The Last Praetorian (32 page)

Beath scowled, muttering, “It’s dangerous to meddle in the affairs of Gods, but you are paying me enough. Here goes,” she took a deep breath and asked, “Show me
Villi and Ve the brothers of Odin AllFather!”

The ball immediately went dark. Beath commanded it again but nothing happened. “Blasted ball!” she said, banging her fists on the table. She wrapped up the ball and laid it aside, grumbling, “That’s strange; it’s as if the ball was afraid to show me more, rather than it couldn’t.
” She glance up at him and asked, “It might be easier if I knew your purpose.”

“I’m trying to find out why I’m the vehicle to find the Wanderer,” Tarion told her.

“Well, let’s try something more basic. Maybe we can get in through you, Praetorian. The Norns wove you into the tapestry of the Destructor and the Wanderer. Let’s find out why.” She produced a small leather bag and a pair of long iron scissors. She reached over, but the scissors couldn’t cut a single strand of his hair. She handed the scissors to Tarion. He cut a lock of his own hair and gave it to her.

“I’m cursed,” he said simply.

“It must be some curse. I’ve only heard tell of that, but I’ve never seen it before,” she said suspiciously, throwing the hair into the bag and shaking it vigorously. “Now, we’ll have only one crack at this. She closed her eyes and shook the bag, commanding the runes in an eerily singsong chant.

“Runes, tell me what binds the Praetorian to the Wanderer?” She cast a rune on the table and announced, “The Twain.”

She shook the bag again, asking, “What binds the Twain?” She placed another rune on the table and announced, “Ragnarok.”

She shook the bag a third time and asked, “If the Twain ends with Ragnarok, where did they begin?”
She laid a final rune on the table and stared at it. Beath shook her head and put the bag down. She scrounged through a pile of books, found one, and paged through it. It took some time to find what she was looking for. Looking up from the book, she studied the rune. It was plain but for a single almost infinitesimal dot. “The book says that rune is named Elucidar—I’ve never seen it or even heard tell of it.”

Tarion didn’t understand the runes, but when she said, “Elucidar,” it sent a cold shudder through his spine.

“Does this make any sense to you?”

“That’s what I’m paying you for.”

Beath sighed and said, “Very well, you are entwined in the fate of the Twain—whoever they are—and they in turn are bound to the doom of Ragnarok. That makes sense,” she announced, looking up at him. “Everyone is bound in one way or another with Ragnarok. However, it seems that this Twain has a personal stake in the end of the world. They might be immortals, like elves, or Gods. The runes don’t say, but look here!”

Beath held up
the Twain rune, showing him a man shaped stick figure with a line drawn through it. “There is some internal conflict here, but what it is I don’t know.”

“So how do you read this?” Tarion asked.

Beath scrunched up her face but said, “If I have to take a stab at it then the simplest answer is probably the most correct. The Twain—whoever they are—are in conflict and they have been since Elucidar. That conflict will only end with Ragnarok.”

“Could the Twain be Villi and Ve?” he asked.

“Perhaps if we knew what Elucidar was we could find out,” she replied. She scratched her head, making her already dry hair a halo of gray, wiry fuzz. Reading from her book, she said, “Elucidar is a paradox and may not even exist. Supposedly, it’s a dimension of pure time, a point in space and yet the entirety of the universe. Elucidar is a concept, but by the meaning of the rune, it’s a place or an event.”

She shook her head and took out her ball again. “This doesn’t explain how the
Twain come from Elucidar.” Beath set up her ball again. “Perhaps if we look into Elucidar itself we shall learn something. Show me Elucidar!”

The room went dark. A rush of sound assailed their ears. It was like the grinding of vast machines within the bowels of the earth. Beath’s eyes opened wide in terror as a dark silhouette appeared. The figure turned towards them and two molten eyes gleamed from the darkness. The eyes narrowed and a deep bass voice of terrible power asked, “Who is this? Who defies boldness to look upon me?”

