The Last Praetorian

by Christopher Anderson

  Tarion offered his right arm before realizing there was no hand to give the elven lord. Muttering, the Praetorian offered his left, “In my flouting of Empress Minerva’s orders I may well be an exile now; so thank you Ancenar and good luck.”

  “If you find the Wanderer come to Irevale; we will gather all of our strength and march upon Durnen-Gul with better hope than last we did.”

  “You have my promise!” Tarion nodded.

  His good bye to Fanuihel was equally as warm, but to Nar Tarion sighed and shook his head. “I know not what to say. King Baruk was a good friend. We grew up together and inherited our stations at the same time—too early. This sacrifice cuts me deep.”

  “As it does the last realm of dwarves,” Nar admitted. “Yet Narn Karn-Xum still stands and there we shall go to rebuild our strength as best we can. It is a sacrifice that will grey many beards, but we do not regret fulfilling our vows. Good luck Praetorian. You will always be welcome in our halls.”

  So Tarion parted with his companions of the last age.

  They stopped at Ancenar’s apartments.

  Tarion then made his way to the legionary barracks. This part of the city was still relatively untouched by the siege. It was a large complex meant to house three full legions and their auxiliaries. At the center was a wide square for drill and training.

  The barracks flanked the square on the east and west. To the north were the officer’s barracks and a balcony for reviewing the troops. Beneath the balcony, ten wide doors were set in the wall. Each door was twenty feet wide. Each bore a specific symbol. One bore the crown and crossed axes of the dwarves and another showed a tree surmounted by stars for the elves. The other eight bore the ducal seals of the other great cities of the Imperium—now all gone. Tarion headed for the door with Ostheim’s seal, nor was he alone.

  A group of Norseman was there before him. They formed a ragged line of around two hundred men. As Tarion did, most wore bearskin coats over their chain mail armor. Their steel caps sprouted horns and brass rimmed goggles over their eyes and noses. Unlike Tarion, the Norse grew long beards, forking them or braiding them after the fashion of dwarves. Long handled axes rested on their brawny shoulders and they slung brightly painted shields on their backs. Those of Norrland were hard-bitten men of the fallen Imperium, choosing simple ways over civilization. Yet for all that, they had the closest ties of any men to dwarves, elves and even the Gods.

  A large man with a yellow forked beard led the column from the back of a woolly mastodon. The mastodon trumpeted a farewell to the city. It seemed a gentle beast, enduring the close company of spearmen and axemen alike. The mastodon followed its masters prodding like a big hairy horse. Next to the mastodon flew Alexandrus on his carpet. Tarion pulled his helm down low and avoided the wizard’s notice; he stepped quickly toward an Imperial centurion and four legionaries. They were taking the census of the party, ensuring only those who had permission would use the door. The man looked up from his papers. He didn’t recognize Tarion, or so he guessed from the man’s surly attitude. “Another of the Trondheim party, eh; state your name and home district.”

  “Freyr Odinson,” Tarion said, thinking Freya would be amused he was claiming to be her brother. As for the rest, he didn’t lie; he didn’t need to. “I lived in Ostheim, but was born in Gotthab to the Druidic Priestess of the Trondheim district.”

  “That’s good enough,” the centurion nodded. “You’re lucky, no one else gets through. The Norse wouldn’t get through either, but they’ve got Alexandrus the Wizard going with them. The Imperial Incantator gave him a pass.”

  Tarion nodded. “I answered the call to Roma.”

  “Well, thanks for that. The Incantator is closing the gates this afternoon—we can’t afford to risk who might come through the other way, so he says.” The centurion made his way through the Norse to the doors, laughing grimly. “He must be kidding; you can’t get any worse than the Destructor himself, but the Praetorian chased him off—so what’s the worry?”

  Tarion smiled, as the centurion unlocked the gate. He glanced down at Tarion’s bandaged arm. “Thanks for coming to our aide; we owe you, the elves and the dwarves a blood debt. I’m sorry about that hand, but I thank you.”

  “At least it wasn’t the rest of me,” Tarion said.

  “You got family in Norrland still?”

  “Not anymore,” he said simply.

