The Last Praetorian (28 page)

“Well, I suppose that’s something,” Tarion said and he trudged up the hill and then the last steps to the threshold of the keep. “We’re home; I don’t think I’ll be welcome in Trondheim after today.” Tarion stopped at the door and sighed. “Come on in Loki; I’ll treat you to breakfast—for old time’s sake.”

“
Beef jerky and dried out biscuits—why not?” Loki said. Then, surprisingly, he laid his hand on Tarion’s shoulder. “I’ve always liked you Tarion. I enjoyed our adventures before this mess began. You’ve always been a player in this game, but remember, you’re more important now than ever before. I don’t understand how it is that you’ll solve the Wanderer’s dilemma but it’s clear that you are meant to solve it. Beyond that, you’ve duped the Destructor himself into making you unique: you are the immortal mortal. Naugrathur’s curse on you has already paid unexpected dividends. The Norns don’t grant this kind of fortune to bit players in their drama.” Loki paused, as if trying to come to a decision. At length he shrugged and said, “I’m not in the habit of giving information without something in return; you know that about me. However, besides my liking for you, there’s something exceedingly peculiar about you—I value you as a friend and maybe an ally. I’m not sure if this will help you or not, but I know who the Wanderer is.”

“Go on,” Tarion told him.

“I’m not absolutely certain, but I’m almost positive the Wanderer is none other than one of Odin’s brothers, Villi and Ve. Tyr, the Destructor is one, the Wanderer is the other.”

“That would explain the mutual enmity between Odin
and Tyr; Tyr vied for the crown of the AllFather,” Tarion said, muttering to himself. He nodded. “It makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard.”

“Yes but it should also give you pause,” Loki warned. “Tales say Ve and Villi were twins, brethren, Twain. Yet to muddy the waters more it seems that only one of them
—Tyr—stayed with the Gods. Yet even more strange, Tyr had somewhat of a tempestuous relationship with a certain Goddess we both know; a love-hate relationship.”

“Freya,” Tarion said, reaching for his keys and opening the keep door.

“Makes you wonder doesn’t it?” the trickster said thoughtfully.

Tarion shook his head and unlocked the door. To his surprise, there was a fire going and he was not alone.

Chapter 25:  Mirror, Mirror

“How dare Belioch!” Naugrathur stormed. His fury shook the tower. With his own hands, he broke the chains binding Navernya and more tenderly than any could have imagined, he took the Ice Queen into his arms. Laying her his bed, Naugrathur breathed a thick lair of frost over her body and covered her with furs. “Rest, my devoted Queen. I know not why you put yourself in such peril, but I will not forget this!”

Navernya smiled and closed her eyes.

The Destructor stood at the side of the bed, muttering an incantation. In the space of a moment, the pillars and canopy of his bed turned into shimmering ice, radiating cold throughout the chamber. His medicinal work done, Naugrathur left Navernya and went to the balcony. A battle raged in the city below. He waved his hand and a bell rang in the tower. Caradoc, Marshal of the Naug-zum reported, tall and grim, dressed in purple, gold and black.

“How goes the strife, Marshal Caradoc?”

The Marshal bowed and said, “The last pockets of Ferrus traitors are surrendering as we speak, Dread Lord. We have numerous prisoners awaiting your dispensation.”

“I will not seek revenge on the soldiery, as they may still be of use to me, but a lesson must be taught,” Naugrathur said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Decimate them. Have every one in ten bound to a table. The other nine shall feast upon him while he is yet living. Ensure that the subject does not die too swiftly due to mercy.”

Marshal Caradoc bowed and sent the orders. He had four Naug-zum guards posted at Queen Navernya’s bed—garbed all in silver fur to honor the Ice Queen. Then he had a detail see to cleaning the tower while the members of the Destructor’s inner circle discussed the state of the city and his dominion.

The Naug-zum soldiers dumped the demon corpses into the central shaft of the tower, which plunged to the fires deep in the
core of Durnen-Gul. Belioch—who was dissected but alive—they placed in a black stone box.

The emissaries from the Nine Hells soon arrived, except for Ferrus, Belioch’s former plane. Without exception, they swore loyalty to the Destructor. The affairs of dominion went on as the day waned. When red night fell, Naugrathur dismissed his retinue with great weariness. The last to go was Marshal Caradoc.

“Marshal, I dealt with your former wife, but I have not yet formulated a solution for her loss,” he said gravely. “It is not acceptable that you should go home to an empty bed, or that your children are raised by servants. I will give thought to a worthy wife soon.”

The Marshal took a knee and bowed his head. “My Dread Lord, you honor me overmuch with such personal attention. My heart is satisfied with duty. My children are strong and enduring as befitting citizens of your dominion. What more could I ask for?”

