The Last Praetorian (11 page)

“Who are you who come to collect Tarius the Renowned?”

Tarion turned away and dragged his father down the passage.

“Hold, I command you!” The Destructor held forth a claw and closed it slowly as if to hold Tarion where he was. Indeed, an ethereal hand reached out for him. A hum sounded in the court and the marble shook. Tarion felt something clutch him with tremendous force. It was as if he moved beneath the waters. Every effort was slow and painstaking, but he could still move. When he passed within the threshold of the tunnel the spell broke. He hurried down the passage.

The thunderous voice rolled angrily behind him. “Very well, then the Gods themselves shall retrieve you! Fenrir, go forth and fetch this vagabond for me!”

Tarion heard a monstrous growl behind. Glancing back, he saw a huge shaggy wolf next to the Destructor. The God-wolf howled and leapt across the open space and into the tunnel. Tarion sped forward as fast as he could, refusing to give up his father. The growls and howls of Fenrir grew and the wolf would certainly have caught him quickly but for the confines of the
tunnel. He barely squeezed his bulk inside. His enormous shoulders scraped the ceiling, so all he could manage was a slinking walk. Still, burdened as Tarion was, Fenrir gained on him.

“Ah, it’s you Tarion! The Destructor may not have seen through your Norse garb but I know your scent; I can smell your flesh,” Fenrir said. “Don’t make things worse for yourself! You cannot escape. Once we’re out of this hole there’s no hope of outrunning me.”

Tarion plodded on, sweat streaming down his face. Fenrir was right.

“Leave me!” The words struck his mind like a cold slap in the face.

“I will not!” he gasped, redoubling his effort. On he went and the light grew at the end of the tunnel, but the sound of Fenrir grew as well, along with his threats and curses.

“If you make this difficult and I’ll shred your sinew from your bone while you still live. Can you hear me? Answer me Tarion!”

 Tarion stepped into the open air on the marble landing. The weather turned while he was in the mountain and he could see barely fifty yards either direction. The stairs disappeared into the glooms and beyond, down the mountain, there was nothing at all.

“I’m coming; stay where you are!” Fenrir’s eyes gleamed in the tunnel and the cloud of his breath billowed out like dragon’s breath. The wolf was right. He’d never escape in the open. He had no choice. Tarion walked back to the entrance of the tunnel. “That’s wise, stay right there. I’m coming. We can be civilized about this!” His eyes narrowed, baring his fangs in a malevolent grin.

Tarion bent over his father and grabbed the edges of the Achaean shield.

“Stop you fool!”

Tarion drove hard against the edge of the landing and pushed the shield before him. As he left the stone, Tarion leapt onto his father and flew out into space.

CHAPTER 7:
  Gaurnothax

Tarion landed hard in the snow, almost flying off the makeshift sled, but after a few bumps and skids, the shield found its footing and careened down the mountainside. Down he sped, fighting the flippant thought that long ago, as a child, his father had taught him to sled in exactly the same manner upon his Praetorian shield!

“We’re at it again Father, with Fenrir on our heels!”

After dropping thousands of feet and covering several miles, a dark line appeared out of the white blur of snow— trees. Tarion had only a moment to realize the danger and then the shield struck a stone. He flew high into the air, losing his grip on the shield and his father. Tarion crashed into the bristly green treetops. Needle-clad branches whipped and grabbed him with knobby fingers, stopping his flight, dropping him through level after level of branches. The snow-covered ground rushed up and smacked him hard, but his legs swung out into space. Tarion started to slide over the edge of another cliff, but in a final frenzied burst of effort, he wrapped his arms around the closest tree and held on. When he finally regained his breath, Tarion looked around for his father, but a growling rumble drew his attention back up the mountain. A frothing white wave of snow and ice surged through the trees and headed right for him; his sledding triggered an avalanche. Tarion ducked his head and tightened his grip around the tree. The slide hit him and flowed over him, pummeling him with rock and ice. The bark ripped at his arms, but he hung on, fluttering like a pennant in a frigid wind. The snow groaned and growled, tearing at his arms and pulling at his legs, but still Tarion hung on. After an eternity, the slide slowed and at last stopped, leaving him dangling over the cliff—panting.

With a vast sense of relief, Tarion ventured a look down. To his surprise, the avalanche gathered in a pile only three yards beneath his boots. It spread out in a steep cone over a gently sloping forest floor. Somehow, his father’s bundled body landed
atop the slide, still on the shield, clean of snow, as if placed there by a reverent giant.

Tarion didn’t dare question Providence. “Maybe my luck’s changing.”

He was about to let go when the green-black snout of a forest dragon poked out of the snow. Tarion cursed silently and held on. “After all this, I’m going to end the day plucked like a grape off the vine!”

Directly beneath him, the dragon snorted. His rolling bassoon voice accosted the quiet forest. “Blast and bethunder, Gaurnothax is awake again—that’s a fine way to reward my stewardship of this wasteland! Blast the
emperor for seizing a day in winter—typical mortal trick! Hey, what ho, what’s this?” He nosed Tarius’s body. “Someone’s left a gift on my doorstep!”

