The Last Praetorian (4 page)

Johaan wasn’t so easily finished though. In answer to the disaster within the walls, a score of dragons flew out of the dark clouds, flames brimming on their lips. Sorcerers and demons, gahnogs of Und armed with cursed tridents, bloodthirsty bats the size of a man and other hideous creatures of the air flew to their comrade’s succor. The Praetorian was ready for them.

Scores of ballista and scorpions hidden atop buildings greeted them. Enormous projectiles pierced the dragon’s hides. Hand crafted barbs caught in their scales and doughty legionaries and benevolent giants hauled on cables, drawing the dragons down to their ruin under the hacking blades of the defenders. Arrows rose up into the dark skies with a howl, their silver edged blades slicing through demon-hide and flesh alike. The sky rained blood and monsters. 

A great shout went up. Within the gates and the avenue, half the Destructor’s host lay in a heap taller than a man’s head. Bodies choked the tunnel beneath the ramparts. “That will block the breach more effectively than gates,” Tarion told his adjutant, a sense of hope rekindled in his breast. “Prepare the legionary cavalry for a sortie beyond the walls. One good push and they’re done!”

The ground rumbled and shook. Tarion stopped and looked over his shoulder toward the gate. A sound grew from behind the walls. An unnatural darkness spread behind the gates. Men and elves abandoned the wall at the very moment of victory.

Tarion stood aghast. “No, it can’t be!”

The mounds of dead quivered and then slowly, as if some great force pushed from behind, a path cleared through the hideous mound. Two horned monsters appeared out of the carnage. Greater than any northern mammoth, the beasts shouldered their way through the grisly pile. Gems encrusted their horns and frills. Flames licked the air when they snorted. A fetid fog surrounded them. They dragged a fantastic chariot of black iron. Standing tall and terrible within the chariot was the burden of the world—the Destructor himself entered the Eternal City.

Tarion gazed at the enormity and terrible majesty of the Destructor for the third time in his life, yet the two times
previously, he had expected the confrontation. This time he stood dumbfounded. At the very brink of victory, defeat was now stealing life and future from him. How?—but then he noted the slight figure in gilded armor standing next to the colossus of the Destructor. Driving the chariot was Loki, the Trickster, the wayward brother of Thor. Tarion’s heart stopped in his throat.

“Traitor!” he gasped. Only two days past, Loki had assured him the Destructor would be absent from the field. Now the Trickster was in league with
him! It was the final stroke of doom.

“
Order all troops to fall back to the side streets. Do not contest the Destructor! Once he passes close off the entrance to the city! Stay together and stay alive; stay free as long as you can!”

“Praetorian where are you going?”

“To death!”

Tarion took the lance with the purple banner of the Praetorian Guard from his lieutenant. “Get to the
citadel with what remains of the Praetorian Guard. You will defend it to the last!”

“Praetorian!”

“Do it now, it is my last command!” The lieutenant saluted and turned his horse, issuing commands to the trumpeter. His guard left, galloping through the gap left by the departing Achaeans and auxiliaries.

Tarion waited on the Appian Way for the Destructor—alone.

CHAPTER 3: The
citadel

The Destructor stopped. A sea of dead separated them, but the Destructor lifted his hands. With slow, terrible resolve, he spread his arms wide. The mass of dead parted like the waves of a grisly ocean, opening a clear path to the imperial palace.

“Death take you!” Tarion called
. He lowered his visor. Tarion’s mount, a Friesian warhorse bred for slaughter, pawed the cobbles. The horse did not think of the Destructor or his beasts, only of the hundreds of campaigns he’d ridden with Tarion. He tossed his great head—ready for war. There was no need to spur the Friesian; a slight squeeze of the knees and the shifting of the Praetorian’s body forward was enough. The warhorse dug into the cobbles, and with a fierce cry, he bolted towards the Destructor.

Tarion gripped his shield, holding his lance at the ready, pennant flying. The beasts of the Destructor brayed as Loki urged them forward. Tossing their huge, horned heads they galloped at Tarion. The combatants closed at a frightening pace. Disaster was moments away. As fierce as Tarion and his mount might be to mortal enemies, they charged tons of muscle and horn. The beasts lowered their
heads, ready to skewer the pathetic knight. There was no stopping them.

At the last moment, Tarion leaned to the right, goading the heavy warhorse away from the horns. Instantly
, he leaned back left and lowered his fatal lance, aiming it at the breast of the Destructor. The Friesian hurtled forward. Tarion kept the lance true. The steel point sped past Loki’s shocked face, tearing the helm off his leering head, plunging the steel point into the very center of the Destructor’s breastplate. Tarion shoved it home.

The lance splintered as it struck the unbreakable armor. The shock hurtled Tarion from his saddle. He flew through the air, the stricken city tumbling through the slits of his visor. There was a loud crashing in his ears
. Tarion’s helmet scraped and rang on the pavement. Heavy blows shook his body and then everything went black.

