The Last Praetorian (15 page)

“I suppose that means you love me still!” Hrolf chortled. Then he grabbed Tarion by the shoulder and told her, “Save some thanks for our guest, dear wife. This is Tarion. Now don’t let this get beyond our ears, but without him I would be dragon fodder this day.”

“You’re in earnest!” the woman exclaimed. Then she turned ghostly white and clapped her hands on her cheeks. “Now that’s strange isn’t it, I had a premonition of something terrible this evening! Thank the Gods you are safe and whole!”

“Indeed, you were right to worry; Mother,” Hrolf told her. “Old Gaurnothax himself waylaid me on the road. He killed the mastodon and would have had me, had not Tarion intervened. I’m thankful to be home.”

“As am I, dear sir,” she added, pressing his hand in hers.

“My lady, please, your worthy husband’s aide to me is no less appreciated. I’ve had a hellish day,” Tarion said, which was true enough. “Tonight, a roof over my head and a mug of ale will more than make up for my labors.”

“That you shall have and more,” Hrolf said and he sent Augga off with a squeeze to fetch Tarion’s supper.

Laughing, Hrolf led Tarion beneath a wide arch carved with mythic battle scenes and into a long room open to the rafters. The common room was well appointed but much more rustic. Rough-hewn beams spanned the smoky air beneath a lofty roof. Some guests, especially the smaller folk and children, found the beams a welcome spot for lounging or for solitude. Huge timber pillars carved with names, figures and runes, supported the spans. Light came from a roaring fire and a dozen lanterns hanging from iron brackets. They cast a dim light across the throng, barely illuminating the well-worn mythologies painted on the sooty plaster walls. The figures stared out of history, seeming to move in the flickering fire light. Tarion knew the stories. He devoured them as a child and studied them as a man.

Now he realized the longing for home in his mother’s breast. This was why she returned to Norrland after the emperor annulled her marriage to Tarius. Tarion thought he knew his mother well, but now it was as if everything he experienced with her had that much more depth. Yet that lent an air of sadness to his demeanor as well. This was his mother’s home. If his father was right, she was wandering the cold woods outside this very tavern as a spirit.

As he scanned the crowd a familiar face struck him. He walked over to a table where a solitary figure garbed in forest green with a feathered cap stroked his pointed beard. Tarion grasped the boney shoulder firmly with his left hand, holding the man in his seat.

“Hello there Loki you old villain.” The wrist-blade sprang out, quivering scarcely an inch from the God’s throat. “What games are you up to now?”

CHAPTER 12:
The Charioteer

Loki laughed, moving the blade carefully away from his vulnerable skin. He motioned for Tarion to sit. Loki drank to his health. “I am at your service, old friend; you figured out the puzzle—well done! However, I was rather hoping you wouldn’t take so long to get here. I’ve spent an entire age waiting for your sense of duty to degrade far enough to get you here to Trondheim.”

Tarion took the proffered chair. “Why did you want me in Trondheim?”

Loki’s thin brows arched high over his small, dark, penetrating eyes. “First, it’s along the road you need to take to Asgard—where you are expected. Second, Hrolf here has the finest beer in Midgard. Blessed by my brother Thor, am I right Master Hrolf?”

“You are always right, my lord,” Hrolf smiled nervously, hanging back off Tarion’s shoulder.
He, like most of the throng now recognized Loki for who he was. A nervous silence fell over the bar, punctuated by an even more uneasy murmur. That Loki was here was uncomfortable—whether the Trickster son of Odin or a Duke of Hell—but that a man should threaten a God with a blade and live, well the patrons didn’t know what to make of that!

Tarion alone was unruffled by the Trickster. He stowed his blade for the moment and eyed the God
. “What do you want with me now Loki?”

“It’s not necessarily what I want with you, it’s what
He
wants with you. He can be very persuasive.” Loki smiled, almost looking like he regretted the part he played in all of Tarion’s misfortune. Finally, he broke his stare and lifted Tarion’s maimed arm. “Isn’t it strange that you, who are the link, the engine, the very vessel for bringing the Wanderer back to Midgard—isn’t it strange you should share the same wound as your father who was similarly cursed?”

He looked at Tarion, staring deeply into his eyes. “It’s strange, very strange for you remember my son Fenrir’s kiss marred the Wanderer ages after he dismembered Tyr, oh yes! After the Destructor won their match, he held forth the Wanderer’s arm like so,” and Loki took Tarion’s arm, extending it into space. “He called forth Fenrir
. My son took the hand—why?” Loki snatched at the space where Tarion’s hand once was with his own claw-like hand.

“I lost my hand to Johaan and not to Fenrir, ask your master.”

“Yet isn’t it strange that all of you share the same wound? What are the odds?”

“I’m not the Wanderer and more than my father was if that’s what you’re getting at Loki?”

