Tarion didn’t understand the runes, but when she said, “Elucidar,” it sent a cold shudder through his spine.
“Does this make any sense to you?”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
Beath sighed and said, “Very well, you are entwined in the fate of the Twain—whoever they are—and they in turn are bound to the doom of Ragnarok. That makes sense,” she announced, looking up at him. “Everyone is bound in one way or another with Ragnarok. However, it seems that this Twain has a personal stake in the end of the world. They might be immortals, like elves, or Gods. The runes don’t say, but look here!”
Beath held up the Twain rune, showing him a man shaped stick figure with a line drawn through it. “There is some internal conflict here, but what it is I don’t know.”
“So how do you read this?” Tarion asked.
Beath scrunched up her face but said, “If I have to take a stab at it then the simplest answer is probably the most correct. The Twain—whoever they are—are in conflict and they have been since Elucidar. That conflict will only end with Ragnarok.”
“Could the Twain be Villi and Ve?” he asked.
“Perhaps if we knew what Elucidar was we could find out,” she replied. She scratched her head, making her already dry hair a halo of gray, wiry fuzz. Reading from her book, she said, “Elucidar is a paradox and may not even exist. Supposedly, it’s a dimension of pure time, a point in space and yet the entirety of the universe. Elucidar is a concept, but by the meaning of the rune, it’s a place or an event.”
She shook her head and took out her ball again. “This doesn’t explain how the Twain come from Elucidar.” Beath set up her ball again. “Perhaps if we look into Elucidar itself we shall learn something. Show me Elucidar!”
The room went dark. A rush of sound assailed their ears. It was like the grinding of vast machines within the bowels of the earth. Beath’s eyes opened wide in terror as a dark silhouette appeared. The figure turned towards them and two molten eyes gleamed from the darkness. The eyes narrowed and a deep bass voice of terrible power asked, “Who is this? Who defies boldness to look upon me?”
Beath screamed. Tarion swiftly threw his cloak over the ball. The light returned to the room. Stillness settled through the dusty air. Finally, the innocent sounds of the street filtered back through the door, interrupted only by Beath’s heavy breathing.
“I will say no more,” Beath said in a frightened voice. “Nothing you pay me will further my effort here. Leave me be!”
“Then who can answer this riddle?” Tarion asked.
“Ask Odin, the AllFather, he is the master of all riddles and has nothing to lose. Now go, I beg you!”
#
Naugrathur watched Tarion leave the shop. The old seer bolted the door and drew the curtains. When she turned back, she noticed the ball had not gone completely dark. She screamed.
“Enough of that, woman, come sit before me,” he demanded, more amused than irritated. He was in the middle of a death match between two of the devils desiring the Duchy of Ferrus. His mind turned away from dominion and he gazed through the ethers to the quaint interior of Beath’s shop. Forcing the wizened woman to take his eyes, he probed her lightly, not wishing to torment—simply curious.
“Well, now, who have we here, Beath is it? I had not heard of you in the mystic circles. Was I mistaken? Are you bold enough to make a claim upon my attention?” The terrified old witch simply stared back at him. “Speak woman, I command you! Why did you wish to see the Destructor?”
“I sought the origin of the Twain for a customer, my Dread Lord,” she stammered, only half-aware of her words.
“Indeed, tell me all you know of this man’s visit. Leave out no detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem!” Naugrathur listened patiently to the woman’s litany. When she finished, he released her, frightened but unharmed and closed the portal.
He considered the encounter for a moment and stopped the death match. “I have something to attend to,” he said simply. “We shall continue at my leisure.”
Naugrathur climbed to the tower chamber and went to his stone basin. As he bathed his face, the Dread Lord reflected on the tumultuous events of the last days. “I am hamstrung by the necessities of dominion, not the least of which is maintaining my power. Yet I cannot allow Tarion free rein over the world. What to do?”
