Stiger noted that the enemy’s equipment was exceptionally well maintained. He bent down and picked up a shield. It was smaller than a legionary’s and rounded. It too looked well cared for. There was writing on the inside. Stiger could not read the script, but he supposed it had been the soldier’s name and unit, for legionaries did the same with their own equipment. He tossed the shield back down onto the snow, suddenly feeling disgust.
These were the enemy, but from what he’d observed during the fighting, they’d been good soldiers. Stiger rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a mounting frustration. These boys lying dead in the snow at his feet had just followed the wrong side, was all, an accident of birth. The bodies before him represented a waste of good infantry.
Stiger looked around and searched for their officer. He spotted the man a few yards off. Two dead legionaries lay still by the officer’s side. The three were almost touching. Their swords and shields lay discarded in the snow where they’d been dropped. Stiger moved over.
Blood stained the snow all around the three. The officer had taken several wounds, a bad slash to his arm, a cut to his cheek, a serious cut to his right hand, and what looked like the finishing blow, his leg ripped open to the bone.
The officer’s face was incredibly pale, almost matching the snow, a clear sign he’d bled almost completely out. His black mustache stood in contrast to the paleness of the skin.
Interestingly, he too wore a bronze collar. Was the officer a slave as well? Stiger suspected he was.
“These bastards died hard, sir,” Ruga said, breaking the silence.
“They did,” Stiger agreed.
“Faith,” Arnold said, stepping up to Stiger. He had a book in his hand that had snow on it. He handed it over to Stiger. As he took it, Stiger felt slightly repulsed, as if the book were a vile thing. It made his skin crawl, just touching it.
Stiger shook off the snow and ice, then flipped through the pages. The book was thick, battered, and appeared to be well-used. It looked as if the pages were made of deer, or perhaps cow, skin. A scrawl he was unfamiliar with was written within. The book was also illustrated, with hand-drawn images of impressive quality.
“I can’t read this,” Stiger said, looking back to Arnold.
“I can’t read the bloody thing either, sir,” Arnold said. “But if you look on the cover, the mark of Valoor is stamped there.”
Stiger closed the book and studied its cover. Sure enough, there was a small black palm print etched onto the cover, near the bottom, under the same ornate script that had been written inside. It was Valoor’s mark.
“I think that is Valoor’s scripture or holy book or whatever you want to call it,” Arnold said. “I found it clutched to the breast of one of the enemy, sir. I suspect it gave him some comfort as he passed from this world to the next. Though it makes me ill just looking upon it.”
“You too, huh?” Stiger asked.
Arnold gave a nod as Stiger handed the book back to him. Immediately, the feeling of revulsion passed. Over the last few years, Stiger had become more sensitive to such things. Thoggle and Menos had told him it was the High Father’s disapproval made plain for him. Stiger turned away to gaze down on the dead officer, feeling very dissatisfied with what he’d seen and learned.
“Sir?” Arnold asked.
“Yes?” Stiger looked back over.
“Would you mind if I kept this?” Arnold held up the book.
“Whatever for?” Just the thought of doing so made Stiger slightly queasy. The desire to burn the book or bury it was strong. “You can’t read it. You said so yourself.”
“Well,” Arnold said, glancing down at the book in his hands, “there’s bound to be some poor bastard amongst the prisoners who can translate for me. I want to learn more of our enemy’s beliefs. If you don’t mind, sir. I want to hang onto it. I feel the need to, sir.”
Stiger gave it some thought. “Very well. If you want to study that vile thing, do it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Arnold said.
Stiger was about to turn away again, when he hesitated.
“Now, it is my turn to ask a favor,” Stiger said. “I too would learn more on our enemy’s beliefs. Would you pass on what you glean from that thing?”
“Of course, sir,” Arnold said.
Stiger gave a nod, turned away, and began walking back toward the enemy’s camp. As he walked, he wondered how many had gone to sleep the night before, not realizing that they were living out the last hours of their lives.
