Tarion twisted the dragon’s head around and threw a brawny arm around its neck and Rowena followed. To Tarion, her dragon had no more strength than the woman did. Presently, he had both of them firmly in his grasp. He squeezed her throat enough to make his intentions as translucent as her beast. The image of the dragon withered and in the crook of his arm, he had a very angry but very helpless woman.
“You have but one chance to save yourself, Rowena. Now tell me: where was it you were trying to send me and why? Answer me!”
Rowena’s unladylike curse was her only response.
“Why is it you creatures are so blasted stubborn?” he said roughly, lifting Rowena up and hurling her through the gate. The portal flared briefly and he saw Rowena on the other side. Instead of rising, she took a knee and bowed her head in submission. The massive darkness of the Destructor loomed over her.
Tarion and the Destructor appraised each other for a moment and the shadow said, “Praetorian, you are beginning to pass the bounds of amusement!”
“Amusement,” Tarion exclaimed. In a mixture of tedious frustration and sudden illumination, he dared ask the Destructor a question. “Is that all we are to you; are we nothing more than amusement?”
Naugrathur crossed his mighty arms over his deep chest. His eyes narrowed to slits of smoldering flame, ready to burst in a sudden explosion of fury, but somehow curious at the same time. “What is it Praetorian, what is it you wish to know?”
“I wish to know why, Dread Lord!” he asked sternly. “Why you, the most powerful being in the multiverse bring so much strife to the world, when your unsurpassed wisdom and knowledge could raise the world to splendorous heights? Why do you deal so much death and suffering, when you could do so much good?”
The Destructor bowed his head and clasped his hands behind his back. He began to pace, glancing every few moments at the Praetorian. “I expected that question sooner from you, but then my expectations for you have always been high! You wish the answer, truly?”
“Yes.”
The Destructor stopped and looked down on Tarion. “Then you do not think my actions are due to innate and impersonal evil?”
“Of course not!” Tarion replied sternly. “You were Tyr—Tyr—the selfless God who taught humanity honor.” He shook his head with consternation. “I cannot reconcile Tyr with the Destructor!”
“You impress me yet again Praetorian,” the Destructor replied, renewing his pacing. “Therefore, I say your boldness requires an answer.” He stopped and faced the Praetorian. His eyes flared brightly and he said, “Chaos, Tarion, that is your answer—chaos! Whatever evil I may have done through my aggression or alliances it is insignificant to the evil done by chaos! How many wars, famines or catastrophes has freewill caused in the history of the world? How many have come to grief? The number is beyond reckoning. I alone have the power to make chaos into order, all-knowing, all-encompassing order. Is it just that a man in Roma has food while a man in Trondheim does not? Is it just that a child in the west grows up in ruins and a child in the east learns his letters? Chaos destroys the equality that is demanded by justice.”
“The Imperium gave everyone equal opportunity under its banner, until you destroyed it.”
“The Imperium was flawed, driven by flawed men over a road of mislaid stones.”
“We are flawed, Dread Lord,” Tarion argued. “We are men, we are not perfect, but we learn from our mistakes—that is how we grow. We learn by gauging ourselves against our examples—examples like Tyr, and Thor and Syf!”
“How many thousands upon thousands suffer for those mistakes, Tarion?” The Destructor said evenly. “Examples are not enough; history shows that. You need guidance, you need laws and you need the structure of my dominion to purge your lives of the mistakes that you make time and time again—do you not see? My wisdom and my knowledge can free you of all doubt and hardship! All men have to do is live and no longer suffer. That is what I offer.”
“What of desire, striving, seeking to better oneself through effort? These are the things that make men proud and worthy,” Tarion argued. “You cannot impose happiness; the Creator has placed it in our hearts. If we do not strive for it, we will never gain it.”
The Destructor shook his head, saying, “You are an altruist Praetorian. I have ages of experience guiding me; I know best. If you cannot see that then you shall pay for your lack of vision.”
“My vision is just fine Dread Lord,” Tarion told the Destructor. “I know honor when I see it, integrity and faithfulness—none of that matters in your world. The only reality in your world is your code. What honor does a man need to follow a code when death and torment are the repercussions?”
