The Last Praetorian (9 page)

The
empress strode out of the Pantheon and climbed into her carriage, shouting to the driver. The horses ran down the Palatine hill, the clatter of their hooves fading in the direction of the palace. The rest of the assemblage left after her. Tarion remained in the Pantheon with Freya and Ancenar.

“She has a stubborn spirit to her and is worthy of my name, I’ll say that,” Freya sighed. She looked at Tarion. “What will you do?”

 “I’ve lived my life by the requirements of duty,” Tarion said with gravity.

“Only you can decide whether to follow the Prophecy or your empress,” Freya told him.

“The empress has spoken,” he said simply. With that, Tarion took off the medallion signifying his command. It was a heavy gold disk bearing a crowned golden eagle in a field of purple enamel. Across the top were the words “Semper Fidelis Imperium.” Below the talons, that held twin silver thunderbolts was the title: “Praetorian.” The title was synonymous with the General of the Legions; the Captain of the Praetorian Guard; and Steward of the Praetorian Council which elected the Imperator. When he added the title to his given name, becoming Tarion Praetorian, he became as singular as was the empress.

With a look of grim consternation Tarion put the medallion back over his neck. “Minerva is my empress. She has my loyalty, but my duty is to the Imperium not the empress. The republic is greater than its ruler.
I will go to Norrland.”

Freya embraced him
; it lasted longer than it should have. Tarion closed his eyes with guilt, thinking that he’d endure the hardships of the last age with joy for another such embrace.

Freya, of course, seemed to be able to read his thoughts. She smiled, but her message was grave.
“Follow your instincts Tarion. As you are the One destined to find the Wanderer and set him on his path, you may ask advice, but follow your own counsel—even beyond the Gods—especially beyond the AllFather, whom you are destined to meet again in this drama.”

“That will be a merry meeting,” Tarion said sarcastically.

She looked at him with sparkling blue eyes and a smile as radiant as the sun off winter snows. “Remember also that you love me and adore me. That thought will keep me happy when your road is long and dark.”

Freya kissed his cheek and mounted her Pegasus. “Farewell, and remember, the more you think of me the easier your road shall be!” She galloped out of the Pantheon and up into the blue sky.

“She’s been doing that to me for almost thirty years,” Tarion murmured.

“Be thankful she adores you Tarion,” Ancenar told him. “Think of the men she doesn’t
esteem!” They both winced. The elf sighed. “We owe her everything. As it is, we have a chance. It’s up to you now Tarion.”

“It is indeed,” said Ankhura the Incantator darkly. He stepped up to the Praetorian. They’d always had a tense relationship, especially as Tarion had been friends with Ankhura’s two chief rivals: Alexandrus and Aetius before his betrayal. The Incantator took a deep breath and said, “I must agree with your course of action. Fear not for Empress Minerva, I will endeavor to convince her of the necessity of your actions.”

“Thank you,” Tarion said, and he was about to turn away when Ankhura stopped him.

“I have something more to offer than
my support Praetorian,” he said uncomfortably. “The leader of the Norse volunteers, an able man named Hrolf of the sacred city of Trondheim has petitioned me for the use of the mystic gate to Norrland. Alexandrus will lead the remnants of the Norse party through this afternoon. The way will shorten your journey by five hundred leagues.”

Tarion brightened. “Now that will aid me. Thank you Ankhura and good luck.”

The Incantator bowed and hurried away.

“Praetorian!”

“Now what
? At this rate I’ll never get going,” Tarion muttered. He turned to see the Bishop of Roma. Tarion, though never an overtly religious man, bit his tongue and bowed.

The Bishop
took some water and blessed him. Then he made a vertical pass in the air with his sheppard’s crook followed by a horizontal one. “May the Creator bless and protect you on the road until he sends you back to us. Have faith!” Pinning a golden brooch on Tarion’s breast, a large “P” surmounted by an “X,” the Bishop nodded with satisfaction. He explained, “Keep this as a sign of your faith. Nothing of evil may touch it; those who lie to you will find their tongues will burn with righteous fire.”

