The Last Praetorian (12 page)

“That will be made clear in time, but not now,” Tarion told him. He raised his blades again. “What is your decision Gaurnothax, do you choose fame or insignificance?” Tarion knew how to stroke the dragon’s greed and his fear; every dragon dreaded being unknown. It was far better to die famously than live a long life to no purpose.

Gaurnothax laughed, but his laugh was as jovial and sincere as was possible for his people. “Your riddle isn’t that difficult to figure out. The Praetorian and a High Priestess of Syf in these parts—you’ve a family tie in there! Keep your secret; it doesn’t diminish my fortune by a single crown!” He laughed again
. In doing so, he caught sight of Hrolf. The Norseman slunk back behind a tree. The dragon pointed a claw at the man. “Just to be clear, none of this includes him!”

“Of course not, what value for his freedom?”

“Your diplomacy confirms my suspicion of you,” Gaurnothax smiled. “It really is a pleasure dealing with someone with an understanding of etiquette. You don’t know how I’ve suffered in this wilderness!” He looked Hrolf over, calculating an appropriate amount considering his station, his offense and the amount of inconvenience endured. With a sharp nod of certainty, he pronounced, “An Imperial crown for the man!”

Tarion dug in his pouch and produced the crown. He flipped it to Gaurnothax, “Done, are we agreed?”

The dragon caught the coin, looked it over and tucked it beneath a scale. Pounding the snowy lane with his fist, he announced, “I say yea to you and the idea—”

Gaurnothax stopped—frozen. A deep resonant rumble shook the air. A voice rolled through the earth and into the woods. It was beyond powerful, it was unmistakable—the Destructor!

“Seek out Tarion Praetorian! Find him, bind him, bring him to me—fame beyond measure my reward to thee!” A long pause followed and then the voice repeated the message and then a third time before it faded.

Gaurnothax’s demeanor changed in an instant. The dragon eyed Tarion narrowly. It was not a pleasant expression. “So that is your link to this drama; Tarion Praetorian son of Tarius Praetorian and High Priestess Julienna!” Acid foamed from his lips. “Alas, I think the Destructor’s tasking trumps any offer you can make, Tarion Praetorian!”

“We had an agreement Gaurnothax!”

“You know better than that! An unsealed pact is no pact at all; besides, I will have all we discussed and the Destructor’s glory as well! Surely, you realize I cannot turn
Him
down! It was a pleasure doing business with you, Tarion, but I’m afraid our course is now set!”

Gaurnothax charged. Tarion whirled as the long narrow head snapped at him, parrying with the wrist-blade on his right arm and following with a backhanded slash with his broadsword. The wrist-blade guided the snapping jaws away from his breast as he turned along the dragon’s neck, sword whistling, aiming for the exposed trunk of glistening scale. At the last moment, Gaurnothax turned
. The sword’s edge thumped not into exposed scales but the dragon’s thick dorsal plates. Tarion wrenched the blade free, snapping the dorsal plate at its base. Gaurnothax bit at him from one direction and clawed at him from another. The claw caught his bearskin coat and ripped the coat from his shoulders, sending Tarion spinning across the snow.

As he regained his footing, the tail spikes came at him, forcing Tarion to duck by rolling across the snow. He jumped up only to see Gaurnothax’s head swaying high above him. The dragon thrust his head forward, coming for him again, but Tarion slashed the dragon across the snout. Gaurnothax bit at the blade and missed. For a split second, his huge yellow eye was right there in front of Tarion; he stabbed at it with his wrist blade. Gaurnothax jerked his head back and the blade slipped along his brow, splashing Tarion with blood. The dragon cried out, pulling his head to the side and then swiping at Tarion with his horns. Caught between the dragon’s horns Tarion went flying.

He hit hard with his back against a tree, but there was Gaurnothax—right there. Tarion threw himself down just as the dragon’s jaws closed around where his head had been. The dragon instead chomped down on the tree, snapping it like a twig. The treetop toppled over, almost hitting Hrolf. The Norseman was hiding behind it and now he scrambled deeper into the woods.

Tarion took advantage of the dragon’s miss and rushed to his flank, seeking a clear path to his heart. Gaurnothax leapt back like a cat from scalding water. He landed thirty feet away. For a long moment they froze, eyeing each other. Then, they charged.

Gaurnothax slithered across the short space, claws whirling, his head thrust far out in front of his body with mouth agape. Tarion leapt straight at the dragon with sword held high. He brought the steel blade down in a killing blow, aiming for the center crease on the dragon’s skull. As he did so, he thrust his right arm with the wrist blade into the dragon’s maw. Gaurnothax’s teeth closed around his right arm and the blade sprang off a tusk and through the scaly cheek instead of the soft palate. Tarion’s sword glanced off one of the dragon’s horns and the flat of the blade bounced off the dragon’s skull. Tarion crashed into the dragon’s maw and the sword flew out of his hand.

