“Sir,” Ruga said, shaking him by the shoulder. “The tent’s on fire. We need to get out of here.”
Stiger looked up and around. The back wall of the tent was fully engulfed in flame and the tent was filling with smoke. The heat from the blaze was intense. It would only be moments before the entire tent was afire.
Ruga sheathed his sword and reached down, removing Stiger’s hands. Stiger resisted at first, but the centurion was firm. “Let me have her, sir. I will remove her from the tent. I’ll take good care of her, sir. I promise. I will get her right to the surgeon.”
Stiger gave a miserable nod. Ruga scooped Taha’Leeth up into his arms and swiftly carried her from the tent. Stiger stood and picked up his sword from where he dropped it. The old familiar tingle raced up his arm. Dog, to his side, gave a whine and nudged Stiger’s arm with his head, as if to say it was time to go.
Two men were still in the tent with him, looking nervously at the growing fire. The smoke was becoming thick and choking. Stiger calmly went over to his cot, retrieved the lacquered scabbard, and sheathed the sword. Though he acted calm, he felt no such thing. Anger, rage, and utter shock at what had happened warred within him. It did not seem quite real. He stepped to his overturned cot and reached down, retrieving his boots.
“Grab my armor, cloak and helmet.” Stiger’s voice was harsh. “And get out of the bloody tent before it burns down around us.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the men said and the two of them did as ordered.
They ducked out of the tent, with Stiger following. Outside, the air was fresh and cold. It was almost a shock, for the tent had grown hot from the fire. There were armed men everywhere, along with several bodies lying haphazardly about. Stiger counted six of his personal guard down. They were dead. The sight of them sickened him and kept the anger burning.
Two others were wounded. These men were being treated by several legionaries. One of the two had taken a bad leg wound. A tourniquet was being tied around the thigh. He was crying out in pain as the work was done.
Stiger saw two additional bodies. Both were elves and they, too, were dead. One had been badly mauled, likely Dog’s work. The elves were dressed as rangers and had clearly not gone down easily. Garen’Teh and another elf, who was injured, were under guard. The sight of the prisoners fueled Stiger’s rage to the point where it demanded blood.
Then he spotted Taha’Leeth. She had been laid on the ground, ten yards from the burning tent. A surgeon was kneeling next to her, examining her wound, as was Venthus. They had removed her tunic. The surgeon directed an assistant to put pressure on the wound while he reached in a leather bag for a bandage. Stiger moved over, watching helplessly as the surgeon began bandaging the wound.
“How is she?” Stiger asked.
“Difficult to tell, sir,” the surgeon said. “I’ve never worked on an elf before and she’s lost quite a lot of blood. But she’s still breathing.”
“She’s carrying my child,” Stiger said.
“Ah…yes, sir,” the surgeon said with a quick glance up before returning to the task at hand. “I will do all that I can.”
Venthus stood. “I will go with him, master. I too will do all I can to help. You have my word on that.”
Stiger gave a nod and found himself more assured by Venthus’s presence than the surgeon’s. Two men arrived carrying a stretcher. He watched as Taha’Leeth was gently lifted onto the stretcher.
Behind him, his tent burned furiously. Salt and Eli appeared, both looking like they had been freshly woken. Eli came to a stop at the sight of the elves. Then his friend saw Taha’Leeth and he froze. Salt continued up to Stiger.
“Are you all right, sir?” Salt asked. The prefect began examining Stiger, checking for injury. Stiger glanced down and saw that his arms, chest, and legs were covered in blood.
“None of the blood’s mine,” Stiger assured the prefect. “It’s all Taha’Leeth’s.”
“Yes, sir,” Salt said. He glanced around at her. “I am sure the surgeon will do all that can be done.”
Stiger said nothing as he watched them carry Taha’Leeth away, with Venthus following closely after.
“I don’t know how they got in without being seen,” Salt said as his eyes fell upon the prisoners. “I just don’t.”