Even though they were the enemy, he regretted that so many had died. Yet, he would not take it back. The breaking of this army and the slaughter of the enemy had been necessary. The carnage around him represented a good day’s work.
Stiger felt his anger stir with such thoughts. He would bring the death and destruction to the enemy, just as they intended to do to the empire. That was his sacred duty. The enemy would feel his wrath before this was all over. He would see to that.
At the boundary of the camp, he came across a file of resting legionaries. They looked weary and exhausted, thoroughly played out. Some were sitting in the snow. One legionary even sat upon the chest of a dead enemy and held his face in his hands. None were talking.
“On yer feet, ya savages,” the optio in charge of the file said, making to stand himself. The optio was older and had a hard look about him. A thin scar ran across his right cheek.
“As you were.” Stiger held up a hand, not wishing to disturb them. The men returned to their positions, their eyes on him.
“Which cohort?” Stiger asked the optio.
“First, sar,” the optio said.
“You saw some difficult fighting,” Stiger said. “How are your boys doing?”
“A little tired, is all, sar,” the optio responded with a glance at his men. “Always that way after a fight, sar. The exhaustion sets in, if you know what I mean, sar.”
“I do,” Stiger said.
“With a little rest, sar,” the optio said, “we will be right as rain.”
“We sure gave it to them something fierce, sir,” one of the men said, an older man. “Didn’t we?”
“Yes, you did.” Stiger ran his gaze around the file. “You all did good. You made me proud of what you did here this day.”
More than a few weary smiles broke out at the rare praise. It was what he intended, and in truth, he was proud of them. They had gone into battle cold, wet, tired, and come out victorious. He could not have asked more from them, but he knew in the days and weeks ahead he most assuredly would. There too would be a cost for that.
Stiger studied the men of the file. He could read not only the exhaustion in their weary gazes, but the shock at having survived. After battle, every soldier went through a period of self-reflection. It was at moments like these, when the danger had passed, that one realized how tenuous life could be, especially if one lost a mate or had killed a man. Praise was more than welcome. It was necessary and needed to help reinforce that everything would be all right, would eventually return to normal. If there was a normal. Stiger wasn’t sure anymore.
“Did you take any casualties?” Stiger asked the optio.
“Just one man, sar,” the optio said. “We got lucky, sar. Menorus took a blow to the helmet from a spear. Put a good-sized dent right in it. Knocked him a bit silly, it did, sar. I sent a man with him to make sure he got to see the surgeon, just to be sure, sar. Ya never can tell with blows to the head. I’m a-guessin’ he will just have a bad headache when he gets his senses back, sar. Perhaps an ugly lump too for his troubles. Maybe it will teach the fool to bloody duck next time when someone swings a spear shaft at him.”
Stiger gave an absent nod. A shout drew his attention. He looked in the direction of the shouting to see a centurion over a hundred yards away hollering to another. Stiger could not tell what was being said, but neither man seemed alarmed, so he disregarded it. He returned his attention to the file of men.
“We’ve got a long road ahead of
us,” Stiger said to them, choosing his words carefully. What was said here would likely be passed along. Within a few short hours, much of the legion would hear of it, and there was the very real chance it would be embellished in the telling. “Hard days are coming. Harder than this one. But have no doubt, we will break the Cyphan just like we did these bastards here.” Stiger paused, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “Years from now, you will have one heck of a tale to tell your children and grandchildren. It will be something to hold your head up above other men and proudly state you were there, with me, when it all happened.”
There was a long moment of silence as they absorbed that.
“I am already damn proud of being in the Thirteenth, sir,” one of the legionaries said, coming to his feet. He was missing several front teeth and, like a boxer, his nose appeared to have been broken repeatedly. “We will do what needs doing, sir. Just ask and we will get it done for you. You can count on us, sir. Right, boys?”
There was a round of agreement at that as the rest of the men got to their feet. Their sentiment warmed his heart. These were good boys and they were his. He loved them for that.