Gaurnothax seemed quite excited at the discovery of Tarion’s father. He wormed his way out of his lair and with the greatest of care examined the body of Tarius. “This is royalty, yes, that’s quite clear. The tunic is of the finest quality, this is real gold thread—by Jormungand’s fetid breath! It’s the Praetorian seal on his cloak! How now, could it be?” With his claw, Gaurnothax dexterously opened the cloak. He gasped with pleasure. “There’s mark of the Praetorian on his armor, this fellow was General of the Legions, my word!” Gaurnothax was beside himself with glee. “Oh, you will go in a place of honor! The casket, the crystal casket from the elven caravan of 1273, I knew it would come in handy!” Swiftly, but with the utmost care, the dragon took Tarius’s body within his lair.

Tarion took the opportunity to steady himself. He tried to climb the bank but there was too much snow piled up on the edge. He’d have to jump. As he was about to let go, he heard Gaurnothax again. Tarion had no choice but to hold on.

The dragon came back out, shoving his serpentine body of muscle, horn and scale through the avalanche, widening the path he’d already made. His unexpected booty didn’t seem to improve his mood. Gaurnothax growled and spat, cursing at the strangeness of the day’s events—quite suddenly, he stiffened. His eyes grew wide as saucers
. He exclaimed, “Could the spell be over? After running the same bloody day over and over again for a thousand years, could this gift be something new?” Gaurnothax shook his great head. His scales rattled and a wisp of caustic gas escaped the dragon’s nostrils and drifted into Tarion’s nose. He stifled a sneeze.

“If this is a new day what happens to the rest of the old day?” The dragon sat on his haunches like an oversized cat and cocked his head to the side. “I definitely get up in the middle of winter, but I don’t remember anything about a Praetorian Knight appearing on my doorstep. Why is it that I wake up?” He shook his head in obvious irritation. “You’d think I’d remember after so many repetitions of the same blasted day!”

“Go inside and gaze at your new prize,” Tarion grumbled silently, his neck cramping from looking down over his shoulder, “Go on, I can’t hang around here all day!”

The dragon ignored Tarion’s silent request and cocked his head first one way and then the other. His great ears perked up. The long neck craned forward toward the woods. A sound welled up from below.

A shiver rippled noisily from the dragon’s spiked tail to his horned skull. The faint clomp of heavy steps drifted up from the woods. The dragon’s long ears turned to the sound and venom dripped from his smiling lips, hissing in the snow.

“Well now, at least some things are constant!” Gaurnothax said. “Splendid, it’s the mastodon and the man trespassing through my lands just as they have thousands of times before!”

Tarion started.
A mastodon and man; could it be Hrolf—he survived?

“They never learn. I must sally forth ere this day starts my prey thinking anew! The world’s clock is ticking again and so is my hunger.”

Gaurnothax slithered down the slope, a serpentine shadow of jade winding in and out of the dark trees. In a moment, he was gone and Tarion was safe. He dropped down onto the snow and made his way to the ground. For a moment, he hesitated but his course was obvious. “Father no one’s going to bother you inside the dragon’s lair; I’ve got to help Hrolf!”

Tarion extended his wrist-blade and drew his sword, following the dragon’s trail. It was easy enough; the snow was
fresh and Gaurnothax was a big drake. Tarion glided through the woods as he had innumerable times before, only this time he hunted dragon not stag. He found his quarry hiding by the side of a snow-covered road behind a glossy green shrub of holly. The dragon didn’t notice him, so intent was he on the huge shambling shape of the mastodon. Tarion could see the well-bundled figure of the driver slumped over its shoulders, oblivious to his peril—it was Hrolf. So at least Hrolf had survived the attack the night before.

Tarion stepped behind a pine tree and surveyed the dragon through a gap in the needles.
Gaurnothax is a forest dragon, Draconis Nemorosus; a three-ton hunting dragon that breaths a noxious cloud of gas and kills by tooth, claw and tail spike—very mean tempered and dangerous, but no spells.
He thought about Gaurnothax for a moment and realized that the dragon must have known his mother.
Gotthab is north of Trondheim. Gaurnothax must have been here when Julienna was made priestess, before she ascended to the seat at Ostheim!
Unfortunately, Tarion couldn’t remember anything else about Gaurnothax, his politics or his character. It didn’t matter; he had to stop the attack. The best way to do so was to surprise the dragon. The tip of his blade in the small hollow behind the dragon’s shoulder would freeze Gaurnothax. Nine inches inside the ribs was the heart; he could almost see the organ beating through the scales, ribs and flesh.

“Let me get to that spot and then we’ll sort this out.” Tarion took a deep breath and whispered, “One, two, three, four and it’s over.”

The mastodon pulled alongside the holly, but as Tarion took his first stride, Gaurnothax sprang. The dragon struck the mastodon like a javelin, knocking the beast off balance. His long jaws clamped down on the mastodon’s throat as the rest of him clung to the side of the huge beast. Gaurnothax’s fore claws gripped the hairy hide as his rear claws ripped at the mastodon’s belly. A steaming tangle of entrails spilled onto the clean snow. The mastodon screamed, slipping in its own gore and throwing Hrolf. Gaurnothax bit down, ripping at the beast’s throat. The throes of the hairy beast grew weaker and weaker, until it stumbled and fell, emitted a final gurgling sigh and died.

