The Last Praetorian (20 page)

However, Koth wouldn’t leave it alone. “What’s the matter gray mane? Too much bluff and not enough iron, I say!”

Tarion felt cold and dead. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t intimidated. He was simply tired of the games, the confrontation and the hidden possibilities.

“I’m talking to you, gray mane!”

“Don’t do it boy,” he said, but his voice was almost a whisper. The volcano was growing in his belly and he couldn’t stop it.

Koth’s hand closed on his shoulder.

Whatever it was that held Tarion’s temper in check snapped—again.

Tarion spun around, knocking the gyran’s hand from his shoulder and striking out with his right arm. The silver-capped stump hit Koth under his ribs. The gyran grunted in pain from the blow and swung his huge ham-fist at Tarion’s head. Tarion ducked under it and stepped to the gyran’s side. He’d fought giants of many clans before, so the gyran was like tackling an adolescent—hardly even an afterthought. He punched the gyran in the kidney—a very sensitive spot for their race. Koth winced. Fury took him and he instinctively reached for Tarion, seeking to
grapple the smaller man and bring his prodigious strength to bear. Tarion expected this.

Koth bent over and crouched. Tarion
ducked behind him and as Koth whirled it gave Tarion the opportunity he needed. Using the gyran’s momentum against him, Tarion grabbed the gyran’s belt and stomped his boot against Koth’s instep. The gyran tripped clumsily over Tarion’s foot as the small man threw him by his belt. Koth tumbled clumsily to the floor. Seething in rage, he sought to rise, but Tarion was on his back. He clutched Koth’s long black ponytail and drew his head back. Snick! The wrist blade sprang forth; its sharp edge pressed against the gyran’s neck. Koth froze.

“Where are your words now lad? Care to retract your lie, or would you have it known that you died by the weathered hand of a maimed wanderer?” He pulled the gyran’s head back even farther. “It’s up to you, Koth, but I advise you to choose carefully—something Gaurnothax did not! Your fate is your own, but not for long. What do you say, lad, why don’t I hear you speak?”

Koth cursed, and told him, “You had better kill me now; because once I get up I’ll cut off your privates for this! Then I’ll lash you to the prow of my ship and let the waves break you for a few days. When your whining bores me, I’ll bring you up and flay you alive!”

“Brave words for a coward with a knife at his throat,” Tarion said. He drew the blade away and got off Koth. Tarion thrust his way through the crowd, heading for the door.

“Coward!” Koth shouted, following at his heels.

Tarion needed to get out of the crowded tavern before anyone else got hurt. Putting his shoulder to the door, he burst through, nearly wrenching it off the hinges. He ran into the street, drawing his sword.

Koth was right behind him. The gyran leapt from the porch, his scimitar in both brawny hands. He brought it down in a whistling, killing blow. Tarion met the stroke by crossing his knife and sword. Steel clashed on iron, ringing in the air and sparks flew.

Tarion stopped Koth cold.

Locked in pure animal fury, the two combatants pushed and stamped like bulls. Around them, a crowd gathered. People yelled and screamed, made bets and watched with morbid fascination. The children were no strangers to the violence of the world and they joined in, the smaller ones climbing on their parent’s shoulders to get a better view of the fight.

Koth cursed in Tarion’s face, soiling him with a flurry of foul language and rotten breath. Tarion didn’t answer. The rising tide of anger enveloped him in a cold unfeeling cloak. With intimidating intent, he slowly shoved the hulking gyran down the street. Koth cursed as Tarion sent him stumbling back. The crowd parted, gasping at Tarion’s display of strength. Koth couldn’t believe it either
. He cursed at the wizardry that was obviously defeating him.

“Just you wait until I catch my breath gray mane; I’ll gut you with my bare hands!”

Tarion didn’t allow him to recover. He attacked the gyran, savagely swinging away in swift figure eights with the sword and stabbing with the knife. Koth parried desperately, but in a few moments, his arms and torso were awash in blood from numerous slashes. The gyran was overmatched and he knew it. He backed away until his heel caught the curb of the street and he tumbled into a snow bank dazed and bleeding.