The blow stunned Gaurnothax and though Tarion ran headlong into his tusks, he didn’t bite down. The dragon crashed to the road as Tarion cartwheeled over him and into the snow. The sword spun high up into the air and landed right next to the prostrate form of Gaurnothax. Tarion lurched groggily to his feet and leapt forward, hand outstretched. At the last moment, Gaurnothax snatched the sword away.

“Is this what you want, Tarion?” he asked with a diabolical chuckle. Dark rivulets of blood ran down his jowls and neck from his shredded cheek, making his leering, yellow, toothy grin truly ferocious. He took the sword and lashed it about the air, laughing, “Ah, the blade, man’s great equalizer. With it he can slay the mightiest of dragons, but without it he’s meat for the meanest vermin.” Gaurnothax tossed it far into the woods and raised his head. “How are you without your weapon, Tarion? Shall we see how stout your lungs are?”

Gaurnothax caught Tarion out in the open. The dragon’s long neck arched high above him and then thrust forward to create a straight pipe from lungs to maw. Crackling green gas and acid spewed forth, enveloping Tarion in a caustic cloud. He stumbled away, eyes stinging, lungs burning. The dragon’s breath could kill, but it was far more likely to cripple him, which in this case would be just as bad. He tried to get out of the cloud, but Gaurnothax to his credit kept it up. Tarion’s lungs ached
. The acid blinded him; he had no choice—with only his wrist-blade, he attacked. The move caught Gaurnothax by surprise.

The dragon stopped breathing and struck. The long green-horned head hurtled down at Tarion, but at the last moment, he leapt aside. Gaurnothax cursed as he missed, but Tarion took advantage of it and tackled the dragon’s head, hooking one horn in the crook of his left arm and placing his wrist-blade at the base of the dragon’s skull. Driving hard with his legs, Tarion forced the large head down onto the ground and pinned it with the weight of his body. Gaurnothax tried to wriggle free, but there his horns worked against him, as they gave Tarion something to grapple. He tried to raise his head on that long slender neck, but Tarion was just too heavy. Gaurnothax raised his head a few feet above the ground only to have Tarion knee him in the throat. The
dragon choked and coughed. Tarion rammed the dragon’s face back into the frozen ground. Gaurnothax ceased his struggling and lay there gasping.

Tarion knew better than to let the dragon recover. He threw his shoulder into the back of the dragon’s skull. Gaurnothax wheezed
. Tarion pressed the blade through the scales until it grated against the bone.

“Yield, Gaurnothax!” Tarion said, jamming his knee back into the soft throat to cut off the dragon’s air. “This doesn’t need to end in your death!”

Gaurnothax winced audibly and in a low rumbling growl he gasped, “Would that it could—you above all people know I have no choice. I’d have to answer to
Him
; that is something I cannot do!” Gaurnothax lashed his tail and caught Tarion flush across the temple. A spike missed piercing his skull, instead knocking the Norse helm from its seat. Tarion’s head swam. He roared with rage and punched his blade into the back of the dragon’s skull.

Chapter 8:
  A Dark Wind Blows

Naugrathur the Destructor paced his tower. He was not always evil. Indeed, there was a time when he sought wisdom, knowledge and order for all Midgard and its inhabitants. Yet that was ages ago. Frustrated by an all-consuming hatred for the chaos of the world, Naugrathur subjugated everything, his honor, justice and responsibility—even his identity—toward the establishment of eternal, ultimate order.

To that end, the one thing he could not endure was puzzles. Therefore, the encounter at the court with Tarion had him in a foul, dangerous mood. The court was that of Yggdrasil from Aesir, Godshome—or rather the mortal memory of it. Built by the Gods ages upon ages past as a place where they could hold audience with early mortals, it reflected in every way the court on Godshome where he wrestled the Wanderer for dominion. He, the Destructor himself, placed the body of Tarius in the court as bait for the Wanderer if he should ever return to life. Tarius had something that once belonged to the Wanderer, a stone from the Brisling necklace given to him by the enigmatic, troublesome Goddess Freya. The fact that Freya stole that stone from the Destructor was both an irritant to him and amusing. Still, he never understood why she stole it if only to give it to Tarius. He would gladly have done so himself; the Brisling diamond should draw the Wanderer like bait.

Yet when the awakening of Tarius triggered his mystic alarm, the Destructor found his son Tarion in the court. That was troubling. “Tarion was drawn to his father; there can be no question about that. Nor is there any question that the father bequeathed the gem to his son. The Wanderer’s stone is therefore loose within the world again and out of my grasp.” The Destructor stared at the floor with ill-concealed wrath. The stone buckled and cracked under his gaze. “Tarion Praetorian is alive, free and immortal—how stupid of me!” The Destructor stamped his foot in anger and the tower shook. Tremors rumbled throughout his land. It was the Destructor, of course, who was responsible for Tarion being alive. He sighed and shook his head, “I really must keep track of my offhand curses!”

