The Last Praetorian

by Christopher Anderson

  The heavy door groaned against the bolt. Loki looked severely at them. “Enough talk, it’s time for action and it’s time we need! You hold the key to hope, the four of you!”

  “Loki, we have no time for riddles; if you know the answer, what is it?”

  “You can’t guess? Maybe you don’t deserve a day of hope,” Loki sighed. “Your fate is your own; I wash my hands of you!” Shaking his head, Loki walked to the balcony.

  “No,” cried Diocletian, rushing to the God and clutching at his tunic. “You must save us! I will build you temples in every imperial city. You will be the patron God of the emperor—just save us!”

  “Tempting, but no,” Loki said, cradling his sharp chin in his longer fingered hands. “Sorry, the Imperium is down to one city and soon it will be none!” He turned into a hawk and flew off.

  Tarion watched him go. “Miserable wretch,” he muttered, turning turned back to Ancenar in defeat. “Like as not it’s a joke to Loki; there never was any hope!”

  “Yet there must be something about the Dragonheart—Loki’s is a riddler not a jester!”

  “A jester, what did you say Ancenar?” Tarion froze. Instantly the event fifteen years past came to him, one of the strangest things in his varied and difficult life: the starving jester.

  “What is it Tarion?” Ancenar said in earnest.

  Tarion shook his head, and said, “I thought it nothing at the time. Maybe not. Fifteen years ago, after the terrible loss of Tarius and Alfrodel at Durnen-Gul, I camped with the remnants of our legions. Having just assumed the mantle of the Praetorian, I had much on my mind. So it was that my men brought a jester, a refugee from a dead king—so he said. It was not the strangest story of those hard times. They caught him skulking about camp begging for scraps, but he asked to see to the Praetorian, for he saw the purple and gold banner pass him by earlier that day. He was a pitiable man, his raiment was in rags and his ribs showed through his stained costume. My men saw no harm in it, so they brought him to my tent.

  “The jester eyed me sharply, too sharply for a lost soul looking for scraps, and said, “Listen my lord to this riddle of ancient times and if you find it fair enough then feed me well enough,” he said, his voice croaking with thirst or mad, grim humor. “For so it is said, that when the Eternal City buckles beneath the Shadow’s boots, so must the Master open Tyr’s wergild so that the Wisest may proclaim what the emperor invokes. Seal the covenant with the blood of the Bravest that which was made by Tyr, to save Tyr.”

  Tarion walked back over to the Dragonheart, aware that this was the moment. He looked to Ancenar, and said, “Loki said the Dragonheart needed all of us: the master smith Baruk to open, the wisest of the Elves to proclaim and the emperor to invoke. I can only assume it’s my blood that will seal the covenant—what covenant?”

  The elven lord shook his head. “We know how to use the Dragonheart as a library, but its inner secrets have ever been hidden from us. I can only surmise that is because the genius of the dwarves, Tyr’s beloved folk, has never been used to open the stone.”

  Baruk stepped up to the stone, examining it closely. The booming of the stairs came closer, closer, but none dared interrupt him. Finally, the dwarf king lifted the stone, and thereby exclaimed, “Ah, there you are!”

  His thick yet dexterous dwarf fingers touched many facets in a particular order and in a particular way. That done, he carefully set the stone back on the pedestal. It began to glow with a deep inner purple light.

  “The Dragonheart awaits your command,” moaned the stone.

  Ancenar stepped up and laid his hands on the stone and muttered a simple charm, saying, “The stone will reveal this purpose to me.” He closed his eyes concentrating as if listening to some soft elusive words in the wind. At length the stone responded with a faraway voice, “Behold the Dragonheart, Tyr’s Truthstone, to read the wisdom of all ages, or in need, for the lords of the free peoples to use their endowments to seize the day. Carpe Diem! Set that time with the blood of the bravest—to seize the day until thine desire bears fruit.”

  Ancenar opened his eyes. “The jester, maybe Loki himself, knew this might come to pass. He knew the Wanderer might need time. The Dragonheart cannot stop the Destructor; but it can seize this day until the Wanderer returns!”

  “Do it Ancenar! King Baruk has opened the stone. You are the wisest; it is for you to proclaim our desire!”

