Quintus had yet to move to plug the hole. Stiger was irritated that so many of the enemy were getting away. But at the same time, he knew there had not been time for the messenger to reach the flank and pass on his orders, let alone give Quintus time to react.
His gaze went to the left side of the enemy camp. It was interesting that none of the enemy were attempting to flee off to that side, where he was weakest. He searched for his missing cohort. The Sixth was still not in position. Then his eyes returned to the fleeing mass of men heading out into the forest on the right. It seemed almost as if it was a sort of herd mentality that drove them to the right and not the left.
“Are those our men?” Salt asked abruptly. He was pointing farther to their left. Stiger looked, peering through the gloom. There was a small group of men, company-sized, perhaps two hundred in total, moving away from the battle and toward the trees far to the left. They had gone well around the fighting of the line and were moving as if organized and under command of officers. They had flanked the fighting and turned toward the forest. A thin line of archers stood in their path.
“No,” Stiger said, eyeing them. “I don’t think they are.”
He watched as one of the enemy cut down an archer who had become distracted as he was searching a body for loot. The other archers scattered and gave the enemy company distance, allowing them to pass. A couple fired arrows, but for the most part they did nothing to slow the enemy company. Watching it, Stiger felt incredible frustration.
The enemy company continued, drawing closer to the trees, which were about three hundred yards away. They had a team of mules with them. The mules appeared to be heavily loaded, which meant they likely carried food stores. Whoever their company commander was, the man had kept his head when most others had panicked.
They were escaping right where Sixth Cohort was supposed to be. Stiger could see what appeared to be an officer directing them in their flight. He knew they could not be allowed to escape. Organized men would be trouble, especially if they had enough supply to last them several weeks, enough to make their way potentially out of the forest and spread word of what had happened here.
Stiger glanced around and saw Ruga a few yards off, silently watching the battle play out with his optio, a man named Extus.
“Ruga,” Stiger shouted.
“Sir?”
“Get your men together,” Stiger said. “We’re leaving.”
“You can’t mean to go after them,” Salt said, appalled. “If you must send men, allow me to go in your stead.”
Stiger’s frustration was almost boiling over. By the Sixth not being in position, they were allowing an entire enemy company to escape.
“No,” Stiger said. “I am going. You stay here and manage the battle.” Stiger paused, studying the battle. If he was any judge, the enemy’s will to resist would shortly snap. “Send word to Nantus. I want Fifth Cohort to pull half of his strength to go after that enemy company. Ruga and I will try to block them until help arrives from the Fifth. That is, if we can reach them in time.”
Salt stepped closer to Stiger and leaned in. “Sir, you cannot go down there. It is an unnecessary risk and one, as legate, you should not be taking.”
Stiger looked into his camp prefect’s eyes, suddenly enraged by the prefect attempting to check his desire to stop the enemy. He was about to speak when Salt beat him to it.
“Sir, you are too important to the legion,” Salt said. “I would like to remind the legate of his duty. Your post is here, sir. Besides, one understrength century is not going to slow down two hundred of the enemy, especially with them being organized.” Salt pointed. “They’re armed and armored. It is likely they are Cyphan regulars, which means they are well trained too. Take Ruga and his century to block their escape and all it will do is get some good boys dead, along with the legion’s legate. And I don’t think Ikely is prepared to step into your boots, sir. For that matter, neither am I.”
Stiger ground his teeth at the thought of the enemy getting away, particularly regulars. However, no matter how much he disliked it, he understood Salt was right. His place was here, not rashly chasing after a group of the enemy, who were in effect fleeing a lost cause. He could send scouts and some men after them later. He forced himself to calm down. The elves would easily be able to track them.
“Very well,” Stiger said, letting it go. “You win.”
“Thank you, sir,” Salt said, looking immensely relieved.
“Ruga,” Stiger called. “Disregard. We’re staying.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruga said, also appearing relieved.
