rock into the likeness of a huge spreading tree. At the base, between two thick roots was the entrance to a passage. Tarion studied the tree. It was obvious what it was, “Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology. There must be a temple within.”

He dug a small copper lantern out of his pouch. It was awkward lighting it with one hand, but he managed. Stepping inside the passage, he held the lantern up to the walls. The yellow light illuminated a fantastic marble-cloaked interior. Skilled hands carved scenes from the Norse mythologies on the walls and even the ceiling. Tarion knew the histories by heart; he’d met many of the players, such as Thor, Loki, Odin and of course Freya.

He started down the passage. After a few hundred yards it opened onto a wide circular court carved out of the mountains. Marble seats climbed row upon row around the court, so that many hundreds might gather there. Wide columns stood as if to hold a vast dome, but there was no roof other than the swift moving sky. Snow swirled within the court, but it was otherwise empty—except for a huddled shape in the very center.

Tarion approached it with a sense of dread. As he got closer, it began to get colder. Ice pellets clattered on the cracked marble. The wind moaned. Halfway across, he realized it was the huddled form of a man. He lay on his right side as if sleeping, covered by a frosty purple cloak. The man’s feet were closest to him. He wore black rider’s boots with greaves and spurs. The spurs spun in the wind, jingling ever so slightly. Tarion could see nothing else about the man other than the purple comb of his
helm and the bone white left hand peeking out from under the cloak.

Tarion stopped.

The silver-capped stump of the right hand stuck out from underneath the left arm.

He recognized it. Tarion took a deep breath and lifted the cloak.

The man wore a full helm and the visor hid his face. Tarion released the chinstrap and carefully lifted the helm off the head. A tangled mane of dark hair streaked with gray escaped into the wind. He brushed it aside. The frozen face was that of his father. The eyes were open, staring at him under knit brows.

They blinked.

Tarion started, leaping away in surprise and fright.

“Hello son,” his father said with creaking voice. He tried to rise, but his strength wasn’t equal to the task. Tarion overcame his fear with a rush of familial love and hurried to his side. Carefully he lifted his father to a sitting position. The elder smiled. “It is good to see you through eyes again, instead of through the glass of a spirit.”

“You’re alive father, against all hope!”

“Yes, just as you, the Destructor cursed me to live, if only for a moment in time, my son, only long enough to warn you.”

“Warn me,” Tarion echoed and his guilt rose up to choke him. “You’re here to warn me of my desertion, to return to my responsibility in Roma. I know father, I know.”

“No Tarion, your departure from Roma was ordained, it was necessary,” Tarius whispered. “There is no one else who can find the Wanderer and return him to his quest. Do not hold yourself accountable, rather you resisted the inevitable for an age and that is all to your sense of duty.” He patted Tarion on the shoulder, as he used to do, but then he sighed. “Help me up! I should not say such things as a dotard old man. Let me feel the weight of armor on my shoulders one last time.”

Tarion helped him up and the elder took a few tentative steps. The strength returned to his limbs and some color returned to his bleached skin. His eyes grew sharper and when he glanced at Tarion, it was as he had of old. “My time is exceedingly short. I will not survive the dawn. With that in mind, I have for you a warning, a gift, a request and a challenge before you.”

“I’m listening father, whatever it is you wish I will do!”

Tarius held up a finger and touched it to his son’s breast, “You are well able to take your own counsel; trust yourself, trust what your mind tells you over what others advise you!” He walked, motioning Tarion to walk with him. “Keep your wits about you. You’ve been the greatest hindrance to the Destructor’s dominion; he won’t forget that. Moreover, the Fates aren’t done with you. Once they find a tool that wears well they keep using it. I should know. Don’t think your part in this is over.”

“None of this should ever have come to pass,” Tarion told his father. “What about the Wanderer? I thought Alfrodel’s death released him from Limbo—where is he?”

Tarius shook his head and took a deep shuddering breath. “I was haunted by the Wanderer for years. He sent his thoughts to me from his prison in Limbo. He neither possessed me, nor cajoled me to any deed, yet he was there.” He took a deep shuddering breath and took Tarion’s arm. “The last time I felt the Wanderer was before you were born. I felt nothing of him until Alfrodel died. At that moment, I felt a spirit fly by me. I knew it was the Wanderer—he was free.” He looked at Tarion with a foreboding expression. “I expected him to face the Destructor right then and there—why else our sacrifice? He did not. I was left with an image, fleeting and confounding,” He stopped and leaned against the wall of the court. “I saw the Wanderer as a man hooded and cloaked in darkling gray. I saw no face, just the gleam of his eyes under the shadow of his hood. He stepped over the broken body of Alfrodel, coming straight to me, reaching for something at my belt. I froze in place, forgetting that the Destructor was but three paces from me, until I felt the fire of his eyes—he was staring at the Wanderer too. The Wanderer’s ghostly hand opened, but then it stopped in mid grasp.