  “Carpe Diem!” the elven lord told the stone. “Seize this day until the Prophecy of Alfrodel is fulfilled and the Wanderer returns to the world!”

  A harsh laugh sounded outside the door and something struck it. The door creaked, the wood bulging, ready to burst. Tarion rushed to it and threw his shoulder against the timbers. “Now Diocletian; you are the lord of men. Invoke the Dragonheart; do it before it’s too late!”

  Ancenar clutched Diocletian and urged him, “Emperor invoke it, invoke Carpe Diem! Fulfill the Prophecy of Alfrodel!”

  The stone glowed and replied, “The Emperor of Men must invoke the Dragonheart. Carpe Diem, seize the day; seal the covenant with the blood of the Bravest.”

  “Emperor Diocletian, you must invoke it!” Tarion urged. Diocletian stared at him dumbly. Tarion left the door to force the emperor onto the stone. As he did so the door flew off its hinges, flinging him against the wall.

  Minerva screamed and ran to her father as a yellow bearded giant ducked beneath the arch. Dazed by the blow, Tarion scrambled to his feet, but the giant covered the space in a single stride, swinging an enormous axe at him. It shaved an inch from the purple crest of his helm before clanging into the wall, sending shards of marble flying. Tarion swung a backhanded slash at the giant’s belly, cutting the ring mail and creasing the blue flesh.

  “Well met King Johaan!” he exclaimed, drawing the edge back and stabbing up at the giant’s throat. The giant king twisted aside, but the dwarven blade cut a deep wound in his jaw. The tip caught Johaan’s hoop earring, tearing it off the giant’s ear. Johaan cried out in pain but struck Tarion to the floor with his mallet fist.

  “I’ll spice my wine with your Praetorian blood!” Johaan cursed.

  As the Praetorian and the giant king fought another battle took place across the chamber. Ancenar sought to drag the emperor to the stone, but Diocletian clutched his chair in panic. “Diocletian invoke the spell; the Dragonheart,” Ancenar shouted.

  “Today is your day, Diocletian!” Baruk urged, dragging the emperor to the stone. Diocletian couldn’t resist the dwarven muscle, but he was terrified, crying out, “I will not be trapped within this day of doom for all eternity!”

  Tarion rolled up and slashed at the giant’s knee. Johaan parried the sword with his axe, striking back and making the Praetorian roll out of the way.

  Baruk thrust the emperor onto the stone, cursing at Diocletian. “You will doom our world to desolation! Invoke Carpe Diem!”

  Diocletian shrank back from the stone in fear.

  “Force him Baruk! Ancenar; I’ve got a giant on my hands!” Tarion tried to hold the giant off, but the confined space worked against him. Johaan got a hold of him and smashed him into the wall.

  “I’m coming!” Ancenar drew his sword and headed across the chamber. A few paces from the giant he struck out the palm of his left hand, and cried, “Strangulato!”

  Johaan clutched his throat with one hand and dropped Tarion. His already blue face turned purple for lack of breath. Tarion regained his wits and came after the giant. Johaan backed frantically away from the Praetorian’s attacks. With a mighty effort he broke Ancenar’s spell.

  The elven lord reeled as from a physical blow. Johaan took in a great, ragged gasp of air, but Tarion was upon him. He stabbed at Johaan’s heart, but fortune intervened. As Johaan desperately backed away he stumbled over a chair. Tarion’s thrust missed the giant’s heart and his blade caught in Johaan’s leather harness. Swift as a cat the giant grabbed Tarion’s arm and sliced the sword hand off at the wrist. Tarion cried out and the giant hurled h
im back against the wall. The impact drove the breath from his lungs. He fell to the floor, head swimming, trying to stay conscious.

  Tarion clutched his maimed arm, but instinctively looked for his sword. It was two yards away; to Tarion’s horror, his severed hand still clutched the haft. With his remaining hand, Tarion reached for the sword.

  Johaan got there first, tossing the blade over the balcony rail. The giant kicked Tarion in the gut, sending him flying across the room and into the wall again. The Praetorian’s sight dimmed, fading to black. Gritting his teeth, Tarion focused on the giant—fighting with all his strength to stay conscious. Through a wash of blood, he saw Johaan advance with his axe, grinning at him. He had nowhere to go.

  Tarion gasped, “Diocletian—now before it’s too late!”