At that moment, to the left, there was a massed shout. Both Salt and Stiger looked over. Sixth Cohort had finally arrived. They were emerging from the trees in a line of battle six deep, right in the path of the enemy who were seeking to escape. Stiger could not have planned it better had he tried.
The fleeing enemy company stopped abruptly. There were thirty yards separating the Sixth from the enemy company. After a moment’s hesitation, the enemy began forming a line of their own. Since escape was no longer an option, Stiger suspected they intended to sell their lives dearly.
Sixth Cohort advanced and met the enemy company. From the hilltop, Stiger could clearly hear the sharp clash of arms from this encounter. The fighting appeared quite intense. And yet, despite the quality of the enemy, it was still a one-sided affair. The Sixth outnumbered the enemy company by more than two to one, and Centurion Katurus was using that advantage to put pressure on their flanks, nearly enveloping the enemy to his front.
The fighting, from what Stiger could tell, was hard and brutal. When it was over, not one of the enemy from that company was left standing, nor had any attempted flight. Stiger suspected Salt was right. These were the Cyphan’s slave soldiers. It told Stiger that hard fighting lay ahead. Still, a sense of intense relief and satisfaction washed over him at the checking of their escape.
He returned his attention back to the main battle. His men had pushed more than halfway into the enemy’s camp. The defensive line had broken up into several small groups. The enemy fought with desperation, for should they survive, slavery, at best, was their reward for rebellion against the empire. Those of the enemy that were fighting likely knew they were fighting a losing battle, but still they fought on. Stiger could respect that.
Then one of the defensive formations broke, with the surviving enemy running for their lives. A great shout rose up from amongst the cohorts as they sensed the will of the enemy snap. Another group of the enemy dissolved. The organized resistance ended a handful of heartbeats later and so too did the organization of many of his cohorts as they pounded after the fleeing enemy.
Stiger closed his eyes, knowing that the real slaughter had just begun. It had taken less than an hour, but he had broken an entire army. For a moment, it did not seem quite real. He had done it. The legion would be victorious this day.
“Might I be the first to congratulate you, sir,” Salt said, turning to him.
Stiger opened his eyes and looked over at his camp prefect. Salt was a good man and had become an even better friend. The camp prefect extended his hand. Stiger took it and shook.
“This is only the beginning,” Stiger said and turned his gaze back out to the utter chaos in the enemy’s encampment, where his legionaries were doing their very best to slaughter any enemy soldier they could get their hands on. On the right flank, Quintus was finally reacting and positioning his cohort to stem the tide of flight.
Stiger’s thoughts shifted from victory to what was to come. His gaze swept across the encampment. How long would it take him to sort this mess out? How long until he could begin marching after Braddock?
He would need to deal with the prisoners, captured supplies, equipment, and of course the wounded. The legion also required rest, for the men had not gotten much sleep over the last day. After the battle, they would need a day or two to recover…at worst three days. He looked up at the sky, which was clear. The sun was almost up.
Would the weather cooperate?
“As you say, sir,” Salt said, “it is only the beginning.”
“The real challenge lies ahead,” Stiger said and, despite his elation at winning, felt a dampening of his spirits. He still had that ominous feeling and could not shake it. He’d won, so what was the matter? He felt almost sick to his stomach, mildly nauseated. Had he eaten bad food? Undercooked meat?
“Yes, sir,” Salt said.
“Severus?” Stiger turned and looked back on his tribune.
“Sir?”
“Send messengers to all senior centurions,” Stiger said. “They are to reform their cohorts and take prisoners, whenever practical. Any enemy who resist are to be put to the sword. I want the slaughter and any looting to end as soon as possible. I also want the enemy’s senior officers taken alive. They might have intelligence we could use. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Severus said.
“Ruga,” Stiger called.
“Sir?” Ruga said.
“Organize an escort. We’re going down there,” Stiger said. “I wish to see my enemy and their camp.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruga said.
