The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5)

by Marc Edelheit

  “You both have been blessed,” Menos said, “blessed beyond imagining.”

  Stiger did not know what to say. What could he say? He was already something different, something not quite human. And yet, he still felt human. What was different other than his connection with the High Father? The great god’s power within him? The ability to heal quicker? What else was there?

  “Of course, I could be wrong,” Menos said.

  “Oh really?” Stiger spat sarcastically. “Thoggle would roll over in his tomb were that to happen and you actually admit it.”

  “He might…but I do not think I am wrong,” Menos said. “You are more than you were, and if I’m correct, then you have been greatly honored by the gods.”

  “It does not feel that way,” Stiger said. “I feel like I was just hit by a runaway supply cart or perhaps gut-kicked by a mule.”

  Menos chuckled at that. “You are lucky, Champion of the High Father. Some are only blessed. Others are given nothing but their lives. You, on the other hand, have been endowed with so much more. Do not fret, do not worry about it, for there is no point. Feel honored and give thanks for your many blessings.”

  “Give thanks?” Stiger scoffed. “I never wanted this. I did not ask for it.”

  “No, you did not,” Menos said and took two steps backward. “But your thanks are still in order.”

  Menos moved toward the door and gripped the handle. He looked back.

  “I will do as you have asked. I will find you somewhere along your line of march. Until then, my friend…I bid you well.”

  Menos opened the door.

  “Safe travels and thank you,” Stiger said, feeling numb.

  The noctalum gave a nod, hesitated a moment more, then stepped through and closed the door behind him. Stiger moved over to his desk and refilled his wine. He drained it in one swallow, wishing it were made of stronger stuff. He refilled the mug again and sat back down in the chair. He gazed into the flames of the fire, stunned almost beyond belief.

  “I am something new,” Stiger said after a time, still feeling like his world had been rocked, and terribly so. He knew there would be no sleep tonight, even if he tried. “What am I becoming? High Father…what have you done to me?”

  There was no answer.

  Dog stood, shook himself, ears flapping loudly. The animal padded up to Stiger and placed his head on Stiger’s lap. Dog gave a soft whine. Stiger looked down on the animal. Dog looked back up at him with sad, watery eyes.

  “Is that why you are here?” Stiger asked. “Is that the reason you were sent?”

  Dog did not say anything.

  “Because I have been so blessed?” Stiger pressed. “Because I am something new?”

  Dog’s tail wagged and he gave a clipped bark, as if in confirmation. He nudged Stiger’s hand with his muzzle. Stiger reached out and began scratching the animal’s head. Dog closed his eyes, in apparent bliss.

  “Either way,” Stiger said, “I’m glad you are here.”

  The animal’s tail continued to wag and his eyes opened.

  “I may have changed somehow,” Stiger said, “but I am still me. My work is not complete. I have a job to do, and by the gods, I will do it.”

  Dog began wagging his tail more vigorously, as if he approved.

  “You still need a bath,” Stiger said, wrinkling his nose. “You stink.”

  Dog gave an unhappy whine and the tail ceased its wagging.

  “Well,” Stiger said, with a dark chuckle, “you have a reprieve on bathing, for tomorrow the legion marches and the campaign begins.”

  SIX

  With Dog padding along at his side, Stiger turned a corner in the hallway. Ahead, two guards standing before an open doorway at the end of the hallway snapped to attention. Stiger could see beyond them into his headquarters. As usual, it was a bustling hive of activity. A jumble of voices spilled out into the hallway, echoing off its stone walls.

  A messenger, dispatch in hand, stepped out into the hallway, spotted Stiger, and immediately stood aside. He pulled himself to a position of attention and saluted.

  Stiger stepped by him and the two guards to enter the legion’s headquarters.

  Headquarters was in a large room. Six oversized rectangular tables had been dragged in for the clerks. Stacks of tablets, parchment, and vellum rested on the tables in orderly rows before the clerks.