“They are elven rangers.” Stiger’s anger returned and it surged like a terrible storm. It was an effort to keep it contained. His gaze shifted to the prisoners. “What is difficult for us is doable for them.”
Eli stepped nearer.
“I am sorry,” Eli said and rested a hand upon Stiger’s shoulder. There were tears in his eyes. “Truly.”
“So am I,” Stiger said, feeling the anger give way to gut-wrenching grief. Anger returned a heartbeat later. He turned around toward the prisoners. Eli followed his look.
“Her people, I presume?” Eli said.
Stiger did not bother to respond. Instead, he walked over to the two prisoners. Eli followed as someone called urgently for Salt’s attention.
Weapons drawn, six guards stood around the prisoners. One of the prisoners was wounded on his right arm and he had a nasty bruise forming on the right temple. Both elves had their arms tied behind their backs and had been forced to kneel on the ground. They silently watched him approach. Garen’Teh looked miserable. Stiger did not feel sorry for him, not in the slightest.
“Why would you do this?” Stiger asked them in Elven. “Why? When she pledged your people to our cause?”
Both elves shared a look.
“It is true,” Eli said. “Your people are freed. No longer are you slaves. This is the work of Tanithe.”
“You are not of our people,” Garen’Teh said. It was more of a statement than an accusation.
“But I am,” Aver’Mons said as he stepped up to them. “Eli’Far speaks the truth.”
“Aver’Mons,” Garen’Teh said. “How?”
“The sovereign sent messengers back,” Aver’Mons said, “to bring our people north and quit serving the Cyphan. Why did you not come when she called?”
“We did not know,” Garen’Teh said, anguish plain in his voice. “I tell you. No such word reached us.”
“We heard nothing,” the other elf said. “We were told only that the sovereign had gone with the army to Vrell and that contact had been lost.”
Stiger’s anger was burning hot. He was looking for an excuse to kill the prisoners, but in truth Garen’Teh was making it hard. The rational part of Stiger’s mind knew that no amount of killing would save Taha’Leeth at this point. It likely wouldn’t make him feel better either. The gut-wrenching feeling returned. He was losing the woman he loved and these elves were the cause of it. Despite that, he felt himself scowl, the scar on his cheek pulling tight. He looked over at Aver’Mons. “Is that possible?”
“Anything is possible,” the elf responded.
“Who sent you?” Stiger asked.
“Veers,” Aver’Mons said, “didn’t he?”
Garen’Teh nodded. “It is as you say. The overlord sent us. We were to murder the leadership of this army. We have been watching you for the last few days as you marched north, learning all that we could.”
Stiger grew cold. They weren’t just targeting him. He turned and looked back at Salt, who was speaking with a messenger. The man was one of Hux’s troopers.
“Veers is an overlord,” Aver’Mons said. “He is a direct servant of Valoor, much like you are of the High Father.”
Stiger’s thoughts raced as he barely listened to Aver’Mons. Tenya’Far and Braddock were at risk.
“Salt,” Stiger called.
The prefect looked over.
“Send word to Braddock and Tenya’Far as soon as you can. Warn them of a possible attack, like this one.”
“Aye, sir,” Salt said, though Stiger thought the camp prefect appeared distracted as he listened to the messenger. “Soon as I am done here, sir.”
“It is too late,” Garen’Teh said, drawing Stiger’s att
ention. “They will have struck by now. We were to hit all three camps simultaneously.”
“You would kill your own?” Eli hissed. “You would kill fellow elves? That is prohibited by Tanithe. Have you no shame?”
“No longer,” came the reply from the wounded elf. “What shame we had was stripped from us when we became enslaved. Though we regret doing so, we will kill kin. We live to serve.”
“Even now?” Aver’Mons asked bitterly. “After you’ve heard the truth. Even now do you serve?”
There was a long moment of silence, then Garen’Teh shook his head. “No longer. But my life is forfeit for injuring the sovereign.”
