The Last Praetorian

by Christopher Anderson

  “Freya!” he stammered. Then he remembered himself. “I’m sorry, Lady, I didn’t mean to be so familiar. You surprised me.”

  Odin’s daughter Freya glanced from the cooking pot to Tarion, puzzlement in her sparkling blue eyes, and said, “You are so like your father in your deference to me, but what I cannot decide is whether it’s because I’m a Goddess or because you’re in love with me?”

  Tarion couldn’t come up with anything to say.

  Loki simply chuckled and went over to sniff the stew. He smiled roguishly at Freya and observed, “You can be so remarkably domesticated around the—the Praetorian—or is it someone else you have in mind and you’re just practicing?”

  Freya shot Loki a withering glance, and asked, “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  “Like where?” he said, feigning ignorance.

  “I need to talk to Tarion; you’re not helping,” she insisted.

  “I know when I’m not wanted,” Loki sighed. Shaking his head he began walking out of the tower, fading from sight and sound as he did so. “That appears to be happening a lot to me lately. It’s almost as if no one trust me to be around when their speaking about secret things, though for the life of me I don’t understand why . . .”

  Freya looked around, satisfying herself that Loki was wherever he was but not there in the tower. “You didn’t answer my question Tarion.”

  “What was the question?”

  “Is your formality because you’re in love with me or because I’m a Goddess—please say both,” she cautioned him.

  “Both,” he acceded, knowing full well that something was behind her exchange with Loki that Freya did not want to discuss.

  “Oh don’t fret about it, after all you’ve been skinny dipping with me; you’ve ogled my perfection and you’ve caressed my sacred skin!” She laughed, delighted with his answer. She lit the candles at the freshly set table. The smell of well-roasted meat and trimmings made his mouth water. That made him even more perplexed. With indescribable grace, Freya swept up a bottle and a goblet and sauntered over to him. “When with the elves you drank wine, but with your legionaries and Thor you drank ale. Which do you prefer?”

  “Pure arsenic, if you please,” Tarion said with a growl. He was only half joking.

  She laughed and poured the wine. She even handed him the goblet. As he expected it was exquisite but it didn’t help—it wasn’t nearly strong enough.

  “What’s the matter Tarion,” she said seriously. She sat in the chair across from him. The impish smile returned. “No other man has been so familiar with the Gods, although I don’t expect you ever lusted after Thor the way you lust after me—understandably so.”

  Tarion cradled his temples. He took a deep breath and asked her the question that more than any other begged an answer. “Lady, why have you interfered with my life? First, there was Glorianna, then Minerva and now Aubrey. Why do you have an interest in my love life?”

  “Stop calling me Lady, Goddess or whatever else your dutiful mind conjures up Tarion. I am Freya. This is a new endeavor. In this chapter of our lives we are equals, my friend.” She smiled at him, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  “It’s something else isn’t it? I just haven’t figured out what it is,” Tarion muttered aloud. Freya’s expression was not illuminating. “However, I get the distinct impression that you definitely don’t want me to know what it is—is that so?”

  Sipping her wine with one hand, she tapped the silver cap over his stump with the other. “We are equals Tarion. You are the immortal mortal. You are the Praetorian not simply of the Imperium, but of what is left of the free folk—that includes the Gods.” She took a deep breath, her breasts swelling under the leather jerkin, her long dark lashes hiding her eyes in a dangerous way. “We depend on you; I depend on you. You do not have the right to die a glorious death and thereby doom Midgard and the multiverse to His dominion—do I make myself clear?”

  “Painfully clear Freya,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever addressed her without some form of recognition, but he was seething inside. Whether it was from the truth of her words or his unquenched desire, he couldn’t say—but it was there, hard, real and painful. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of meat.

  “Excuse me!” Freya stopped him. “Doesn’t the Praetorian say grace before every meal? I know Lady Julienna taught you better than that!”

  Tarion glowered at her, but made the customary sign of prayer anyway—touching his forehead—though he hit it hard enough with the silver cap to make an audible, gruesome thunk!

  Freya grimaced. “I’m so glad you used your father’s silver cap on your poor arm.”

