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

by Marc Edelheit

  “Believe what you wish,” Menos said and sipped at his wine. “Despite our past differences, I bargained with them and we struck a deal. I saw no other way.”

  “That was a mistake of colossal proportions,” Taha’Leeth said. “There is a reason why people never make bargains with the Vass. In the end, you always end up paying more than you want. Tell me, noctalum, what fair deal did you strike?”

  Stiger shared a glance with Braddock. The thane did not look terribly pleased either. It seemed the Vass were quite a terrible people.

  “I told them of the Vass who were trapped upon this world,” Menos said quietly. “They agreed to help us. That was, if I allowed them access to the Gate. Once everything is settled, they will retrieve their people and go. I am quite certain that the Vass on Istros want off just as badly as the sertalum does. Istros has always been a sort of backwater world.”

  Stiger thought Menos looked rather smug.

  “Just like that?” Tenya’Far asked. “You may have traded one enemy for another, noctalum.”

  “Not this time,” Menos said. “There are a few other things of value I gave them. Besides, for good or bad, the deal is done and only Currose and I have access to the World Gate. They know this…so in a way you might say they are our hostages. If they do not behave, they are stuck on Istros and we kill them.” Menos took another sip from his wine and looked over to Stiger. “Cunning, right?”

  “That is easier said than done,” Taha’Leeth said.

  “We will see.” Menos turned his attention to Braddock and Stiger. “I assume you intend on bringing the enemy to battle?”

  “We do,” Braddock confirmed.

  “Good. When you manage that, the Vass and I will keep the enemy’s wyrms busy,” Menos said. “It will be up to you to break the confederacy’s army. Think you can manage that?”

  “We will have to,” Stiger said. “Losing is not an option.”

  “I will not fight alongside a Vass,” Tenya’Far said, “not again, not ever.”

  “You will, Father,” Eli said.

  Tenya’Far’s gaze snapped to his son.

  “You gave your word, along with the warden’s, to fight by their side”—Eli gestured toward Stiger and Braddock—“and fight you will.”

  Tenya’Far looked as if he wanted to shout at his son. His cheeks flushed with color. Stiger had never seen an elf, other than Eli, get so upset. It was an interesting turn of events.

  Eli’s father took a deep breath and let it out, calming himself. A moment later, it was as if nothing untoward had ever happened. “My son is quite correct. I did give my word and I will honor it. I will fight by your side, just as I said…even if it is alongside a Vass.”

  “And I took your side,” Taha’Leeth said to Stiger. “I will be by your side no matter how difficult or disagreeable it becomes.”

  “This is quite good wine,” Menos said, having taken a sip, and then drained his mug. He returned the empty mug to the table. “I missed valley wine.” He paused, as if something had just occurred to him. “Oh, you might be interested to know…your emperor is in Lorium.”

  “We’d heard that. How do you know for certain?” Stiger asked.

  “I walked its streets, listened and spoke to those within,” Menos said. “I assure you, he is there. Though I understand he was injured in the recent fighting when the enemy attempted to storm the city.”

  “Badly?” Stiger asked, alarmed and suddenly worried for his childhood friend.

  “I do not know,” Menos said, “and I did not have time to find out. The people I spoke with were more concerned with the hostile army besieging the city and the stones being thrown at the walls. Some of those stones made the ground shake. It was all very impressive.”

  “Did you go east at all?” Stiger asked, curious as to the enemy’s army there.

  “As far as I dared,” Menos said. “The enemy has more wyrms protecting their main army that’s marching to the coast. That army numbers over two hundred thousand. Oh, and for added cheer, another army is coming up from the south. I do not know its strength, but I believe it to be much smaller. They are currently being ferried across the Narrow Sea. I had considered sinking a few of their ships, but I was pressed for time, so I did not bother and continued on.”

  Stiger pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “What was that about Fortuna?” Eli asked Salt.

  The camp prefect did not reply.

  Could it get any worse? Stiger asked himself. He knew his task would not be easy, but could it really get worse? He took a deep breath and calmed himself. They now had the Vass on their side. That was something. He wasn’t quite sure if that was a mixed blessing or not. Only time would tell. But it seemed the enemy’s dragons might not be as bad a threat as they had thought. He brightened at that prospect.

