The Last Praetorian (14 page)

Chapter 11:  Trondheim

The giants rode at them. It was only a matter of moments. There was no way they’d make the city before the giants caught them. Tarion slid to a halt. He didn’t want to die on the run.

Tarion heard a thunk and another, greater whoosh!

From behind them, a ballista launched a huge javelin from the city walls. It hurtled into the mass of fur and bodies crammed into the giant’s chariot. There were screams and roars of anger as one giant fell out the back and another tumbled over the front rail. He fell into the harness of the bears and the chariot ran over him, turning over and spilling the remaining giant.

A volley of bolts from scorpions followed. Caught in the open as they were, the giants never had a chance. The men on the walls skewered the monsters in the space of a few seconds.

“Quick, let’s get inside before anyone else comes after you,” Hrolf exclaimed.

Tarion wasn’t about to argue.

They ran the rest of the way to the gates. The Norse kept the doors to the main gate shut, but the portcullis was up. A heavy door inside the court opened. A soldier in chain mail, furs and wearing a conical iron helmet with iron goggles held aloft a lantern.

“Get in here, quick!” he ordered.

They ducked inside the door; the soldier closed and barred it behind them.

They were in a small antechamber lit by the soldier’s lantern. The door to the chamber beyond was open and a welcoming golden light forced its way through three soldiers who stood at the door with swords unsheathed.

Tarion sheathed his sword and used the wall to reload the spring-operated wrist-blade.

Hrolf sheathed his sword as well, exclaiming, “Thanks for the rescue captain!” Breathing heavily and wiping the sweat from his smiling face, he beamed with exuberance. “I’ve been trying to
get home for a thousand years and now thanks to you and this man I’ve almost made it!”

“Where did you come from and what were you doing outside the walls at night?” the captain asked without any warmth in his voice.

Hrolf threw himself in a chair and took out his drinking horn. After a long swig, he wiped his beard with his sleeve, and answered, “We came from Roma through the Mage’s Gate,” he explained. “I’m Hrolf, owner of
the Charioteer
. This is Tarion, a Roman mercenary with family here. We withstood the siege and tried to make it back home. Alas, were-creatures waylaid us up in the pass. We were the only ones to escape the slaughter. We tried to make it to town, but Gaurnothax waylaid me every evening for the last thousand years. I spent every damn one of them in his belly until tonight! This time, Tarion was able to save me. Sorry, after all that I couldn’t make it before sundown!”

“What the blazes is this lunatic talking about, captain?” a young soldier said. “What’s this about a thousand years and a dragon’s belly?”

“Shut up,” the captain said and he looked hard at Hrolf. “I recognize you. I’ve been a patron of
the Charioteer
for many years. You say this man is a Roman mercenary; who is your family?”

Tarion answered in the Norse dialect, which he learned from his mother. “My mother was born of Trondheim, but was in Ostheim when it fell. My father already lies here. I’ve come back to find her and bring her back home.”

“I’m sorry about that,” the captain said sincerely. That was apparently enough for him to drop the subject. There wasn’t a single man in Norrland who hadn’t lost someone in the war. “All right, good luck finding your family. If you’re with Hrolf, that’s good enough for me.” The captain turned to address his men, but then he stopped, looking back at Hrolf with bright eyes. He took off his helmet and his blue eyes were wide with wonder. “Wait a moment, this is new; that means the curse is over. The Doldrums are ended.”

“I would say so,” Hrolf nodded, getting to his feet. He clapped his hand on Tarion’s shoulder and told the Captain, “I
think the ending of the Doldrums is a cause for celebration, don’t you? I’m going to take Tarion to
the Charioteer
. Why don’t you and your men join us; free rounds for one and all?”

“Thanks welcome back,” the captain smiled. He looked at Tarion with a glance that said he guessed more than he said. “It’s good to know Roma made it through the siege
; that there’s still an Imperium out there.”

“It is at that,” Tarion said politely.

The captain led them out through the inner gate and bid them good night, promising to collect on Hrolf’s offer of ale when his watch was over. The thick oak door closed behind them and Hrolf led Tarion into a wide square surrounded by timber and stone buildings.