 
Tarion awoke with a groan to something cold and wet on his cheek. He didn’t like it.

I’m dead; let me sleep.

The thought didn’t seem to work. Consciousness returned slowly, but whatever was spurring it on was insistent about it. The nuzzling of his cheek turned into a nudge and then a push, joined with a low rumbling cough. A dull roar grew in the background. The interruption to his eternal rest grew more adamant. Reluctantly he opened his eyes. Through the slits in his visor, he saw a large charcoal colored nose and four hooves. It was his horse.

Between the hooves, the ruined gates came slowly into focus
. From the wreck of the gates issued the host of the Destructor. That did the rest. To die by the Destructor’s hand was one thing, but he would not perish by this rabble of goblins and ogres!

 
Tarion got to his feet and painfully slung himself into the saddle. As soon as his master was on his back, the Friesian turned away from the gates and galloped off toward the citadel. The streets were empty. No one else dared the passage of the Destructor, so for the long mile to the citadel he galloped without sight of friend or foe. He could hear battles and melees in the city, but his mind was set. As he was still alive, one thing remained. He was the Praetorian and his ultimate duty was the defense of the Imperium and its emperor. After failing to slay the Destructor his duty was clear. If there was a place to die, it was in the citadel.

After winding through the seven sacred hills, Tarion approached the
citadel. The walls were intact, but the gates were open. Tarion rode into the court, but what he saw stopped him cold. He jumped from his mount and ran to his men, but it was too late. Within the court, not a single soul was alive. The Praetorian Guard, the First Swords of Irevale and Baruk’s Axemon Watch were dead to a man.

Seething with cold fury, Tarion drew his sword and stepped through the doors into the domed entry hall. His boots echoed in the chamber. It was empty and unmolested. The marble statues of the greatest
emperors and empresses of Roma’s long history gazed silently through the heavy air. Opposite the entry, behind a gilded door, was the hall within which the emperor conducted his business with the Senate, foreign dignitaries and the Gods. The doors were open. Tarion could hear the sobbing of women coming from the hall. Silently he crept to the door and peered through.

To his amazement, he saw the
emperor’s daughter, his former fiancée Minerva and her ladies-in-waiting manacled together with a golden chain. At their head, leading them toward a glowing portal was the lanky figure of none other than Loki.

Tarion glided behind the God and grabbed him by his narrow shoulder. Loki turned in surprise at his touch
. The Trickster’s eyes grew wide at the sight of him. The Praetorian punched the God with the iron gadlings of his gauntlet. Loki tumbled to the ground with a grunt of pain but before he could recover Tarion hauled him up by his collar and threw him against the wall.

Laying the
edge of his sword against the God’s neck, he growled, “Traitor! Have you anything to say before I avenge my men and send you to Hell where you belong?”

Loki
started, “Tarion, you’re still alive!” His surprise was obvious, but the Trickster’s brilliant, twisted mind instantly shifted to the attack. His tongue sharper than the sharpest poniard, Loki grinned and reminded Tarion, “You call me a traitor after what Emperor Diocletian has done to you? That, my friend is naiveté that surpasses even my brother Thor!”

“
Say no more, Loki, nothing comes out of your mouth but lies and deceit. Tell me where the Destructor is and what he plans to do; I’ll let Thor deal with you. If you don’t I swear to you I’ll take your head and mount it on top of the citadel for the world to see!”

“What and lose my
throne in Pandemonium? I think not!” Loki turned as sharp eye on Tarion. “This disaster was inevitable. You would be well advised to get something out of it as I did. If you are too dense to follow wisdom then by all means go and get yourself killed Praetorian! Do it by the Destructor’s hand, up in the tower. Leave me and my prizes; don’t awake my ire. My brother’s love will not save you this time. I won’t give you the noble death you deserve—your mortal blade cannot harm me!”

“Think again,” Tarion growled and
with one savage chop he hacked off Loki’s hand at the wrist. The hand and the chain clattered to the marble floor.

Lo
ki yelped in pain and surprise, but Tarion held him against the wall.

“The dwarf Brokk’s metal pierced your hide once before
. He forged my Praetorian brands! Do you want to dare the edge of his blade with something more important—like your head?” Tarion lifted the lanky God by his collar, holding the bloody blade against the Trickster’s throat. “Now speak! The Destructor’s here. You must help me get the emperor out of here before it’s too late!”

“Brokk!
Damn that dwarf; it’s blasphemy to forge a blade that can cut through a God’
s
hide—especially mine!”

“Loki!”

The Trickster’s wrath evaporated. As was often the case with Loki, the God was one step ahead of the conversation and seemed to take no notice of Tarion’s threats. He looked incredulously at the stump of his wrist, exclaiming, “Just like Tyr, just like your father Tarius! What the blazes is it about you people and chopping off hands?” Loki gnashed his teeth and swore.

“Enough Loki! Help me undo the evil you’ve made this day!” Tarion demanded.
The Trickster shrank back in fear as Tarion pressed the edge hard enough to cut the God’s skin.