  With a sudden burst of energy Minerva rushed across the room, sprinting to her father. She crossed Johaan’s path. The astonished giant stopped, watching her in disbelief, hesitating.

  “Father!” she cried, wrapping her arms around Diocletian. With a firmness not matched by Baruk’s brute force, Minerva took her father’s hands and moved them toward the stone. “You must do this father; you must do it for the Imperium!”

  At last, the emperor put his trembling hands on the stone. He opened his mouth to speak but a deep, terrible voice rang in the chamber.

  “Silence!”

  Tarion looked beyond the giant and all thought of pain disappeared. Filling the doorway, was a menacing, fire-crowned, colossus—the Destructor.

  The Destructor stooped to enter the chamber. With a wave of his finger, the emperor fairly flew into his seat, silent and cowering. He glanced at the giant, saying simply, “The Praetorian is mine.”

  Johaan slunk to the shadow of the door like a beaten dog.

  Again, Tarion urged, “Diocletian do it now!”

  “Silence!”

  Tarion’s mouth snapped painfully shut. Yet he struggled up, holding his maimed arm, glaring at the Destructor. The emperor was not so stout of heart or mind. He dove from his chair to the feet of the Destructor.

  “Mercy Dread Lord!” cried Diocletian, prostrating himself before the colossus. “The Imperium will submit to you. You have my fealty, only spare us!”

  Despite his horrible wound, Tarion staggered over and clutched the emperor with his one good hand, dragging Diocletian to his feet. “You cannot sell the Imperium! Better to let it die than to live in servile squalor! Stand and face our enemy; you are the Emperor of the Imperium!”

  Minerva withstood the horror of the Destructor, standing next to her father. Baruk and Ancenar stepped up as well, facing their doom. The emperor nodded and he stood, steadied by the Praetorian and his daughter.

  “Well said, Tarion Praetorian, Captain of Men,” growled the Destructor. He looked down on them from indomitable heights. “It is fitting that I have here the greatest of men, dwarves and elves—the last of the free peoples—the last to defy me!”

  Naugrathur the Destructor lifted his arms as if he would envelope them, saying, “My dominion is nigh! It will be eternal; it will be all encompassing. Though you each demand my admiration, it is over. The Gods have fallen. The Imperium has crumbled. The elves are in exile. The dwarves are consumed. Therefore, I give you a choice. You may become part of my glory, part of my dominion, or you will be naught. Choose between oblivion and my service!”

  “I serve the Imperium!” Tarion exclaimed. “I will never serve you, Dread Lord, be certain of that.”

  The Destructor’s eyes flashed in anger and his voice dripped with searing contempt, “Well have you served your emperor, but how well has that service been repaid, Tarion Praetorian, General of the Legions?”

  He laughed, reading Tarion’s pain as if it were a history. Tarion felt as if a mountainside collapsed upon him. “For your unfailing valor that very emperor stripped you of your name, your lands and your inheritance, bequeathing you the vestiges of his legions and an extinct title in exchange! He took away your elven bride and then renounced the hand of his daughter, aye Tarion; I know it all well enough.”

  His molten eyes narrowed and he reached beneath his robes to withdraw a great golden goblet set with many gems. He held it out to Tarion. “Now realize your future in my dominion. Drink your oath to me and you will be the Overlord of Men, the General of the Naug-zum. I shall return your elven princess to you; aye, even Diocletian’s brave daughter. Your revenge upon the emperor will be complete!”

  Tarion bowed his head, saying, “You honor me Dread Lord.” Yet he struck the goblet with his hand, knocking it away. “I am the Praetorian, Dread Lord, like my father before me! I will not betray my emperor or the Imperium I’ve defended all these years.”

  “Damn you then!” The Destructor lifted Tarion from the floor with the nail of a single finger. “What to do with such honorable obstinacy?”

  Through clenched teeth the Praetorian said, “With all due respect, there’s nothing further you can do to me Dread Lord. Soon, I shall be dead. I’ll be spared the pain of watching my Imperium perish!”

  “Not so,” the Destructor laughed and his eyes glowed in evil satisfaction. “The Imperium has lived only so long through your valor and so it shall not live without you. Praetorian, I curse you with life until your Imperium has perished before your eyes! You will see every death throe; the collapse of every edifice; and the withering of every parchment. The demise of the Imperium will be a beacon within your mind’s eye!” He chuckled and the tower shook. “Yet I am merciful. I shall ensure you do not suffer long.”