A mournful, dissonant bell tolled.

The Destructor stopped, cocking his hooded head to the side as if listening. He strode out to his balcony. Beneath him, spreading out in perfect symmetry was the dark city of Durnen-Gul. Beyond was the crater of Idril Karnak, the Haunted Valley. Fifty miles away in all directions the crater walls rose as the ramparts of Fell Morgron. He stood at the rail and raised his arms. His voice rolled forth like a storm over the dark lands.

“What rumor from the earth?”

There was a deep rumbling groan and the earth itself answered, saying, “Dread Lord, I hear the rusted gates of Limbo’s Abyssal Plane clanging open in a fresh wind. I hear the wheels of Thor’s chariot once more running their course over the world. I hear Father Time chanting again over the lands.”

Naugrathur held up his hand. He’d heard enough.

“The Dragonheart curse is over; the Wanderer has returned to the world,” the Destructor mused. “Damn him and thus myself!” he cursed, leaving the balcony. Breast heaving, rivulets of glowing sweat streaming down the finely churned basalt that was his flesh, he paced around his tower, circle after circle, drawing inward with every revolution like some terrible whirlpool of doom. As he walked, the earth trembled with the discord of every step. Yet all of a sudden, the Destructor stopped. He looked out through the open doors to the world beyond. “The solution to the most difficult riddle is oft the simplest. I have already solved this one. I laid a trap with the Brisling diamond and it brought an unsuspecting fly to the bait. No matter, I will draw the Wanderer to live bait instead of carrion. Tarion is the key. I know how to find him!”

He approached a basin in the center of his tower. It floated in the air over a circular shaft that led far below Durnen-Gul where the throbbing furnaces of the earth melted the very rock. Flames roared from the shaft, licking hungrily at the stone and bringing the contents to a noisome boil. With a sigh, Naugrathur plunged his hands into the bubbling brew and washed his face and neck. Crackling fluid cascaded over his features, illuminating at once a
brow, an outthrust cheek and finely chiseled lips. Absently, Naugrathur massaged the flesh of his brow. He traced a jagged scar that pulsed golden-red like a fissure in the cooling crust of a lava flow. It was the scar left by the Wanderer when he tore the Crown of Dominion from the Destructor’s brow.

“The Wanderer took away my chance at dominion and I repaid him with death and damnation to Limbo,” he sighed. “That chapter is closed. A new match is beginning.” He held his left hand over the basin. “With this hand I held aloft Tarion, with this hand I felt his blood upon my flesh, feel now his essence!” the surface of the basin churned and bubbled. Flames rose, twirling, licking and caressing the Destructors hand. Tiny tongues of flame brightened on his black flesh as if flaring with a sense of discovery. He smiled. “Seek out Tarion Praetorian! Find him, bind him, bring him to me—fame beyond measure my reward to thee!” The flames curled around his hand, burning ever brighter
. He took them to the balcony and cast them into the air. The flames faded into the air, spreading the word of the Destructor throughout the lands.

Naugrathur leaned on the rail and nodded. “No doubt, the Wanderer will still be drawn to the gem and try and reclaim it. The crystal will renew his association with Freya. With her help, he can regain his strength and contest me, but until then he is vulnerable. Now is the time to strike
. Tarion is the key: control Tarion and I control the world.”

He laughed and shrugged the darkling robe off his shoulders. With the wave of a single finger, the massive door to his wardrobe opened. Within was his armor, still gleaming with the heat of the forge, ready to meld itself onto the Destructor’s body. Of its own accord, the armor sped to its master and armed him. Naugrathur shook his head, but a slight smile curled his lip.

“The irony of fate surprises even me! Tarion lived under the shadow of Tarius all his life, yet now the fate of the Imperium and the fate of the Wanderer are inextricably bound to him. Whether he knows it or not Tarion is the most important man the world has ever known!”

“Who is this Tarion?” a chill, sultry voice asked. The voice belonged to Navernya, the diabolically beautiful Queen of
Niflheim; the frozen Sixth plane of Hell. She lounged on a silver fur divan beneath the anthracite throne and twirled one long white lock of hair on her blue nailed finger. She said, “I have a vast store of knowledge in my experience, yet I’ve never put much credence in old myths. Therefore, what can this mean to the Destructor?”

“I have no time for instruction or idle chat, Navernya,” he said tersely, buckling on the last of his armor. He retrieved his helm and set it on his brow. Crossing the chamber, he headed for the doors of the tower. “If you wish to know the most momentous event of Midgard’s existence, then by all means join me.” He didn’t wait for her, but with satisfaction, he noted that she followed.