  “The enemy is coming,” Stiger said, addressing them all. “They think they have a surprise in store for us, with their wyrms. We now have a surprise for them. We worry about what’s coming our way and what is before us. We focus on one problem at a time. We deal with that problem. The enemy army marching to us is the first problem. The rest can wait until after we’ve dealt with it.”

  “That’s why I like you, Stiger,” Menos said. “You never, ever give up.”

  “If I did,” Stiger said, with a glance over at Cragg, “you’d still be a worshipped pet.”

  Menos grinned at that and Stiger grinned back.

  Ogg barked out a harsh laugh. The wizard laughed so hard, he almost choked. When he came up for air, he leaned heavily upon his staff. “And here I didn’t think noctalum had a sense of humor. You like this human? You truly like him? Hah! Now, that is a hoot.”

  “Very funny, dwarf.” Menos flashed a thin smile at Ogg, then sobered and turned to Stiger. “One other thing.”

  “What more bad news do you have for us?” Stiger asked, almost dreading what was coming.

  “I wouldn’t call it bad news, exactly,” Menos said. “When I was in Mal’Zeel, your—”

  “You went all the way to Mal’Zeel?” Stiger asked, thoroughly astonished. “You covered a lot of ground.”

  “Well,” Menos said, “when I found out the Key wasn’t in Lorium, I went searching for it. I thought I might be able to get it before the enemy and save us some trouble.”

  “I could have told you it wasn’t in Lorium,” Ogg said, “had you bothered to consult me.”

  Menos ignored the wizard.

  “Did you find it?” Stiger asked hopefully.

  “No,” Menos said, “and believe me, I looked.”

  Stiger wondered where the Key was hidden. If the emperor was in Lorium, he would surely know. Over the years, the Key had become one of the emperor’s symbols of office. But that was a problem to be concerned with later. First, they needed to defeat the army marching their way.

  “As I was saying before I was interrupted,” Menos said, “I learned your father has been put in command of the legions to the east.”

  “My father?” Stiger asked. He had not expected that. He knew he should not be surprised by it, but still he found that he was.

  “When the emperor’s legions were shattered, it seems the senate, in desperation, recalled him from his forced retirement. They’ve raised several new legions and pulled in others from the borders that did not march south with the emperor. They are busy fortifying Mal’Zeel and preparing for the confederacy’s arrival.”

  “Now isn’t that interesting,” Eli said. “Two Stigers in the field. Who would have thought that? Not I.”

  “This is good news, yes?” Taha’Leeth asked, looking to Stiger.

  “There is good news and then there is good news,” Eli said, in a slightly mocking tone. “Isn’t there, Ben?”

  Stiger shot Eli an unhappy look and just shook his head in shocked disbelief.

  TWENTY

  Wake…

  Stiger’s eyes snapped open. At the foot of his cot, a solitary clay lamp burned on a small table. When he’d fall
en asleep, he had forgotten to extinguish the lonely flame. The tent, for the most part, was darkened and heavily shadowed.

  Taha’Leeth was pressed firmly against him. Outside, the encampment was deathly quiet. Stiger had been dreaming about the sword and that it had been speaking to him again. The weapon lay on the rug, next to his cot and within easy reach.

  He had no idea what time it was, but figured it was early. In the morning, the legion would march for at least a half day so that the rest of the army could catch up and the consolidation could begin. The day after would likely see a battle. Eyes watering, he yawned again. Gods, he was exhausted, run down, and just plain weary. It had been a long and hard march from Vrell.

  It was cold and the blanket was doing little to add much warmth. Stiger pulled Taha’Leeth in closer and closed his eyes. As usual, her body radiated heat. She shifted and snuggled against him. Stiger closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and prepared to return to sleep.

  Wake…

  His eyes snapped open again. Something was wrong. He could feel it, almost as if the wrongness was on the air itself and the danger was close at hand. And he’d not been dreaming.

  As quietly as he could, he disentangled himself from Taha’Leeth and reached down for his sword. His hand found the hilt, and as it did, the tingle ran through him as a rush of intense power. The darkness in the tent lightened a tad and his exhaustion fled, as if it had never been.