“Honor; you dare to speak of honor?” the destructor said, and an evil laugh grew in his massive breast. He shook his mighty head at Tarion’s expression. “Oh I do not question you Tarion, Praetorian you are to the very violet of your blood and gold of your soul! Yet how can you name Thor and Syf or even Freya, your desperate, impossible love—honor! They have none! They have sold you Praetorian; don’t you know?”
“What are you talking of?” he demanded.
“You wear the talisman of the Bishop of Roma, a Truthstone of the Creator. You will know if I lie,” the Destructor said gleefully. His molten eyes narrowed, and he said viciously, “You are not a man, you are a carcass! You are not meant for the life you lead—honorable and glorious though it is—no, you will not ever feel the kiss of Freya though she shall certainly love your body. I lament it, truly I do Tarion, for even as my honorable foe you deserve better.”
“I do not understand,” Tarion growled.
The Destructor laughed, but it was a bitter laugh as if even he was troubled by what he said. “Tarion, this body is not yours! It is intended for the Wanderer! He cannot reanimate himself. King Alfrodel was his key from Limbo, your father was the bearer of his Lifethread and you, yes you Tarion, were to supply the flesh, blood and muscle of his mortal raiment. The Wanderer used you all to your deaths!”
The Destructor crossed his arms over his breast again, standing imperious before Tarion. As if he were standing atop a mountain, he decreed, “The world is set for my dominion. You, Tarion are a unique adversary and so I would wish you better, yet it is not to be.”
Tarion gazed into his brooch with astonished fatality. What the Destructor said was true.
Naugrathur growled with a voice as harsh as a hurricane. “This book is over. Alas, you have striven for the people of this world, right or wrong, but this world has no place for you Tarion!”
CHAPTER 29: Departure
The gate closed. The Destructor’s words stunned Tarion to his core. His death lay at the end of this journey. With a growing bitterness in his soul Tarion ransacked the castle, gathering jewelry, gems and some of the older spell books. In Rowena’s bedroom, he found her private hoard. A passage led from the interior of a tall wardrobe opposite her bed. The door had no lock and he assumed a spell sealed it, but to his surprise, it opened when he pulled on the brass ring.
Lamps sprang to life as he entered. Within was a small but fantastic chamber with dozens of magic items. One thing in particular caught his eye: it was a horn of gold lying on a bed of purple velvet. Tarion picked up the horn and read the runes. It was the Horn of Heimdall; the gateway to Asgard.
“Well, well, Rowena I’m in your debt after all,” he smiled. “If you hadn’t come for me I’d have never found this. Now, let the Wanderer answer to these troubles; I am tired to death with them!”
He turned to leave. There was an armoire standing in the corner he hadn’t seen. Tarion was satisfied. He didn’t need any more treasure. Indeed, he joked darkly to himself, “How much treasure does a carcass need? I certainly don’t need to keep any of this for the Wanderer’s use!”
However, since he was being thorough in his sacking of Rowena’s treasures he went through the armoire anyway. What he found changed everything.
Tarion burned the castle. He didn’t b
other returning through Trondheim; in fact, he hoped to avoid his friends and familiars. Instead, he went into the village below the castle. Tarion intended buying a small boat, and he did so, but the village swelled with refugees from the recently sacked capital Grosthammr. Tarion left his treasure with the village elders, “A gift so that you may know the Imperium is not dead, but that the hand of Empress Minerva may be felt even here in the furthest corner of the empire.”
That caused a small commotion, but Tarion did not stay for any accolades. He kept only a few gold crowns for his journey, slung the Horn of Heimdall over his shoulder and stuffed the rolled up scroll in his cloak.
With night coming on he set out to sea, sailing for the Iving and Asgard, sailing with the knowledge that everything he thought he knew about his past was wrong.
As he pointed the prow east along the coast and raised the purple sail, Tarion took out the scroll and read it one more time. The plot of the Gods to use him as the vehicle for the Wanderer’s return—literally—was even more macabre when the scroll made it clear who his true mother was—Freya.
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