The Last Praetorian (7 page)

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“Carpe Diem!” the Dragonheart announced. “So shall the sun run its course until it reaches this moment a day hence. Thereafter shall this day repeat itself until the Wanderer returns to the world to fulfill the Prophecy of Alfrodel.”

The Destructor stared at
Ancenar
with eyes narrowed to slits of fire. His claw struck forth and clutched the elf’s chin. “Once again I underestimated your cunning Ancenar—and my own fury. The Wanderer will come back to fulfill the Prophecy. Verily, you deserve your doom now!” He glowered at the elf, but then surprisingly, he released him.

“Your obstinate courage stays my hand yet again. I release you to exile; I will not waylay you or yours within your haven of Irevale. Yet when the Prophecy comes to naught, your choice will be due—to exist in my service or not at all.”

The Destructor snapped his fingers. Turning on his heel, he strode to the balcony and stepped into space. At once, the monstrosity of Karkedon swooped down and caught him on his shoulders. The dragon gave a mighty heave of his wings and sped off into the smoky airs, disappearing to the east.

Abandoned for his failure, clutching his bloody face,
Johaan
fled the tower.

Ancenar
ran to the balcony and looked down at the city. The hosts of the Destructor were in flight. Deserted by their lord, they had not the will to continue. The defenders sprang after them. The elven lord sighed with relief, but a slight groan drew his attention downward.
 

To his
amazement, Tarion was directly beneath him, holding on to the lip of the balcony with his single hand. His face was deathly white with loss of blood, but he smiled weakly. “The rule of men as well—you almost had me believing you were serious!”

“Hold on my friend!” Ancenar told him, bending over the rail and extending an arm. He touched Tarion’s skin. It was cold and clammy. Ancenar reached around the man’s thick wrist, but as he did so, Tarion lost his grip and fell.

CHAPTER 4:  Breaking with the Past

Over the next thousand years, an entire age, every day began the same as the last. Terra rolled on, stopped, started and stopped again. The very fabric of the world grew weary, frayed and faded. The tapestry sown by the Fates became like a carpet upon which all of Terra’s players walked but a narrow path, beating the vitality out of life. The pattern of events remained, but the years drained everything of color and vitality.

As Tarion opened his eyes to yet another day, he could see the difference. The fleeting blue of the sky above was nearly transparent. The fires below burned without vigor. He could smell the smoke and blood of the battle, but it was dull, barely different from the stone against his cheek. Even the sounds were mute, as if the shouts and screams of the battle came to him from the depths of the seas.

Ancenar’s dark face thrust over the balcony rail. The elf stared at him in amazement. Tarion didn’t care. It was easy to let go and fall, just as he had every day since the curse began.

“Don’t do it Ancenar!” he shouted, but he knew the elf would do it anyway.

The acrid air whistled past his ears and his mind calmed. Maybe Ancenar would finally allow Tarion to rejoin his men, the last of the Praetorian Guard who lay dead in the courtyard below.

“Levitas!”

Tarion’s stomach knotted. His fall slowed and then it stopped altogether. The next thing he knew, he was lying in the courtyard with his men all around him. Ancenar knelt next to him. The elven lord was binding his maimed arm.

“Why?” he asked angrily, sitting up. “You have saved me every day for the last thousand years. Let it go, Ancenar.”

“The world still turns, my friend,” Ancenar told him. He finished wrapping Tarion’s stump and helped him to his feet. “The Imperium still needs you. Hope will come again and we must embrace that.”

Tarion looked at stump of his wrist. With a sigh of resignation, he hid his arm under his cloak. “What good has it done, Ancenar? We invoked the Dragonheart and nothing has happened. Our hope has foundered.”

“It has not foundered. The Destructor’s dominion is foiled by your deeds and your blood! His hosts are destroyed and scattered; his quest for dominion is now sure to be contested by the Wanderer.”

Tarion shook his head and said, “No, you are a witness to the second fall of man. I was once Tarion, General of the Imperial Legions and Captain of the Praetorian Guard. Look at me now! There is nothing left of me.
There is nothing left of the Praetoriate, and there is precious little left of the Imperium.”         

“Tarion, don’t give in to despair!”

Tarion shook his head. “Every day for the last age I have remembered my duty. I’ve invested Minerva as empress. I’ve seen to the city. Nothing’s changed. There is nothing left in Roma but despair. There’s nothing new here for me.”

Ancenar took his shoulder, and said gravely, “Now you
understand what it is to be an elf.”