“Right,” Stiger said and made to step away. He stopped and looked over at Arnold, who was still staring at the chaos that had overrun the entirety of the enemy’s camp. Arnold looked like a troubled man.
“Arnold,” Stiger said, feeling a sudden urge to take the man with him. “Would you care to join me?”
Arnold looked over. He hesitated and then gave a nod. “Aye, sir, I would.”
“Right,” Stiger said, “let’s get moving then. Dog, come.”
TEN
The snow crunched softly under Stiger’s boots as he picked his way through the field of bodies that lay just before what had been the enemy’s camp. He glanced over at the nearest tents. Now it was his camp, along with everything that was within it that could be taken or salvaged.
There were bodies everywhere. Some were lying facedown in the snow where they’d fallen. Others were on their backs or sides. One a few feet away was even sitting up, leaning against the stump of a tree. It was as if he were just resting, only he wasn’t. He was stone-dead. Blood from a vicious chest wound had darkened his tunic and stained the snow around him.
The sun was up, but it shed very little warmth. Stiger’s cheeks burned with the cold. His lips had become dry and cracked from it. He glanced up at the brilliant blue sky and thought it near perfect in its magnificence. The blue was quite a contrast to the ugliness about him. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and let out a long breath that steamed heavily in the frigid air.
A raven gave a frustrated cry, squawking loudly. He looked over and saw one of the dread birds, not ten feet away. It was picking at the eyeball of one of the recently deceased. The sight of the bird made him feel ill.
It never ceased to amaze Stiger at how quickly the carrion eaters arrived. In a few hours’ time, there would be thousands of the birds, eager for a feast before everything froze solid.
The battle had seen a great effusion of blood. The proof of it was in the snow, which had been stained an ugly reddish color, almost as if someone had sprinkled dye everywhere. In places, so much blood had spilt, it melted holes straight to the ground below. Some of those who had recently succumbed to their wounds were still warm. Their open wounds steamed in the cold air. It was a disturbing sight and one he’d never quite grown accustomed to. Instead of shying away, he made sure to look, to take it all in…for all of this had been done upon his orders.
Wherever heavy fighting had taken place, there were tightly packed clusters of bodies. Large groups of the dead lay in straight lines, as if they’d gone to sleep next to one another or someone had intentionally arranged them that way. Stiger knew different. Such lines were an indicator of where a line of the enemy had stood firm and paid a steep price for it.
Stiger blew out an unhappy breath as he stepped over the body of an enemy soldier. He was a boy of no more than fourteen, but he’d fought like a man. An unblooded sword lay tightly clutched in his left hand. The face was pale, lips blue. The first hints of acne were on his stubble-free cheeks.
The boy’s throat had been ripped open to the spine, the result of a short sword’s jab. The subsequent gush of blood had melted the snow underneath the boy’s back and neck. The top half of his body was angled downward, with the legs pointing upward at an awkward angle.
This was not the first time he had seen such things. Stiger supposed it would not be the last. Yet, he found it no less disagreeable. The boy should have been on a farm or learning a trade as an apprentice, not just another body amongst thousands that would soon be buried in a mass grave and then forgotten.
An unhappy breath was expelled just to Stiger’s left. Sword drawn, Ruga walked on Stiger’s left side and close at hand. Clearly the centurion thought it disagreeable too. Arnold followed a few steps behind. One of Ruga’s men was on Stiger’s right. Two more were a few yards to the front and another two trailed behind Arnold.
Stiger’s escort was alert and vigilant. They had their weapons drawn and their shields held at the ready, for not all those lying in the snow were dead. A good number of the enemy were merely wounded and hoping to escape detection.
As they walked through the aftermath of the battle and came across bodies in their path, Stiger’s escort poked at them with their swords to make sure they were dead. If they weren’t, despite any protests or begging, an efficient jab rapidly sent them on their way to the afterlife.