He leaned over the basin in thought, allowing the flames to lick his flesh. “Thus far the Gods have failed me. Neither Loki nor his son Fenrir succeeded in capturing this mortal man. The mortal world requires a mortal answer,” he growled, straightening and waving his hand over the basin. The brew boiled, forming a cloud of glowing lavender vapor. “I need my own knights to ride against him and haunt him as he haunts me—yet that magic will take time. In the meantime I must dog his steps to Asgard.”
He uttered the name, “Rowena,” and the cloud pulsed to life, revealing the features of an extremely pale woman. She had a lean face, piercing eyes and braids like snakes on the head of the Medusa. She could be beautiful, for she was still young, but the haughty disdain of her expression would prevent even the most ardent suitor from approaching her.
She bowed her head. “How may I serve you, my Dread Lord?”
“I have a perilous quest for you, Rowena. Do you desire to attain another level of ambition?”
“Of course, Dread Lord,” she answered, her eyes sparkling.
“Tarion Praetorian is in the city of Trondheim and has just left the shop of one Beath, a seer of mean skill.”
“I know of her, Dread Lord.”
“This is no ordinary man,” Naugrathur said. “He has no fear of crossing swords with Karkedon or me. He has been tested by direct means, yet not perhaps by the subtleties of your own art.” He appraised her reaction for a moment. Then he warned her. “Beware of him. Under normal circumstances I would not put you before the path of such a power.”
He saw the flash of pride in her eyes and said, “Peace! Do not be disturbed, Rowena. I had other plans for you; you are the most skilled mortal of your age and you have the pluck to match your powers. Yet you have many years before you and much to learn. I would rather nurture you to greatness, but now we have a unique opportunity. Tarion finds himself caught in a maze of intrigue that makes even the Imperial court pale in comparison. That is your advantage. You must be subtle. Do not depend on directness. If you can bring him to your abode incapacitated, I will bring him hither and you shall come to Durnen-Gul for my personal tutelage.”
“Worry not, Dread Lord, I have used this last age constructively—I’ve a thousand years of study while most mortals spent each day as the last. I shall be in Trondheim within a few moments. I have a gate for every major village or town in this realm.”
“Good, fare you well, Rowena!”
Naugrathur cut the connection and returned to the arena to choose a new Lord of Ferrus.
#
Tarion wandered the streets in frustration. Beath confirmed a terrifying link between Naugrathur and the Wanderer, but no more. The place or event of Elucidar only deepened the mystery. If he wanted answers, he had no choice but to seek Odin. “It doesn’t matter, if I restore the Wanderer, they can keep their secrets.”
“What secrets do you seek?” asked a friendly voice. Tarion looked up to see Alexandrus looking at him.
Tarion stopped, and smiled, “Alexandrus! Well now, it’s good to see you alive.”
“Thanks to your skill with a spear,” the wizard smiled. He pointed to the bundle Tarion carried under his arm. “I couldn’t help but notice you have at least seven staffs wrapped up in there. Now, since you are no mage I imagine you’d like to sell them. Would you like to come in?”
“As a matter of fact I would,” Tarion said and Alexandrus showed him into his shop. “So this is what you do. I can’t say I approve,” the Praetorian noted gravely. “Your place is in Roma. That’s where the Imperium needs you—especially now.”
“Oh I think the Imper
ial Incantator Ankhura would disagree,” Alexandrus chuckled mirthlessly.
The shop was meticulously clean and orderly to the point of distraction. A gaily-colored parrot watched him from its perch, squawking and chortling to itself.
“All the more reason to keep you there,” the Praetorian said dryly. Tarion noticed some ragged scars on Alexandrus’s neck. They looked like tooth marks. “How have you been? Does the night still haunt you?”
Alexandrus knew what Tarion meant and he nodded. “It does, but we have skilled apothecaries in Trondheim; although they charge a hefty price in gold for peace of mind!”
Changing the subject, he led Tarion to a heavy table. “Put them here. Let’s see what you have! I’ve heard of your exploits, Tarion; there’s little talk of anything else. You’ve been busy since that terrible night!”