“It’s not here!” he said breathlessly, to which the Destructor replied, “So ends your last hope, old shade. The world has no place for you now!”

“There is one place and you know it—even you cannot assail me there,” the Wanderer exclaimed. He rushed away, but before he left, I noted that he took a long hard look at you, my son!”

“What was he reaching for; what did he think you had father?”

“This was the culprit,” he said, taking out a diamond on a slight silvery chain. “Lady Freya bequeathed me this gift, purportedly to help me against the Dread Lord. It didn’t; but it means something in this mystery. Now I give this gift to you.” He handed it to Tarion

Tarius shook his head, saying, “The Wanderer was with me for many years, but I ask myself, to what end? What did it gain us? Perhaps
. I fear this, perhaps he has forsaken us. Perhaps he is no longer strong enough to face the Destructor.” Tarion’s father looked up. His eyes turned hard and angry, even as they had when he was a wayward boy. Tarion shuddered at the look. “Do not let this pass without an answer! Find him—somehow you must find him! Remind him of his duty; remind him of the price we’ve paid at his bidding. Tarion, do not let the Wanderer do this to me, to your mother and to you without answering for it!”

“Be assured, I’ll find him,” Tarion said, holding up the stone. “This will help
. When I find him I will demand a reckoning father!”

Tarius stopped and glanced up, sniffing the air. “I must be swift!” Tarius’s face softened. He laid a mortal hand on his son’s shoulder and said, “I have one last request. Take me back; take me back to the glade of
Gotthab where I met your mother. Rebuild the temple there. It will draw your mother’s spirit from the trees wherein she hides. Then, if you will, if you can forgive me, place my bones in the temple so that I may dwell with her for eternity.”

Tarion knelt before his father, trying to hide his tears and with difficulty, he said, “It will be done father.”

Tarius raised his son to his feet and wiped a tear from his eye. “You have become the greater of the two of us, but your trials are not over. The fame of your exploits is but the opening page to your tale. Gird yourself to your task. The Wanderer is the enemy of the Destructor, but you are the hope of our world.” He glanced at the lightening sky and then back at Tarion. “Now for the last, for my challenge to you; Tarion, my heart tells me all will come to naught if you lay aside your duty. You are the Praetorian and if the Imperium survives through these times it will be because of you!” A slight tinge of light tickled the eastern sky, causing an almost imperceptible salmon glow on the marble. Yet Tarius clutched his breast and winced in pain. “The dawn comes for me!”

He fell, but Tarion caught him, easing him to the pavement. “Tarion mind my words: you are the Praetorian. You are immortal so long as something of the Imperium stands, yet I do not foresee you leading the legions again unless the Imperium regains what it lost. Therefore, wander the world as a knight-errant, keep the flame of the Imperium alive but have a care when and where you reveal your true self! You are the Praetorian, but you must be more! Find the man within yourself and bring glory back to the world!”

He took a great ragged breath and gasped, “Goodbye my son. Take my medallion—do not lay it aside even to sleep—take my love with you. May The Creator bless you always!” His head fell to his armored chest and Tarius died.

Tarion held his father until the sun shown high and clear above the marble court. At last, he stirred, his tears long frozen onto his face. As his father requested, Tarion made ready to bring him down off the mountain. He laid his father in the Achaean shield, wrapping the elder Praetorian tightly in the purple cloak. All Tarion took for himself was the silver cap off his father’s wrist. He placed it over his own wound. The vambrace with the wrist-blade went on his right forearm. Now he could use his left arm to carry either broadsword or shield. Last, he took the purple and gold medallion from his father’s breast and secreted it beneath his tunic.

Tarion unwound the shield’s inner padding and used it to form a tether. Glancing down he noted the pained expression on his father’s face. Tarion knew it well. “Neither of us are at peace, father, but I swear to you that I will do as you ask.” He kissed his father’s cold brow and closed the visor. Throwing the tether over his shoulder, Tarion dragged his father across the court. “Come father, it’s a long way down and we should not tarry here.”

As if listening, the mountains became uncomfortably silent. Then as if from far away, he felt a tremor. It was in the stone first, but then it resounded in the air like a thousand drums and horns. Above him, the clouds smothered the sun. A wicked wind sprang up, lashing the court with snow and ice. Tarion stopped in amazement. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. His eyes snapped upward. A dark rotating cloud descended from the glooms, heading straight for the center of the court. Tarion headed for the mouth of the passage as fast as he could with his burden, but once there he stopped, frozen with fearful fascination.

The tornado touched down in the center of the court, depositing a massive shadow on the spot where Tarius once lay. The shadow took the form of a huge sable cloaked man-shape. The robes flew in the wind. A deep hood overshadowed the face, but two molten red eyes gleamed at him from the depths—the Destructor. The powerful voice assailed him.