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  THE LAST PRAETORIAN

  Praetorian Volume 1

  -A novel by-

  Christopher L. Anderson

  The Last Praetorian

  Praetorian Volume 1

  Copyright © 2012 Christopher L. Anderson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by an means, graphic or electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the express permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

  The novels of Christopher L. Anderson can be ordered through booksellers or by accessing:

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  ISBN: 978-1477556498

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art by Christopher L. Anderson

  To my family, who indulged my sense of adventure . . .

  THE LAST PRAETORIAN

  CHAPTER 1: The Last Praetorian

  “So ends the time of legend.”

  Tarion’s voice was as rough-hewn as his features. Every moment of every battle over the last twenty-five years left an indelible mark. With most his life spent on the battlefield Tarion the Praetorian, General of the Legions, Protector of the Imperium, carried the sorrows of a declining world on the canvas of his face. The only spark of life in that grim visage was in his hard, bitter green eyes.

  He looked out over the Capital of the Imperium, the Eternal City of Roma; beyond the white granite walls seethed a sea of a hundred thousand foes and more. Dragons wheeled, witches and necromancers cast curses, bolts of fire rained from the sky. Howling demons grappled with hooks, fishing for souls.

  Roma tensed on the edge of doom, waiting for the last desperate assault. Her heartbeat, the very will of the city, lay in the Praetorian. Strong as a rutting bull, Tarion’s breath nevertheless stopped in his lungs and all he could manage was a croaking whisper. “What has become of our Imperium, our city, our way of life? Civilization gives way to barbarism; nothing will be left of us, not even a memory. If we fail—if I fail—nothing will remain under the Destructor’s dominion. The world will truly end.”

  A glimmer of golden light drew his gaze to the north. A quarter mile away on the summit of the Palatine Hill stood the Pantheon of the Creator. Its flawless golden dome glowed against the white snows of the mountains—a reminder of life and of hope. Silently the Praetorian touched his brow; yet despite its ageless glory, even the most sacred place of the Imperium did not escape the darkness. Around the Pantheon in a sacred circle stood the nine temples of the Gods.

  Seven of the temples were in ruins, splintered heaps of marble. The sacred crown of the Palatine was battered with only the temples of the Roman and the Norse Gods standing to the glory of the Creator. The other Gods fell victim to the Destructor, the old Norse God of Justice Tyr, hence his name.

  Tarion knew the Gods, he’d ridden with them, fought alongside them and eaten in their homes. The Gods were part of the fabric of life in the world of Terra. Tarion revered the Gods, but he did not pray to them. Such prayers could not help him or his Imperium. The Gods were diminished, hunted by the Destructor until their realms, like the Imperium, now tottered on the edge of annihilation.

  He glanced back at the Pantheon wherein the Creator was said to listen to the prayers of men, elves, dwarves and any who might ask his guidance. With a sigh Tarion turned away, knowing full well the evil that befell his people they brought upon themselves.

  A low grumbling, groan rose from behind and Tarion looked back over his shoulder. A tiny tongue of flame erupted from the golden dome of Jupiter, the temple of Roma’s people. It collapsed beneath a cloud of smoke and dust—gone in an instant. A great shout arose from without the walls and a painful knot of nausea gripped his stomach. “The end has begun, the Gods have fallen. We are alone. May the Creator have mercy on our souls.”

  Tarion clutched the rail. For a moment despair overtook him; but the cries of battle from the walls rallied his spirit. Men still fought and struggled. They refused to go quietly into darkness and so must he. He turned back to his task, his eyes hard as obsidian.

  “We will persevere. Let them think we’re beaten, let them come! This city and this Imperium of men is not dead yet!” Despite the darkness, despite the hopelessness, Tarion was a general. He knew his enemy and in this knowledge was hope for victory—maybe not forever— but for his lifetime and many to come.