The burly Norseman stopped
, and said, “I need a smoke, that’s what I need! I haven’t tasted tobacco for a thousand years! I wonder if it’s still fresh?” He laughed at his own jest and dug in his satchel for his pipe.

Tarion dug out his own pipe, a short stemmed gift from the old King of the Dwarves, rimmed in gold. It gleamed dully in the torchlight. Hrolf
lit a match and puffed away until a long blue cloud of smoke wreathed his head. He held the flame out for Tarion.

As Tarion puffed his tobacco to a red glow, Hrolf, i
n a gruff voice, barely above a whisper, said, “Who’d think that a pipe could taste so different between one day and the next? A thousand years of the same day after day after day, it wears on a man.”

“Believe me, I know what you mean,” Tarion sighed.

Hrolf started walking, slowing only to pat the enormous foot of a stone statue of Thor and his huge hammer. The innkeeper rubbed the matching amulet at his neck and muttered a short prayer. Turning to Tarion, he said, “It’s a pretty good likeness, or at least it used to be. Thor lost an arm and an eye at Vigrid twenty years ago,” he shuddered at the memory. “I was but a man of twenty without wife or child then. I really don’t know how I came through that day.” He puffed away at his pipe before glancing at Tarion. “I think in Roma you call him Mars.”

Tarion shook his head. “No, Thor dropped the persona of Mars, Anubis and the rest long ago.
All my life and my father’s he’s gone about as just Thor—the Thunderer suits his personality. Freya on the other hand loves haunting me in many different guises.” In answer to Hrolf’s glance, he shrugged. “My first ale was poured by Thor himself. Freya, well she’s had an interest in making me miserable for most of my life.”

Hrolf laughed, a cheery sound, bereft of the nervousness that being in the wild caused. “I never was so close to a Goddess that she knew me from any other man—I think I’ll keep it that way. Thor on the other hand is a regular patron
. He’s blessed my ale—you’ll be comfortably at home there.”

Tarion smiled, looking forward to the ale. He followed Hrolf across the square and onto a broad avenue. Lanterns lined the street, but whether for lack of fuel or gold only one in three burned. Deep shadows cloaked the streets. The houses were strange. The first floors had enormous doors and windows, but the second stories were a hodgepodge of normal sized windows and balconies stacked next to small apartments that looked like they housed children. Tarion commented on it.

Hrolf sighed and told him, “Actually, this is my favorite part of town, but it’s the newest. The refugees of Ostheim and the Northern Provinces settled here. The friendly giants built their homes on the first level, mortals and gnomish went up top and dwarves went down below.” He smiled, adding, “I know it’s a far cry from Roma, but this is the frontier. The civilized days of the Imperium are a distant memory.”

They walked beneath the arch of an inner wall. It had a guard shack, but no guard. The cobblestones echoed with their passage and then they were through, their boots crunching again in the snow. “Still, though Ostheim fell we were more fortunate than the other Duchy’s. Norrland had strength enough to hold onto its southern provinces with the elves of Haldieth and the dwarves of Narn Karn
-Xum. Alas, the northern fastness fell under the shadow of Jotunheim. The snow giants rule there now, but they can’t crack Trondheim—not yet.”

He pointed to the rising bulk of the castle, a huge black shadow on their right. Torches flickered from the windows in the
squat towers like watching eyes. Hrolf followed the outer wall to a wide street crowded by shops rising three and sometimes four stories high. Oil lamps hung from wooden posts, but they weren’t ordinary lamps. They flickered in many different colors. Some of them cast their flames in shapes that advertised the shops behind them, like a blue, bubbling potion bottle, an open book or an upside-down broomstick with the straw on fire.

“This is Magi Row,” Hrolf explained. “You’ll find every imaginable magic shop and such here. I’ve used their services more than once. My daughter has a touch of the arts—so they tell me. The academy is over there around the old keep.” He pointed to a great square tower rising from a haphazard jumble of buildings and small towers. “It’s a better place for her than the common room of a tavern, if I can ever talk her into it. Her Mother just wants her married and she, well, she’s just stubborn. She gets that from me, I suppose.”