  “I’m sorry about that too,” he said, shaking his head. “Dark times, these are surely dark times.” He turned around and raised his voice, shouting to all the assembled Norse. “Listen up lads! Once you step through the arch, there’s no turning back. We can’t see what’s going on at the other side, but the Incantator is closing the gate after you leave. I hope you reach your homes and families this day and thanks for your service to the Imperium. Farewell and Godspeed!”

  The centurion and his men opened the doors. It was dark within. A cold wind blew from the tunnel. Alexandrus flew to the head of the line and announced, “I will try and bring us off the mystic road as close to Trondheim as possible. I warn you; however, this is not an exact science. The Founders fashioned the gate to go to Trondheim but the way was changed when King Ragnar founded Ostheim. The way has not been changed since and we certainly don’t want to end up in the central square of that fallen city! This is akin to jumping off a horse in mid gallop and trying to land on a denarius!”

  Alexandrus flew through on his carpet, followed by the mastodon and its driver and after that the two hundred men. Tarion fell in at the rear.

  He’d been through gates before and this was no different. There was always a moment of darkness and disorientation and then everything cleared. This time everything cleared quickly—the cold did that. It was frigid. A driving wind pelted him with stinging snow and it was soon apparent just how unprepared he was for the mountains of Norrland. Ahead, through the blowing snow, Tarion could make out the dim shapes of bearskin-clad men. They disappeared rapidly into the glooms. Hurriedly, he trudged through the snow to catch up, falling into step behind the last man. He didn’t know where they were and it didn’t really matter. Tarion was out of his element now. Doubt crept back into his mind followed closely by guilt.

  What have I done? For the first time in my life, I’ve left the path of duty. How can that possibly lead to a good end? Ah well, there’s no turning back now. Take one-step at a time Tarion; put one boot in front of the other.

  All through the afternoon, the company climbed a pass. The snow was deep, but they made good time. The mastodon blazed the trail. Tarion had it easy, walking at the end of the line on packed snow. They soon passed out of the blowing snow and clouds into a dazzling bright world atop the mountains. The wind died to a moaning sigh and the sun came out. Ice crystals swirled in the sunlight, glittering like fairy dust, tinkling against the rocks like thousands of tiny bells. The civilized world seemed far away indeed.

  Afternoon faded away into evening and with the last light of day, they reached the summit of the pass. On a small knob of a hill, the company stopped for a short rest. Hrolf, the driver of the mastodon and the leader of the company, rode around them and shouted, “We’ve another four hours of marching. Fill your bellies and rest. We move out in an hour!”

  Tarion trudged toward a small pine tree, missing the Praetorian tent his men usually set up for him. He cursed the thought for what it was: weakness. When he reached the tree, he had the idea of hewing down a branch for a makeshift bed in the snow, but too late, he noticed Alexandrus hunched beneath the branches writing in a journal and mumbling to himself.

  “It’s been an age—an entire age—yet still there’s no sign of the curse breaking!” The wizard looked up and saw him. The brass goggles hid his features, yet Alexandrus’s manner changed immediately. “Hello, what in the world are you doing here in the wilderness Praetorian? I thought you were getting married to the empress!”

  “I suppose I got cold feet!” Tarion replied with a bitter chuckle. He entered the makeshift
shelter and sat down. “Little did I realize that my feet would be frozen instead!”

  “So the Prophecy has come true; the Wanderer has returned,” Alexandrus muttered. After a long sigh he admitted, “As learned as I am, I was beginning to doubt.”

  “Don’t stop doubting Alexandrus, he’s here but he needs finding,” Tarion informed him. “That’s why I’m here. The signs point to Trondheim; at least that’s what Freya says.”

  Alexandrus’s expression hardened, and he said grimly, “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you are going to find him, you must first survive the night. That’s something none of us have done in the last age. In fact, we’ve only a few moments. As soon as the sun has gone below the limb of the sea it starts.”

  “What starts,” Tarion asked?

  A chorus of howls broke the stillness of the night.

  CHAPTER 5: Cries in the Wilderness

  “To arms, werewolves are upon us!” shouted Hrolf, rousing the men from their meals, “Use silver or magic if you have it; to arms!”

  “You see,” Alexandrus said evenly. “There’s some deviltry about this, no doubt something foreseen by the Dread Lord!” He leaned forward and the carpet whisked out of the trees. “I think I should take you out of this Praetorian; we’re expendable, but you must survive!”