The doors opened of their own accord and he stomped down the winding stair of the tower like an avalanche. As he walked, he explained, “Tarion is the key to discovering the Wanderer! Time moves forward again. The Dragonheart’s cursed carousel is broken. The Prophecy is nigh!”

Navernya danced after him, making hardly a sound with her tiny feet, though with each footfall she left a small shimmering patch of ice.

“I do not remember him amongst the Norse Gods who have thus far escaped your vengeance,” Navernya said. “Is he some elemental lord not yet swayed, or is he some renegade devil?”

“Neither, he is a mortal man.”

“A mortal man,” Navernya exclaimed, stopping in surprise. “What an afterthought!”

“He is no afterthought,” Naugrathur told her in a low menacing voice and his molten eyes flashed at her. “He is the Praetorian and the last vestige of the Imperium. More importantly, he has something the Wanderer cannot ignore—one of the sacred crystals of the Brislings. The necklace forged for Freya.”

“Freya the witch, Freya that whore-Goddess—selling herself to dwarves for the necklace!”

“Would that tale were true,” the Destructor murmured. “It was an infantile ruse to throw Odin off the track. If he’d known who truly forged the necklace he’d never have allowed Freya to keep
it. As it was he refused to have anything to do with the bauble or with Freya—which is what the maker intended.”

“Who was the maker?”

“Only I and Freya know the answer to that riddle and I will keep that secret,” he said.

Navernya was unused to such treatment. She tossed her hair, furiously, spouting a fountain of unladylike curses. The Destructor laughed with amusement. Navernya failed to appreciate that.

“Calm yourself my devoted Queen! His search for the diamond will reveal Freya to me and therefore the Wanderer will bend all his efforts to recover it. He is still as much in love with her as he was on Aesir. Even if he is weak and not ready to face me, the Wanderer will dare this danger to save Freya. We all but have him!”

“I’ve never studied the metaphysical aspects of the world,” Navernya said. “This Wanderer, whoever he is, cannot rival your strength, nor can he assail my position as your consort. So unless you plan to make him
duke of Niflheim, what does this Wanderer mean to me or the world?”

“Think you that prophecies are built of mere words Navernya?” Naugrathur snapped, irritated with her flippant manner. “Think! You didn’t become Queen of Niflheim without reason! He is the Wanderer of Alfrodel’s Prophecy!”

“The Prophecy of Alfrodel?” the Queen of Niflheim laughed. “What of it? There are so many prophecies in the World. Why bother with the ramblings of a mad elvish king? Come now, why should the Destructor be bothered by that delicious piece of theater?”

She leapt in front of Naugrathur and held his enormity with a tiny blue-white hand. “Was it not rather the culmination of your victory and Alfrodel’s ultimate folly? Behold King Alfrodel, as he storms the mighty Destructor’s gates with the loyal Marshal Ancenar in tow!”

She acted the role of Alfrodel, ringing upon an unseen door and crying out.

Come forth Naugrathur, for I would challenge you for the mastery of the world!

Lo, you came and threw him down in ruin!” Navernya fell to the stone in a heap, demonstrating the fall of Alfrodel in a less than flattering manner. She feigned a terrible death.

Through mine own vanity I have found death at your cursed hands, Naugrathur! Yet though my life is forfeit, I see clearly in the wisdom of Death’s door and through the eyes of Death, I see afar. Behold! For I perceive that your fear will come not from the elves. If your doom is met it will be at the hands of a mortal man, the Wanderer, your Twain and none other. So shall he seek you out and challenge you for the mastery!

Navernya rose from the floor, bowing to honor her own performance. “You see, I’m not ignorant of the history of Midgard, inconsequential though it may be to your inevitable dominion,” she yawned, stretching luxuriously beneath the immensity of the glowering Destructor. She displayed more naked blue flesh than not, flashing her glacial eyes beneath icy tresses and smiled. “Is that your mind, my Dread Lord: that this Wanderer could possibly confound you? Perish the thought! I’ve never understood your faith in prophecies.”

Naugrathur approached her like a collapsing mountainside, his darkness looming over her, blocking out all other light. Raising her chin with a single terrifying finger, he said, “Only you would be so bold as to make light of what I consider so very significant. Yet how can I be overly angry with you, Navernya? Your faith in my dominion clouds your otherwise excellent judgment. Yet you are wrong. This Wanderer is no mere mortal. He is dangerous; that makes his destruction absolutely necessary!”

The Destructor continued down the stair, Navernya in tow. They reached an octagonal tower thirty paces in diameter. Four huge doors thirty feet high were set in the north, south, east and west walls. Naugrathur stopped at the south door and said, “My dominion is beyond this door, lady. You may follow at your own risk, or you may slink back to Niflheim in safety. I guarantee your rule of that plane with no further risk, but should you follow I’ll grant you a suitable reward. Will you follow?”