Dipping
his finger in a flask of golden oil the Bishop traced the symbol on Tarion’s forehead. “Go forth with the Creator’s grace Praetorian!”

“Thank you father,” Tarion accepted the blessing
and left the Pantheon. As they walked toward the imperial barracks where the mystical gate to Norrland could be found. On the way they began to find the dead as well, including a block heavy with Norse.

Tarion stopped, and said, “I’m not going very far as the Praetorian. I’d best travel in secret while I can.” He took off his Praetorian armor, leaving it in Ancenar’s care, and took what gear he could from the dead. Tarion kept his sword, swapping the scabbard to his right hip. He did likewise with his wristblade, clasping it on his maimed right forearm. Although painful it was now serviceable.

To complete the disguise, he put on a Norse helm with brass goggles and a fur cloak. To all he now looked at first glance to be yet another Norse warrior come in service to the Imperium.

At the square Tarion parted with Ancenar, Fanuihel and Nar.

“You will always have a haven in my house Tarion,” Ancenar told him. “Irevale will always be your home.”

Tarion offered his right arm before realizing there was no hand to give the elven lord. Muttering, the Praetorian offered his left, “In my flouting of Empress Minerva’s orders I may well be an exile now; so thank you Ancenar and good luck.”

“If you find the Wanderer come to Irevale; we will gather all of our strength and march upon Durnen-Gul with better hope than last we did.”

“You have my promise!” Tarion nodded.

His good bye to Fanuihel was equally as warm, but to Nar Tarion sighed and shook his head. “I know not what to say. King Baruk was a good friend. We grew up together and inherited our stations at the same time—too early. This sacrifice cuts me deep.”

“As it does the last realm of dwarves,” Nar admitted. “Yet Narn Karn-Xum still stands and there we shall go to rebuild our strength as best we can. It is a sacrifice that will grey many beards, but we do not regret fulfilling our vows. Good luck Praetorian. You will always be welcome in our halls.”

So Tarion parted with his companions of the last age.

They stopped at An
cenar’s apartments.

Tarion then made his way to the legionary barracks. This part of the city was still relatively untouched by the siege. It was a large complex meant to house three full legions and their auxiliaries. At the center was a wide square for drill and training.

The barracks flanked the square on the east and west. To the north were the officer’s barracks and a balcony for reviewing the troops. Beneath the balcony, ten wide doors were set in the wall. Each door was twenty feet wide. Each bore a specific symbol. One bore the crown and crossed axes of the dwarves and another showed a tree surmounted by stars for the elves. The other eight bore the ducal seals of the other great cities of the Imperium—now all gone. Tarion headed for the door with Ostheim’s seal, nor was he alone.

A group of Norseman was there before him. They formed a ragged line of around two hundred men. As Tarion did, most wore bearskin coats over their chain mail armor. Their steel caps sprouted horns and brass rimmed goggles over their eyes and noses. Unlike Tarion, the Norse grew long beards, forking them or braiding them after the fashion of dwarves. Long handled axes rested on their brawny shoulders and they slung brightly painted shields on their backs.
Those of Norrland were hard-bitten men of the fallen Imperium, choosing simple ways over civilization. Yet for all that, they had the closest ties of any men to dwarves, elves and even the Gods.

A large man with a yellow forked beard led the column from the back of a woolly mastodon. The mastodon trumpeted a
farewell to the city. It seemed a gentle beast, enduring the close company of spearmen and axemen alike. The mastodon followed its masters prodding like a big hairy horse. Next to the mastodon flew Alexandrus on his carpet. Tarion pulled his helm down low and avoided the wizard’s notice; he stepped quickly toward an Imperial centurion and four legionaries. They were taking the census of the party, ensuring only those who had permission would use the door. The man looked up from his papers. He didn’t recognize Tarion, or so he guessed from the man’s surly attitude. “Another of the Trondheim party, eh; state your name and home district.”

“Freyr Odinson,” Tarion said, thinking Freya would be amused he was claiming to be her brother. As for the rest, he didn’t lie; he didn’t need to. “I lived in Ostheim, but was born in
Gotthab to the Druidic Priestess of the Trondheim district.”