  Tarion unlatched his wrist-blade. Glancing darkly at the wizard, he told Alexandrus, “I’ll see you in Hell before I abandon a battle!”

  “Stubborn, just like father! Call if you need aid; I will do what I can! Remember, this trap is set for you! The Destructor baited you; he’s had this set for an age! Good luck Praetorian, but remember, you at least must survive!” Alexandrus flew higher into the air, heading in the direction of the howls.

  Tarion stared after the wizard, but he had no time to dissect his words or meaning. The howling grew louder. He trotted toward the gathering Norse. He knew the were-people well, or the lycans, as they knew them in the west. They became a terrible scourge after the battle of Vigrid. It all had to do with Luna, the Moon. Throughout all of history, the lycans turned into their bestial forms during the full moon. They lived relatively normal lives excepting that terrible time of month and Tarion even had a few friends with the affliction. That all changed after Vigrid. When Thor struck the Destructor with his hammer, Luna shattered and gathered around the globe in glowing rings. Now, every night filled with the silver light of the Luna’s rings, the Godsbridge folk called it. Though beautiful, it meant that every night became a nightmare for the lycans and their prey.

  The mastodon rider, Hrolf led the company to the crest of the knoll. It wasn't much of a defense, but the slope protected them somewhat and behind was a precipice. He directed the Norseman to form a semi-circle just beneath the crest.

  A tinge of admiration coursed through Tarion’s heart. Were-creatures were rare in the North Country and the Norsemen weren't ready for such an attack, but there was no sense of panic. Like the hardened veterans they were, the warriors sorted themselves out for the onslaught. Those with silver gilt weapons or charmed metal rushed to form the line. Those without such weapons rooted through their packs for anything made of silver: combs, picks, knives, even bags of silver coins. Unfortunately, there was little time for preparation. Even as Tarion planted himself in the shield wall, shaggy shapes with glowing red eyes loped out of the darkness.

  Hundreds of werewolves ran across the snow in a mangy black wave of glistening fangs, claws and fur. It was astonishing, even to Tarion who had experience with these creatures. Lycans were solitary hunters! They never congregated in numbers unless it was a family or a mated pair. Something or someone of extraordinary power and evil was behind this, but who and why?

  “Stand fast! The legions of Hell are upon us!” Hrolf cried.

  The Norse roared in answer, letting loose their battle cries, taunting and cursing the monsters, building their own courage for the defense, working themselves into a frenzy of bestiality to match the terrors approaching them. Tarion felt the familiar comfort of ice-cold clarity encompass him.

  A mangy tumult of red eyes and claws fell upon Tarion and the Norse. His wrist-blade shone in the night, piercing and ripping the hides, turning the raucous howls into piteous screams. Still, there were many more lycans than he’d ever fought before. They attacked like beasts with mindless ferocity and he was feeling pressed when something whooshed over his head. Alexandrus flew past on his carpet. Crackling lightning sprang from his wand. The wizard cast his magic on the cursed creatures, swooping over them, sending silver fire through the dark ranks.

  The rest of the horde came on, adding to the lycans already pressing the Norse back. Swords and spears hacked and thrust at the slavering monsters. A score of lycans went down in that first wild moment of the melee and the Norse roared in triumph. Yet these weren't men. The following wave clutched at their shields, ripping them out of the warrior's grasp with demonic strength. Monsters poured through the holes, rending and tearing. Other monsters leapt clear over the men, running wild amongst the Norse without charmed weapons, or turning and rending the ranks from behind. Gaps formed and the line wavered. The Norse retreated into knots of resistance, fighting back to back, desperately trying to stay alive.

  Minutes went by, as long as hours. The line on either side of Tarion disintegrated. A pack of lycans surrounded him, but they’d never dealt with anything like him. Lycans were ferocious, but they fought like beasts. Tarion knew how to deal with them. He didn’t worry about killing blows. A slash of his silver edged wrist-blade on any part of a lycan burned them like fire. They swiftly forgot about all else, howling with their wounds, blind to his killing blows. He dispatched five lycans and found himself free of the monsters. Now he ran from one group of Norse to the next, attacking the lycans from behind, restoring the balance of the battle. He slew one werewolf after another, yet men were falling all around. At this rate, the two parties might annihilate each other—something had to be done.