  Hanging from the ceiling, oil lamps provided much of the light. There were also three big iron candelabras set against the walls, each with four fat tallow candles. A fireplace set into the far wall had a good-sized blaze going. With all the bodies and the fire, the room was hot, almost uncomfortably so. It stank strongly of smoke, oil, tallow, ink, and sweat.

  There were more than two dozen present. Six of those were his clerks. Most of the others were messengers, who were standing to the sides of the room, waiting for dispatches or orders that needed delivering. Several, in a huddle, had been speaking amongst themselves. A pair of junior centurions were bent over a table, studying a map. Salt was there too, near the fireplace, speaking with one of the clerks.

  The camp prefect looked tired and worn. Stiger suspected Salt had not managed any sleep either. Though unlike Stiger, he had likely worked through the night, overseeing the departure of the legion and ensuring everything went as smoothly as possible.

  Stiger made his way deeper into the room, toward Salt. Dog padded over to Nepturus and promptly received a treat. Nepturus always kept something handy for the animal and Dog well knew it.

  The clerk, Alanus, with whom Salt was speaking, excused himself and moved away as Stiger stepped up.

  “Ready to depart, sir?” Salt asked.

  “Almost,” Stiger said. “I wanted to check in before I set out.”

  “Of course, sir,” Salt said and gestured over to a jar sitting on the table next to him. A half-full mug sat next to the jar. A small map was spread out on the same table. “Would you care for some coffee, sir? It’s cold, but I can find an extra mug.”

  “No thank you,” Stiger said. “I won’t be staying that long. I have to get on the road.”

  “To business then,” Salt said. “I assume you would like an update on the progress of the legion?”

  “I would,” Stiger said, “very much so.”

  Salt picked up a wax tablet from the table, studied it a moment, and then set it back down. “The cavalry is obviously away, having marched with Braddock’s army. First through Sixth Cohorts have also marched. Within the hour, the rest of the cohorts will begin stepping off. After that, the auxiliaries will start their movement.”

  “Any problems so far?”

  “We’ve only had a handful of issues, which slowed the march of individual cohorts some. Nothing really worth mentioning.” Salt blew out a weary breath. “Honestly, sir, I’ve never seen a legion march without something or other holding things up at some point. We’re just a little behind schedule, is all.” The camp prefect paused for a heartbeat. “Still, it’s better than I’d hoped, sir.”

  “And the artillery?” Stiger asked, understanding the truth of the prefect’s statement. No matter how well one planned, nothing ever went smoothly. It was a fact of life with the army.

  “The artillery is ready to go, sir,” Salt said. “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning extra men, stripping Tenth Cohort of about half her strength to help make certain their movement proceeds as well as can be expected. I also ordered the bolt throwers moved to the van of the artillery train. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but you may find you have need of them on the defensive line, sooner rather than later. I think they might just come in handy.”

  Stiger gave it some thought and then decided Salt had made the correct decision. He had assumed that the enemy would strike him well before he could get his artillery up. Chances were, though, he’d need the bolt throwers, especially considering he wanted the enemy to assault his position and their numbers exceeded his.

  Unlike the bolt throwers, the heavier stone thrower
s had been almost completely disassembled for their movement through the dwarven underground. They would require significant time to move, position, and then reassemble. Stiger very much doubted they would be ready for action when the fighting began, let alone in position. Then again, if his enemy hesitated, who knew how much time he would have to prepare. Salt’s last-minute effort might end up paying off.

  “Good thinking.” Stiger glanced around, scanning the room. “Where’s Ikely? I don’t see Severus either. I had expected one of them to be present.”

  “Both are with the supply train, sir,” Salt said and then cleared his throat. “The train, as you know, will move after the artillery. I strongly encouraged them both to be there, not only to make certain that someone senior was on hand to smooth out any difficulties with the teamsters, but also to get a sense of what it’s like. I felt it might be good for them to see and direct a supply train personally, at least in the beginning, sir. That way, they will have a more realistic expectation of what can and can’t be done. Hopefully, the experience will pay dividends in the weeks and months ahead.”