Tarion crossed his sword and knife, pinning Koth’s neck between the blades. “Yield and this can end now. I banish you from Hrolf’s house! Give me your oath to never again trouble his daughter and you can leave with your life.” He looked the gyran in the eye. “You should know, Koth, Gaurnothax refused to yield when I gave him the choice. Don’t make that same mistake. What say you?”

Koth sighed and it seemed as if he was about to yield, but a great shudder ran through his huge body. He thrashed around as if fighting something within himself. Strange sounds came from his mouth. He began to slaver and champ. To Tarion’s horror, Koth’s eyes boiled and burst, revealing dull black orbs lit with red fire. The Gyran’s swarthy flesh split and a horny carapace pushed through. Horns sprang from his skull. The thing roared at Tarion and a green fog spewed forth, foul with the stench of decay. Tarion reeled back in disgust.

This new creature wore the tattered corpse of Koth like a tunic. It sprang at Tarion with speed beyond mortal muscles, slapping Tarion’s sword aside and striking him across the face. Tarion flew down the street landing hard on the cobblestones. By the time he rolled to his feet, it was upon him with Koth’s scimitar raised for a killing blow.

The blade wailed through the cold night air, but Tarion ducked beneath it and rolled forward onto his knee, swinging his sword into the thing’s side while he stabbed it in the belly with his wrist-blade. Green blood and entrails spewed onto the ground, but the thing only laughed—a horrible deep giddy sound. It grabbed Tarion by the hair and pulled him close, spitting foul burning fumes in his face.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, mortal,” it said in a strange unearthly voice. It laughed again and butted its horny forehead into Tarion’s temple.

Tarion fell back. His eyes watered with a sudden, blinding pain and he stumbled away, warding off the thing’s savage attacks more by feel than by sight. Back across the slippery uneven cobbles he retreated. Now he was on the defensive.

A flash of blue caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Tarion a sapphire globe roll by his feet. Loki! Was the sorcery the Devil-God’s doing? He risked a quick glance back, but the distraction cost him. The flat of the scimitar bounced on his skull. Stars flashed within his eyes.

The crowd gasped. Through blinking eyes, Tarion saw a shimmering black hole open in the wall. The monster locked with him and forced him toward it.

Tarion dropped to his knee in desperation, bracing his boots against the stone on either side of the portal. The thing loomed over him; it was only a question of whether it drove him through the hole or into the ground.

“Come to me!” said a voice behind him, lower than the deeps of the sea, deeper than the core of the world. It was the Destructor!

Horror gripped him. With the strength of final desperation, Tarion braced his left arm with the stump of his right and swung his right leg up. Bracing his left boot Tarion exploded into the monster, ramming it with his shoulder. The thing took a step back and Tarion followed it, savagely hacking away with all his might. It replied in kind. The crowd roared. The clash of their weapons was so loud the Norse covered their ears.

The monster backed slowly away, biding its time, wearing Tarion down. How was he to end the fight? He’d already dealt the thing a mortal blow.

“Koth is dead and this will not end until I’m slain or this thing is disarmed!”

There it was—the answer.

Tarion deflected several more attacks before he saw an opening. He feinted, batted the demon’s scimitar aside and turned with a backhanded strike at the left knee. The edge of the sword clove through bone and chitin and the demon staggered.

In one swift motion, Tarion slashed one of Koth’s hands off at the wrist. The scimitar clattered to the pavement with the hand still clutching the haft. Then he slashed the other hand off. Tarion stepped back to see the monster’s reaction, but the thing simply laughed, ignoring the hideous wounds. Claw-like hands burst from the stumps and the thing lurched on, reaching for him. Tarion stepped aside and struck the tattered, hideous head from its shoulders. The gory misshapen thing rolled down the cobblestones and off the quay, falling with a soft plop into the river.

The corpse stood there, headless, quivering.

Tarion slipped behind it. With a push from his boot, he sent it into the mystic hole. The edges flared in flame. There was the sound of rushing wind and the bloody body disappeared.

