The Last Praetorian (3 page)

“I see you had everything planned down to the minute magical details,” the elf observed.

As they watched the aerial melee, Tarion told Fanuihel, “The most difficult thing about organizing the mystical defense was to make sure the Imperial Incantator had nothing to do with it!”

“How did you manage that,” Fanuihel asked
?

“I recruited an old friend of my father’s from Norrland,” Tarion told him. “He was once the Headmaster at the Imperial Academy
. He’s considered the finest mortal mage in the world.”

“You’re speaking of Alexandrus,” Fanuihel nodded. “I’d heard he got into some trouble in Roma
. That’s why he isn’t the Imperial Incantator.”

“There’s something to that,” Tarion admitted, pointing up to a wizard slicing through the sky on a small but very nimble carpet, spitting fireballs from each hand. “Unfortunately, in Roma,
politics being what they are, skill and position do not always mesh. I am a case in point.”

The fight was wild and fantastic, but it was over in just a few minutes. The attackers fled from the acrid airs over the gates less half their number, leaving the rest in ruin amidst the now terrified host.

The wizard on the carpet dove for the parapet over the gate. He descended at frightening speed, but then at the last moment, he pulled the carpet to a stop and lightly stepped off. He might have been older than Tarion but it was hard to tell. His long sandy hair was as unruly as his blue eyes were sharp. He wore no beard or mustache, but he sported long exotic looking sideburns. He dressed in red and gold leather under a long red dragonscale cloak. In his hand was a long ebony staff with a large ruby mounted on top.

“Greetings Praetorian,” he smiled, but as he did so, there was a horrible scream out over the wall. A large scaly demon on wide hide wings swooped down on them. The trident he bore howled with wicked lust. The demon drew his trident back to cast it at Tarion, but Alexandrus thrust his staff at the creature
.

“Incendia!”

The trident glowed white-hot and the demon dropped it with a howl of pain. It held its clawed hands out in burning agony, staring with hatred at Alexandrus.

The wizard was unfazed, holding out his hand to the demon as if he wanted something. “Vestri pectus pectoris commodo
!” he commanded.

The demon’s eyes grew wide with alarm. He squirmed and screamed, wrestling with himself in
midair. All at once, his chest burst in a splash of green blood. Ribs sheared through his scaly flesh, bending outward as if some horrible force grappled them and yanked them from their stations. A small dark object shot from the wreckage of the demon’s chest to Alexandrus’s waiting hand; it was the demon’s still beating heart. The corpse of the demon spun to the shattered ground.

Chuckling, t
he wizard tucked the heart into his pouch, saying simply, “They are very valuable you know.” He smiled mirthlessly and hopped back on his carpet. “We will be ready for the next phase, Praetorian.” He clasped Tarion’s hand and smiled, “Good luck Tarion; we’re all counting on you!”

“Good luck Alexandrus,” Tarion waved
as the wizard deftly flew back into the air and disappeared into the city.

“I’m glad they’re on our side,” Fanuihel sighed, looking back out over the gate. “Still, the necromancers did their job. Whoever is the commander out there is reforming.”

The elf was right. Battalions of giants rushed up the roadway led by a yellow bearded general in gilded armor.

“King Johaan has taken charge,” Tarion laughed. “If I can depend on anyone to push the entire host into a trap, he’s the man!”

True to Tarion’s desire, Johaan formed his giants into a long phalanx of pikeman. They leveled their tree-like halberds, herding the trolls, ogres and goblins back to the walls. Growling and cursing, the trolls grappled the chains and hauled the beast away from the wall and back to the gate.

The bloody horn struck the portal and the Gate Towers trembled—BOOM!

“We’ve made our stand here. Seal the doors below, I’d best get to the square,” Tarion told Fanuihel. “If we fail, make your way toward the docks with as many men as you can. I trust you with the evacuation of the city until Ancenar takes over!”

“
What of you Tarion?”

“The
emperor will not leave—he’s made that clear! My duty is in Roma.” Tarion turned his sharp green eyes on Fanuihel and he couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s either a giant’s axe or his majesty’s knife in my back one last time!” He held out his hand.

