The Last Praetorian Read online

  “Loki assured me the Destructor will be busy sacking the Olympian halls for some time, there is some special wergild he is searching for. Therefore, we shall spring our trap now. Aetius yearns for this final conquest; I shall feed his desire. The orders have already gone out. Though great, this is the Destructor’s last host. If we can destroy it we will win more than a battle—we will win peace for an age.” There were assenting nods from both Baruk and Ancenar. The emperor brightened.

  “That is something, assuredly,” he admitted weakly.

  Ancenar seemed about to say something, but then his face grew blank and his eyes looked to the east. Before Tarion could question him, the elven features of Ancenar’s ageless face broke into a smile. He touched his brow and looked to the heavens, announcing, “Great news at last, our prayers are answered at least in part!”

  “What is this news?” exclaimed Diocletian as a man dying of thirst reaches for a flask of water.

  Ancenar bent over the map at the table and pointed to the Norse city of Ostheim on the other side of the mountains. “As you recall, we had word yesterday that Flavius Aetius the Renegade was not yet with his host. Queen Persephone of Haldieth has determined why. She sends me word that the fall of Ostheim as engineered by Aetius enraged the Goddess Syf. She had many favorites amongst the Norrland druids there, in particular Lady Julienna.”

  Tarion caught himself at the mention of his mother, now presumed dead in the disaster at Ostheim. The emperor paled at the reminder of his crime.

  Ancenar leaned forward in his eagerness, telling them, “Aetius in his arrogance saw fit to nap in Lady Syf’s sacred birch grove within the temple at Ostheim, whereupon he was strangled to death by the Lady’s vines!” Ancenar took Tarion’s hand. “Your mother is avenged Praetorian! Aetius craved glory but was given instead a most humbling death.”

  Tarion felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Our chief fear here was Aetius and his generalship,” he said evenly. “He has ever been the more brilliant of us. Now that great dread is gone.”

  “This is good news, I must admit, but does it mean that there’s hope?” The emperor was still unconvinced. “The host outside our walls is still vast. We are outnumbered ten-to-one.”

  “In men, elves and dwarves there is more than enough valor to combat demons and goblins,” Tarion said firmly. “Don’t forget, that though the legions are undermanned, we’ve had a constant influx of refugees, many of them warriors from our fallen provinces. I have full battalions of halberdiers from Hahn, bowmen from Cairus and swordsmen from Indus among others. I also have two thousand Spartiate hoplites from Achaea. With the genius of Aetius gone, and with our elven and dwarf brothers in arms, we are strong enough to win this battle.”

  Ancenar agreed. “Have faith in your general, he will make the enemy bleed. I believe we stand at the start of a new age Emperor Diocletian, an age of relative peace. Tarion will destroy this last host of the Destructor; afterward, men and elves can breathe a sigh of relief and begin to gain our strength back. We are on the verge of better days.”

  “I don’t see it,” the emperor said. “What good are hosts and legions? The Gods are all but gone. While the Destructor lives there is not strength enough to withstand him.”

  “The Gods may be diminished, but Thor, Freya and even Loki still are powers to be reckoned with. Yet beyond them, even beyond Thor’s hammer, there is hope in the Prophecy of Alfrodel my lord; he has returned the Wanderer to the fray,” Tarion told him.

  Diocletian began to scoff at the notion, but at this point Ankhura stepped to his side. Bending over the emperor, he said very firmly, “Trust your Praetorian, my lord. He was there beside King Alfrodel as was Lord Ancenar. I myself have studied this matter. There is merit to this hope; the Wanderer foiled the Destructor’s bid for dominion before. It is our great hope and the Destructor’s great fear that he will do it again.”

  “If I could pray, I would pray that you are right,” Diocletian said and he sat up in his chair. The strength returned to his arm and the color to his face. Tarion glanced at Ancenar and the elf nodded.

  “If I may have your leave your majesty, I must return to the walls. The trap is ready to be sprung—the enemy is about to take the last step.” He expected the emperor too dismiss him, but Diocletian held up a frail hand, stopping him.

  “There is one more matter that needs to be discussed.” He took a deep draught of wine before continuing. “Dark have been these years, so dark that I have lost faith in the light. My daughter Minerva comes of age within the month. As you know, Tarion, I promised you her hand in payment for the elven princess you lost through my decree.”

