With him were many other fair folk. Tarion said nothing, but continued walking, feeling as if the dream carried him along like a raft on an ocean current. He crossed the stream over a small bridge and as he reached the throne, the elves bowed to him. Tarion sat down. Ancenar and his peers began to report the events, rumors and business of the Tulari. At length, Tarion understood this was Alfrodel’s life. He followed Alfrodel’s existence and through him experienced the orderly world of the elves. It was a blend of mysticism and power wondrous to behold. He watched ages of history in short clips of memory, until the coming of the exiled Gods. Among the Gods, Alfrodel was closest to Tyr the Wise, a God of powerful intellect and deep understanding.
“Follow me, King Alfrodel,” Tyr said, “and I will forge the elves into the beacon of the new world with you as the torch bearer!” Tyr swayed Alfrodel and the elves waxed in new splendor even as darkness spread outside their borders. When Odin’s daughter, Freya, exposed Tyr as Naugrathur the Destructor, Alfrodel knew Tyr betrayed him. Though false, Naugrathur nevertheless enticed the elven king.
“Follow me still, Alfrodel, for what I said as Tyr is also true from the mouth of Naugrathur. The time of the Gods is over. Eternal order and absolute law await us in this new beginning. Under my dominion you shall be the light of the world!”
Alfrodel cursed Naugrathur and refused to serve him. War followed. For all his courage, Alfrodel’s realm fell along with the realms of men and dwarves. At last, Alfrodel conceded his pride and joined with men, dwarves and Gods to meet the Destructor on the field of battle. The free folk endured a crushing defeat and Alfrodel fled east with the last of his people.
It was on a dark day on that dark journey when Flavius Aetius the Conqueror, the greatest of Naugrathur’s mortal lords, trapped Alfrodel and the Tulari in a high mountain pass of Fell Jormungand, the spine of Midgard. Aetius’ renegade legions overran the hastily formed elven line, trolls captured Alfrodel’s daughter and heir, Glorianna and all seemed lost. Then a chorus of brass horns rang out in the mountains. The knights of the Imperium rode to the rescue of the elves. At the last possible moment, Tarius Praetorian and his knights lowered five hundred steel tipped lances and clove through the black host. Tarius fought through the vanguard of Hell until he came face to face with Aetius himself. A great fight ensued. Aetius fled using his dark sorcery, though it cost Tarius his hand. As Tarius saw to the safety of the elven king, his son Tarion came up with the Praetorian legions and crushed the black host. The resourceful Tarion also noted giants, trolls and goblins escaping into the mountains with a captive. He gave chase alone, pursuing them to the lair of Morax the Mountain King. Tarion slew the dragon, escaping through many perils with Glorianna.
Even Alfrodel couldn’t ignore the nobility of Tarius and his son. Ever after, the Praetorian had his ear. They were of like mind. Tarius counseled revenge and an aggressive campaign against the Destructor. This fit Alfrodel’s desires perfectly and Tarius Praetorian found favor over even the Marshal Ancenar and the perilously powerful Goddess Freya.
“Stay, Alfrodel and keep your strength intact,” Freya told the king. “We shall have need of you, for this struggle is beyond elves, men or Gods. Fate tasks the Wanderer. Be patient and keep your people and places safe and whole until they meet.”
Alfrodel had no faith in exiled Gods, but Tarion lost hold of the elven king’s history. It was difficult to concentrate on anything but the beauteous Goddess that was Freya. Even through Alfrodel’s prejudiced eyes, Tarion was smitten all over again.
At length Alfrodel refused all counsel but that of Tarius and his son. He vowed, “Every ounce of my being shall be spent toward the end of the Destructor! Nothing and no one shall dissuade me—not kin, not the forces of Hell, not even the last strength of the Gods. Such is my oath onto the ending of the world.”
The vision faded with the words and Tarion was back on the riverside looking at Alfrodel’s ghost. “What was that about Alfrodel?” He was confounded. “What point are you trying to make. I know of your life, none better. Although I’d never seen your woodland halls, you can’t think I didn’t appreciate what you had lost.”
“I showed you my life up to a singular point, Tarion; the point where everything changed.” Alfrodel’s eyes glowed. “It should mean something to you, because at that point your life changed as well. You’ve always held it against me that I withheld my daughter’s hand. Because of that, you lost your family, your inheritance and your future. You laid that burden on my conscience.”