“Don’t despair my friend,” Fanuihel told him. “We will get through this day; we must.”

Tarion nodded, but for the first time, he didn’t believe it. A cold fatal cloak wrapped him. His heart was dead. His blood was like ice. Why? He shook off the feeling of dread, falling back into his old habits. Despite his secret doubts, Tarion’s demeanor was one of calm, confident control as he strode down the stairs of the tower and stepped out onto the pavement of the inner court.

There the balance of his forces waited
hidden within the walls, ready to defend the city. Thousands of eyes were upon him, watching his every move with the terrible agitation that impending doom heaps on the mortal and immortal breast alike.

Tarion stopped. Perception was reality, so experience taught him, therefore Tarion looked as unconcerned as possible. He gazed around the court at his forces, calmly putting on his gauntlets as if he were attending a ball and not the end of the world. One of the Praetorian Guard brought his horse.

BOOM—behind him, the main gate bent inwards. The pavers of the street jumped from their bedding. A shuddering gasp went up from the host, fearing their commander would be trampled by the behemoth! Instead of withdrawing from danger, Tarion rashly approached the gate and put a hand to his ear as if listening to someone knocking lightly on the timbers. The legionaries chuckled wryly at the grim jest. The behemoth smelled Tarion and stopped, snorting in fury. The Praetorian ignored it and in a leisurely manner, mounted his horse—BOOM!

Tarion spurred his mount and cantered around the inner square, riding along the lines of troops.
He would make the Destructor’s host pay dearly for entering his city! Drawing his dwarf-forged sword and brandishing it high, Tarion roared, “Stand fast, soldiers of Terra! It is not our lives that we risk this day but the fate of our world! Stand fast and fight darkness with fury! They wish death; therefore let us give them Death!”

“DEATH!” they roared in answer.

“Death!”

“DEATH!”

The steel gate bent inward—BOOM!

“Stand ready and let us defend our world to the last!” he called, spurring his mount through the bristling Achaean shieldwall at the end of the square.

BOOM!

The gate burst open
. The behemoth lunged forward through the shriven doors, followed by a herd of armored beasts, scores of shambling mountain trolls, two headed ogres and plodding giants. The lines of men, Achaeans though they were, looked to be a small, insignificant obstacle. The monsters rushed into the city, sprinting towards the shield wall, mad with desire for slaughter, thinking the battle already over. Two hundred yards they ran, crossing the city square to the threshold of the Appian Way, making the streets shake beneath their feet.

Tarion let them come to within fifty yards of his Achaeans.

“Ranks kneel! Artillery, commence to fire!”

As one, the Achaeans knelt to the cobblestone street. Behind them, the massed scorpions and ballistae hurled hundreds of bolts and spears at the enemy. They whistled past Tarion, whose mount stood stock still, the stallion’s muscles never twitching, calmly awaiting his master’s command. The heavy groaning of catapults followed and scores of huge stones whooshed overhead.

Bolts and spears skewered the monsters, sending them shivering to their knees, breaking the charge of the monsters behind them. The catapult stones bounded down the pavement, bowling over monsters, cutting swathes and gaps in their ranks, hurling them back against their comrades.

As the artillery crews reloaded, wizards and witches let loose bolts of fire and livid lightning. Showers of flaming stones fell from the sky.
Then down upon the enemy wheeled the noblest of dragons, silver drakes and gold, copper ladies of serpentine wrath. They lay fire, acid and ice on the twitching, shrieking monsters.

“Reload and fire at will!”

Another volley followed and then another. Dozens of monsters fell, but ahead of them still lumbered the behemoth. Skewered by a dozen man-sized javelins, it still lurched toward the Achaean line. Bolts of livid blue lightning sizzled on its hide. Three more javelins and a dozen scorpion bolts pierced it, but still it came. Then a catapult stone struck it full in the chest. The beast stumbled and fell in a monstrous heap right before the Achaeans.