  “Who do you pray to, Freya?” Tarion inquired, trying to turn his mind away from darker things.

  “To The Creator, of course,” she said seriously. “We are all children of The Creator. Gods, men, elves—even Naugrathur. The Gods are simply facets of his divinity sent to Midgard to illuminate the mystery.”

  “It’s a mystery to me,” growled the Praetorian.

  She shot a scathing glance at him and said her prayer. Then they ate.

  Tarion tried the stew. It was savory, of perfect consistency and not too hot or cold. “I could get used to this,” he said, ripping off some bread and dipping it in the stew. Not surprisingly, the bread was perfect as well. They ate in silence. When Tarion, not Freya, had eaten his fill, she refilled their goblets.

  Freya closed her eyes. Reaching across the table the she laid her hand on his. Tarion trembled at the touch. Her eyes softened. The Goddess squeezed his hand in an all too tender manner. “Tarion, your principles are, as always, noble in the extreme, but in this case they were almost fatal for all of us—pray don’t do that again.”

  She sighed and got up, kissing him on the temple. Freya sat by the fire, motioning for Tarion to sit in the chair opposite hers. She smiled in an almost human way. “It occurs to me that I’ve had many discussions with your mother and father in a chair by the fire, but never with you—I wonder why? Come over here, this may not be easy for you to hear.” Tarion did as she asked. “Your father and I butted heads often. He wanted to march on Durnen-Gul and assault the Destructor; I wanted to wait for the Wanderer.”

  “He was right,” Tarion said carefully. “However, I thought you and the Wanderer conspired to possess or at least cajole my father into it. Alfrodel needed to call the Wanderer to the world; he needed to die in order to do it. My father was the catalyst for that.”

  “Not I, Tarion,” she said in earnest. “If that was the Wanderer’s plan he did not share it with me. Indeed, I never communicated with the Wanderer after the battle of Vigrid—not since years before you were born. He was extremely weak; Limbo takes its toll even on the Gods and the Wanderer had taken refuge in mortality for ages. There is a price for that.”

  “You weren’t in league with him during my lifetime, but then why the interference,” he hesitated. Finally, he gathered up the courage to say it. “Certainly you can’t want me for yourself.”

  “Oh but I do,” Freya told him. There was no humor in her eyes. “You will belong to no other woman but Freya.”

  “Why are you toying with me Freya?” Tarion was stunned.

  “Look around you,” she told him seriously. “There are no more Gods. The Pantheon of the Norse is the last population of the Creator’s firstborn. Do you expect me, Freya, to live the rest of the world’s existence alone? Perish the thought! I need a man who worships and adores me, a man of power and passion, I need you Tarion!”

  “What about the Wanderer?” Tarion asked, dumbfounded.

  Freya sighed, but she didn’t answer for a long while. When she did, her concern was palpable. “Who knows if the Wanderer even exists anymore? If his spirit is indeed in the house of Tyr what will reanimate it? I didn’t expect this conundrum—no one did.” She took his eyes again.

  “When last I communed with the Wanderer we addressed this very subject. He told me, ‘I am beyond my t
ime. I intend to end the Twain, for the Twain began this.” She shook her head like an irritated lioness. “Tarion, you’re not the only one confounded by this mystery between the Wanderer and the Destructor! Who or what are the Twain? No one knows; all we can do is guess.” She sighed, and continued, telling him, “I asked the Wanderer, but he simply told me, ‘If I succeed then the world will be left to its own devices without either of us.’”

  She looked at Tarion. There was real regret in her beautiful blue eyes. “You see, Tarion, he is coming back to destroy the Destructor, nothing more. There will be no Wanderer after that. There is no Freya and the Wanderer.” She smiled at him. “I am a vain Goddess who demands to be loved and adored Tarion. I have chosen you; that’s all there is to be said on the matter. I suggest you get used to the idea.”

  Tarion sat silently, wondering how he got himself into this.

  “There, now that’s settled,” she smiled, lightly chiding him. “Don’t look so glum! It’s not everyone who is spoken for by a Goddess!”

  “That doesn’t solve the riddle,” Tarion told her seriously. “What was in the Brisling diamond you gave my father? The Wanderer obviously expected something within it that would restore his power. What was it?”