Tarion looked at him; he’d spent an entire age with this elf. They knew each other better than anyone could possibly imagine, for they knew each day would play again. They talked of different things, read the scrolls of the library, played chess—they took each day as if it were a different day—yet when the new day dawned it began just as the old one did.

Ancenar sighed, “You feel the weariness of day after day but to elves that is life. Perhaps it is why it takes so much to move us; perhaps that is why most mortals see us as detached.” Ancenar looked into his eyes. “You must not let that cloud your judgment. It is a gift to you Tarion. You’ve profited by it.” The elf smiled sadly, looking around the court at the dead elves, dwarves and Praetorians. “Alas, it has not helped our people. You feel the days, my friend and I feel their deaths. That is what wears on me.”

“I feel that as well, Ancenar,” Tarion nodded. He headed for the door to the
citadel. “Very well, as I’m the last Praetorian there is no council to be called—it’s up to me. Let’s find Minerva and invest her as the new empress.” That didn’t prove to be difficult; she was looking out over the smoldering city from the citadel balcony, just as she had for the last age.

“Does it have to be this way,” she asked when they entered
? She no longer noted their entrance. While most mortals and immortals knew nothing of the Dragonheart curse, Ancenar thought it best to inform Minerva of it. She glanced at them as they approached the balcony. Her eyes were hard as flint. Her expression was featureless, neither angry nor happy. “You told me long ago to use this time to my advantage Lord Ancenar. I’ve done as you asked. I know every scroll in the Imperial library, every language of men and elves and dwarves, every facet of history—what does it gain my realm or me? We are still under the curse. Face it, the Wanderer is not coming.”

“Minerva, it’s time to go to the Pantheon. Everyone will be there waiting for us,” Tarion told her.

“I know,” she said. She followed them down the stairs. Halfway down, she said, “I was serious about what I said—the Wanderer is not coming.” Her voice echoed in the stairwell.

Tarion was in front and Ancenar was behind Minerva. The Praetorian didn’t even bother glancing back at the soon to be
empress. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“I want to know why.”

“So do we all Minerva.”

“Do not be so informal with me,” she snapped. “I hate it when you do that Praetorian! Remember that I am your
empress!”

“Not yet you’re not; not this today at least,” Tarion growled with his signature half-strangled laugh.
The girl is feeling the years. How can I blame her, I feel the same way.
He took a deep breath and tried to soothe her. “Listen, Minerva when we come through this you’ll be the most learned ruler in the history of the Imperium. We’ve been through darkness it’s true, but there’s always light shining somewhere. Ancenar has been reminding me of that for the last age.”

She stopped on the stair, her eyes suddenly welling up with tears. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed, “An age; we’ve been trapped here for an entire age! When is it going to end?
Where is this Wanderer—what if he doesn’t come—we’ll be trapped here forever?”

Tarion stopped, reaching for her, but then he lowered his hand. She was right again. They’d debated that very point hundreds, thousands of times. There was nothing new to say; they had no more answers. He looked to Ancenar. This time the elven lord took the girl by the shoulders and comforted her.

“Minerva, you are not alone in this,” he said. “We don’t have the answers, but you know that all of us are asking the same questions that you are. You’re not alone.”

The princess dried her tears, sniffing, “Very well, let’s get this over with.”

They walked out of a small back entrance to the citadel. It was a thick, narrow door meant for messengers and not befitting a princess, but Tarion did not want to subject Minerva to the carnage in the court. A small party of Senators and Elders waited with a carriage—they had knowledge of the curse and would be present for the coronation. Marshal Fanuihel was there along with Captain Nar, the chief of the surviving dwarves.

Tarion helped Minerva in and then got in himself. The Praetorian and
Ancenar sat on either side of her. Fanuihel, Nar and the Imperial Incantator Ankhura took the seats opposite them. The driver shook the reins and slowly the carriage made its way to the Palatine Hill. Behind the carriage, the party walked solemnly as if for a funeral. Even the horses seemed forlorn.

Halfway there, Minerva lamented, “How I long for the first days of this age when I didn’t know every cobble of this way, every misstep of the horse, every chill breeze and every single one of your replies to my questions Praetorian!”

Tarion thought hard, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything that Minerva hadn’t already heard. “It has always been my intention to be spontaneous for your entertainment; alas I’m a general not a jester.”

“So you say, and say, and say Tarion,” she grimaced. “You would have made a tedious husband. My father was right. You are much better suited to an elven princess.”

“Thank you for your kind consideration,” he replied dryly. Tarion thought of something new. It happened every once and a while, and while the conventions of a thousand years past would’ve stopped him he felt no such compulsion now. “Fortunately, your father did change his mind; else we’d have been married on this day for the last thousand years and you’d be enduring not only the ceremony but the wedding night—now don’t you feel better?”

