The Last Praetorian (35 page)

“The Imperium gave everyone equal opportunity under its banner, until you destroyed it.”

“The Imperium was flawed, driven by flawed men over a road of mislaid stones.”

“We are flawed, Dread Lord,” Tarion argued. “We are men, we are not perfect, but we learn from our mistakes—that is how we grow.
We learn by gauging ourselves against our examples—examples like Tyr, and Thor and Syf!”

“How many thousands upon thousands suffer for those mistakes, Tarion?” The Destructor said evenly. “
Examples are not enough; history shows that. You need guidance, you need laws and you need the structure of my dominion to purge your lives of the mistakes that you make time and time again—do you not see? My wisdom and my knowledge can free you of all doubt and hardship! All men have to do is live and no longer suffer. That is what I offer.”

“What of desire, striving, seeking to better oneself through effort? These are the things that make men proud and worthy,” Tarion argued. “You cannot impose happiness; the Creator has placed it in our hearts. If we do not strive for it, we will never gain it.”

The Destructor shook his head, saying, “You are an altruist Praetorian. I have ages of experience guiding me; I know best. If you cannot see that then you shall pay for your lack of vision.”

“My vision is just fine Dread Lord,” Tarion told the Destructor. “I know honor when I see it, integrity and faithfulness—none of that matters in your world. The only reality in your world is your code. What honor does a man need to follow a code when death and torment are the repercussions?”

“Honor; you dare to speak of honor?” the destructor said, and an evil laugh grew in his massive breast. He shook his mighty head at Tarion’s expression. “Oh I do not question you Tarion, Praetorian you are to the very violet of your blood and gold of your soul! Yet how can you name Thor and Syf or even Freya, your desperate, impossible love—honor! They have none! They have sold you Praetorian; don’t you know?”

“What are you talking of?” he demanded.

“You wear the talisman of the Bishop of Roma, a Truthstone of the Creator. You will know if I lie,” the Destructor said gleefully. His molten eyes narrowed, and he said viciously, “You are not a man, you are a carcass! You are not meant for the life you lead—honorable and glorious though it is—no, you will not ever feel the kiss of Freya though she shall certainly love your body. I lament it, truly I do Tarion, for even as my honorable foe you deserve better.”

“I do not understand,” Tarion growled.

The Destructor laughed, but it was a bitter laugh as if even he was troubled by what he said. “Tarion, this body is not yours! It is intended for the Wanderer! He cannot reanimate himself. King Alfrodel was his key from Limbo, your father was the bearer of his Lifethread and you, yes you Tarion, were to supply the flesh, blood and muscle of his mortal raiment. The Wanderer used you all to your deaths!”

The Destructor crossed his arms over his breast again, standing imperious before Tarion. As if he were standing atop a mountain, he decreed, “The world is set for my dominion. You, Tarion are a unique adversary and so
I would wish you better, yet it is not to be.”

Tarion
gazed into his brooch with astonished fatality. What the Destructor said was true.

Naugrathur
growled with a voice as harsh as a hurricane. “This book is over. Alas, you have striven for the people of this world, right or wrong, but this world has no place for you Tarion!”

CHAPTER 29: Departure

The gate closed. The Destructor’s words stunned Tarion to his core. His death lay at the end of this journey. With a growing bitterness in his soul Tarion ransacked the castle, gathering jewelry, gems and some of the older spell books. In Rowena’s bedroom, he found her private hoard. A passage led from the interior of a tall wardrobe opposite her bed. The door had no lock and he assumed a spell sealed it, but to his surprise, it opened when he pulled on the brass ring.

Lamps sprang to life as he entered. Within was a small but fantastic chamber with dozens of magic items. One thing in particular caught his eye: it was a horn of gold lying on a bed of purple velvet. Tarion picked up the horn
and read the runes. It was the Horn of Heimdall; the gateway to Asgard.

“Well, well, Rowena I’m in your debt after all,” he smiled. “If you hadn’t come for me I’d have never found this. Now, let the Wanderer answer to these troubles; I am tired to death with them!”

He turned to leave. There was an armoire standing in the corner he hadn’t seen. Tarion was satisfied. He didn’t need any more treasure. Indeed, he joked darkly to himself, “How much treasure does a carcass need? I certainly don’t need to keep any of this for the Wanderer’s use!”

However, since he was being thorough in his sacking of Rowena’s treasures he went through the armoire anyway
. What he found changed everything.

Tarion burned the castle. He didn’t bother returning
through Trondheim; in fact, he hoped to avoid his friends and familiars. Instead, he went into the village below the castle. Tarion intended buying a small boat, and he did so, but the village swelled with refugees from the recently sacked capital Grosthammr. Tarion left his treasure with the village elders, “A gift so that you may know the Imperium is not dead, but that the hand of Empress Minerva may be felt even here in the furthest corner of the empire.”

That caused a small commotion, but Tarion did not stay for any accolades. He kept only a few gold crowns for his journey, slung the Horn of Heimdall over his shoulder
and stuffed the rolled up scroll in his cloak.

With night coming on he set out to sea, sailing for the Iving and Asgard, sailing with the knowledge that everything he thought he knew about his past was wrong.

As he pointed the prow east along the coast and raised the purple sail, Tarion took out the scroll and read it one more time. The plot of the Gods to use him as the vehicle for the Wanderer’s return—literally—was even more macabre when the scroll made it clear who his true mother was—Freya.