The attack took only a moment and Tarion could do nothing to stop it. He ran to the bank directly behind the dragon.

“Gaurnothax!” the driver cried, rising from the road and drawing his sword.

“Trying to pass through my lands without the customary tribute are you? You know the penalty for that!”

“A thousand pardons, Gaurnothax, I was hurrying home and thought you were asleep. I’ll triple the tribute—on my word!”

Gaurnothax growled, obviously angry at the perceived affront. “If I forgive one offense then I invite many more; you must think me soft or dotard! There’ll be no bargain man!”

The man made a sign on his breast. “May Thor let me die well; Lady Syf please watch over my family!”

Climbing atop the dead mastodon, Gaurnothax gloated, “Don’t you worry, Gaurnothax shall send you to Odin’s table promptly! Alas for you, this day is as cursed as ever!”

The dragon coiled his long tail. With a loud crack, he snapped it like a whip. Hrolf let out a cry and the sword flew out of his hands. It spun lazily over the dragon’s head and buried itself in the snow at Tarion’s feet.

A sharp hiss caused Tarion to glance upward. He looked straight into the golden eyes of the dragon. Tarion and Gaurnothax stared at each other. Then in a sudden flurry of action, the dragon charged. As Gaurnothax’s frightening head came at him, Tarion parried it with his sword and ducked under the open maw. The head shot past and Tarion felt the warm, bloody breath and the hot spatter of acid. Tarion drove his shoulder into the dragon’s throat. In the same motion, he rammed his wrist-blade upward. Gaurnothax coughed, but quick as a flash the dragon spun around. The blade scraped against the dragon’s scales but didn’t penetrate. Gaurnothax knocked him sprawling with his tail.

Tarion rolled up, but the dragon was instantly on him, snapping and striking at him with serpent-like quickness. Tarion ducked, parried and batted the dragon’s head aside, slashing at the head and neck, leaving a deep gash in the dragon’s cheek and several lesser wounds. The exchange was sharp and instinctive, but neither gained an immediate advantage. The dragon pulled back, circling Tarion and licking his wounds, eyeing him warily.

Tarion backed toward Hrolf, “You’d best get under cover, Hrolf!”

“Who are you,” Hrolf asked in amazement.

“Yes who are you?” Gaurnothax added angrily. “How dare you interfere with my business?”

“I’ll exchange peace for this man’s life,” Tarion growled. “I don’t have any argument with you Gaurnothax. Let’s keep it that way. I promise that he will pay triple his tribute!”

“Oh this is just grand! Do you think I’m an idiot, raised with no sense of protocol,” Gaurnothax snorted. “Why on Midgard would I strike a bargain with an unnamed vagabond? I’d be laughed out of the ethers!”

“I warn you not to discount me Gaurnothax. I have business here as well—personal business.”

“What would that be?” the dragon asked.

Tarion had an idea. “I am tasked to rebuild the druid’s temple in Gotthab.”

“
Gotthab is within the bounds of my territory,” Gaurnothax insisted. “Even the duke of Trondheim recognizes that. If you are truly a civilized man, you should go through the duke before you bother me with your business. Don’t they teach protocol in Roma anymore? Aye, I can tell you’re an Imperial by your accent!”

Tarion advanced three steps on the dragon, brandishing his blades to make it obvious that he wasn’t afraid and that he did not accept the dragon’s argument—Tarion knew better than any man how to deal with dragons, but he had to prove it to Gaurnothax. “This is none of the
duke’s business. I have the authority of the Imperial Praetoriate and a High Priestess of the Goddess Syf herself—is that enough weight behind my business?” He stopped before the dragon and brandished his weapons. “I grow tired of this banter, Gaurnothax. You ask for protocol, very well! I give you a choice. Either you refute my claim through combat or accept it and parley with a man of equal station. How do you choose?”

“You claim much without a name stranger,” Gaurnothax told him, chomping his lips in indecision. “What certainty do I have if you won’t even name yourself?”

“My passport lies within your lair at this moment.”

Gaurnothax started. His eyes narrowed. “Are you here to claim him?”

“No,” Tarion said. “He may lie in state under your care within the rebuilt temple of the druids—that is my quest.” Tarion lowered his blades and applied to Gaurnothax’s ego and greed. “You shall be the only drake in Midgard to house a Praetorian and a High Priestess of Lady Syf. Even the Gods will treat your realm with reverence! Certainly no hunting beast ever had such a trove.”

“Yes, there is a passport to royalty here,” Gaurnothax smiled, hooking his lip with one of his claws as he thought about the proposal. Venom dripped from his jowls in anticipation of his fame, sizzling through the snow. After going through the advantages and disadvantages in his avaricious brain, he nodded at Tarion. “The idea has merit; only one thing keeps me from accepting—you. Why the mystery, who are you; why is this your quest?”