Minerva gasped and muttered something unintelligible. The carriage stopped at the entrance to the Pantheon, the great temple of the Creator. Waiting at her carriage door was an elderly man with snowy white hair and a long white beard. His robes were as white as his hair. He looked like a wizard except that he bore a golden sheppard’s crook instead of a staff. He welcomed the party and held out his hand to the Princess.

“Welcome my empress to be. Welcome to you all! Alas, only the Gods of the Norse remain. Olympus fell under the onslaught. Therefore, Odin will be The Creator’s witness before the Gods. Come and let us begin!”

The shock of the announcement wore off long ago—
Olympus was no more. Only Asgard and the family of Norse Gods remained to guide men, elves and dwarves.

He led them through a pair of tall gilded doors. The Pantheon was a large temple that could hold hundreds if not thousands. The painted dome was high overhead; it had a single crystal paned window directly in the center. A shaft of light came down from the window, working its way through the dusty air to fall upon the marble floor. The sound of their feet echoed throughout the temple.

The ceremony was short, as everyone knew his or her place and purpose. Tarion stood next to Ancenar, trying not to look bored. He forced himself to watch the Bishop crown Minerva, the same thing he witnessed thousands upon thousands of times. There was rarely any variation to the ceremony. The crown settled on her dark hair and Minerva turned to the assemblage. She stepped forward into the shaft of light pouring down from dome.

“Behold the
empress of the Imperium!” the Bishop announced.

A golden glow enveloped Minerva. She appeared surrounded by dancing diamonds. The crown gleamed with sparkling gems and polished gold. Despite her youth, Minerva looked every bit the
empress. Tarion remembered the first years of the young empress’s reign; centuries of experience washed that doubt away and left her haughty and unhappy. This day, however, she smiled; as if she knew the answer to a riddle, no one else had thought of.

 
The empress was in the habit of giving a very brief address after the coronation, but this time she waited until the silence became palpably uncomfortable. She looked over the nobles, elves and the generals and said, “It has been an age since I first took up this tasking and every day since I fulfilled my father’s wishes and the Imperium’s need. Not so today, for I perceived a need to flaunt convention even to the point of disregarding the wishes of the Gods.”

Tarion’s brows drew together in stunned consternation. A hush settled over the temple. What could she mean? He glanced at Ancenar but the elf was equally puzzled.

Minerva smiled at the new vitality of doubt in the guests. She soaked it in for a moment, and announced, “I will take a different path than that appointed for me in the past. I will take a husband this day and right the wrongs of my father.” She looked directly at Tarion and held out her hand. “Tarion Praetorian, come and take the hand of your empress! As my father the emperor promised so shall you receive; come hither!”

“My
empress,” Tarion began, but she cut him off.

“I will take no counsel on this
. I will, if necessary order you; come to me my husband!” She held out her hand to him again. Tarion felt his heart caught in his throat, but he had no choice. The empress gave him a tasking and he was by Imperial law and tradition bound to accept it. He stepped forward.

Thunder rumbled. The shaft of light pouring through the dome went dark. Torches fluttered in a sudden wind. Minerva ignored it all and said
imperiously, “I defy the very earth if necessary! Take my hand Tarion and so shall the Holy See of the Creator bind us together as one flesh!”

Tarion straightened his purple cloak,
set his already square jaw and reached for her hand.

“Do not touch her Tarion Praetorian!”

It was a woman’s voice that rang through the temple, punctuated by thunder, accentuated by lightning. It was deeper, more poignant, and more powerful than that of the empress, steeped in vivacity and enchantment.

The assembly
stared behind the empress. Furious, Minerva stomped her foot and whirled to face the voice that stopped her wedding. A swath of darkness stood between two pillars at the end of the hall. From the darkness emerged a great silky-bronze horse with a golden mane and tail, a Pegasus with wings folded. Astride the stunning creature was a beautiful and imperious woman. She was wild, a daughter of the storm, perilous and enthralling. Long tresses of hair framed a tanned face at once beautiful and imperious. Eyes of sapphire blue sparkled in the gloom. Her hair cascaded like a mountain waterfall from beneath her helm, tumbling like frothing waves of sun bronzed wheat over her shoulders. A cloak of dark green edged with lion trailed behind her. She was clothed as a huntress with tall boots, leather raiment edged with gold, and a black dragonscale vest and gloves. She was wondrous to behold in a voluptuous mortal manner.