  “To me, all men who can follow,” he ordered, gathering the men around him. “Into ranks and follow me!” A group of twenty or so men gathered around Tarion, the largest cohesive group of men on the battlefield. Having witnessed his valor it was natural for them to obey. He formed them into a single line and started them at a trot. Down the hill was a knot of a dozen Norse. Twice that many lycans surrounded them, but Tarion and the Norse hit them with a shout, smashing the evil creatures between the anvil and the hammer. The werewolves couldn't withstand the attack. Several loped away, trailing black blood, but the rest succumbed and their evil spirits fled into the cold arctic night. The Norse roared in triumph, their hope renewed. Tarion added the men to his force and led them to the next batch of beleaguered men. In a few moments, he’d assembled fifty angry, eager, bloodthirsty warriors. He scanned the field and turned as a voice called his name. It was Alexandrus.

  “Tarion, below by the cliffs, the body of lycans presses our men,” he cried, pointing toward the bottom of the. “If we hurry we can trap the lycans against the cliffs. Victory is in our grasp!”

  Tarion knew the risk of leaving the protection of the high ground, but Alexandrus was right—this was an opportunity to finish this. “To the right; hurry!” The Norse turned awkwardly, but turn they did. The solid block of Norse ran down the slope toward their comrades. Tarion was in the center, shouting for the Norse to hold their line and for the ranks that followed to watch their flanks. There were several small pockets of fighting enroute to the cliffs. They hewed down the werewolves and picked up stragglers and survivors along the way. As they approached the failing men, Tarion called, “Hold fast; have hope!”

  The werewolves ignored the approaching Norse. The two dozen or so were too intent on their blood lust to realize their danger. Tarion and the Norse crashed into the monsters with Alexandrus sending silver bolts of flame into them from above. The werewolves, however, did not lose heart at the turn of events, but turned even
more bestial. With slavering fangs and iron hard claws, they tore mindlessly at the Norse. The ranks dissolved into a tangled mass of fur, fangs and iron. Shouts mixed with growls, screams with howls, yet slowly inexorably, the balance pitched in favor of the Norse.

  “We have them!” Alexandrus called as he felled a great werewolf chieftain with a forked torrent of flame. Yet as he reveled, a werewolf scrambled up the rock wall and leapt from the cliff. It latched onto the carpet, bearing it and Alexandrus down. The carpet flew in wild corkscrews as the werewolf grappled hand-to-hand with the wizard.

  At that instant, a new sound assailed the Norse. It was lower than the werewolves’ growls, deeper and more powerful. A dozen huge shaggy shapes ambled over the crest of the knoll and towards the Norse at breakneck speed. “Werebears, this is an evil night!” Tarion breathed, but he had no time for trepidation. Alexandrus was in desperate straits.

  Tarion was the wizard's only hope. In desperation, he slammed a lycan to the ground with his shoulder. Another lycan barred his way, its huge mouth agape in mid roar. Tarion punched his wrist-blade through the soft palate and into the bestial brain. Snatching a spear from the bloody snow, he vaulted onto a boulder. Every one of his senses focused on the werewolf engaged with Alexandrus. His sight sharpened, picking out the hollow between the shoulder blades, watching the muscles ripple beneath the hide as the monster tore into the wizard with claw and tooth. He had to think himself through his cast, using his left hand instead of the instinctive right, but Praetorians were proficient with either hand. He landed on the rock, setting his left foot, then his right and throwing his shoulder into the cast. Tarion let fly his spear. The heavy weapon sped through the air and buried itself in the werewolf's back even as the two combatants disappeared over the precipice and into the darkness.

  Tarion never saw if the wizard recovered or not, nor did he have time to worry about it. Several monsters tackled him from behind, driving him to the snow. Teeth and claws slashed and bit at him, but his instinct to survive snapped Tarion's last link to rationality. His sight went red and he fought as viciously as the monsters. They threw him down and he landed on his back, the jaws of a werebear reaching for his head. He slashed with his wrist-blade, bringing the charmed edge against the thick throat. A fountain of blood gushed over him. The monster backed away, shaking its head and pawing at the wound. It began to weave drunkenly as more blood poured onto the snow. Finally, it rolled onto its side and died.