“I know of that now Alfrodel and I free you of that guilt—it was Freya.”
“Yet I’ve lived with that blame silently, Tarion, and think it not a small twist of the knife that your misfortune has caused me agony in my living form as well as this shade,” Alfrodel said. He turned away. “It was my nature to hold mortals in disdain. Your father changed that. I respected him and I saw nobility in him—and in you. I would have been proud to place the hand of Glorianna in your worthy care. It was not to be. Two beings more powerful than me interceded for their own purposes.”
“Two, who was there other than Freya,” Tarion demanded.
“The Wanderer,” answered the King.
Tarion stood aghast—why?
“Freya gave Tarius a singular crystal,” Alfrodel said. He smiled as Tarion’s hand crept to his pouch. “Yes you bear the crystal now. It had an unwholesome effect on Tarius, allowing the Wanderer to manipulate him from Limbo. The more Freya counseled against action the more Tarius counseled action—they knew in which direction I would sway! So I went to Durnen-Gul and there I died, but I died for the purpose. With Death’s sight I saw the Wanderer and I knew him.”
“You saw the Wanderer—who is he, how do I know him?”
Alfrodel’s expression became ever more haunted. He said, “As I told you before, he was faint; hardly to be discerned against the oblivion that was Limbo. Yet I caught a spark in him that was not mortal.”
“The Wanderer is an elf?”
“No, but he is an immortal who took refuge in mortality—who I cannot say—but he is one of the old Gods. There is no doubt in my mind, for he was the member of the Norse Pantheon most beloved by the elves. He held the laws of the world on the balance of his scales; he will control Ragnarok and the rebirth of our world.”
“You’re speaking of Tyr, the God of Justice,” Tarion stammered. Nothing made sense now. “That’s the Destructor; Tyr of old controlled the laws of the world.”
“The world is old Tarion and it years for rebirth. If Tyr lives in the Destructor it will be remade under his dominion; if not, it will be remade under the Creator’s mandate of freewill. If the wanderer triumphs the Destructor may rule for a day, a year or an age but his rule will inevitably end.” Alfrodel sighed and closed his eyes, as if the effort to speak was draining him. Indeed, Tarion could barely see him now, glimmering softly in the night. Alfrodel opened his eyes. “Tyr holds the laws of the world in his hands.”
Tarion took out the Brisling diamond and held it up to the light of the Godsbridge. “His strength was within the stone, but when he tried to retrieve it from my father, he couldn’t—the stone was empty.” He put the diamond back in his pouch. “Do you have any idea what could have been carried within the diamond?”
Alfrodel shook his head and there was a strange light in Alfrodel’s ghostly eyes. Then he turned away. “My death was required. The Wanderer could not come back to Midgard of his own volition. Yet what it was your father carried I cannot say.”
“Where did he take refuge; in what place could the Destructor not destroy him?”
Alfrodel’s eyes narrowed. He whispered as if afraid that others might hear him. “I do not know. I fear to guess. The elves fear dealing with the Gods—especially this one. Long ago, before the elves slept, the Creator himself took a hand in the world and the pantheons of men and elves were now superfluous—confusing rather than illuminating. Tyr disagreed. The Creator exiled Tyr from his Pantheon. Who knows what terrible
roads he’s wandered since then?”
Alfrodel shook his ghostly head. Tarion’s eyes fell. He must have read the frustration on Tarion’s face, for he laid a ghostly hand on the man’s shoulder. It was cold and forlorn.
“I valued and respected you in life Tarion. I would have been proud to call you son. It is up to you to ensure that our world does not pay for the failure of the Gods and that your father, your mother and I did not die in vain. The Wanderer is out there waiting for you to find him; bring him his strength, his resolve. How that is to happen I do not know; that’s up to you, the hero of the age!”
Alfrodel smiled, but just as quickly, his visage turned serious. “Yet beware the powers that have a stake in this—specifically Freya. She is perilous! Freya does not care for you or your fate. She wants the Wanderer back.” Alfrodel smiled an unpleasant smile and spread his arms out wide. “The Gods use Kings, emperors and Praetorians as pawns in this game of theirs—and maybe there are right to do so. I could not stop the Destructor and neither can you. Only the Wanderer can stop him. So why should Freya or any of the Gods care whether our lives are ruined or not—their concern is the Destructor.”