  He felt alive, alert, and fully awake. The last vestiges of sleep had been thrust aside. He had no time to marvel, for he sensed movement inside the tent. Someone was close.

  Stiger ripped the sword free of the scabbard and it exploded into blue flame. He swung back around, jostling Taha’Leeth as he did it. She protested indignantly.

  Danger…

  The sword hissed the word in his mind, and with it, Stiger saw three figures inside his tent moving toward them. They had swords drawn. There was no time. He roughly shoved Taha’Leeth off the cot. She cried out and landed hard on the rug-covered ground.

  A sword plunged into the cot where she’d been a heartbeat before and inches from his stomach. Stiger swung and cut down with his sword on the assassin’s arm with all his strength. The blade flared with fire, slicing cleanly through the arm as if it were hot butter. The blade sizzled loudly. Stiger felt the hilt grow warm in his hand. Like a puppet with its strings cut, the attacker immediately dropped.

  He threw his blanket aside and rolled off the cot and into a crouch, attempting to protect Taha’Leeth. Instead, he tripped over her as she worked to get up. Stiger nearly went down himself.

  One of the assassins rushed him. Stiger ducked a sword strike that came lightning fast for his head. He brought his sword up and blocked. The tent rang with the clash of steel. He counter-jabbed.

  With reflexes that were incredible, the attacker dodged backward and away. Outside, Stiger could hear the harsh clash of swords and the cry of alarm. He stabbed out again. The attacker blocked, and steel rang once again inside the tent. In the cold air, the repeated blows stung his hand painfully. Stiger paid it no mind and blocked another strike.

  Then Taha’Leeth was on her feet and struggling with the other assailant. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her grappling desperately with her opponent. She was weaponless. He was not.

  Stiger had no more time for thought. His own opponent lunged forward, launching a flurry of strikes. Stiger blocked them, grudgingly giving ground, his sword licking blue flame on the air as he swung it about in a desperate bid to keep the enemy’s blade away.

  Stiger backed into the table that had been at the foot of his cot, knocking it over, and almost fell. There was a crack and a sudden flaring of light within the tent as the lamp shattered. The spilled oil caught fire. Stiger felt the heat of the flame close against his back.

  At that moment, Taha’Leeth cried out in terrible agony. He knew with chilling certainty she’d been wounded. His rage surged. The sword exploded brilliantly. Combined with the fire from the lamp, the tent was fully lit in an almost blinding light. Startled, Stiger’s attacker drew back a pace, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness.

  “Sovereign,” a voice in Elven gasped. There was horror in it. “Forgive me.”

  “Garen’Teh.” Taha’Leeth’s voice was strained and barely audible. She seemed just as stunned. “Why?”

  Stiger’s opponent looked over in absolute horror at Taha’Leeth. Enraged beyond measure, Stiger lunged forward, jabbing his opponent in the chest. His sword sank deeply, and easily, sizzling as it went in. The attacker dropped to the ground, stone-dead, his life force stolen by Rarokan. The blood boiled off the blade as it came free. Outside the tent, the sound of fighting intensified and, along with it, there was a vicious growling that could only have come from Dog.

  Rage beating within his breast, Stiger turned for the last assassin and found him on the floor. He’d dropped his sword and was cradling Taha’Leeth in his arms gently, as if he were holding a baby. Tears were in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Stiger stumbled to a stop and realized with shock the assassin was an elf.

  He glanced at the other two who he’d killed. They also were elves. The sword dimmed, the flames licking along the blade growing smaller as his rage and anger retreated. Then, he saw the dagger sticking out of Taha’Leeth’s right shoulder and the blood soaking the rug under her, turning it a dark color. The heat returned in a terrible fury. With it, the blade surged in power, the blue flames growing intense. He advanced.

  “No.” Taha’Leeth held her hand out toward him. Her voice was strained and the hand shook, trembling feebly. Stiger stopped. “No. Do not kill him. I beg you. He serves me.”

  “Serves you,” Stiger growled. “He just tried to kill you.”