  Tarion inclined his head.

  The emperor took a long pause and then drew a deep breath. “I have thought much on the subject. I have decided that the daughter of Diocletian will not be the wife of the last Praetorian of the Imperium!”

  Tarion felt a chill settle into the pit of his stomach. It was happening again.

  “My lord,” Ancenar began. Baruk started, pulling at his beard. Even Ankhura’s dark flesh lost its color.

  Diocletian waved his hand and said, “There is no need to remind me of a sad history I myself have written! She is my daughter and I will do as I will.” He turned a suddenly clear eye on Tarion. “Win me this war, buy me an age of freedom and I promise to seek the counsel of the Goddess—”he stopped, as if he were about to divulge a terrible secret. Shaking his head violently, Diocletian waved his hands in the air, “Go now, go to your duty; it is all I can do!”

  “As you wish, my lord,” Tarion told him, standing up. “I swear to you, I will leave no enemy alive on the Field of Mars. You will have your age of freedom though I myself perish in the deed.”

  CHAPTER 2: The Gates are Broken

  Tarion returned to the battlements over the main gate in a grim mood. Here the forces of darkness threw their greatest strength, but this was no simple castle gate or town barrier. Two strong towers bristling with artillery guarded the causeway and between them were thick ramparts. He climbed the stairs of the tower, receiving the salute of the officer of the gate.

  “Hail Praetorian!” the centurion said, thumping his fist on his armored chest.

  “Primus, how goes the engagement?” Tarion responded, stepping up to look through the arrow loops at the sea of foes assaulting the gate.

  “All stations are operable. They cannot penetrate the towers with their catapults,” the Primus Pilus reported. “We have begun to slow down our fire as ordered sir but we can bring it right back up when you give the word.”

  Tarion walked up to one of the stations and observed the auxiliaries next shot. The team of soldiers wound the sinew bowstring back with a crank and set a large feathered bolt in the slot. The lead soldier took aim and fired. There was a sharp twang, a loud smack as the block hit the stop and the bolt sped forth. It sprang through the smoky air of the battlefield and punched through the armor plate of a huge mountain troll. The troll screamed and dropped his two-handed hammer onto several goblins before he himself crushed a few more under his bulk.

  The men cheered their shot even as they started cranking the drawstring back for another. “Well done,” Tarion smiled, clapping the leader of the artillery team on the shoulder. The man looked his way, and upon recognizing the Praetorian, he grinned. Tarion nodded encouragement. “Carry on men; let’s furnish hell with a few more monsters!”

  “Aye Praetorian we will!” they cheered and got back to their deadly business.

  The centurion pointed out the scorpions and their crews already set in place at the rear stations overlooking the square. “All is ready Praetorian; we but await your orders.”

  “Excellent Titus Marius,” Tarion nodded, noticing the flush of pride fill the centurion’s features. The Praetorian knew him by name! Of course, Tarion knew all of his centurions. He also knew when to take his leave and let his men do their work.

  “Where is Marshal Fanuihel?”

  “You will find Marshal
Fanuihel on the ramparts between the towers Praetorian. Never have I seen a bow so deadly!”

  “Carry on!” he nodded, patting the man on the back.

  Tarion climbed the short stair to the ramparts. There in the middle of the fight he found Fanuihel, Ancenar’s First Marshal. Like Baruk and Tarion, Fanuihel was young for his rank. It was a sign of the times. Tarion greeted the Marshal warmly—they were comrades of many battles and friends—so the elf saw through his demeanor to something troubling in his soul.

  Tarion nodded to the unasked question. “Good news,” he shouted over the din. “Aetius is dead; strangled by Lady Syf’s flowers!”

  “And what else?” the marshal said, sending a shaft through a witches hand, pinning the twisted wand to her chest and thereby frying her with her own lightning spell. The witch spun into the torn earth, sizzling dozens of goblins and ogres in her ruin.

  “Well, if you must know I’m a bachelor again! The emperor thinks Minerva too young for me! I was thinking of asking Baruk to introduce me to his sister after the war! I’ve been betrothed to elven maidens and mortal maidens; why not a dwarf maiden to fill out the bill?” Tarion always made light of his personal disaster.