  Freya drank her wine. “I don’t know,” she said, but then she made a face as if something pained her. She got up and paced the room. Eventually Freya turned back to Tarion. “I can only guess that it was his Lifethread that was kept within the Brisling diamond. We all have one; God or goblin, and we cannot exist as whole beings without them. When the Destructor slew the Wanderer at the court on Aesir he took the Brisling diamond. Fenrir then took the Wanderer’s hand. The Wanderer was certain—I don’t know why—that his Lifethread was in the diamond. That is why I took such risks to regain it. When I did find it I gave it to your father on the Wanderer’s advice.”

  “How did you get it back Freya,” Tarion asked, his heart in his throat.

  The Goddesses smile showed the strain of the memory. “I captured Navernya and took her place in the Destructor’s court. Thereon, I seduced Naugrathur and gained the diamond.” Her voice was hard as she laughed, “You see, none of us are above being ill-used in this adventure—even me. We are truly equal, Praetorian.”

  “I’m sorry Freya,” Tarion told her. He meant it.

  “Not as sorry—or baffled—as I was when the Wanderer came through the gate of Limbo to face the Destructor and there was nothing inside the stone.” She looked frustrated and angry. “It was a terrifying moment, for the Wanderer was wholly exposed. He hadn’t foreseen that; yet how and why he was able to take refuge in the House of Tyr I still do not understand.”

  “I think I may know why,” Tarion said. Freya’s beautiful brows rose, questioning him. “Loki told me the Wanderer was one of Odin’s brothers in truth, twins, the Twain. Therefore if one of the Twain was Tyr the other must be just like him—is that why you dated one and hated the other?”

  “How positively presumptuous of you Tarion!” Freya exclaimed. “When I said we were equals I didn’t mean that equal!” She relented and sat down again, tapping the table with her nail. Finally, she mused, “There are no temples to Tyr in Midgard anymore. His house in Asgard would be the only sacred place able to house his spirit.”

  She looked at Tarion with glowing eyes, and said, “That explains why he assumed his Lifethread would be in the Brisling diamond.” Freya reached within her gown and drew out the Brisling necklace. It sparkled as if the master smith plucked eight perfect stars from the night sky and placed them in eternal silver. There were eight stones, but nine settings; one was missing.

  Tarion drew out his diamond. It was the missing stone.

  “You see, the Brisling Necklace is a fraud; it was not made by the dwarves, although they had no problem taking credit for its craft. The Wanderer told me he was of ancient stock, older than the Gods—Villi and Ve—I have my doubts. It was the Wanderer who forged the necklace even as he forged the Crown of Mimir. That alone tells me they were not of the Gods, Titans or Giants. Even Odin at his zenith did not have the craft for those wergilds. Therefore, his diamond was the perfect repository for his Lifethread—at least so he must have thought.”

  Tarion asked the obvious question. “Where is the Lifethread of the Wanderer then?”

  She turned her hard blue eyes on him, and said severely, “In Tyr’s hand no doubt; that is, in the vault that is Fenrir’s stomach! I can think of no safer place unless it’s in Karkedon’s gut. There can be no doubt. When the Destructor cast the Wanderer into Limbo it was without his Lifethread; it must be in Tyr’s hand.”

  “That is a problem,” Tarion told her.

  “You’ll have to find a way to get it Tarion,” Freya said firmly. “Afterwards you need to take the road to Asgard. You must get the Wanderer’s Lifethread to him.”

  “Then I had better leave,” he sighed. “After today I’m certain the people of Trondheim can’t get rid of me soon enough.”

  Freya glanced toward the window. Tarion followed her eyes. Something was glinting off the glass. Freya rose and looked out. Her eyes suddenly grew wide with alarm. “It looks as though I’m not the only guest this evening! Look!”

  Tarion turned around and looked through the barred window. Beyond the glass was a mob bearing torches. Tarion opened the window and heard their shouts and curses—his name was prevalent.

  “Didn’t I tell you they’d be mad?” Tarion exclaimed, jumping up and barring the door.