Loki! Where was he? Tarion scanned the crowd. The hawk-eyed Devil-God skulked behind Augga. Tarion leapt after him. People got out of his way as if Tarion were on fire. Loki tried to turn himself into a hawk but Tarion grabbed the feathered form with his free hand and held the wrist-blade at the bird’s throat. Loki promptly turned back into his mortal form. “Tell me, Loki, what is it that’s going to keep me from killing you this time?”

“Destiny!” smiled Loki with a shrug. “I’m still one of the Gods. You can’t forget that!”

“You can, it seems,” Tarion said, “but as for me, I’m just a short tempered Praetorian cursed by your master! I owe you nothing!”

He dragged Loki to the portal and threw him in.

Chapter 16:  The Destructor Takes Wing

Naugrathur watched with a mix of frustration and amusement as Tarion propelled Loki through the portal and face first into the gooey mess that was Koth. Loki tried to pick himself up from the grotesque corpse, but Naugrathur put the heel of his boot on the Trickster’s head and pushed it back into the jelly.

“You failed me, Loki and verily shall I judge you!” he growled, his voice colder than Navernya’s heart.

“Pray understand, Dread Lord, Tarion was stronger than I guessed,” Loki gasped, as the warm innards of his servant oozed into his nose and mouth. He spat out the goo, sputtering, “Balthazar, you are fouler in death than life!” He craned his lanky neck to see the Destructor. “Yet truly, my most gracious and understanding Dread Lord, Tarion is the most potent mortal in the world today. We cannot yet discount the possibility that he is possessed by the Wanderer even as his father was. If the Wanderer is lending Tarion his strength how can I expect to triumph when I am set against a foe so close in immensity to you?”

The Destructor’s mighty head tilted to one side, pleased with the logic of Loki’s excuse, but still of a mind to crush the
duke as an example to all. He admitted, “That is a fair explanation for my vanity—if only I had any. Still, there’s a grain of truth in your groveling.” He took his heel from Loki’s head and clasped his hands behind his back, looking down at the Trickster. “Can I trust you, Loki; you were one of the Gods—as you just reminded Tarion.”

“Dread Lord, if you would take note that I placed myself in considerable peril—an act of bravery quite alien to my character,” Loki said. “Take that as evidence of my devotion.”

“That is all that keeps you breathing, old friend,” Naugrathur said bitterly.

“And for that I stake my fortune,” Loki said.

“Don’t count on it too much, Loki,” Naugrathur said. “Perhaps your station is too lofty and a lesser role in my dominion is more appropriate—as jester perhaps.”

Loki raised a finger and opened his mouth to protest, but Naugrathur snapped the metal fingers of his right hand and the Trickster froze. Naugrathur paced the tower, round and round, for an hour. Loki lay silent on his grotesque couch.

The Destructor searched for a reason, any reason, not to make an example of him. Strangely, Navernya unwittingly came to his aide.

“Will you let him live now he’s failed you? He had every opportunity to succeed. Only his cowardice prevented our success!”

Naugrathur turned on her with an angry flash of his molten eyes, “Cowardice—do you think that facing Tarion in the mortal world can possibly be without peril?” Navernya shrank back and Naugrathur whipped his cloak around himself in frustration.

“Fools, all of you!” he told himself, but then he relented, reminding himself that only he truly understood. “Do not underestimate Tarion, mortal man though he is. The stock of that family is ancient—that is why the Wanderer trusts them so. The Wanderer saw himself as the Protector of the Gods, even as Thor was the Protector of Midgard. If the Wanderer lends Tarion his aid, as surely he will, then there are few who can vie with him. Remember this; I cursed Tarion not to die while the Imperium stands. That alone makes him palpably dangerous.”

“Why should the Gods need a protector with Thor at their beck and call?” Navernya asked.

“Because these Gods, ancient though they are, are children,” the Destructor told her. “They have their own petty jealousies and rivalries and it is impossible for them to grow beyond them—it is their weakness and the reason for their eventual downfall. There is only one amongst the Gods with the wisdom and fortitude to combat me—Tyr the Wanderer! He holds the reins of law in this world. While he lives my dominion is incomplete—thus our strife.”