Beath screamed. Tarion swiftly threw his cloak over the ball. The light returned to the room. Stillness settled through the dusty air. Finally, the innocent sounds of the street filtered back through the door, interrupted only by Beath’s heavy breathing.

“I will say no more,” Beath said in a frightened voice. “Nothing you pay me will further my effort here. Leave me be!”

“Then who can answer this riddle?” Tarion asked.

“Ask Odin, the AllFather, he is the master of all riddles and has nothing to lose.
Now go, I beg you!”

#

Naugrathur watched Tarion leave the shop. The old seer bolted the door and drew the curtains. When she turned back, she noticed the ball had not gone completely dark. She screamed.

“Enough of that, woman, come sit before me,” he demanded, more amused than irritated. He was in the middle of a death match between two of the devils desiring the Duchy of Ferrus. His mind turned away from dominion and he gazed through the
ethers to the quaint interior of Beath’s shop. Forcing the wizened woman to take his eyes, he probed her lightly, not wishing to torment—simply curious.

“Well, now, who have we here, Beath is it? I had not heard of you in the mystic circles. Was I mistaken? Are you bold enough to make a claim upon my attention?” The terrified old witch simply stared back at him. “Speak woman, I command you! Why did you wish to see the Destructor?”

“I sought the origin of the Twain for a customer, my Dread Lord,” she stammered, only half-aware of her words.

“Indeed, tell me all you know of this man
’s visit. Leave out no detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem!” Naugrathur listened patiently to the woman’s litany. When she finished, he released her, frightened but unharmed and closed the portal.

He considered the encounter for a moment and stopped the death match. “I have something to attend to,” he said simply. “We shall continue at my leisure.”

Naugrathur climbed to the tower chamber and went to his stone basin. As he bathed his face, the Dread Lord reflected on the tumultuous events of the last days. “I am hamstrung by the necessities of dominion, not the least of which is maintaining my power. Yet I cannot allow Tarion free rein over the world. What to do?”

He leaned over the basin in thought, allowing the flames to lick his flesh. “Thus far the Gods have failed me. Neither Loki nor his son Fenrir succeeded in capturing this mortal man. The mortal world requires a mortal answer,” he growled, straightening and waving his hand over the basin. The brew boiled, forming a cloud of glowing lavender vapor. “I need my own knights to ride against him and haunt him as he haunts me—yet that magic will take time. In the meantime I must dog his steps to Asgard.”

He uttered the name, “Rowena,” and the cloud pulsed to life, revealing the features of an extremely pale woman. She had a lean face, piercing eyes and braids like snakes on the head of the Medusa. She could be beautiful, for she was still young, but the haughty disdain of her expression would prevent even the most ardent suitor from approaching her.

She bowed her head. “How may I serve you, my Dread Lord?”

“I have a perilous quest for you, Rowena. Do you desire to attain another level of ambition?”

“Of course, Dread Lord,” she answered, her eyes sparkling.

“Tarion Praetorian is in the city of Trondheim and has just left the shop of one Beath, a seer of mean skill.”

“I know of her, Dread Lord.”

“This is no ordinary man,” Naugrathur said. “He has no fear of crossing swords with Karkedon or me. He has been tested by direct means, yet not perhaps by the subtleties of your own art.” He appraised her reaction for a moment. Then he warned her. “Beware of him. Under normal circumstances I would not put you before the path of such a power.”

He saw the flash of pride in her eyes and said, “Peace! Do not be disturbed, Rowena. I had other plans for you; you are the most skilled mortal of your age and you have the pluck to match your powers. Yet you have many years before you and much to learn. I would rather nurture you to greatness, but now we have a unique opportunity. Tarion finds himself caught in a maze of intrigue that makes even the Imperial court pale in comparison. That is your advantage. You must be subtle. Do not depend on directness. If you can bring him to your abode incapacitated, I will bring him hither and you shall come to Durnen-Gul for my personal tutelage.”

“Worry not, Dread Lord, I have used this last age constructively—I’ve a thousand years of study while most mortals spent each day as the last. I shall be in Trondheim within a few moments. I have a gate for every major village or town in this realm.”