“You do not ask, yet you are the best of men and so shall you be rewarded, you may go!” Naugrathur turned and wearily doffed his armor. Then he visited Navernya’s bed and dismissed the guard. He sat beside her. Her crystal eyes opened and she smiled.

“How does my loyal Queen?”

“Well, my Dread Lord, now that you are where you should be; that is, in your tower and on your throne.”

“A little of that, at least, I owe to your loyalty,” he admitted. Then he asked the question that troubled his mind. “Yet why did you defy Belioch when he seemingly had my crown? Can you answer me?”

She laid a white hand on his black hand and said, almost sweetly, “Who else is worthy enough to be my Lord?”

He laughed and said, “I shall humor you, my Queen, for indeed your speech softens the difficulty of my day. We shall dine together and alone.” He clapped his hands and servants brought in rare meats and wine. Naugrathur picked Navernya up, furs and all and took her to a seat at his table.

“My Dread Lord dotes on me too much!”

He waved her complaint aside and sat down to his meal.

“Were you successful in finding Tarion?”

“I found him,” Naugrathur growled, “but Belioch’s gambit interrupted my endeavor. Where he is now, I cannot say. Yet I have what I need, Navernya, my dominion intact. That much I owe to your loyalty and to Loki.”

“Loki!” she said, spitting the name out like venom.

“Yes, he warned me of Belioch’s plot,” Naugrathur said. “However else he may have been involved I do not know, yet without your combined efforts I would be faced with a much more serious dilemma this night.”

“Was Belioch that close?”

“To discovering my hold on Midgard, yes,” Naugrathur said. He picked up his goblet. “Enough of such talk, Navernya, you need rest. Let us take our ease this evening with each other while the world allows it.”

He raised his goblet to her, but then a strident gong sounded.

The chamberlain opened the door and stepped to Naugrathur’s side. “My pardon, Dread Lord, I have half a dozen embassies from Ferrus all begging for an audience with you and all claiming allegiance to you. What shall I tell them?”

Naugrathur sighed and put down his wine. “I shall see them in the citadel, perhaps I shall make them eat each other in payment for my lost dinner!” he said and he left.

#

Tarion stared at the unexpected woman in his keep.

“Freya!” he stammered
. Then he remembered himself. “I’m sorry, Lady, I didn’t mean to be so familiar. You surprised me.”

Odin’s daughter Freya glanced from the cooking pot to Tarion, puzzlement in her sparkling blue eyes, and said, “You are so like your father in your deference to me, but what I cannot decide is whether it’s because I’m a Goddess or because you’re in love with me?”

Tarion couldn’t come up with anything to say.

Loki simply chuckled and went over to sniff the stew. He smiled roguishly at Freya and observed, “You can be so remarkably domesticated around the—the Praetorian—or is it someone else you have in mind and you’re just practicing?”

Freya shot Loki a withering glance, and asked, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“Like where?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“I need to talk to Tarion; you’re not helping,” she insisted.

“I know when I’m not wanted,” Loki sighed. Shaking his head he began walking out of the tower, fading from sight and sound as he did so. “That appears to be happening a lot to me lately. It’s almost as if no one trust me to be around when their speaking about secret things, though for the life of me I don’t understand why . . .”

Freya looked around, satisfying herself that Loki was wherever he was but not there in the tower. “You didn’t answer my question Tarion.”

“What was the question?”

“Is your formality because you’re in love with me or because I’m a Goddess—please say both,” she cautioned him.

“Both,” he acceded
, knowing full well that something was behind her exchange with Loki that Freya did not want to discuss.

“Oh don’t fret about it, after all you’ve been skinny dipping with me; you’ve ogled my perfection and you’ve
caressed my sacred skin!” She laughed, delighted with his answer. She lit the candles at the freshly set table. The smell of well-roasted meat and trimmings made his mouth water. That made him even more perplexed. With indescribable grace, Freya swept up a bottle and a goblet and sauntered over to him. “When with the elves you drank wine, but with your legionaries and Thor you drank ale. Which do you prefer?”

“Pure arsenic, if you please,” Tarion said with a growl.
He was only half joking.

She laughed and poured the wine. She even handed him the goblet. As he expected it was exquisite but it didn’t help—it wasn’t nearly strong enough.

“What’s the matter Tarion,” she said seriously. She sat in the chair across from him. The impish smile returned. “No other man has been so familiar with the Gods, although I don’t expect you ever lusted after Thor the way you lust after me—understandably so.”

Tarion cradled his temples. He took a deep breath and asked her the question that more than any other begged an answer. “Lady, why have you interfered with my life? First, there was Glorianna, then Minerva and now Aubrey. Why do you have an interest in my love life?”