“Obviously, but there must be some link between you, maybe even all the way back to Tyr—that’s how these things work. For instance, there another thing that goes back just as far: a diamond. Was there something your father bequeathed to you; something from Freya?” Loki’s eyes almost glowed with obscene desire.

“I wouldn’t tell you if there was; you know that,” Tarion said, unhappy that Loki should think him so easy a mark.

The Trickster shrugged, patted him on the back and snapped his fingers, adding, “There’s no rush! Relax, get a beer and have something to eat. Then come and see me!”

“Why the rush Loki; you just found me,” Tarion said, standing up and reaching suspiciously for the Trickster’s shoulder; but Loki was gone.

The warm comfort of the inn evaporated into cold reality. Hrolf pulled Tarion toward the bar, calling out greetings to all, trying as best he could to return the tavern to normal. When they reached the bar, he called for two tankards of ale. A sylvan giant wiped his green hands on a leather apron the size of a small tent and deftly came up with two frothing brews. He stared at Tarion with hard brown eyes.

“
Now Furge what are you looking at!” exclaimed Hrolf angrily, thumping the bar with a meaty fist.

The giant looked surprised and cowed,
“Sorry boss, but I don’t rightly know what to think, there’s been so much strange talk going on!”

Heimdall
didn’t let Tarion answer. He cursed, and said, “Furge, you see this fellow; I owe him my life. He’s welcome in my house—that’s it!”

Furge said soberly, “Well, if he’s with you, boss, then all’s well and good by me. I won’t pay no never mind to what people have been saying.”

“What have they been saying?” said Tarion.

The giant
leaned over the bar and stuck his huge face between Tarion and Hrolf, whispering, “Sea-worms trolling up and down the river, serpents crawling out of the sewers, walls talking and gnomes making magic for starters—right strange stuff!”

“You’ve seen this, Furge?” Hrolf
exclaimed.

“I heard about the walls from Baer. He works for the wizard Alexandrus. They’ve been groaning and foretelling all over Magi Row, he says, but I’m not going there to see for myself!” Furge cocked his mossy head toward the far end of the room where two dozen tiny people were merrily singing, dancing and swinging from the chandeliers. “I put more stock in the gnomes. Wonderful folk, the gnomish, but don’t drink with them,” he tapped Tarion on the chest. “They may be smallish but they’ll put you under the table right quick!”

“Seems they’re more enthusiastic than normal,” Hrolf noted, taking a long draught of his ale.

The gnomes were in a circle around a small brazier, chanting, capering, dancing and singing. One after another, they threw bits of this and that into the glowing charcoal. Birds, butterflies and any number of small furry creatures popped out of the scent-laden smoke, skittering and fluttering around the room. The gnomes appeared very energetic about everything these mystical animals did, but it was too strange and fantastic for Tarion to comprehend. Hrolf simply shrugged
and drained his tankard. Tarion followed suit; he needed it.

“There’s more to it than that!” Furge said, refilling
their tankards. “They started their calendar anew. It’s the first day of a new age, or so they keep telling anyone who’ll listen and that means me. I daresay a lot’s happening that may be new. I don’t really know, but a while back, they had the whole company on edge singing about the coming of Ragnarok and the rebirth of a better world. Gnomes always see things in the best light! I don’t see it myself, but they say everything’s different now. I can’t say it’s bad for business though; everyone’s drinking up.”

“Really, well, the gnomes are more learned than most folk.” Hrolf said, scratching his beard.

“You wouldn’t know anything about that, Tarion, would you?” Furge asked.

“I’ve been many places in this world
. I’ve seen many things,” Tarion said, taking a deep drink from his tankard. He looked across the room to the painted plaster walls. On one was a scene that was very familiar. It was the rescue of Glorianna, the elven princess, daughter to King Alfrodel. The fresco showed the purple crested Praetorian Knights cleaving through the host of the Destructor. There was his father, Tarius clashing with Aetius. Indeed, there was his own caricature lifting Glorianna from her saddle, taking her to safety—it was actually a decent likeness of his reckless youth.

“I’ve seen all of those events with my own eyes Furge,” he sighed, thinking about the events the rescue set in place.
It seemed exceedingly strange that particular fresco should be in a Norse tavern, but the tale was widely circulated, and until the disaster at Durnen-Gul, people assumed that the victory would bring peace to the North Country and the Imperium. It should have. Instead, it was the harbinger of doom for his family and the Imperium.

Tarion
turned to look Furge in the eye. “Loki and I have not always gotten along, but Thor and Freya have been guests in my home and I in theirs. I’m not here to quarrel with Gods; I’m here to bury my parents, nothing more.”

Furge touched his
brow and fidgeted with his apron. “I meant no offense. Don’t let your folks be angry with me. Gnomes being gnomes they sing about many things. What amuses us they take serious; what we take serious amuses them. Still, gnomes don’t poke fun at Ragnarok, or anything to do with the Destructor.”