“Good, fare you well, Rowena!”

Naugrathur cut the connection and returned to the arena to choose a new Lord of Ferrus.

#

Tarion wandered the streets in frustration. Beath confirmed a terrifying link between Naugrathur and the Wanderer, but no more. The place or event of Elucidar only deepened the mystery. If he wanted answers, he had no choice but to seek Odin. “It doesn’t matter, if I restore the Wanderer, they can keep their secrets.”

“What secrets do you seek?” asked a friendly voice. Tarion looked up to see
Alexandrus looking at him.

Tarion stopped, and smiled
, “Alexandrus! Well now, it’s good to see you alive.”

“Thanks to your skill with a spear,” the wizard smiled. He pointed to the bundle Tarion carried under his arm. “I couldn’t help but notice you have at least seven staffs wrapped up in there. Now, since you are no mage I imagine you’d like to sell them. Would you like to come in?”

“As a matter of fact I would,” Tarion said and Alexandrus showed him into his shop. “So this is what you do. I can’t say I approve,” the Praetorian noted gravely. “Your place is in Roma. That’s where the Imperium needs you—especially now.”

“Oh I think the Imperial Incantator Ankhura would disagree,” Alexandrus chuckled mirthlessly.

The shop was meticulously clean and orderly to the point of distraction. A gaily-colored parrot watched him from its perch, squawking and chortling to itself.

“All the more reason to keep you there,” the Praetorian said dryly.
Tarion noticed some ragged scars on Alexandrus’s neck. They looked like tooth marks. “How have you been? Does the night still haunt you?”

A
lexandrus knew what Tarion meant and he nodded. “It does, but we have skilled apothecaries in Trondheim; although they charge a hefty price in gold for peace of mind!”

Changing the subject, he led Tarion to a heavy table. “Put them here. Let’s see what you have! I’ve heard of your exploits, Tarion; there’s little talk of anything else. You’ve been busy since that terrible night!”

Tarion unrolled the bundle with eight staffs, a smaller one with a dozen wands and emptied an even smaller bag that contained a score of rings and amulets. Alexandrus looked them over with a frown, as if to distinguish whether or not they might be fit for his shop. The frown deepened as he examined them minutely.

Tarion noticed Alexandrus’s discomfort. “Are you all right Alexandrus? Are the wounds bothering you?”

Baer, the sylvan giant noticed his master’s demeanor as well, but he read the signs differently. With a growing scowl the giant ducked beneath the low beam and retrieved a large studded mace. The giant positioned himself between Tarion and the door.

“You want me to tie him up boss?”

Alexandrus looked up with some surprise. He had been so absorbed with the magical hardware he hadn’t even noted Baer’s actions. Holding up a hand the wizard said, “No, no Baer. Bless me, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you! Indeed, Baer this man Tarion has done no evil! You can relax.”

The giant scratched his head and shrugged, putting his club back in the corner. He came up behind Alexandrus, obviously still concerned and somewhat confused.

“I apologize Tarion, I was nearly overcome by these,” he hesitated, shaking his head.

“What is it Alexandrus?” Tarion insisted.

The wizard straightened without taking his eyes off the booty. His face changed between sorrow, anger and wonder. Finally, he looked at Tarion. “I must ask you how you came across these items. You may not know it; indeed, you must be completely ignorant of the fact, but some of these items are from persons known in this city. I made several of these items myself for friends. I must ask you what became of their owners?”

Tarion had enough adventures behind him to recognize Alexandrus’s confusion
. He didn’t take it personally. Shrugging the large leather bag off his shoulder, Tarion opened it and dumped the head of the Idjar on the table. “Did you know you had one of these living not a league from your door?”

Alexandrus paled. A long sullen silence followed, but his expression settled to one of great sadness. He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Baer, a jar from the back, if you please,” he said, regaining his composure. The giant came back carrying a large glass jar half filled with an amber fluid. The wizard took the head and carefully placed it in the jar. The giant took it in the back.