An old woman opened her shop door and emptied a bucket into the gutter. She glanced darkly at Hrolf and Tarion.

“Hrolf! By the Gods what are you doing here; you are not part of this day!”

“Good evening Dame Beath!”

Dame Beath’s protestation seemed to cause a stir in the neighborhood.

People wandered out of their shops, muttering between each other and shaking their heads. Some made strange signs or charms. A tall spare man in dark fur lined robes stepped up to Tarion. He lowered the head of his staff, rudely lifting his maimed hand with it. The crystal at its top glowed purple.

Tarion felt warmth from the stone, but nothing else.

“Do you mind?” Hrolf snapped.

The wizard smiled thinly, bowed and stepped aside. Then he whipped the staff between his legs, sat down and whoosh, he was off into the night sky.

“Strange folk these wizards and witches,” Hrolf said and he continued down the street as if the encounter was quite normal. At the end of the street, Hrolf stopped by a large shop. He sighed. “This was Alexandrus’s shop. It’s a damn shame. He was a good friend.” Hrolf glanced at Tarion. “We used to adventure together. We had dozens of forays—now, well, it just doesn’t bear thinking about quite yet.”

Hrolf turned away and started down the street but a low guttural exclamation stopped him. “Master Hrolf, is that you?”

They turned and saw the twiggy head of a green sylvan giant poking out one of the high windows. “Baer, what do you say, hello there!” Hrolf looked uncomfortable. Tarion guessed that the giant must not know Alexandrus’s fate, but to their joy, the giant smiled and informed them that his master was very much alive.

“He’ll be happy to know you’re safe Master Hrolf.”

“Well, why don’t I come in and show him myself,” the innkeeper laughed.

“Best not,” the giant told him. “He got scratched up pretty bad by the werewolves, and sure enough, as soon as the sun went down he started growing hair between his toes and howling. It was a sight! I got him locked up down in the cellar. My-oh-my, he’s going to be mad tomorrow. By the sound of it, he’s smashed up all his good wine. You know how he likes his wine.”

Hrolf chuckled. “Well, Baer you tell him I’m still alive. Let me know if you need any help werewolf-wrangling.”

“Thanks,” Baer said, “but you know we can’t catch the sickness like little people do. He’s not a problem. Good night Master Hrolf
! Say hello to Furge and that pretty daughter of yours, Aubrey!”

“I will, good night Baer!” The window closed and Hrolf continued down the street, much happier now. Another block and they passed beneath the ramparts guarding the castle docks. The iron doors on either side were open and once again, there was no guard. Hrolf led Tarion up a short stair and back onto the main street. The castle wall and gate were to their right. Across the wide cobblestone street was a tall broad beamed structure of timber and stone. A sign out front showed a golden chariot with Thor at the reins. Above him was the carved and gilded title,
The Charioteer
.

Putting his hand on Tarion’s shoulder, Hrolf said, “Welcome to my home, Tarion!”

Tarion followed Hrolf up the stairs. The Norseman led way into a noisy lobby filled with the golden light of many lanterns. Patrons greeted the innkeeper with loud acclaim and Hrolf waved cheerily, basking in the warmth of their welcome. Tarion, for his part, felt strangely at home. He looked around with approval. He spent some of his youth in Ostheim, but never in his mother’s birthplace. His mother had always talked about the rustic ways of Norrland with nostalgia. Now he knew why. There was warmth, a basic human comfort here that the cold, ornate marble halls of Roma lacked. Something about the carved beams, tapestries, polished brass and friendly voices soothed his lonely spirit. It was the first comforting moment of his new life.

A handsome matron rushed through the crowd and greeted Hrolf with a kiss and a smack on the side of his unruly yellow tressed head. The innkeeper grabbed his wife brusquely and kissed her, laughing, “This is my wife, Augga!”

“So I am and shocked at that! Father, what do you mean coming home after dark with monsters and thieves about? Do you perhaps recall that you’re the only husband I have?”