“Stop calling me Lady, Goddess or whatever else your dutiful mind conjures up Tarion. I am Freya. This is a new endeavor. In this chapter of our lives we are equals, my friend.” She smiled at him, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

“It’s something else isn’t it? I just haven’t figured out what it is,” Tarion muttered aloud. Freya’s expression was not illuminating. “However, I get the distinct impression that you definitely don’t want me to know what it is—is that so?”

Sipping her wine with one hand, she tapped the silver cap over his stump with the other. “We are equals Tarion. You are the immortal mortal. You are the Praetorian not simply of the Imperium, but of what is left of the free folk—that includes the Gods.” She took a deep breath, her breasts swelling under the leather jerkin, her long dark lashes hiding her eyes in a dangerous way. “We depend on you; I depend on you. You do not have the right to die a glorious death and thereby doom Midgard and the multiverse to
His
dominion—do I make myself clear?”

“Painfully clear Freya,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever addressed her without some form of recognition, but he was seething inside. Whether it was from the truth of her words or his unquenched desire, he couldn’t say—but it was there, hard, real and painful. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of meat.

“Excuse me!” Freya stopped him. “Doesn’t the Praetorian say grace before every meal? I know Lady Julienna taught you better than that!”

Tarion glowered at her, but made the customary sign of prayer anyway—touching his forehead
—though he hit it hard enough with the silver cap to make an audible, gruesome thunk!

Freya grimaced. “I’m so glad you use
d your father’s silver cap on your poor arm.”

“Who do you pray to, Freya?”
Tarion inquired, trying to turn his mind away from darker things.

“To The Creator, of course,” she said seriously. “We are all children of The Creator. Gods, men, elves—even Naugrathur. The Gods are simply facets of his divinity sent to Midgard to illuminate the mystery.”

“It’s a mystery to me,” growled the Praetorian.

She shot a scathing glance at him and said her prayer. Then they ate.

Tarion tried the stew. It was savory, of perfect consistency and not too hot or cold. “I could get used to this,” he said, ripping off some bread and dipping it in the stew. Not surprisingly, the bread was perfect as well. They ate in silence. When Tarion, not Freya, had eaten his fill, she refilled their goblets.

Freya closed her eyes. Reaching across the table the she laid her hand on his. Tarion trembled at the touch. Her eyes softened
. The Goddess squeezed his hand in an all too tender manner. “Tarion, your principles are, as always, noble in the extreme, but in this case they were almost fatal for all of us—pray don’t do that again.”

She sighed and got up,
kissing him on the temple. Freya sat by the fire, motioning for Tarion to sit in the chair opposite hers. She smiled in an almost human way. “It occurs to me that I’ve had many discussions with your mother and father in a chair by the fire, but never with you—I wonder why? Come over here, this may not be easy for you to hear.” Tarion did as she asked. “Your father and I butted heads often. He wanted to march on Durnen-Gul and assault the Destructor; I wanted to wait for the Wanderer.”

“He was right,” Tarion said carefully. “However, I thought you and the Wanderer conspired to possess or at least cajole my father into it
. Alfrodel needed to call the Wanderer to the world; he needed to die in order to do it. My father was the catalyst for that.”

“Not I, Tarion,” she said in earnest. “If that was the Wanderer’s plan he did not share it with me. Indeed, I never communicated with the Wanderer after the battle of Vigrid—not since years before you were born. He was extremely weak;
Limbo takes its toll even on the Gods and the Wanderer had taken refuge in mortality for ages. There is a price for that.”

“You weren’t in league with him during my lifetime, but then why the interference,” he hesitated. Finally, he gathered up the courage to say it. “Certainly you can’t want me for yourself.”

“Oh but I do,” Freya told him. There was no humor in her eyes. “You will belong to no other woman but Freya.”

“
Why are you toying with me Freya?” Tarion was stunned.

“Look around you,” she told him seriously. “There are no more Gods. The Pantheon of the Norse is the last population of the Creator’s firstborn. Do you expect me, Freya, to live the rest of the world’s existence alone? Perish the thought! I need a man who worships and adores me, a man of power and passion, I need you Tarion!”

“What about the Wanderer?” Tarion asked, dumbfounded.

Freya sighed, but she didn’t answer for a long while. When she did, her concern was palpable. “Who knows if the Wanderer even exists
anymore? If his spirit is indeed in the house of Tyr what will reanimate it? I didn’t expect this conundrum—no one did.” She took his eyes again.

“When last I communed with the Wanderer we addressed this very subject
. He told me, ‘I am beyond my time. I intend to end the Twain, for the Twain began this.” She shook her head like an irritated lioness. “Tarion, you’re not the only one confounded by this mystery between the Wanderer and the Destructor! Who or what are the Twain? No one knows; all we can do is guess.” She sighed, and continued, telling him, “I asked the Wanderer, but he simply told me, ‘If I succeed then the world will be left to its own devices without either of us.’”