“Now, now friend Tarion, let’s not be so hasty! Remember the adventures we’ve had, why it was
n’t me who led you to lose so many women!”

“Shut up Loki,” Tarion interrupted angrily. “At the moment, all I can recall are the oaths you broke!” He tore a set of keys from Loki’s belt and tossed them to Minerva. “Get to the docks; it’s your only hope!”

Minerva unlocked her ladies-in-waiting and sent them off, but she stayed, demanding, “I want to go to my father!”

“Minerva, I’ve got no time to argue,” Tarion said through clenched teeth, but
she screamed, staring at something around Loki’s feet.

Loki and Tarion looked down at whatever horrified the empress
. It was Loki’s severed hand.

“Oh it’s you,” the God
laughed as it climbed his leg like some sickening spider, leapt to his arm and settled back in place. Loki rubbed the red weal on his now intact wrist, unperturbed. Tarion quelled a sickening feeling in his stomach.

Minerva clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Enough of this, Loki, we must stop the Destructor,” Tarion snarled.

“
You’re joking—right?” Loki chuckled. “Since when has anyone but the Wanderer of Aesir stopped the Destructor at anything?”

“We’ll see!” Tarion shoved Loki toward the stair
to the tower. Crossing the entry hall, he said, “You’ve been scheming this for quite a while, haven’t you? Come on, you and I have business. If the Destructor comes to the tower of the citadel, he’ll be short one servant—a head short!” He stopped at the head of the stair, looking at Minerva. “I’m sorry about everything Minerva. This is not the way I’d have us part,” he said quickly with what empathy he had left. “Get to the docks if you still can. Take the ship north and then head east through the mountains, or hide yourself in your chambers to the end. Farewell Minerva, I must go.”

“I want to be with my father!” Minerva’s eyes welled with tears.

“Blast it, I don’t have time for this!” Tarion cursed. “You must escape while you still can!”

There was nothing for it. Minerva was stubborn
; she would not leave. Exasperated but in a desperate hurry Tarion gave in, ushering her in front. Tarion and Loki, with the Praetorian holding the God by the nape of the neck. Quickly they climbed the long spiral stair up the tower.

The Trickster gave him a reassuring smile and said, “Now Tarion, you know it would be to your advantage to listen to me; in fact, I may even be able to help you!”

“What makes you think I’d believe anything you have to say?” Tarion said with exasperation, giving him another shove up the stair.

“Do you have a choice?
”

Tarion stopped,
yanking the God to a halt. Glaring at Loki, he realized the Trickster was right. “There’s something going on in that brain of yours; something’s not going according to your plans. Very well, that’s to my advantage.” The Praetorian propelled him back up the stair. “Go on Loki what is it you have to say?”

“There’s a reason this is happening,” the Trickster insisted. “I admit you’re right, this isn’t what I had in mind. You damn me but Tarion think about it; when the Destructor came to Roma what hope did you have?”

“None!” Tarion admitted.

“I esteem you and call you friend Tarion—really—but to take sides with the hopeless is not in my character,” the Trickster explained.

“I can well believe that!”

“Think of it. There’s something afoot here. Don’t dwell on my betrayal, look at everything that is going on. What of the emperor? After all, he betrayed your father and he’s betrayed you more than once—why? Why in all of Midgard would the emperor betray the very man to whom he entrusts the safety of the Imperium? It makes no sense!

“Yet weak willed Diocletian has done just that!
You were betrothed to the lovely Glorianna before the emperor promised you his luscious little daughter. Then what did he do, as soon as things looked bleak he took her away as well!”

Minerva
looked back at Loki, her dark eyes shooting darts at the God’s lascivious expression. “It wasn’t my father who ended the engagement!” Minerva retorted. “You should know of all people, Loki. My father didn’t have anything to do with it. No more than King Alfrodel. Neither of them wanted to insult Tarion or force Tarius into a match with Glorianna!”

“What?” Tarion and Loki
started together. They came to a nervous stop in the wide stairwell, their voices echoing through the tower.

“It was the Goddess Freya,” she told them
angrily, spitting her name out as if it left bile in her mouth. “She came here in secret. I was a child; hiding beneath my father’s throne when she forbade Glorianna to marry Tarion or to sire his children.”

“Why on Midgard would she do that?” exclaimed Loki, who for once seemed to know nothing about the secrets of others. That clearly perturbed the Trickster.

“She said he was a marked man—that was all,” Minerva said miserably. She wiped a tear from her eye and looked away. “Then she came again—Freya—she was here last month, before Tarion returned to the city. She ordered my father to renounce his promise and end our engagement.”

Minerva
turned to Tarion, fury on her face. “I know you’ve blamed my father Tarion, but don’t hate him, please whatever else you may feel don’t hate him. He wanted nothing to do with this but he couldn’t refuse Freya. You above all people know she can’t be refused!”

Tarion clenched his teeth in fury at Minerva’s hidden meaning. The revelation of Freya’s meddling was damning.