  “Such hands-on experience can only help,” Stiger agreed, wishing he had thought of it himself. The farther they marched from Vrell, the longer their supply line would become and the more dependent upon Ikely the army would become. Stiger worried that, at some point, the enemy might cut the army’s supply. What would happen then?

  “And when will you be leaving, Salt?”

  It was Salt’s turn to glance around the room. “I had planned to leave with the last auxiliary cohort, sir. Headquarters will pack up after that. As you are aware, sir, your battlefield headquarters staff has already moved, marching with First Cohort. Sabinus will see they get set up in a good spot.”

  Stiger gave a nod. He expected no less from his senior centurion. “You seem to have everything well in hand here. Good work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Salt said, with no hint that he was pleased with the praise.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Stiger’s lead clerk, Nepturus, stepped up to the two of them. He held out a dispatch. “This just came in for you, sir. It’s from the dwarves.”

  Stiger took the dispatch and opened it. Nepturus retreated to the table where he worked by the fire. Stiger saw that the dispatch was from Braddock and it had been written in the common tongue, likely drafted by one of the thane’s aides. He read through it.

  “And how are our allies doing, sir?” Salt asked with mild interest.

  “Well enough, it seems,” Stiger said as he set the dispatch down on the table. “The dwarves are reporting no difficulty so far. The majority of Braddock’s army is well on their way. Braddock expects to have his lead infantry units out of the underground and on the Vrell road in about a week and a half’s time, the cavalry sooner, of course.”

  “That is good news, sir,” Salt said simply and glanced over at the map that was laid out on the table to his right. He moved over to it and gave a low whistle. “The thane is pushing his boys hard, then. We had planned for that in maybe a fortnight, at best.”

  “Braddock’s blood oath has motivated him and every other dwarf to get to the Cyphan,” Stiger said. “Their Legend demands vengeance for what the Cyphan did to their kin. They may be a little overeager to settle that debt.”

  Privately, Stiger worried over the dwarves’ eagerness to get at their sworn enemy. Though Braddock had assured him the affairs of the World Gate came first, he considered that at some point he might just have to intervene to check their bloodlust and keep them focused on what needed to be done. Revenge could be settled afterwards.

  “Overeager or not, sir, it’s a long road,” Salt said, running his finger along the length, traveling eastward. “At some point he will need to slow his pace some, or his infantry won’t be worth a damn when they emerge from the forest.”

  “No doubt,” Stiger said. “You don’t need to tell me. I about pushed my company to the limits on the Vrell road.”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir.” Alanus had come up.

  “Yes?” Stiger turned. “What is it?”

  “Centurion Pansa Ruga is here to see you, sir,” Alanus said. “He mentioned that you asked him to stop by headquarters, first thing.”

  “He showed up a couple of hours ago,” Salt said meaningfully and gestured toward the door to what had come to be called the waiting room, a small antechamber by the entrance. It had likely once been a storeroom, at least until Nepturus had cleaned it out and placed several stools inside.

  Stiger looked over and saw the centurion standing in the doorway to the waiting room, gazing his way. Ruga appeared just as Stiger remembered him, tough and confident, hard as chiseled stone. Stiger motioned the man over with a wave.

  “Thank you,” Stiger said to his clerk, and with that, Alanus stepped away.

  “Reporting as ordered, sir,” Ruga said, snapping to attention. He offered a crisp salute.

  “Is your century assembled and waiting?” Stiger asked.

  Ruga was from Vargus’s valley cohort. Stiger liked the centurion. He’d personally seen him lead his century in the action in Forkham’s Valley against the orcs. It had left Stiger impressed with his command and fighting abilities. He was a tough, unflappable bastard. Just how the legions liked their officers.

  “They are, sir,” Ruga said. “As ordered, I have them cooling their heels in the courtyard. Though, if I am to be honest, sir, I would have preferred to march with my cohort. It doesn’t sit right, being left behind and all.”