  “Forgive me, Sovereign,” Garen’Teh begged, fairly sobbing over her. “I did not know it was you. I swear it. We were sent to kill the human leader named Stiger. We did not know you were here.”

  Outside the tent, the fighting died off. Dog burst through the entrance flap. His hair stood on end and his muzzle was bloody. He bared his teeth at the elf, gore dripping to the rug, and growled in a menacing tone that promised blood.

  “Dog,” Stiger snapped. “Hold.”

  The growling ceased.

  Sensing the threat was over, Stiger shoved the elf aside and knelt beside Taha’Leeth. The dagger had cut deep, but it had also opened a large gash around four inches long. He could see exposed bone. She was bleeding badly, so much so that the blood-soaked rug wet his knees. Her eyes on him, she reached up a trembling hand and caressed his cheek tenderly. Her touch was cold, chill, and it frightened Stiger more than he cared to admit.

  “My love.” Taha’Leeth’s voice was weak. She struggled to draw a breath. It rattled in her throat. She glanced over at Garen’Teh. “Do…not…blame him.”

  “No,” Stiger said, feeling a terrible dread steal over him. “No…no…no!”

  Men rushed into the tent, along with Ruga. Two legionaries, each gripping an arm, dragged Garen’Teh back and away as Dog nosed his way forward to Taha’Leeth. He whined. Her eyes shifted to the sad-looking animal and she smiled faintly.

  “Naverum…look after…him,” Taha’Leeth whispered to Dog.

  Dog gave a whine.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Ruga asked, then he saw Taha’Leeth. He turned to one of his men. “Send for a surgeon. Hurry, man.”

  The soldier raced out of the tent.

  Taha’Leeth struggled to suck in a breath and coughed, spitting up blood. She was incredibly pale. Stiger wiped the blood away from her lips. She was cold to his touch. He felt desperate to help her, to get the dagger out.

  “I fear I am leaving you, my love,” Taha’Leeth whispered.

  “No,” Stiger said. He could tell the strength was failing her. “Don’t talk like that. A surgeon is on the way.”

  “I want to stay.” Taha’Leeth began shivering. “But I feel…”

  “You are not dying on me,” Stiger said insist
ently as he took hold of the dagger. “This is going to hurt, but I need to put pressure on the wound and try to stop the bleeding. I can’t do that with the dagger in. Do you understand?”

  She gave a weak nod and then her eyes fluttered closed as she lost consciousness. Stiger, as gently as he could and doing his best to not cause more damage, removed the blade. Blood fountained up, shocking him with the amount of it. He put his palm on the wound and pressed hard, attempting to stanch the flow.

  With his other hand, he checked her pulse and found it weakening, for she did not seem to be breathing. He leaned forward, placing his cheek to her lips, and found her breathing shallow and barely perceptible.

  “No!” Stiger shouted. Tears of loss pricked his eyes. She was slipping away from him. He looked over at Ruga, who was gazing back with raw grief in his eyes. “Where is that surgeon?”

  “He’s coming, sir.”

  “Well, make him come faster.” Stiger turned back to Taha’Leeth. “Not again. Oh, please…not again.”

  Stiger pressed down harder on the wound. Desperate, he recalled what had happened with Therik in Forkham’s Valley. He had helped Father Thomas heal the former king. Could he do it on his own? He did not know, but there was only one way to find out. Closing his eyes, he reached out.

  “High Father,” Stiger called in desperation, “help me heal her, please.”

  Stiger felt the fire within him that was his connection with the High Father grow white hot. It burned and surged through his hand keeping pressure on the wound and into her. Taha’Leeth gasped and her eyes opened, looking wildly about. She arched her back, as if in incredible pain, and cried out. Then, inexplicably, the power left him as quickly as it had come. She went limp.

  “No,” Stiger said, knowing the surge in power was not enough to fully heal. “That can’t be it. Give me more. Please, I beg you.”

  Inexplicably, there was no response. He removed his hand and saw the wound was still there, but the blood wasn’t flowing as badly. She was very pale. Had he done anything to help? Or was it that she’d simply bled out too much? He’d not healed her, that was for sure, but he prayed that perhaps whatever had been done had been enough. Stiger felt helpless. He did not know quite what to do.