The main avenue of Roma became a bloated,
boiling field of burned flesh, torn armor and splintered bone. The massive corpses lay tangled in heaps, blocking the gate and avenue as effectively as had the steel doors, making the entrance to the city impassable. Some few escaped the artillery barrage, but scorpions from the gate towers dropped them like stones.

His first wave blunted, King Johaan was not willing to allow the defense a respite. His giants used grappling hooks and chains to pull the dead clear of the gate. As a way opened, thousands upon thousands of goblins, hobgoblins and ogres boiled through holes and cracks in the fleshy barrier, climbing over the slain like angry ants. They flooded the square, dropping under a howling arrow storm, but resolutely gathering into growing mobs. Finally, the giants cleared enough bodies for a concerted push.

Companies of ogres with pikes led the charge, followed by hobgoblins bearing axes and vermin goblins wielding short spears and scimitars. They advanced at a loping run, gibbering and wailing, throwing order and caution to the winds. Full upon the Achaean shieldwall they charged. The hoplites rose with a shout, brandishing their spears from behind their great shields. They crouched, ten ranks of two hundred men, and waited for the charging monsters. The sable and iron wave hit the shieldwall like a great angry swarm hitting a stone—it stopped. The line of spearman held and the soldiers of the Destructor bunched up in a black, roiling mass.

Tarion let the avenue fill to bursting.

“Flanks, hurl pilum and advance,” he ordered calmly. His adjutant blew two blasts on his golden horn. Other trumpeters echoed the call from either side of the square. From the side streets, unnoticed during the monster’s charge, men and dwarves rose from behind makeshift barriers. The centurions shouted. Two volleys of pilum and javelins tore into enemy ranks from either side. Elven archers filled the square with thousands of shafts. Entire battalions of sable-clad soldiery fell under the volleys. The rest of the Destructor’s soldiers looked to their exposed flanks and cowered as stonehearted centurions ordered their hard-bitten legionaries forward. With them came battalions of dwarves, axes ground to deathly edges, eager for slaughter.

The black horde reeled as the flanking forces cut huge gaps in the sea of monsters. Yet despite the damage done, Tarion didn’t want his infantry to wear themselves out in a pitched hand-to-hand fight. The day would be long and his troops needed to pace
themselves. He waited until the goblins panic turned to fatal resolve and he gave the signal to his adjutant. Three blasts rolled over the city. The axe bearers took refuge behind the legionary shields. At a quick but orderly trot, the legionaries pulled back, leaving the Destructor’s flanks bloodied and exposed. The goblins laughed at the retreat and broke ranks, leaping after the defenders.

Tarion saw what he wanted. “Sound the charge!”

One long blast of the horn echoed through the streets.

A chorus of horns answered Tarion’s call, followed by the thunder of hooves on pavement. The sound grew until it was a force all of its own. The legionary ranks parted and through the shield walls burst the legionary cavalry, horsetail plumes flying, shields shining and iron shod hooves casting sparks from the pavement.

The goblin laughter turned to wailing panic. They scrambled over each other to escape, but it was too late. The imperial knights were upon them. With a great shout, a forest of steel tipped lances lowered as one and the knights crashed into the boiling mass of monsters. The charge cut into either side of the enemy, creating swaths of wriggling dead, clearing whole sections of the square. The knights charged all the way through the host, cutting avenues of bloody slaughter in half-a-dozen places, but then they rode on into the side streets opposite the way they came, leaving thousands dead.

The Destructor’s host broke and ran, seeking the quickest way back to the gate and out of the terrible city. They dropped their weapons, their shields, their helmets and gear. They dropped to their knees and pleaded for mercy. It was to no avail. They who would have taken no quarter had none offered them.

The Achaean shield wall advanced, their spears plunging into hairy backs. The legionaries and the dwarves closed in on either side like a vice. In a matter of moments, there was no enemy soldier left alive within the confines of the square, nothing but a wriggling, twitching, smoldering pile of reeking flesh languishing in a growing lake of slippery, sticking gore. The stench of death was the only thing that rose from that mangled heap of ruin.