The Last Praetorian (33 page)

“Alas, my friends are completely gone then, soul and all,” the wizard lamented. “It’s bad enough to have the id sucked out of you, as there is no hope in restoration without a remnant of the life force, but the Idjar sell the souls of their victims to the Nine Hells. It’s a damnable business!” He shook his head, as if to clear it from the horror. “You’re not interested in that; however, so let’s get down to our own business. I’ll pay you three hundred gold pieces for the lot, though it pains my heart to pay for that which I sold at one time to friends and colleagues.”

“No gold for those items,” Tarion said. “I’ll not profit by someone you knew.”

“I don’t know that I could sell them again, actually,” he said, picking out two staffs and three wands and setting them on the counter tenderly. “I’ve lost friends before, but never like this.”

“Then give them to someone of worth who may have the heart and skill for the vocation, if not the gold,” Tarion advised.

“A just use for them,” the shopkeeper mused. “I teach at the academy. Yes, I think we can find some worthy keepers. Very well then, the rest are not as good quality, mind you, but worth seventy-five gold pieces for the lot.”

“Your original price will still give you a healthy profit, Alexandrus,” Tarion said.

The man laughed, glancing at his bird and said, “You speak the truth Tarion! Very well, I’ll stand by that.” He got out a bottle and two glasses and poured out a vibrant ruby drink. “Here’s to a profitable exchange for both of us!”

“To our vocations,” he said, sipping the drink slowly. It was strong, fruity and smooth. “Excellent,” he said, “this wine will guarantee my business again.”

“It’s elven wine, of course. I have it sent here from a friend. I never could stomach the Norse version of wine,” Alexandrus explained. Then he looked at Tarion with a sparkle in his eyes and said, “Tarion, you speak of vocations, out of curiosity, what is yours? The last time I checked, Praetorian’s don’t change professions.”

“I am in a unique position,” he admitted, not one to sit or stand still, he toured the shop with absent-minded care. “Quests don’t always take into account one’s profession; certainly the
God’s don’t give a damn what I want or what my duty is!” He emitted is signature strangled laugh and toasted Alexandrus. “Remember that when the station for the Imperial Incantator becomes available. My pull with Minerva is rather rocky right now but I’m certain my replacement will be wise enough to recommend you.”

“Your replacement?” Alexandrus inquired. He frowned and observed, “Even the Empress cannot replace the Praetorian!”

“Maybe not,” Tarion laughed, walking around the shop and looking at the wares, “but the Gods are intent on getting me killed, and quite frankly I’m at that point where the prospect has a certain merit to it!”

Alexandrus chuckled, “You’re proving rather difficult to kill Tarion! Yet be that as it may I don’t see Ankhura leaving any time soon!”

“He’s a damn fool and you know it as well as I,” Tarion said sharply. “He’s got too high an opinion of himself. Hunting vampires in the Aegyptus countryside does not qualify someone to be the Imperial Incantator. Just wait until he runs up against someone really nasty. Mark my words, the position will be open sooner than later!”

“
I’m still not certain why that would that concern me,” Alexandrus asked in surprise, but there was a cloud on his brow, as if Tarion was digging in the sand and struck the deeply buried desire he treasured.

The Praetorian laughed again and stared at Alexandrus under his knit brows. “Don’t think that hiding in a small shop in Trondheim will conceal the wizard who somehow raided the Imperial treasury and made off with, shall we say a singular talisman. It was small, archaic and easily overlooked but still quite important mind you.”

“And you think I may have had something to do with it,” Alexandrus asked gravely.

“You retired from the chair of the Imperial Academy shortly after the item in question disappeared,” Tarion smiled, sipping from Alexandrus’s wine. “That in itself was suspicious, but it is the manner in which the wizard in question covered his tracks that intrigued me, although the Imperial Incantator Ankhura
never saw the subtleties that pointed to such a talented and learned master of the arcane arts.”

“I didn’t know you were such a student of the arts,” Alexandrus said carefully, “Or that you were a sheriff.” Baer re-entered the room. “Is that why you’re here Praetorian, to arrest me?”

