The Last Praetorian

by Christopher Anderson

  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.

  Loki 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 wasn’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.

  Loki stroked his sharp beard and looked at Tarion with penetrating eyes. “Did you and Freya have a tryst at any time; she’s amazingly jealous—especially for a woman? I didn’t think you stupid enough to cross her.”

  “Of course not,” Tarion insisted, but the accusation shook him to the core. Tarion knew of Lady Freya in a way few mortals were privy too; he grew up in the company of the Gods. Bilskirnir, Thor’s lodge was his second home. Tarion grew to manhood with the beautiful high-spirited laughter of Freya ringing in his ears—and nothing, not even the darkness of the Destructor—could quench her spirit. He’d always loved her. Tarion loved Freya in that hopeless haunted way of love, pure and absolute, yet ever fated to be unrequited. It was a secret he admitted to no one; hardly even to himself.

  What of it, what man wouldn’t be smitten by her? Freya is all things to all men!

  Of course, that only stoked Tarion’s temper. He shoved Loki roughly up the stairs again. “Get going, we don’t have time for riddles about jealous Goddesses!”

  Upon reaching the tower door Minerva unlocked it and rushed in. Tarion followed with Loki in his grasp. The emperor took his daughter in his arms, staring at Tarion with disbelief.

  “Loki, so you are behind this!” Ancenar and Baruk exclaimed together.

  Loki laughed, and nodded with sudden understanding, telling them “Now it’s becoming clear! We have here the Praetorian, the Emperor of the Imperium, the King of the Dwarven Realms and the Lord of the Elves! I love the ironic ways the Norns work!”

  “We’re undone my lords!” Tarion warned them. “Loki betrayed us and opened the city gate. The Destructor is already within the citadel!”

  “We are lost,” the emperor groaned, sinking into his chair.

  Loki shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Did you really think gates of steel would keep the Destructor out?” An enormous hollow sound rumbled up through the tower. It was as if something beyond imagination climbed the tower stair. “Ah speak of the devil, here he comes! He’s discovered that the wergild he seeks is not in Olympus nor in the royal treasuries; the Destructor’s source of news must have erred.” He grinned viciously but then Loki’s manner turned grave. “We don’t have much time; let’s get down to business.”

  “You’re right Loki,” Tarion said, thrusting the God onto his knees and raising his sword. “You’ll not serve the Destructor in his dominion. I won’t let you profit from our blood! As soon as he sets foot in this chamber I’ll knock your head into his lap!”

  “Tarion wait!” Ancenar said, rushing forward and holding his arm. He turned to Loki with hard eyes. “What’s your game Loki; you sound as though you meant to come here all along.”

  “Not exactly, but I am here and so are you, all of you; that cannot be by accident,” Loki grinned. “There’s only one possible reason. It’s the same reason the Destructor is coming here. By now, he has ascertained where that is,” he pointed to a small antechamber at the far end of the tower.

  Tarion yanked the God abruptly to his feet and dragged him over to the antechamber. The rest followed. The rulers of the free world and the wayward God stared down at a heavy purple crystal of many facets set on a marble pedestal.

  Loki nodded toward the stone. “It’s the Dragonheart he wants. He thought it was in Jupiter’s palace; that’s why he attacked that plane before coming here. When he couldn’t find it, he came thither. That’s the real reason he’s here. The Destructor doesn’t care about Roma. It will fall eventually, but while the Dragonheart exists, it’s a threat to his dominion. He fears that stone and what could be done with it; therefore, he must not get it!”

  “What do you mean,” asked the elf. “Why should the Destructor want to destroy the Dragonheart? It’s a library; it holds the history of the world—why should he fear that?”

  “Tyr made it; it holds not only the history of the world but the laws of the multiverse, laws the Destruct
or is trying to wipe clean! Therefore the Destructor fears everything that stone can do—everything!” Loki’s thin lips twisted into a malicious grin.

  Tarion slapped his blade against Loki’s throat, sending the Trickster into a fit of raspy coughs. “Enough Loki, first you sell us to the Destructor and now you’re trying to help us—what’s your game?”

  “Tarion, you know better than anyone that I will play the odds,” Loki explained. “When the Destructor decided to come himself to Roma your fate was sealed—until I saw the Dragonheart here—along with the only four people in the world who can use it to salvage the day! That cannot be by chance. Thus I will play that card of fate as well.”

  “I’ve no more patience left. What will it do and how do we use it?” Tarion demanded.

  “How do I know?” he coughed. Despite the danger, Loki laughed and pushed Tarion’s blade away from his neck. He dabbed at the wound on his neck with the edge of his cloak and it healed before their eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?” the Trickster said, turning his sharp eyes on them. “What’s the matter with you? Who does the Destructor fear: who is the only being the Destructor fears?”

  Ancenar scowled, his voice sinking to a harsh whisper. “You mean the Dragonheart can find Wanderer! How Loki, tell us how, for your sake and the sake of the world!”

  “That’s why you are all here. Only you can activate the Dragonheart!” the God assured them, though it looked as though he struggled with the decision. He paused. His eyes shone with an unearthly gleam. The iron latch rattled in the door. Loki’s expression turned gravely serious. “Ask yourselves: do you believe chance alone brought all of us to this particular chamber, at this particular time? Do you think I would have led the Destructor astray and played for time if there weren’t a reason—think! The answer is within you as is the knowledge on how to use the Dragonheart.”