“Nor do I Furge,
” Tarion told him.

“Then like I said, it’s good enough for me,” the giant replied, getting back to his business.

Tarion shook his head, and told Hrolf, “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to be in the company tonight. I’ve more than half a mind to just go to my room and stay out of the public eye. I don’t want to stir up any trouble in your house.”

“Tarion, where Loki is concerned there’s always trouble of one kind or another,” Hrolf said, looking around.

“Hrolf, the gnomes may well be right,” Tarion warned him. “This does have to do with more than the Doldrums ending; this is all about Ragnarok. It’s deadly serious.”

“There’s no use bantering about the end of the world on an empty stomach!” Hrolf
laughed, clapping Tarion on the shoulder and leading him through the crowd. “Ragnarok is going to happen with or without my help. I’ll not worry about it. All I know is that tonight I’ll lie with my wife instead of inside a dragon’s belly!”

“I need to start thinking the way you do,” Tarion sighed,
as Hrolf showed him a nice quiet corner by the fireplace.

“
Now you just sit here out of the way. I’ll get your dinner. Don’t worry about more than that. I’ll be back shortly!”

Tarion nodded and stepped into the niche next to the hearth. It was a perfect place to watch the throng, without the throng watching him. There was a deep bench piled with soft pelts and a small table. Tarion took a deep breath, trying to let go of his anger and frustration. He settled on the bench and stretched out his legs. Crossing his arms over his chest, he relaxed and settled back, but a strident little voice interrupted him. It sounded like it came from a bird.

“Hey, watch it—clumsy mortal!”

Tarion bolted up in surprise, whirling to his feet with a snarl. He turned to see a tiny table set on the mantle with candles, crystal, silver and a pair of very flustered pixies.

“You almost put your head through our table!” piped the one on the left indignantly, ignoring Tarion’s volcanic glare. The indignant pixie was a gentleman in a tiny yellow frock coat with brass buttons and a tall yellow hat with a red feather sticking out the side.

His tablemate was a lovely lady in a diaphanous emerald gown. She was obviously afraid of Tarion’s response and cautioned her escort, “Now Setris, don’t you start our anniversary by picking a fight!”

Tarion was immediately embarrassed and started to apologize, but Setris flew from his seat, his greenish face growing now quite green. He stopped, hovering an inch from Tarion’s nose. “What’s that?” he demanded, a tiny lute appearing like magic in his hand. “Pulling your size on me, are you? Have a care! You don’t look like you could handle me so don’t even consider it, mortal. I’ll sing a song that will set you wandering the world thinking you’re a pigeon the rest of your life!”

Tarion backed away a step and raised his right hand in a gesture of peace—he’d once again forgotten it wasn’t there. He struck his forehead with the silver cap, bowed and spread his arms wide. In his best pixie, he said, “My pardon, good people. This is entirely my fault. I didn’t mean to startle you so. It’s been a trying evening and I didn’t have the sense or courtesy to watch where I was sitting. I’m quite embarrassed, but I hope a fervent apology will mend matters.”

“Thank you sir, that’s very gallant of you,” the lady applauded with relief. Turning a hard eye on her companion she added, “Isn’t it nice of him, Setris?”

“Actually it is,” Setris admitted, instantly placated. “Now that’s what I’d expect from the Imperium not from a man of Norrland—are you sure you’re from around here?”

“I’ve been many places,” Tarion admitted. “My mother was a priestess in Norrland.”

“Oh so that explains it. It’s not all your fault, though; or well, maybe the head in the table is, but I didn’t mean to snap at you so. You surprised us and, well, you’ve already made quite the impression this evening.”

“I’m afraid I have,” Tarion said unhappily. “Frankly, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. I’m just a wandering man and not anyone to be concerned about.”

Setris looked skittishly toward Loki without actually looking at him. He hovered, so that Tarion’s head hid him from the eyes
of the Devil-God. “Bravely said, sir, but I guess you have enough to worry about!”

“People are reminding me of that on a regular basis,” Tarion said with a tragic smile. “I don’t want to ruin your evening. You’ve been more than patient. I completely understand if you would prefer that I move somewhere else.”

“Oh tosh, don’t give it a second thought,” Setris said.

“I’m Tarion, by the way and thank you for not allowing me to spoil your dinner,” Tarion bowed. “It would be the first thing I haven’t spoilt this day.”

Setris flew back and presented his companion, “May I introduce Dacia, my lovely lady. I am, of course, Setris.” He and Dacia raised their glasses. “Let’s drink a toast to unexpected meetings and the fortune that flows from them!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Tarion smiled, sipping his ale.

“Tarion, is a singular name isn’t it?” Setris observed, looking him over minutely. “It’s not a proper name, really; it’s not even a Romaic name, you know.” His tiny brows furrowed and Setris looked at Tarion intensely. “There’s something peculiar about you, Tarion, I’ll stake my lute on it.”