  Tarion left the balcony, helmet under his arm, chin thrust out, brows contracted over his green eyes in a grim, deathly resolve. He entered the emperor’s chamber, a circular room with a domed ceiling. In the center under a massive chandelier was an elegantly carved round table with dozens of chairs. It made the place seem empty, because there were only two other people there: Lord Ancenar of the elven realm Irevale and King Baruk, of the dwarven halls of Narn Karn-Xum. They bent over a large map of the city talking in soft, somber tones. The elven lord was tall, slight of build but with the wisdom of centuries endowing his ageless expressions. Baruk was half his height but broader than Tarion. His red beard was braided, falling over his deep armored chest and tucked into a broad leather belt.

  Tarion announced grimly, “The gates of Olympus are broken; the Gods of Roma have fallen.”

  Ancenar’s dark aquiline features contracted into sorrowful grimace. “Then only Asgard and the Norse Gods remain,” he sighed, running his long fingers through his dark hair. “The Destructor spares them for his final revenge, if only because of his esteem for Thor.”

  “Or his hatred for Freya and Odin,” Baruk said somberly. The dwarves revered the Norse pantheon above all others and did many great works for the Gods. “It was Freya who unmasked his treachery, but his hatred for Odin,” the dwarf shook his head. “That was ever a mystery.”

  “Regardless, we are nearly alone,” Tarion said, filling his goblet with wine. He didn’t really care—the Gods had not the strength to help them—that wasn’t why he gulped down his wine and refilled the goblet. It was Freya. The simple mention of her name was enough to undue his stoic demeanor. To cover his embarrassment, the Praetorian growled, “I am loath to tell the emperor. I don’t know that he can take any more misfortune.”

  He moved to the map, his forefinger thumping the great square leading from the gates to the Imperial Road. “We have one advantage from this disaster: we know where the Destructor is. Even he cannot be two places at once; that means he cannot be here. Now is the time to spring the trap—and hope it works. If it does, we will have freed the world from the Destructor’s dominion for an age if not more.”

  “That buys us hope,” Ancenar nodded, draining his goblet.

  “What hope have we even with an age of peace?” Baruk interjected. He was young for a king, too young for his mantle. Like Tarion, he had to wear the cloak meant for a more seasoned ruler by attrition. The last two decades saw the devastation of the dwarf kingdoms by the Destructor. It wore on Baruk’s strong features; yet he had the lordly bearing of his father Garuk, and the determination of that stout people. “Look what has happened to us in the blink of an eye. What will be left even if this works? We
’ve lost so much.”

  “We have,” Tarion nodded, “and I would agree with you if it were not for the Prophecy of King Alfrodel, a Prophecy both Ancenar and I witnessed.”

  “The Wanderer,” Baruk said doubtfully. “He is a myth; an errant dream in King Alfrodel’s last madness—no offense intended!” He bowed to Ancenar. “Why base our hope on a story?”

  “Because the Destructor himself believes that story,” Tarion said grimly. “He slew my father for boasting of it.” Tarion sighed and clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “If I hadn’t heard and seen the Destructor’s rage, well, I would think as you do.”

  Ancenar’s ancient gray eyes flashed, but his renowned patience won over. In a steady voice empty of reproach he told Baruk, “King Alfrodel was not mad, he had a death vision. I saw what the Praetorian saw. The Destructor believes. That alone justifies our hope.”

  “Yet even the Gods say the Wanderer was slain,” Baruk reminded them. “The Destructor slew him on Aesir and exiled him to Limbo to wither with all lost souls.”

  “Alfrodel’s sacrifice released him,” Tarion said.

  “Then where is he?” Baruk demanded.

  Tarion and Ancenar looked at each other. The elven lord finally shrugged and admitted, “No one knows Baruk. It could be that his spirit did not survive the withering cold of Limbo or that it is lost and wandering here in the world.” He looked down at the map and then out at the fires of the city. Shaking his head the elven lord looked weary beyond ages, admitting breathlessly, “Alas, it is all we have.”