“Sir,” Salt said, stepping over and drawing Stiger away a few paces. Eli joined them. Salt lowered his voice. “You need to read this, sir. It just came in.” Salt held a dispatch in his hand, which he handed over. The camp prefect did not wait for Stiger to start reading. “The enemy never stopped for the night. They continued marching, sir. Enemy cavalry is less than five miles away. Come morning, the entire enemy army will be knocking on our door.”
Stiger began reading, feeling numb at what was happening. Taha’Leeth had likely been dealt a mortal wound. Now he was faced with the enemy arriving on their doorstep, just hours from now. Worse, the army wasn’t concentrated yet.
“What time is it?” Stiger asked.
“A little after three bells, sir,” Salt said. “Even if Menos can keep the enemy’s dragons off us, we’re gonna bear the brunt of any fighting. That is, until the rest of the army can come up. We’re in trouble.”
“Agreed,” Stiger said and thought for a long moment. The enemy wanted a fight. So be it. He would give them one. He’d made his decision. They would fight. “Wake the legion. Let’s get the men fed, with a hot meal in their bellies, and by dawn be prepared for battle.” Stiger paused. “There is a small rise a quarter mile north of us. It’s almost tall enough to be a ridge. I saw it yesterday afternoon, while I was riding around the perimeter. It is the best ground around for miles. The road cuts right through it. We will form the legion up behind the rise and just out of view. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What should we do with them?” Salt asked and gestured at the two prisoners.
Stiger turned his attention back to the two elves. He could feel the power surging from the sword, the anger and hate flowing forth almost like a tangible thing. The intensity of it was surprising.
Feed them to me… I hunger.
Stiger took a deep breath. It seemed Rarokan was not as dead as he’d thought. The bond was just as strong as ever.
I am very much here, and before this day is done…there will be a great deal of killing. Feed me.
“Sir?” Salt asked.
“Treat his wound.” Stiger gestured at the injured elf. “Keep them under guard. If Taha’Leeth lives, she can decide their fate.”
“And if she dies?” Eli asked.
“They will too.”
TWENTY-ONE
Stiger sat on a stool before a low campfire. Eli had taken a seat on another stool, just across the fire from him. Dog was lying by Stiger’s feet. The fire crackled softly, sending a thin trail of smoke swirling upward.
Though the temperature was above freezing, the day had dawned cold and was far from comfortable. Stiger glanced skyward sourly. Like a rumbling cavalry charge, thunder sounded off in the distance. Ominous storm clouds had moved in after daybreak, casting a darkened atmosphere over the world below. What with the assassination attempt, the day had already started out a miserable affair. Clearly, it seemed Fortuna had decided to make it worse.
Thunder grumbled again.
The heat from the fire drove the cold air back, just enough to warm hands and feet. Wrapped in his bearskin cloak, Stiger was moderately warm and comfortable. For the most part, he had been lost in his thoughts as he sat with Eli.
Two large open pavilions had been pitched ten yards away for his field headquarters. Men came and went at a determined pace, while the clerks worked diligently inside at camp tables.
Stiger’s personal guard stood at a respectful distance. They had created a bubble around him. After the attempted assassination, Salt had doubled the legate’s guard. Ruga’s men, along with another century, looked grim-faced and ready for anything. Ruga stood with them.
Stiger needed a shave. The whiskers were beginning to itch, almost to distraction. He scratched at his neck.
The legion was forming up behind the rise where he intended to hold and give battle. The nearest formation was less than forty yards away. The process of forming up into a line of battle was time-consuming, and the legion had been at it for the past two hours.
The last cohorts were being guided into position by their officers and liaisons from headquarters. As each cohort moved into position in the order he and Salt had come up with, they began aligning and dressing themselves upon one another to create an unbroken line.
With banners and standards to the front, Stiger’s cohorts looked sharp, almost as if they were on parade. Officers moved up and down the ranks, checking equipment and speaking with their men, doing their level best to prepare them for the coming battle.