  “I understand.” Stiger appreciated Ruga’s honesty. When he’d taken command of the legion, there had been several who had looked to curry favor through flattery and other means. Stiger intensely despised the sandal-lickers, like General Kromen’s aide, Captain Handi. He always had. In Stiger’s mind, such behavior was toxic to the efficient functioning of the legion. The sandal-lickers added nothing of value other than to soothe a commander’s ego.

  So, he had strongly discouraged the behavior, encouraging and supporting those who spoke honesty. It had taken some time and an example or two, but his officer corps rapidly got the message and conformed to his expectations.

  Ruga, having come from this time, had likely not heard how Stiger preferred to be treated. That made such honesty from the centurion all the more refreshing.

  “Centurion,” Salt said, having clearly become irritated, “I don’t like your tone.”

  Stiger held up a hand to restrain his camp prefect.

  “Sorry, sir,” Ruga said to Stiger, not sounding as if he truly meant it. “I’ve never been the tactful type. I think you know that. My boys and I just want in on the coming action, is all, sir.” He paused and glanced around at the headquarters staff a bit sourly. “But it seems like you want us to sit this one out with some babysitting, or perhaps helping this bunch move…so manual labor, then. Do I have that right, sir?”

  Despite the near insubordination, Stiger found himself terribly amused. It was a struggle to keep it from his face. He well understood the centurion’s sentiment. Were their positions reversed, Stiger would not want to babysit either.

  “I have a job that needs doing and I won’t lie to you, Centurion,” Stiger said, with a glance over at his camp prefect. “You will be babysitting. From this point onward, you and your century are officially detached from Second Cohort. At least, until I say otherwise. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruga said, looking none too happy.

  “Ruga,” Stiger said, “you’re in command of my personal bodyguard.”

  The centurion at first looked like he was going to protest, then his eyes widened slightly as realization hit home. He blinked several times. To be placed in command of a legate’s personal guard was one of the highest honors within the legion. With it would come bragging rights, the best food, and other perks, including being exempted from regular duties like setting up the marching encampment.

  “My century is to be your guard, sir?” Ruga asked to clarify, as if he’d not quite hear
d correctly.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Stiger said.

  “Yes, sir, very good, sir,” Ruga said, recovering and straightening his back a little. The look of surprise faded, as if it had never been. It was hidden behind a carefully crafted mask that all professional soldiers learned to project to superiors. “On second thought, sir, babysitting doesn’t sound all that bad, sir. Not that you need babysitting, sir. Thank you for thinking of us. You won’t be disappointed, sir.”

  “Centurion,” Salt said, with a hard edge to his tone, “we don’t know each other.”

  “No, sir,” Ruga said, “we do not.”

  “The legate here speaks highly of you,” Salt said. “I would rather have assigned proven veterans from the Thirteenth, but Legate Stiger decided on you. Why? I don’t know. I trust and I hope he has not misplaced his faith in your abilities or your men.”

  “He has not, sir,” Ruga said and his face colored slightly as he took umbrage at the camp prefect’s words, though his tone remained neutral. “My boys are the best, sir.”

  “We’ll see,” Salt said. “I expect you to do your utmost to keep the legate safe and out of trouble. I want your word on that, your personal guarantee you will keep him safe.”

  Ruga did not immediately reply. His eyes went from Salt to Stiger, shrewdly appraising his legate. The flush of heat drained from Ruga’s cheeks.

  “Well?” Salt demanded.

  “I can’t and won’t promise, sir,” Ruga said. “However, I will try, sir.”

  “Try?” Salt seemed surprised by the answer and his face hardened. “That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, Centurion.”

  “It wasn’t meant to, sir,” Ruga said. “From what I understand of the legate, he tends to put himself in dangerous situations. Like any good officer, he prefers to set the example for others to follow. So, with that in mind, all I can promise is that me and my boys will do our best, sir, to keep him alive, sir. If that is unacceptable, there is an entire legion of centuries to pick from, sir, to replace us, that is.”