Tarion smiled and held out his goblet. Alexandrus refilled it. “Not at all, for what would it gain me. Indeed what justice would there be in that?” He sipped the wine again and his eyes grew sharp and hard. He held the wizard with his gaze. “Ankhura and I never saw eye to eye, but more important to me was my duty.” He went on his way through the shop, forcing Alexandrus to follow him. “You see, I am not the Praetorian of normal times. Look at me, travelling in secret without my legions, even truth to tell without the permission of the empress.”

He turned back to Alexandrus. “I am the Praetorian of necessity and if I have to skirt the edges of tradition and convention to maintain the existence of the Imperium, I will.” He pointed to Alexandrus with his remaining hand. “You returned from
self-imposed exile, endangering yourself, to construct the mystic defenses of Roma at our hour of need. Without you,” he shook his head, “well, let’s just say Ankhura’s skill does not rise to the level of his arrogance.”

Alexandrus laughed, and a portion of his unease disappeared, “We agree on that count!”

“Your service to Roma did not go overlooked Alexandrus; expect to be called back—not for an accounting, but because Roma needs you.” He paused to let that sink in. “Empress Minerva is young but she was schooled by Ancenar of Irevale for an age. He has the same lofty opinion of you that I do.”

“She is very young,” Alexandrus observed.

“Minerva is the most learned ruler ever to sit on the throne,” Tarion said seriously. “Her experience will catch up to her knowledge. When the position is vacant expect to be called back to service Alexandrus. Then, if necessary—and if I am still alive—I will come back to collect you if I must. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Praetorian,” Alexandrus replied.

“I have one question for you Alexandrus, why here, why Trondheim? Certainly your talents would be appreciated in Haldieth?”

“I have family here,” he said evenly. “I came because of them and ended up in the last defense of Ostheim,” he frowned. “I would prefer to forget that day. I lost; well we all lost someone or something that day. My sister Katherine is haunted even now; she was pursued by Navernya, so she took refuge in dragon form to escape the minions of that dread lady.”

“Really,” Tarion mused on the strange story of Hera Vora and the gaps in her family’s flight from the West. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I ran into a wondrous she-dragon the other day. She lives in an old castle only a few hours north of here.”

“Hera Vora, yes that is in actuality my sister Katherine, although she barely remembers that now. She was with our mother when Ostheim fell. Both were powerful druids, but Katherine survived by shape shifting into dragon form. Alas, there are times when spells take on the form of curses—this is one of those times.” He leaned over the counter, whispering to Tarion, “I need not ask the Praetorian to keep this secret. Queen Navernya has a long memory!”

“Not to worry,” Tarion said, “I understand what it’s like to have devils, demons and Destructor’s after you!”

“I imagine you would,” Alexandrus said. Then he motioned to the wares in his shop. “That is precisely why I opened this place. After the fall of Ostheim, I lost my keep in the north and my sister lost her lands. We sought refuge here, but adventuring
has lost its spice, so to speak, so I settled here where I could study and teach at the academy.”

“You deal with adventurers then?”

“Every day,” Alexandrus replied.

“You wouldn’t know where I could have Gaurnothax made into a brigandine, would you?” Tarion said as he inspected the weapons rack with Alexandrus in tow.

The wizard answered quickly. “Jor is the man you need. He’s a gifted man with weapons and armor. He wasn’t always a smith. Once he traveled like you or me, so he knows the practical side of it, not just the art. I would be happy to supply some protection spells to it, for an appropriate fee of course.”

“That is perfectly understandable, I will leave it to you—” he stopped quite suddenly, because a gold leaf frame caught his eye. A glass plate protected the stained yellow parchment within. The red ink showed like dim fire. The words were radiant, damning and prophetic.