  Fanuihel was as tall as Tarion but like most of his people, he was lithely built. Although he was accounted quite strong among the elves, he was perhaps three-fifths Tarion’s weight. He shouted back, “I celebrate the former news, but what of the last—the emperor again?”

  Tarion shrugged it off, “Aetius is the important point. I was worried that he’d see through our plans, but now I expect we have a new commander eager to impress the Destructor. Let’s give him his chance!”

  With strong hands clasped behind his back, Tarion nodded to the centurion in charge of the rampart. Instantly he sent his optio along the line, removing every third man from the wall. The arrow and artillery fire diminished noticeably.

  Dauntless, Tarion surveyed the field. Everything was going according to his plan. Why then was doubt growing in the pit of his stomach? “Is there anything we haven’t foreseen?”

  Fanuihel shook his head, “No, there is nothing different than what we’ve faced over the past few days. We’ve rationed the arrows and thinned the men here at the gates. They must have noticed. Certainly even an inexperienced captain would probe our apparent weakness.”

  Tarion sighed. The sound was heavy with strife, resignation and desperate loss. He pushed aside all doubt and glared at the scene below. Beyond the walls, stretching back as far as the eye could see was a seething ocean of sable clad soldiery.

  Giants and trolls beat on the walls with enormous mattocks as goblins scrambled up ladders like mad apes. Mountain trolls and gargantuan beasts pulled siege towers over the slain, crushing them into the sodden earth. Demons cackled, ogres beat huge hide drums and squadrons of dragons slithered and flew, spraying the defenders with fire, frost and acid. Witches and warlocks sped overhead, sending mystic bolts and fireballs at the defenders.

  Why do I doubt; what is this growing uncertainty? What am I missing? So engrossed was Tarion in his inner debate that the peril was upon him before he knew it. Tarion felt rather than heard a whisper of sound. His instincts told him to duck, but then, too quick for his eye to catch, a white hand appeared in front of his face, an arrow in its grasp.

  “What is it Tarion; are you trying to get yourself killed by these vermin?” Fanuihel stared at him in disbelief. He cast the arrow back over the wall with disdain.

  Tarion sighed and shook his head, his grim mask belying his whispered words. “I had a sudden flood of doubt; I don’t know where it came from.”

  Fanuihel looked troubled, but he reminded Tarion, “We’ve seen some dark days together. You always told me that hope lives while the hand can still clench a sword! Well, we can hold our swords, spears and bows with resolve. Roma means as much to the elves and dwarves as it does to men—we’ll endure! Besides, Ancenar is of the firm opinion that you are the most brilliant general of the age—he’s never wrong—he’d be quite put out if you ruined his reputation. ”

  Tarion couldn’t help but smile at Fanuihel’s observation, but he whispered, “I hope he is not wrong this time.” A great shout went up. Drums beat and cavernous voices bellowed. Tarion and Fanuihel looked over the battlements.

  “Excellent,” Tarion growled. “They’ve taken the bait.”

  Along the causeway to the gate, a troop of armored trolls led a behemoth. Fed by enchanted fodder, worked from birth at the wheel of Durnen-Gul, the beast dwarfed its brethren, standing thirty feet at its mighty shoulder. Its head was a misshapen ram of bone. Its armored hide defied even elven arrows. Its only weakness was that it was nearly blind. The fantastic projections of bone that formed its skull almost covered the tiny eyes. No matter, trolls pulled the behemoth to the gate by massive chains, guiding it to the portal. This was what the Destructor bred it for. It knew no failure—no gate of wood, iron or mystic steel withstood its brute power. It trudged forward through the masses of goblins and ogres, trampling those that did not get away in time.

  A mountain troll commanded the company of trolls guiding the behemoth. He was a massively muscled brute over fifteen feet tall. The troll clenched a great whip with many thongs in his gnarled misshapen claw, clearing the gate road with it, swish-crack! He laughed, a raspy thick ape-like bark, and waddled alongside the behemoth. Arrows and javelins skipped off the monster’s hide, falling like rain on the troll; he beat his armored chest in reply. Did they think little arrows would stop the Destructor’s creation? He bellowed again, leaping forward to the gate, snapping the whip at the walls. The thongs curled at Tarion. He stepped back just in time. The barbs snapped in the air before his face.

  “Bring him down!”