“I know I can.” Stiger paused and glanced around. “We have to clean up this mess, so we won’t be marching for a couple of days. Rest and recover.”
“Yes, sar,” the optio said.
“And make sure you get your boys something to eat,” Stiger said.
“I will, sar,” the optio said.
Stiger left them and walked into the camp itself. The file watched him go. Stiger could feel their gazes upon his back. The farther he went into the camp, the more bodies he came across. The smell of smoke, mixed with the stench of blood, urine, and human waste, was strong on the air. It was awful, but again, nothing he’d not experienced before.
A file of men moved by, carrying a wounded comrade on a stretcher. The man had been injured in the right leg. The wound had been bandaged and a tourniquet tied around the leg. Blood was seeping through the bandage.
The injured legionary was extremely pale. His hands trembled. It bothered Stiger to see men maimed and injured in such a way. Worse, Stiger knew he could not afford to replace those he lost, whether to injury or death. In the weeks ahead, he had to be careful with how he used the legion…very careful. Much depended upon that.
The sound of hasty footsteps in the snow behind him caused him to stop and turn. A legionary jogged up. The man was red in the face from his exertions. His breath steamed heavily in the air.
“Excuse me, sir,” the legionary said and saluted. He held forth a dispatch.
As he took it, Stiger wondered what bad news it contained. He opened the dispatch and scanning the contents, saw that it was from Salt. Stiger’s camp prefect reported that another small group of organized soldiers had escaped on the right. He estimated the group’s size to be no more than one hundred. Salt believed them to be Cyphan regulars and had dispatched three centuries to chase them down. Aver’Mons and Marcus were tracking the enemy. Salt was hopeful that they would be hunted down within the next few hours.
Stiger looked up at the messenger and handed back the dispatch.
“Tell the camp prefect to keep me updated on this matter,” Stiger said. “I want to hear as soon as he gets any news.”
“I will see that he gets the message, sir,” the legionary said and saluted. He left the way he’d come, working his way back to headquarters.
Stiger glanced around the enemy’s camp. Even before his legionaries had torn their way through it, the camp had been a jumbled mess. Sanitation had clearly not been a concern. Stiger saw frozen human waste had been dumped just to the sides of tents, with no thought of proper disposal. The enemy had been literally living in their own filth. There was no excuse for it.
Not only were bodies strewn all over, but kit lay scattered haphazardly about. Shields, helmets, swords, packs, sacks, boots, sandals, pots, pans, and hundreds other items lay where they’d been discarded in the enemy’s panic. Some of the tents had collapsed, likely the result of the fighting as the legion pushed its way into the camp.
Dotting the ground, arrows were everywhere, even seeming to sprout from several bodies. Stiger stepped over to a communal tent. Holding back the flap, he saw the devastating effect the arrow barrage had had. He held his breath, for the tent stank terribly of unwashed bodies and filth.
Inside, three men had died where they slept. One man had taken an arrow square in the forehead. From the wound, a small trickle of frozen blood had run down the side of his head. He’d died instantly, never knowing what had killed him. The other two had multiple arrows protruding from their chests.
He let the tent flap fall back into place and looked around. Stiger spotted Sabinus conferring with several of his officers a short distance off. With them was Therik. Stiger started over. Just behind Sabinus were a dozen or more prisoners, under guard. The officers turned at Stiger’s approach. All of them snapped to attention, and Sabinus offered a crisp salute.
“How goes it here?” Stiger asked his primus pilus.
Ruga stepped past Stiger and over to the prisoners, clearly intent upon examining them. Stiger ignored the centurion and focused his attention squarely on Sabinus.
“Very well, sir,” Sabinus said, though he looked and sounded tired, “very well indeed.”
Stiger’s gaze went to Therik. The orc’s armor was covered in dried and frozen blood, as was Sabinus’s.
“Where have you been?” Stiger asked the orc. He’d not seen Therik for several hours.