Tarion unrolled the bundle with eight staffs, a smaller one with a dozen wands and emptied an even smaller bag that contained a score of rings and amulets. Alexandrus looked them over with a frown, as if to distinguish whether or not they might be fit for his shop. The frown deepened as he examined them minutely.
Tarion noticed Alexandrus’s discomfort. “Are you all right Alexandrus? Are the wounds bothering you?”
Baer, the sylvan giant noticed his master’s demeanor as well, but he read the signs differently. With a growing scowl the giant ducked beneath the low beam and retrieved a large studded mace. The giant positioned himself between Tarion and the door.
“You want me to tie him up boss?”
Alexandrus looked up with some surprise. He had been so absorbed with the magical hardware he hadn’t even noted Baer’s actions. Holding up a hand the wizard said, “No, no Baer. Bless me, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you! Indeed, Baer this man Tarion has done no evil! You can relax.”
The giant scratched his head and shrugged, putting his club back in the corner. He came up behind Alexandrus, obviously still concerned and somewhat confused.
“I apologize Tarion, I was nearly overcome by these,” he hesitated, shaking his head.
“What is it Alexandrus?” Tarion insisted.
The wizard straightened without taking his eyes off the booty. His face changed between sorrow, anger and wonder. Finally, he looked at Tarion. “I must ask you how you came across these items. You may not know it; indeed, you must be completely ignorant of the fact, but some of these items are from persons known in this city. I made several of these items myself for friends. I must ask you what became of their owners?”
Tarion had enough adventures behind him to recognize Alexandrus’s confusion. He didn’t take it personally. Shrugging the large leather bag off his shoulder, Tarion opened it and dumped the head of the Idjar on the table. “Did you know you had one of these living not a league from your door?”
Alexandrus paled. A long sullen silence followed, but his expression settled to one of great sadness. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Baer, a jar from the back, if you please,” he said, regaining his composure. The giant came back carrying a large glass jar half filled with an amber fluid. The wizard took the head and carefully placed it in the jar. The giant took it in the back.
“Alas, my friends are completely gone then, soul and all,” the wizard lamented. “It’s bad enough to have the id sucked out of you, as there is no hope in restoration without a remnant of the life force, but the Idjar sell the souls of their victims to the Nine Hells. It’s a damnable business!” He shook his head, as if to clear it from the horror. “You’re not interested in that; however, so let’s get down to our own business. I’ll pay you three hundred gold pieces for the lot, though it pains my heart to pay for that which I sold at one time to friends and colleagues.”
“No gold for those items,” Tarion said. “I’ll not profit by someone you knew.”
“I don’t know that I could sell them again, actually,” he said, picking out two staffs and three wands and setting them on the counter tenderly. “I’ve lost friends before, but never like this.”
“Then give them to someone of worth who may have the heart and skill for the vocation, if not the gold,” Tarion advised.
“A just use for them,” the shopkeeper mused. “I teach at the academy. Yes, I think we can find some worthy keepers. Very well then, the rest are not as good quality, mind you, but worth seventy-five gold pieces for the lot.”
“Your original price will still give you a healthy profit, Alexandrus,” Tarion said.
The man laughed, glancing at his bird and said, “You speak the truth Tarion! Very well, I’ll stand by that.” He got out a bottle and two glasses and poured out a vibrant ruby drink. “Here’s to a profitable exchange for both of us!”
“To our vocations,” he said, sipping the drink slowly. It was strong, fruity and smooth. “Excellent,” he said, “this wine will guarantee my business again.”
“It’s elven wine, of course. I have it sent here from a friend. I never could stomach the Norse version of wine,” Alexandrus explained. Then he looked at Tarion with a sparkle in his eyes and said, “Tarion, you speak of vocations, out of curiosity, what is yours? The last time I checked, Praetorian’s don’t change professions.”
“I am in a unique position,” he admitted, not one to sit or stand still, he toured the shop with absent-minded care. “Quests don’t always take into account one’s profession; certainly the God’s don’t give a damn what I want or what my duty is!” He emitted is signature strangled laugh and toasted Alexandrus. “Remember that when the station for the Imperial Incantator becomes available. My pull with Minerva is rather rocky right now but I’m certain my replacement will be wise enough to recommend you.”