Then he turned away and sighed, answering his own question. “I must tailor my expectations for my servants with this adversary in mind. Loki, you have particular talents as well as weaknesses. It is my task to ensure I use you properly and without undue risk. Such is true with all my servants—even my Queen.”

Loki sighed with relief and Naugrathur’s eyes turned to Navernya. She waited silently and he appreciated the effort—she had an immense hatred for Loki.

Navernya knelt before him.

“I embrace that tasking, its responsibilities and its penalties, my Dread Lord!” she said, bowing her icy head.

Naugrathur took her slender chin in his enormous iron hand and raised her back up. “I wonder,” he said and he paused. He doffed his hood, still holding her and allowed the flaming braids of his hair to fall over his mighty shoulders. “I wonder, Navernya, if it is I or the power I give you that feeds your loyalty and your passion?”

“Both,” she answered. “I am enthralled by your power and by you. What would you be without your power? It is your character, your nature and your perfection!”

“Belioch has power and that so near to mine own—if you ask him,” Naugrathur said smoothly. “Why not him, should I fall?”

“And take his bloated festering mass into my bed?” Navernya asked hotly. She placed her white hand on his steaming chest and said, “I could not hold passion for one with no aspirations and no strength; yet that is but half the riddle of passion in existence. It’s as true for the meanest peasant couple as it is for the Dread Lord and his devoted Queen.”

“That settles the riddle to my satisfaction,” Naugrathur said and his hand left her flesh as a caress. She shuddered and her breath hissed through sharp teeth, but the Destructor had no time for ardor. He withdrew and Navernya knew better than to press her desires upon him.

“What now my Dread Lord, I am ready to do your bidding.”

“As am I, my Dread Lord,” Loki bowed, brushing off the remains of his demon and moving next to Navernya in a temporary truce.

 
“That is enough of this game!” Naugrathur moved toward across the chamber. “This is my destiny; therefore, I shall see to it myself!” A deep gong rang in the tower. Naugrathur stood before an ornate niche in the wall next to his bed, within which hung his armor, shield and sword. “Attend me!” ordered the Destructor and the armor and weapons flew upon him of their own volition. Naugrathur sheathed his sword and retrieved a fantastic saddle of black leather and gold from its rack. Snapping his fingers again, he walked to the parapet.

A rush of air met his ears. Karkedon dove on the tower, pulling up at the last moment to hover before his only master. The warm air was fetid with his saurian wind.

Naugrathur threw the saddle onto Karkedon’s back. It clasped itself onto the dragon as a living thing. Karkedon grunted and growled as the bit forced itself into his mouth, but he said no word. He simply glowered at the Destructor. Naugrathur leapt the gulf and landed in the saddle.

He turned his glowing eyes to Navernya and Loki and said, “I give you leave to serve me as you will, my Queen and
duke. Thor will arrive in Trondheim soon and he no doubt means to take Tarion to Asgard for safekeeping; if Tarion escapes me, they will flee through Jotunheim. He must not make it to Asgard!”

 
Naugrathur kicked the dragon hard with his spurs and blood sprang from Karkedon’s flanks. With a roaring flash of flame, the dragon flew madly into the mountains leaving Durnen-Gul behind.

 
Karkedon was a wild ride. With Durnen-Gul behind them and the dragon in his element, the Destructor expected some rebellious mischief and he got it. Karkedon climbed, dove, rolled and bucked through the air, trying to throw his unwelcome rider.

“Do you still wish my service, Dread Lord? Beware! My pride is greater than my wish to live!”

“I shall see that for myself!” Naugrathur laughed, hauling on the reins, spurring the dragon’s bloody flanks and beating upon his shoulders with his iron hand as they careened through the mountains. Karkedon was so unmanageable that again and again they nearly crashed into the peaks.

“I shall rid myself of you or life!” the Karkedon said, as he went beyond strife to madness. The dragon, having failed to
unseat the Destructor, dove for the stones of the valley. From a calamitous height, he set his nose down and folded his wings. The ground rushed up and Naugrathur hauled back on the reins with all his might.