  Tarion pounded his fist on the table. “Reality is a bitter draught; yet we have no other hope, not for a final ending at least. The strength of the Imperium is all but gone, as is the strength of elves and dwarves. As for the Gods, well Thor could not better him. Only the Wanderer has the strength.”

  Ancenar explained, “At one time Baruk, the Wanderer faced Naugrathur the Destructor. Naugrathur tried to usurp the Gods and the Wanderer stopped him. If not for the Crown of Mimir the Wanderer would have destroyed Naugrathur that day. Therefore we must persevere until the Wanderer comes again; he is the enemy of Naugrathur. Only he can deliver the world from the Dominion of the Destructor!”

  Tarion sighed and added, “If the Wanderer is to save the world from the Destructor we must ensure he still has a world to save.”

  “Where did he come from and how did he gain such strength?” exclaimed the dwarf.

  “Lady Freya believes the Wanderer and the Destructor are of the same stock, an old race maybe even more ancient than the Gods,” Ancenar said.

  “Yet Tyr, who betrayed the Gods and became Naugrathur the Destructor, he was one of them,” Baruk reminded the elf.

  “Who can say?” Ancenar sighed. “When the Gods left the world long ago they did so without Tyr. He remained. Some say he was here before the Gods came and after they left. Tyr may have dwelt in mortality, seeking to guide men while the elves slept and the dwarves remained in secret, waiting for the pendulum of the world to veer from the dominion of men.

  “When ages later Tyr returned to Godshome who knows where he’d been and what he’d been through? Even when Godshome was destroyed none knew it was by Tyr’s hand. When the Gods fled back to the mortal world at Tyr’s suggestion he took up his former mantle; until Lady Freya exposed him as the Destructor of old.”

  The dwarf pursed his lips, doubtful, but unable to refute Ancenar’s mythology. “So you think there was another, a brother of Tyr, who followed him to Godshome and eventually here to Midgard?”

  Ancenar nodded, “The Creator allows free will, but he believes in balance. Lady Freya believes the Wanderer is the Destructor’s balance.”

  “I hope you’re right Ancenar, but it matters not,” Tarion insisted, bending over the map. “There is a battle before us, which is as much as I can deal with at the moment.” He pointed to Roma. “If we can destroy this host then Roma can hold the mountain passes guarding the cities of the Norse, Narn-Karn-Xum of the dwarves, Haldieth and Irevale of the elves. We have a core with which to rebuild our strength.”

  He put his finger on each of the remaining strongholds of the free people, but Tarion hesitated over the drawing of a white castle amidst the high peaks. Glancing up with a mirthless grin, the Praetorian said bitterly, “I hear my old castle in Tiron has grown into a bustling elven city since Larnad the Young received my inheritance.” He shook his head, an unpleasant expression marring his features. “More power to him; he’s a fine elf lad. I only hope we can win enough time for him to enjoy my inheritance!”

  The humiliation in Tarion’s soul came out as sarcasm in his voice and both Ancenar and Baruk stirred uncomfortably. This didn’t escape Tarion, but he had no axe to grind with either of these two worthy allies. They had nothing to do with this; it was the emperor. He sighed, but his inner bitterness was something even he could not always control.

  Under his breath, he muttered, “I wouldn’t begrudge Larnad if it was only to keep Glorianna in comfort—she deserves it. However, it would go easier if he but sent me a squadron of his lancers or a few cohorts of elven archers. He has his own concerns though; no doubt the foxes of Folan Westren are threatening his chicken coops!”

  The Praetorian drained his goblet of wine again and refilled it. He shrugged, emitting a half-strangled laugh—much like that of his father. In a louder voice, he told Ancenar, “Forgive me; I’m sure my company is neither as pleasant nor as civilized as that of Tarius. Considering how close you were to my father, it must be aggravating to see this splinter of him behave so churlishly.”