“Your replacement?” Alexandrus inquired. He frowned and observed, “Even the Empress cannot replace the Praetorian!”
“Maybe not,” Tarion laughed, walking around the shop and looking at the wares, “but the Gods are intent on getting me killed, and quite frankly I’m at that point where the prospect has a certain merit to it!”
Alexandrus chuckled, “You’re proving rather difficult to kill Tarion! Yet be that as it may I don’t see Ankhura leaving any time soon!”
“He’s a damn fool and you know it as well as I,” Tarion said sharply. “He’s got too high an opinion of himself. Hunting vampires in the Aegyptus countryside does not qualify someone to be the Imperial Incantator. Just wait until he runs up against someone really nasty. Mark my words, the position will be open sooner than later!”
“I’m still not certain why that would that concern me,” Alexandrus asked in surprise, but there was a cloud on his brow, as if Tarion was digging in the sand and struck the deeply buried desire he treasured.
The Praetorian laughed again and stared at Alexandrus under his knit brows. “Don’t think that hiding in a small shop in Trondheim will conceal the wizard who somehow raided the Imperial treasury and made off with, shall we say a singular talisman. It was small, archaic and easily overlooked but still quite important mind you.”
“And you think I may have had something to do with it,” Alexandrus asked gravely.
“You retired from the chair of the Imperial Academy shortly after the item in question disappeared,” Tarion smiled, sipping from Alexandrus’s wine. “That in itself was suspicious, but it is the manner in which the wizard in question covered his tracks that intrigued me, although the Imperial Incantator Ankhura never saw the subtleties that pointed to such a talented and learned master of the arcane arts.”
“I didn’t know you were such a student of the arts,” Alexandrus said carefully, “Or that you were a sheriff.” Baer re-entered the room. “Is that why you’re here Praetorian, to arrest me?”
Tarion smiled and held out his goblet. Alexandrus refilled it. “Not at all, for what would it gain me. Indeed what justice would there be in that?” He sipped the wine again and his eyes grew sharp and hard. He held the wizard with his gaze. “Ankhura and I never saw eye to eye, but more important to me was my duty.” He went on his way
through the shop, forcing Alexandrus to follow him. “You see, I am not the Praetorian of normal times. Look at me, travelling in secret without my legions, even truth to tell without the permission of the empress.”
He turned back to Alexandrus. “I am the Praetorian of necessity and if I have to skirt the edges of tradition and convention to maintain the existence of the Imperium, I will.” He pointed to Alexandrus with his remaining hand. “You returned from self-imposed exile, endangering yourself, to construct the mystic defenses of Roma at our hour of need. Without you,” he shook his head, “well, let’s just say Ankhura’s skill does not rise to the level of his arrogance.”
Alexandrus laughed, and a portion of his unease disappeared, “We agree on that count!”
“Your service to Roma did not go overlooked Alexandrus; expect to be called back—not for an accounting, but because Roma needs you.” He paused to let that sink in. “Empress Minerva is young but she was schooled by Ancenar of Irevale for an age. He has the same lofty opinion of you that I do.”
“She is very young,” Alexandrus observed.
“Minerva is the most learned ruler ever to sit on the throne,” Tarion said seriously. “Her experience will catch up to her knowledge. When the position is vacant expect to be called back to service Alexandrus. Then, if necessary—and if I am still alive—I will come back to collect you if I must. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, Praetorian,” Alexandrus replied.
“I have one question for you Alexandrus, why here, why Trondheim? Certainly your talents would be appreciated in Haldieth?”
“I have family here,” he said evenly. “I came because of them and ended up in the last defense of Ostheim,” he frowned. “I would prefer to forget that day. I lost; well we all lost someone or something that day. My sister Katherine is haunted even now; she was pursued by Navernya, so she took refuge in dragon form to escape the minions of that dread lady.”
The Last Praetorian Page 30