“I thought it would be fun fight,” Therik said, sounding disappointed. The orc gestured toward the prisoners with a large hand. “These did not offer much of a challenge. It was not much of a fight.”
Sabinus gave a grunt. “I will take a battle like this one over a more challenging one any day.”
Stiger glanced over at the prisoners. Beyond them, he could see larger groups of the enemy. Some were sitting down, huddled together in groups. Others were being marched out of the camp. All were under a heavy guard.
“Any idea on how many we bagged?” Stiger asked as Dog padded up to his side. The animal sat down, his gaze on Sabinus, almost as if he too was interested in the information.
“We don’t have an accurate count yet, but my guess, based on the number I have here…at least six thousand prisoners. It is possible there are more, as I’m not sure how many were taken on the other side of the camp. Once we have a proper count, I will forward that number onto headquarters, sir.”
“Any idea on casualties?” Stiger asked, almost fearing to ask the question. Though he had not seen very many legionary dead, he’d not walked the entire camp itself. There was no telling how many had fallen once the fighting had reached its most bitter point.
“I don’t know about the other cohorts, sir,” Sabinus said. “However, I suspect the legion’s terminal casualties will likely prove to be rather light. My cohort lost just ten men, sir, with another twenty-eight wounded. Of those, only three have serious wounds, sir, and have been sent to the surgeons. The rest will be placed on light duty and should recover in a few weeks’ time and be fully able to return to service.”
“Are you certain?” Stiger asked, for First Cohort had seen some of the heaviest fighting on the field. He hardly dared believe his ears. “Just thirty-eight?”
“Yes, sir,” Sabinus said. “To be fair, I had expected the butcher’s toll to be higher, sir.”
Stiger had as well, though he did not voice that within hearing of the other officers and men. He felt incredible relief at the possibility that casualties across the legion would be light. The High Father had blessed the entire legion this day…surely. Still, even having taken light casualties, good men had died under his command. It bothered him no less.
He glanced around the camp at the bodies of the enemy scattered all over. Some had fallen so close together that his legionaries combing through the bodies were forced to walk over the dead. He shook his head in near dismay. He had com
pletely and thoroughly crushed this enemy army. There was no other way to describe it.
Had he been in contact with the empire, it would have been a major feat, an accomplishment to be recorded in the histories. The victory would have been celebrated back home with games, dinners, and grand banquets. His family would have gained prestige, something it had been severely lacking of late. He might have even been honored with an ovation by the senate and emperor. However, no one knew he still lived, let alone that he’d just crushed an army more than double the size of his own.
“Send a messenger back to headquarters,” Stiger said to Sabinus. “Tell Nepturus I want a full accounting of all cohorts, effectives, dead, and injured. I also want the prisoners tallied, both the living and deceased. Find their headquarters and see if they kept any records. I want to know how many of the enemy are missing.”
That got Stiger thinking on the prisoners. They would need guarding and, with so many taken, that guard would drain his strength. Stiger knew he could not bring them with him back to the empire. There was too much risk in that, for some would escape with vital intelligence. They might even rise up at the first opportunity. It put him in a difficult position, for he wasn’t inclined to kill them…but perhaps they could be put to work, beyond simply disposing of the dead, helping to advance his effort somehow. He needed to think on it.
“Any questions?” Stiger asked, when Sabinus had not responded. The centurion had been looking past Stiger toward the prisoners, as if distracted by something.
“No, sir,” Sabinus said, turning back to him. “I will see that it is done.”
“Good.” Stiger looked over Sabinus’s officers, who were standing there, respectfully waiting and watching.
“I am extremely pleased with the work you’ve done this day,” Stiger said to the gathered officers. “We have crushed our enemy here and we will do the same to any other force we come across. Good job. Pass that on to your men.”
“Of course, sir,” Sabinus said, glancing at his officers. “We will, sir.”
Stiger’s gaze shifted to the prisoners. “Did we capture any senior officers?”
The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5) Page 19