“That’s good enough,” the centurion nodded. “You’re lucky, no one else gets through. The Norse wouldn’t get through either, but they’ve got Alexandrus the Wizard going with them. The Imperial Incantator gave him a pass.”

Tarion nodded. “I answered the call to Roma.”

“Well, thanks for that. The Incantator is closing the gates this afternoon—we can’t afford to risk who might come through the other way, so he says.” The centurion made his way through the Norse to the doors, laughing grimly. “He must be kidding; you can’t get any worse than the Destructor himself, but the Praetorian chased him off—so what’s the worry?”

Tarion smiled, as the centurion unlocked the gate. He glanced down at Tarion’s bandaged arm. “Thanks for coming to our aide; we owe you, the elves and the dwarves a blood debt. I’m sorry about that hand, but I thank you.”

“At least it wasn’t the rest of me,” Tarion said.

“You got family in Norrland still?”

“Not anymore,” he said simply.

“I’m sorry about that too,” he said, shaking his head. “Dark times, these are surely dark times.” He turned around and raised his voice, shouting to all the assembled Norse. “Listen up lads! Once you step through the arch, there’s no turning back. We can’t see what’s going on at the other side, but the Incantator is closing the gate after you leave. I hope you reach your homes and families this day and thanks for your service to the Imperium. Farewell and Godspeed!”

The centurion and his men opened the doors. It was dark within
. A cold wind blew from the tunnel. Alexandrus flew to the head of the line and announced, “I will try and bring us off the mystic road as close to Trondheim as possible. I warn you; however, this is not an exact science. The Founders fashioned the gate to go to Trondheim but the way was changed when King Ragnar founded Ostheim. The way has not been changed since and we certainly don’t want to end up in the central square of that fallen city! This is akin to jumping off a horse in mid gallop and trying to land on a denarius!”

Alexandrus flew through on his carpet, followed by the mastodon and its driver and after that the two hundred men. Tarion fell in at the rear.

He’d been through gates before and this was no different. There was always a moment of darkness and disorientation and then everything cleared. This time everything cleared quickly—the cold did that. It was frigid. A driving wind pelted him with stinging snow and it was soon apparent just how unprepared he was for the mountains of Norrland. Ahead, through the blowing snow, Tarion could make out the dim shapes of bearskin-clad men. They disappeared rapidly into the glooms. Hurriedly, he trudged through the snow to catch up, falling into step behind the last man. He didn’t know where they were and it didn’t really matter. Tarion was out of his element now. Doubt crept back into his mind followed closely by guilt.

What have I done? For the first time in my life, I’ve left the path of duty. How can that possibly lead to a good end? Ah well, there’s no turning back now. Take one-step at a time Tarion; put one boot in front of the other.

All through the afternoon, the company climbed a pass. The snow was deep, but they made good time. The mastodon blazed the trail. Tarion had it easy, walking at the end of the line on packed snow. They soon passed out of the blowing snow and clouds into a dazzling bright world atop the mountains. The wind died to a moaning sigh and the sun came out. Ice crystals swirled in the sunlight, glittering like fairy dust, tinkling against the rocks like thousands of tiny bells. The civilized world seemed far away indeed.

Afternoon faded away into evening and with the last light of day, they reached the summit of the pass. On a small knob of a hill, the company stopped for a short rest. Hrolf, the driver of the mastodon and the leader of the company, rode around them and shouted, “We’ve another four hours of marching. Fill your bellies and rest. We move out in an hour!”

Tarion trudged toward a small pine tree, missing the Praetorian tent his men usually set up for him. He cursed the thought for what it was: weakness. When he reached the tree, he had the idea of hewing down a branch for a makeshift bed in the snow, but too late, he noticed Alexandrus hunched beneath the branches writing in a journal and mumbling to himself.

“It’s been an age—an entire age—yet still there’s no sign of the curse breaking!” The wizard looked up and saw him. The brass goggles hid his features, yet Alexandrus’s manner changed immediately. “Hello, what in the world are you doing here in the wilderness Praetorian?
I thought you were getting married to the empress!”