  The Destructor waved his finger and Tarion flew into the grasp of Johaan. “King Johaan, bring Tarion along. I shall set him in Karkedon’s lair so that he may be the last part of the Imperium devoured by the dragon.”

  Johaan laughed with evil intent, holding Tarion fast by the shoulders.

  Slowly, as if he turned the entire world with his mighty shoulders, the Destructor turned to Baruk. “What of you, the young King Baruk, Lord of the Mountain Halls? Your fortresses have been plundered, your people consumed by the dragons. Would you serve me and have your glory return. Swear to me and the halls of your people will be your sanctuaries yet again!”

  Baruk was young for a dwarf lord, but he had the unquenched temper of his folk. With brusque bravado he told the Destructor, “The dwarves delved their halls ere you were here to taint them! We will never bow down to you—never! Take my axe for an answer and let me finish what Father Thor began!”

  The Dwarf King swept back his glittering axe for a mighty stroke at the towering Destructor, but Naugrathur took his gauntlet and struck Baruk with the back of his hand. The Dwarf King flew against the wall, crushed by the force of the blow.

  “So much for thine impudence Baruk, the last King of the Dwarves!”

  Naugrathur the Destructor turned to Ancenar.

  “You see the price of pride, Ancenar? You are now faced with the same choice; remember your oath to kin and country!”

  “What kin and country do I have left?” Ancenar asked breathlessly.

  “Indeed, what of your wife, the beautiful Davanis? What of your unborn sons and daughters? Will you abandon the elves still fighting under your banner? Will you abandon their families hiding in the forests? Who is to lead them when you are no more? Who is to protect them?”

  The Destructor took a menacing step forward and offered him the same goblet Tarion and Baruk refused. “My dominion will be a world of perfect order—without chaos, strife or war. I will present my justice in absolute example, unyielding and eternal. Elves will thrive under their lord and champion—you Ancenar. Do not give in to pride as Tarion has to his torment, nor as Baruk did to his death. Serve and save your people. Lead the elves to greater glory than Alfrodel could ever have dreamed! Only drink and it will be done!”

  He held out the goblet and his voice grew lower, more terrifying. “Refuse and I will banish you to oblivion. The elves will become the lowest thralls, serving my slaves as meat and drudge for all eternity. Only
you, Ancenar, can save them. Drink and join my circle of Lords!”

  Ancenar took the goblet with shaking hands. Closing his eyes, the elf lifted the goblet to his lips.

  “No Ancenar!” cried Tarion, struggling in vain against Johaan’s hold. “If he gains dominion now there will be no end to it. Terra will be doomed to the ending of the world!”

  The Destructor held up his hand and said, “Nay, for I am Tyr of old. The laws of the multiverse are open to me. I shall control the remaking of the world. Think of it Ancenar! You shall be Lord of the Elves not just for a single iteration of the world, but for eternity!”

  Ancenar took a deep breath, glancing at Diocletian who stood too stunned to move or say anything. His eyes flashed. “Give me the rule of men as well!”

  Tarion stared at him in amazement.

  The Destructor crossed his arms over his mighty breast and announced, “Done!”

  At the theft of his throne, Diocletian’s eyes grew wild and wide. He sprang up as if stung by the lash. “I am the rightful ruler of men!” he cried. Diocletian snatched the goblet from Ancenar’s hands. Tarion looked at him, aghast, but he didn’t know whether the emperor meant to drink from the goblet or throw the wine to the floor.

  The Destructor flew into an instant rage grasping Diocletian by his robes and holding him on high. With a snap of his fingers a crack of thunder shook the tower. “The world of men shall be naught!” he told the emperor. “The Imperium contested my every design. I cannot afford to have it survive so that any man might think it could rise again.”

  A rushing wind swirled into the tower and the enormous black-scaled form of Karkedon appeared beyond the balcony. The dragon’s head nearly filled the opening. “You called Dread Lord?”

  “Karkedon, while Roma stands there is still an Imperium of Men. Dispatch the emperor, lay waste to the city and avail yourself of all of its treasures!”

  The dragon grinned, “With pleasure Dread Lord!”