  “They didn’t waste any time finding you, did they?” she said, but her voice sounded more amused than troubled.

  A flash of sparkling dust appeared at Tarion’s shoulder. It was Setris. “Hello, Tarion!” he said and then he saw Freya. He bowed low. “I had no idea you knew Lady Freya!”

  “Not now, Setris, I have several score angry people at my door.”

  “Several hundred, I should say, at least,” Setris told him. “That’s what I came to warn you about.”

  “How did they find me, only you and I know about the keep?” Tarion rushed up the stairs, but he stopped suddenly and turned around. “Setris, what have you done?”

  The pixie wrung his hands and said, “Well, when Karkedon went after you I figured you’d come here—where else were you to go? So, I tried to get anybody I could find to come and help. I seem to have miscalculated their intentions.”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “First, just the Captain of the guard and the townsfolk, then I went straight to the duke and last to Hrolf,” Setris told him. “Hrolf’s gathering what people he knows and is coming to help. The townsfolk don’t seem as eager to help as I hoped and the duke—“

  “Yes?” Tarion asked.

  “The duke seemed to be stuck on Gaurnothax’s treasure trove,” the pixie said. “I’m not sure what the townsfolk mean to do.”

  Tarion ran up the stair and out onto the balcony. The crowd was already pounding on the front door. A little beyond the door they formed a circle. In the center of the circle was a burly man holding an executioner’s axe.

  “I’d say they want something more than my treasure,” Tarion said. The crowd saw him and they hurled a flurry of curses at him.

  “What is it you want?” Tarion called down.

  “We want your head!” they shouted. “You brought the Destructor on us! You nearly destroyed our town!”

  “I led the Destructor and the dragon away from Trondheim!” Tarion protested. “Had I known you’d be so appreciative I’d have left them there; then where would you be?”

  “Come down, or we’ll break the door down!” they called. Tarion backed away from the rail and said, “That’s gratitude for you. They’re convinced I brought the Destructor on them!”

  “Well, you did,” Freya reminded him.

  Unable to open the door by key, hammer, or charm some men were chopping down a tree for a battering ram.

  Tarion groaned, “How did I get in this mess?”

  “I’d say it was becaus
e you didn’t listen to me,” Freya told him. “You might be safely on our way to Asgard by now.”

  “I thought I did listen to you.”

  “Obviously you did not.” Her brows arched dangerously over her beautiful eyes.

  Setris turned to them, a queer expression on his little green face. “Are you certain you two aren’t an old married couple?” After a withering glance from Freya, Setris backed off. “I’m sorry I said anything; don’t mind me, I’m just a pixie!”

  “Why don’t you go down there and sing them all to sleep or something?”

  The tree gave a great creaking, splintering sound and fell with a crash. The townsfolk stripped the tree of its branches and swiftly shaped the log into a conical ram. A robed man bent over the end of it. Lights and sparks sputtered from the end of the tree.

  Freya laughed and pointed below. “Oh look, the mage formed the head of the ram into your likeness, in iron too—that’s a tricky spell. It’s a very handsome ram, Tarion, do come and look!”

  “Thank you, but why don’t you step away from the rail, it looks like they have archers down there as well.” He grabbed her and took her back into the keep. Two arrows whizzed by his head in answer.

  “Oh don’t worry about me, they love me!”

  “Then tell them to go home!”

  “Tarion, I don’t think they have homes anymore; that’s why they’re here!”

  Tarion growled and slumped against the doorframe. “I’d love to go to Asgard and find out what this is all about but I don’t think I’ll have the chance!”

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Freya exclaimed.

  “What now?”

  “You’ll have to find a way to get into Asgard first. Odin closed the Rainbow Bridge remember?”

  “Wonderful, just wonderful,” Tarion sighed.

  The crowd hefted the Tarion’s head ram. It gave a loud crunch as his face hit the door and Tarion couldn’t help but wince. They swung it into the door again and again, but the door held. After a score or so swings the door wasn’t even dented and they gave up.

  “That Idjar’s spell is potent; it’ll take more than that!” Setris said with interest. The townsfolk piled wood at the door and brought torches. Setris wiped his brow and said, “That, on the other hand, just might work.”