“Ragnarok, the fall of the Gods and the end of the world was to occur long ago. Yet the God Tyr took the doom onto himself and adjourned the cataclysm. The world is old, older than it was meant to be by the Father. He is impatient and drives all toward conclusion. So shall the Gods return and Tyr as well, for he is Ragnarok. Alas, Tyr has fallen into shadow, yet a splinter of light remains in the spirit of the Enduring Knight that once he was. Together they are the Twain. The struggle of Tyr the eternal and Tyr the mortal will decide Ragnarok. The eternal shall know mortal suffering and the mortal shall be eternal until the culmination. Three ages shall be set for culmination: a sword age, a wolf age and a storm age. At its conclusion, each age shall host a contest for dominion. That contest will decide whether the world will fall into eternal dominion or mortal rebirth. That fate is for the Twain to decide. For Ragnarok is their destiny.”

It struck Tarion physically and involuntarily, he asked, “What is this?”

Alexandrus smiled, and told him, “This is the Tenet of Plutarch the Seer, the original! Do you see the stain of wine on the parchment? Well, almost two thousand years ago Plutarch penned this as a wedding present for the elves Ancenar and Davanis.”

“I know Ancenar,” Tarion said. “We are ancient, ancient friends.”

“Plutarch was one of the mortal guests and proclaimed this prophecy to any that would listen. He presented it to Ancenar, a lore master of such things, but King Alfrodel thought it outrageous to stain an elven wedding so. He poured wine over the prophecy in contempt. At that moment the Godstar fell and the Gods fled hither.”

Tarion closed his eyes, remembering the sting of the Alfrodel’s arrogant act
from the elves own memories. He smiled grimly and said, “For many years Alfrodel festered over that audience. But he never admitted its veracity until the last—when he too became a tool of prophecy, but not its instrument.”

“You are well versed in the tales of Ragnarok, Tarion. You have a rare grasp of history; it’s no wonder at the son of Tarius!”

“No, it is to be expected of such a far travelled adventurer and my husband,” said a female voice. Tarion turned in surprise and saw a tall flaxen haired woman of extremely pale complexion. While he wouldn’t call her beautiful, he could easily call her noble and above all haughty. She wore a cloak of bluish gray with richly embroidered silver gilt edging. A slim band of silver bound her hair. In its center was a blue stone of unusual brilliance. Tarion would have noticed her without any prodding because of her extraordinary appearance, but as she claimed to be married to him—Tarion of all people with his history of rejection—that made the encounter even more intriguing.

Then there was the revelation of Beath’s crystal ball; Rowena had something to do with the Horn of
Heimdall. That was enough for Tarion to hold his tongue and find out what this was about.

“Rowena, I didn’t know you were in Trondheim!” Alexandrus exclaimed, his eyes wide with alarm.

Tarion smiled thinly, she would expect him to be suspicious of any claim of marriage. “I’m sorry, but I think Lady Freya would have warned me about you,” he smiled thinly. “She’s interrupted all of my other engagements; I don’t think she would overlook you.”

“Oh, so it’s the Lady Freya story again?” she laughed. Her expression turned sad
. She shook her head. “My dear, don’t you realize how absurd it is to think that a Goddess would interfere with your nuptials? The next thing you know, you’ll be telling me you’re the Praetorian of Roma!” Her laugh grew louder.

Tarion dug into his tunic and glanced at his medallion. That made everything as clear as day to him. There it was, the
Praetorian seal, but there was a sheen covering the medallion that made it look quite different. It was as if someone placed a stained glass window in front of the statue hoping that a person might not notice the statue behind. Tarion was well versed in magic—especially how it could be used against him. He saw through the ruse, but he was now curious. Who was Rowena? Was the Destructor behind her or someone else? He sighed, muttering, “Now isn’t that strange; I thought for certain this was the Praetorian seal, but it’s . . .”

“It’s alright luv,” she said softly, laying a long fingered hand on his shoulder. There was a ring for every finger and bracelets on her wrist. She jingled when she moved. He glanced up at her in false confusion. Her eyes sparkled and Tarion could feel the words sink into his mind. “Have you had one of your spells again?”

“One of my spells; what do you mean?”

“It’s all right. Come home with me. You must be weary with adventure from all I’ve heard. I’ll make things right for you. Come home with me!”

She spoke the last phrase so firmly that her eyes sparkled again.