“This is worse than any betrayal of Loki! I refuse to be a part of it! This cursed thing has cost me my family and my future, but nothing else, I swear it!” With all his might, Tarion cast the diamond out into the dark waters. It disappeared into the stygian night. His jaw set in grim satisfaction, Tarion spat into the ocean. “If the Wanderer wants his crystal back let him search for it at the bottom of the sea.”
Out of the darkness, something small and bright whistled through the cold sea air. It struck Tarion on the chest, knocking him down. He groaned in pain. The diamond sat on his chest. It chimed with a low, dangerous tone. Alfrodel laughed.
“I don’t think you have any more control over this than I or your father did, Tarion. It’s beyond you.”
Tarion got up and took the stone in his hand. The chain was unbroken. Reluctantly he put it back in his satchel. “Then I too am cursed by the Gods; but I won’t let it control me.”
“Set aside your mortal pride!” Alfrodel warned. “Make no mistake Tarion, if the Wanderer does not return to Midgard all of us, living or dead, are doomed. His dominion will be eternal. The Creator will not interfere with the house we ourselves built. Therefore darkness will reign until he decides to remake the universe.”
Tarion resigned himself to the fate of his father. “What am I to do?”
“You hold the key within you, Tarion. The Wanderer chose you and your father because of your strength and character—do not abandon what you are. Yet know that whatever life you decide to lead, however happy you may perchance be for a moment in time, it is not your fate to enjoy it beyond that moment.” Alfrodel began to fade. “I’m sorry Tarion; I would that you were in Tiron now, and that I was visiting my daughter’s children. That is an idyll for the next existence perhaps, but only if the Wanderer triumphs. Remember, this is his battle, not yours. Farewell!”
Alfrodel faded into the night and was gone.
Tarion stood there deep in thought, trying to quell the doom in his mind. He raised his eyes up to the heavens and whispered a prayer for guidance, but against his will, the haunting image of Freya’s beauty came into his head. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to have any part of her. As if in answer, the swift waters of the sea rose up to drown her image. He smiled to himself, thinking the Goddess would not approve, but waters came through her features and after him. A wave reached out like a giant black hand, engulfing him and dragging him into the depths.
Chapter 15: Dragons, Barmaids and Demons
The cold waters enveloped Tarion. Instinctively he struck out, swimming blindly for the surface. It was no use. Something sucked him deeper. His mouth gasped open. He fought the urge to breathe, but his lungs ached for air. Desperation gave way to panic—it couldn’t end this way!
He looked down into the inky black water and he saw them. They were mer-people. Their green eyes glowed, casting a faint luminescence on their scaly greenish-silver bodies. Two of the mer-men had Tarion by his boots. They looked back, grinning at him, their small sharp teeth gleaming. Webbed feet kicking, the mer-men drew Tarion at tremendous speed further from shore and deeper into the sea. He had to act. Drawing his sword was difficult against the current, but it was all he could do. Holding the blade like a dagger Tarion stabbed down at the mer-man’s hands. The blade dug into his boot, he could feel it tug against the leather but he felt a pair of hands let go as well. A cry welled up from below. He stabbed down again and struck his own foot again, but again the hands let go. He was free!
Tarion struck out for the surface. As he swam, he became aware of many angry voices all around him. Deep-throated horns reverberated through the deeps. Looking around, Tarion spied the swimming forms of many mer-people, their tridents flashing dully. A few cast harpoons. He twisted clumsily away, but none hit him. They sped by him and disappeared, trailing a thin stream of glimmering bubbles. It was only a matter of time. He’d never out run the mer-people in their own element.
Tarion broke the surface and gasped for breath. Filling his lungs with three great breaths, he took his bearings. All was dark. The waters were black as pitch flecked with bright silver foil from the light of the Godsbridge. Where was the town? He couldn’t be that far out to sea. Desperately, he turned in the water. The lights of the city appeared behind him. There was nothing else to do, holding his sword reversed in his left hand Tarion struck out for the shore nearest the town. It was perhaps a hundred yards away, but he had no choice. To make matters worse, the sword hampered his only hand. His arms were all but useless. Tarion made little headway and he could feel the mer-people closing in. What else could he do?