Stiger paused, stopping to look around. His escort stopped as well and faced outward. Teams of legionaries had been sent out to look for wounded to be helped and carried back to the surgeons.
The dead would be dealt with later. The priority was the legion’s injured. From experience, Stiger understood that many would succumb to their wounds or the cold, long before help could arrive. Only after they had been tended to would a thought be given for the enemy’s wounded. For most, that would simply be too late. Very few would survive, for the legion would not be staying long. Stiger would be taking his surgeons and doctors with him. Both the legion’s wounded and the enemy would be left in the care of the valley’s residents and the dwarves. Not for the first time did he consider that it was a harsh world. That was the one he lived in, and he did not make the rules.
Stiger’s gaze fell upon three legionaries tending to a fallen comrade. The man had been wounded in the hip. Two of the men were feverishly fashioning a makeshift litter using a shield and two javelins. The third was doing his best to bandage the wound, which bled freely. His arms were slathered up to his elbows with the wounded man’s blood. While he worked, the man lay there and moaned softly for his mother.
The sight tore at his heart, as did the bodies of his men that they’d passed. They suffered because he’d ordered them forward. Here on the edge of nowhere, they’d met their fate. Their own personal stories had come to an end. The responsibility rested solely with him, as it always did, which was why he felt required to tour the battlefield. Stiger rubbed at his tired eyes. It never got any easier.
He ran his gaze once more around the field of battle. The temperature was below freezing. Within hours, the recently deceased would be frozen solid. That would make disposing of the bodies a much more difficult process. Still, the work would get done. He had no doubt about that. They now had prisoners and lots of them, a large pool of labor, to see that it was finished properly.
Stiger began moving again. Ruga and his escort stayed with him as he continued his exploration of the battlefield. Dog padded along a few yards away, occasionally stopping to sniff or nose a body. The animal almost seemed depressed. His tail and head hung low.
The small groups of legionaries and auxiliaries they passed ceased their searching, came to attention, and saluted. Stiger made a point of returning their salutes. After a time, he stopped again and returned the gaze to the morning sky. He held an arm up to shield his eyes against the sun. He had been walking the
battlefield for over an hour, and his mood had gone from a feeling of triumph at this victory to sullen, almost resentful anger over its cost in blood. It was good that he saw the cost, for he never wanted to forget it.
Ruga and Arnold, clearly having sensed Stiger’s mood, had refrained from speech. They’d left him to his own thoughts, which he appreciated. Stiger turned and made his way over to where the Sixth had encountered and successfully blocked the enemy company attempting to flee the battle.
Katurus’s cohort had long since moved on, leaving only the dead behind and one of the enemy’s mules. Where the other mules had gone, Stiger had no idea. Perhaps they had just wandered off? The animal’s bridle was still gripped in the hand of one of the fallen.
Stiger looked over at the mule. Sacks and casks had been secured to her back. He reached out a hand and felt one of the sacks. It gave slightly and he felt powder inside, most likely flour. It was as he had thought. The mules had carried supply.
Stiger turned his attention to the dead. The men of this company had been armed with a sword that was a little longer than a legionary short sword. The blade was thinner and had been intended for not only stabbing but slashing attacks as well. He saw no sign they’d carried spears.
Interestingly, each soldier wore a small bronze collar about the neck. Stiger took this to be a sign that this company had been composed of slave soldiers. The collars were similar to the steel ones that imperial slavers used to keep slaves from running off while shipping them to market. They did this by simply chaining them together. However, the collar these soldiers wore was more elegantly made than the ones he’d seen in the empire. The collars had also been polished, as if it were one of the soldiers’ few prized possessions. They gleamed under the morning sunlight.
The enemy wore chainmail armor that draped down to just above their knees. Their helmets were conical in shape and had long nose guards that came down to the chin. There were no cheek guards, like those used by the legion.
The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5) Page 18