  The elven lord cocked his long face to the side, pursing his thin lips. Ancenar clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Do not mistake my esteem or friendship of your father as damnation of you, Tarion. You are children of different times and different hardships. To have Emperor Diocletian force a decree of divorce upon your parents and order your father to marry the elven princess who was by right and tradition yours—a claim Glorianna consented to gladly—it was a terrible blow. That my own King Alfrodel was complicit in marrying his daughter away in such a manner is a hard memory for the elves.”

  He moved over to Tarion and like a father, laid his hand on the Praetorian’s armored shoulder. “Tarion, I knew your father from birth even as I’ve known you. It was unbearable for him to do the emperor’s tasking; death was a relief for Tarius, but that made all of this even more difficult for you. I admire the way you’ve dealt with it. I’ve known no other man that could have taken on the mantle of betrayal cast upon you by King Alfrodel and Emperor Diocletian and then assume the armor of the Praetorian. To defend the Imperium and what remained of the world as ably as you have is no small accomplishment.”

  “Aye Praetorian, you’ve defended the Halls of our Elders as you would your own; the dwarves owe you as much as the elves,” Baruk added.

  Tarion, who did not take compliments well, turned away, remarking as he usually did, “If I were half the man my father was, I’d not have lost the majority of my legions in defending the Imperium. I’ve never been able to sway the emperor as he did.” He silenced any further debate on the subject by thumping his fist on the map. “It doesn’t matter, anymore. The emperor has promised me his daughter’s hand when she comes of age. That is as much as any man can ask.” He straightened. “My only concern now is to ensure that an Imperium and our world remain. That being said, we face a hard fight, but we have an opportunity—we must seize this day!”

  The door to the chamber opened and the chamberlain stepped in. He stood aside and announced, “Emperor Diocletian III, Lord of the Imperium!”

  The emperor followed. Diocletian was a pale, thin, worried looking man; he was all that was left of the energetic young emperor of two decades past. In Diocletian’s mind, the end was near; Tarion could see it in his eyes. Though hardly older than Tarion, there could be no greater difference in the vitality and carriage of the men. Despite his many wounds and hard life, Tarion exuded a grim energy, strong and determine
d. As if to contrast the precipice of hope and despair that they faced, the emperor shuffled to the table and collapsed in his chair, his eyes red and vacuous.

  Behind him was Ankhura the Imperial Incantator. The wizard was a dark, middle-aged man; tall and straight as an arrow. He was as different from the careworn figure of the emperor as was Tarion. The wizard remained standing while Tarion and the others took their seats.

  “Is it true, has Olympus fallen,” Diocletian asked?

  “It is my lord,” Tarion said gravely. “Asgard still stands. I spoke with Thor and Loki just a few days past; Thor himself guards the Rainbow Bridge. None will dare his hammer but for the Destructor himself. The Destructor will not take that risk again—so close was Thor to slaying him in their last contest.”

  “Yet the Thunderer was wounded almost to death was he not?” remarked the emperor.

  Baruk stepped up and informed the emperor, “He lost an arm and an eye, but he has that much more wrath within his breast. No, with Odin a cripple, the Destructor has no need to threaten the gates of Asgard until all else is conquered.”

  Then, as if with a great effort, Diocletian picked up his head and focused on Tarion. “Where does that leave us; what is our state Praetorian?”

  “Not as grim as it would seem, my lord,” Tarion told him, knowing that he was dealing with a man on the verge of maddening despair. “The enemy is strong, but we are ready for them. With the help of elven knights and our battalions of dwarven axe bearers, we will win this day.”

  A scowl crossed the emperor’s face and Diocletian reached up and grabbed his thinning beard. “When I look without my citadel window, I see nothing but a sea of sable and my city burning. The Destructor will cast his dark cloak over the Imperium. Flavius Aetius will have my throne and his revenge. What hope do you see in that?”