  One of his men rushed to the parapet, bow in hand, bravely trying to carry out his orders. He leaned over the parapet to get a better shot. Swish-crack! The whip’s thongs curled around the soldier’s chest and in a twinkling he was gone, pulled off the wall by the horrendous strength of the troll. Tarion rushed to the parapet and looked over the edge. The troll captain caught the man in his hand, clutching him by the waist like a child holding a rag doll. To Tarion’s horror, he lifted the still struggling legionary and thrust the man’s helmeted head in his gruesome mouth. Clutching the stone in futile fury Tarion could do nothing to save his man. The troll captain looked Tarion in the eye and bit down.

  “Damn you and your kind to the Nine Hells!”

  The troll laughed at him, blood running down his scaly jowls. Then, with the behemoth snorting behind, straining at the chains, he took the body of the dead soldier and slammed it against the gate, smearing it with his blood. The behemoth smelled the blood and roared, thrusting itself forward; pulling the thick chains out of the troll’s grasp. The troll captain got out of the way just in time as the behemoth surged forward—BOOM!

  The wall shook, almost knocking Tarion over the edge. His men grabbed his cloak and pulled him back onto the parapet. They urged him to stand back, away from the peril at the gate, but rage gripped Tarion. He’d seen many atrocities from the monsters of the Destructor, but this was here in his own city. The horrors of the Destructor’s impending dominion drove him mad to the point of recklessness.

  He snatched the bow from the nearest man and notched an arrow. Ignoring the darts and fire thrown at the gate, Tarion drew a bead on the troll captain, aiming at the slit of his hammered iron helm. At the last moment, he twisted the arrow so that the flat arrowhead would fly through the slit. The world stopped. Tarion’s target shown in sharp relief against the metal. He could see within the slit to the dark folds of scaly flesh around the bloodshot lizard’s eye. Right in the center of the vertical pupil, that’s where he aimed; at that spot, Tarion let the arrow fly.

  The shaft sped forth swift and true and Tarion swore he saw the pupil dilate in surprised terror—he did not miss. The arrow sped straight through the eye slit, but whether by fortune or charm the arrowhead turned. The razor sharp steel edges
caught the softer iron, splitting it almost but not quite enough. The point delved into the troll’s eye, tearing through the soft tissue, spraying blood and fluid from the socket, but there it stopped. The point creased the thin shield of bone behind the torn eye, but it did not puncture it.

  The troll cried out and tore the arrow from its eye, blood streaming down its face. Finding Tarion on the parapet, the troll heaved the whip back to strike. The leather thongs curled back, ready to snap forward. The troll roared, his thin lips drawn back from his chisel-like tusks, spit flying as he cursed Tarion.

  Quicker than the eye could see, Fanuihel knocked an arrow and drew his bow. As the red maw opened, the elven Marshal sent a silver tipped shaft through the soft flesh in the back of the hideous throat. The troll’s roar turned into a hideous, choking gasp and it dropped the whip. Clutching its throat, the troll fell to its knees. Its single eye gazed up at the parapet in disbelief until the knee of the behemoth kicked the troll forward as it lunged. The troll cried out in anger, falling on his face. He rolled over in time to see the huge foot coming down upon his head and he screamed. Crunch! The trolls cries stopped and a disgusting gelatinous goo spread beneath the foot—BOOM!

  Fanuihel grinned at Tarion, shouting over the din, “You’re a tolerable marksman for a mortal, but choose a more prominent target!”

  “Oil!” ordered Tarion.

  Men hauled on the chains, tipping the cauldrons over and spilling the terrifying contents into the gutters. The oil steamed and bubbled out of spouts and over the shoulders of the behemoth. Screams rose from the gate. The beast bellowed in agony, kicking and trampling the trolls around it. They scattered like dolls, adding to the mounds of carnage. A noisome smell rose from the wreckage, the odor of burned flesh, boiled blood and hide. Even Tarion, the most adamant of men turned away from the stench.

  The behemoth went mad, bucking like a wild horse, blindly throwing itself against the indomitable stone around the gates. The stone trembled, but it held. Even the behemoth could not dent the wall of Roma. The horn became a battered bloody stump. Chunks of bone snapped off and the beast wobbled on its trunk-thick legs like a drunken thing.