The legion coming together was a grand sight, something that never failed to impress. Even with his worries about Taha’Leeth, Stiger could not help but feel a little awestruck at the force he commanded.
He picked up a stick from the ground and poked at the fire, shifting the logs around so they would better burn and perhaps shed more warmth. Sparks flew up into the air, but the blaze did not grow.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Stiger looked up to find a messenger. “Camp Prefect Oney asked that I inform you the enemy’s main body is less than a half mile distant. The enemy’s cavalry is in sight. Ours are keeping theirs honest, sir.”
“Does the prefect require my presence?” Stiger asked.
“No, sir,” the messenger said. “He just asked me to pass along the report.”
“Thank you,” Stiger said. “Dismissed.”
The messenger saluted and left.
“It won’t be long now,” Eli said.
“They will be here soon enough,” Stiger said, “but that does not mean the battle will begin straight on. Likely we will do some standing around waiting on them.”
Stiger glanced over at the legion once more. From one end to the other, his line of battle stretched out for almost a half mile. Several tents had been erected behind the center of the line. These were for the surgeons, doctors, and the inevitable flood of wounded.
With the weather looking like it would soon turn for the worse, Stiger had wanted to provide what comfort they could manage for the injured. Sadly, the few tents that had been set up would likely prove woefully inadequate.
Stiger’s centurions were also under orders to allow no able-bodied man to help the wounded until after the fight had concluded. It was a harsh order, but it was necessary. The wounded would have to fend for themselves, for shortly, every sword would be needed.
Those unfortunate enough to become injured in the fighting would either wait until the battle was over, lying where they had fallen, or manage to get themselves back to the surgeons. Many would succumb to their injuries long before help could arrive. Stiger felt it disagreeable, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Since they had had some warning and the encampment was not far off, supplies of water and precooked rations had also been moved forward. There would be no telling how long they would be kept waiting by the enemy. The men could find themselves standing in battle formation for hours before any actual fighting began. That in and of itself was not only stressful, but tiring.
Having food and water available would help. At such a time, though many would likely find it difficult to eat, the centurions would see to it that they did.
Stiger rubbed at his tired eyes. He’d worked with Salt to lay out the line of battle, designate reserves, emplace the cavalry, and just generally strategize. There had b
een no time to dig fortifications. Had they bothered to do so, the terrain was so open, the enemy would easily be able to sidestep them. Consequently, this would be a straight-up fight.
Messengers had been sent to the other camps, asking the dwarves and elves to march as soon as practical. By Stiger’s estimation, those messengers should have already arrived. But there had not been time for them to return with word or news. With any luck, his allies were already marching to his aid.
Stiger dug up a tuft of winter-browned grass with his boot. He knew not whether Tenya’Far or Braddock lived. He hoped and prayed they did. If either had been assassinated, he did not know what effect that would have on their subordinates giving the order to march to his relief. What chaos would be caused by their demise? Would they hesitate? If they did, that could easily prove catastrophic to the legion’s survival.
Thunder rumbled again, this time sounding a little closer.
“I thought this was supposed to be the dry season,” Eli said. “Didn’t you tell me that?”
“At least it won’t be snow,” Stiger said.
“Fighting a battle in the rain does not sound like much fun.”
“Fighting a battle in any type of weather is no fun,” Stiger said, “even on a breezy spring day. Killing is killing and it’s an ugly business no matter the season.”
Eli looked over at Stiger and tilted his head to the side. There was a concerned look to his eyes.
“Though we’ve never got on, I find myself worried for my father,” Eli said.
“I am sure he’s fine. I imagine sneaking into a legionary camp is one thing, doing the same to an elven encampment is something altogether different. It’s Braddock I am concerned about.”
“There is some truth to that,” Eli said. “It bothers me that Taha’Leeth’s people would willingly kill kin. I am having difficulty understanding.”
“I understand only too well,” Stiger said. “Humans have been killing each other for a long time.”
The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5) Page 36