Then he felt it.
There was something else in the water. Looking back down into the depths all he could see were the dim shapes of the mer-people all around. Inexplicably they scattered and he was alone in the water. His deliverance was short lived; he felt the movement of some great body in the depths. To his horror, a huge white conical head loomed out of the darkness. A set of jaws as wide as he was tall opened to reveal row upon row of triangular white teeth. Tarion turned to fight for his life.
The enormous head dove beneath him and swept by. Tarion heard a voice say, “Grasp my fin!” A sail-like fin knifed through the water. Tarion latched onto the base with the crook of his right arm. The shark moved so fast it almost jerked his arm out of its socket, but the fin was taller than he was. Tarion scraped painfully along it, but he held on. The shark was too large to see in the darkness, but he could feel the heavily muscled body undulating beneath him. He could only guess at the speed. The wonder of his rescue gave way to the searing pain in his lungs, but the shark seemed to read his mind. He broke the surface and sped along, heading directly for Trondheim.
“Thanks for the help!” he gasped, not really expecting an answer.
The shark surprised him. “Not all powers are aligned with the Destructor! I am Megladon. Nord, the God of Seas called me. The Goddess Freya has rallied all the remaining Gods on your behalf. You are not alone Tarion. Still, we’re not out of danger yet!” The lights of Trondheim were close, but the chase wasn’t over. Alongside the shark, long necked sea dragons closed in. Riding on their backs, the mer-people brandished their harpoons. Several flew at him and the shark. Tarion batted them away with his blade. That method of attack failing, they closed on Tarion and Megladon. The water foamed at their breasts as they ran the huge shark down, their mouths snapping at him with needle sharp teeth. The shark wove back and forth, driving the dragons back. It bit several of the dragons and Tarion felt the warm foam of their blood wash over him. Despite the peril of his protector, the mer-men and their dragons didn’t give up the chase until Megladon beached himself on the gravel of the shore. With one last twist of his enormous body, the shark flung Tarion off his back and onto land. It was a selfless act, for as soon as the mer-men and the sea dragons f
ound they couldn’t reach Tarion they attacked the beached behemoth.
“Flee, you are safe now! Get away from the shore!” said the thoughts of Megladon.
“No!” Tarion roared, springing his wrist blade and waving his sword. He ran along the shore, shouting, “Come on, carrion! Do you want me; then have at me!”
The mer-people blew their conch horns and turned the sea dragons after Tarion.
“Many thanks, Lady Freya sends her regards!” said Megladon and he plunged back into the depths.
“Freya again,” he thought, but that was all he had time for. Tarion found himself in a forest of serpentine necks, each with a smallish head equipped with rows of needle sharp teeth and horns. As the sea dragons bit at him, the mer-men stabbed with their harpoons. He was in the middle of a basket of snakes and barbs, snapping at his head and arms. Tarion knew the prudent course would be to retreat up the gravel beach, but his anger got the best of him, again. Here was something he could fight, without questions or mystery. They wanted him; he wanted to make them pay.
The air hummed as he wove the sword and knife back and forth, reveling in every slash of steel on flesh with a macabre satisfaction. Warm splashes of blood mixed with the chilling froth of the sea. The dragons hissed and honked at him. The mer-men shouted in their eerily keening voices. He laughed at them, egging them on—madness overtook sanity. Even when a dragon butted him in the chest, knocking him into the bloody foam of the surf, Tarion didn’t take the momentary opportunity to retreat. He waited for the maw to lash down at him and drove the knife through the dragon’s palate and out the back of its head.
The dragon thrashed about in the bloody surf, screaming in agony. Tarion yanked the blade out of the brain and the great body convulsed and went limp. The head snapped reflexively like a puppet gone mad. It champed frantically at his head, almost taking off his nose, but instead clamped down blindly on his left shoulder. He slashed through the neck with his sword and the body dropped like a stone, but the jaws still didn’t release him. The head and about three feet of neck remained hanging painfully off his shoulder. Tarion staggered up the gravel beach and out of reach of the water before the mer-men and their monsters returned to take advantage of his predicament.
The Last Praetorian Page 17
