“No,” Stiger said with an unhappy look. “They do not.”
“I do not understand,” she said, eying him carefully.
Stiger returned Taha’Leeth’s gaze and found her eyes, for some reason he could not name, extremely sad. Her fiery red hair was a marked contrast to the snow-covered countryside around them. She was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Stiger had found that most elves had eyes that seemed to dance with barely concealed amusement and mischief. Hers, on the other hand, were not only deep, but hard. Yes, Stiger thought to himself, there is a terrible sadness there, mixed with a steely resolve. Now that he thought on it, Aver’Mons also had a grim hardness to him that matched hers. Taha’Leeth’s people, until recently, had been slaves of the Cyphan. Stiger had difficulty imagining what it must have been like for such a proud people as the High Born to have been brought so low. How much had she suffered?
“I have seen a Cyphan general cheered the same way,” she said, and Stiger suddenly realized that he had remained silent as he studied her.
“It is not like that,” Stiger said with a heavy sigh. “Though they think they do, those people do not cheer me.”
She frowned but said nothing in reply, waiting for Stiger to continue.
“They cheer an ideal,” Stiger said, his voice growing cold. “They cheer the ideal my ancestor and the dwarven Oracle set for me.”
“Not the fulfillment of your Compact?” She raised a delicate eyebrow at him.
“That too,” Stiger said, with a trace of a frown. He did not feel like saying more and so he remained silent. They said nothing further for several minutes as their horses plodded along.
“Are you Delvaris reborn?” she asked him plainly, her look, though doubtful, was clearly curious. Had it been Eli asking, Stiger would have suspected that the question was meant to tease and poke fun at him. Taha’Leeth, on the other hand, was looking for an answer. She was serious, grave even.
“No,” Stiger said, scratching at his jaw. “I am simply me, nothing more, nothing less.”
“I see,” she said, contemplating him with a sidelong look. “You do not wish to be treated so?”
“No,” Stiger replied, feeling weary of the conversation. “I most certainly do not.”
“You do not wish to be a great man?”
Her last question caught Stiger completely by surprise. He pulled up on the reins of his horse, bringing Nomad to a halt. She stopped her horse also. Those behind were forced to ride around the two. Eli gave both of them a quizzical look as he passed them by, but thankfully said nothing.
“I just want to be me,” Stiger said as he regarded her, and he meant it with the entire force of his being. It was important to him that she understood. “I desire to serve both my family and empire faithfully.” Stiger paused and then added, “I asked for none of this.”
“And yet,” she said, the sadness in her deep eyes seeming to creep into her voice, “here you are, the hope of your people.”
“Yes,” Stiger said bitterly and nudged Nomad back into a walk. “It seems that I am.”
Starting her horse forward, she matched Stiger’s pace.
“You make choices you think best serve your family and empire?” she asked, an intense look in her eyes.
“Yes,” Stiger responded, wondering what she was getting at. “I do. Though we will have to see what comes of those I’ve already made. I have no idea how they will play out. I do what I can and hope everything will work out . . . It usually does.”
“There is greatness in your actions,” she said, and pulled in a deep, almost shuddering breath. “Though I at first doubted it, I feel it. I truly do.” She nudged her horse into a trot and left Stiger behind, watching her as she caught up to Aver’Mons, who rode just ahead. She said something to him and he glanced back in Stiger’s direction. It was not a friendly look.
“Elves,” Stiger muttered to himself and continued on.
Just beyond the village, they came to a bridge that forded a small, fast-moving river, which they had seen from above earlier in the morning. The bridge was wooden and barely wide enough for a wagon. Due to the snow and ice, they dismounted and walked across.
Thankful for the bridge, Stiger glanced down over the side and into the water below as he crossed. He judged the depth to be around four feet, likely the result of years of silt buildup around the pylons. The fast-moving water was crystal clear, and he could see right down to the rocks littering the bottom. But from the looks of it, the depth increased dramatically just a few feet out.
Once beyond the bridge, the road climbed a short way to a low ridgeline. The ridge extended outward in both directions for a least a quarter mile before curving back toward the river’s edge. Near the summit of the rise, Stiger pulled Nomad to a stop.
A strange feeling had come over him. He felt like he had been here before, in this very spot. Stiger rubbed his jaw and tried to shake the feeling off, to no avail. Perhaps, he considered, it just reminded him of a place he had been in the north? Glancing around, Stiger’s military mind recognized the defensive nature of this ground, especially if an army was contesting a river crossing. The feeling of having been here before became much more acute, growing stronger. He could almost visualize defenses lining the top of the ridgeline. After a moment, he snapped his fingers. Yes, he decided, this reminded him of his first battle. As a lieutenant, his legion had been tasked with securing a river crossing and fighting up a similar ridge. It had been bloody going, but they had done it and pushed the Rivan out of their defensive position.
“What is it?” Eli asked, wheeling his horse around and walking Wind Runner back to Stiger. As usual, his friend had sensed something was not quite right with Stiger. Taha’Leeth and Aver’Mons rode by. She gave him an odd, almost knowing look as she passed, her horse kicking up snow with each step. When Stiger had lived amongst the elves, he had learned their females were surprisingly perceptive. Some had even been reputed to read the emotions of others. Had she sensed his troubled thoughts, or was it something else?
“Nothing,” Stiger replied and nudged Nomad into a walk, desiring to avoid discussion on the subject. Stiger’s first battle had occurred before the two of them had met, and Stiger wanted to put it behind him, leaving it in the past where it belonged.
Braddock and Garrack were reaching the top of the rise as Stiger started forward once again. The thane pulled his pony alongside.
“This is where it happened,” Braddock said, gesturing about with one hand while holding the reins with the other.
“What happened?” Stiger asked, looking over at the thane with a hooded expression.
“This ridge is where Delvaris made his stand with the Thirteenth,” Braddock explained. “He fought here in defense of the Compact and held it long enough for my father’s army to arrive.”
Glancing around, Stiger recalled the vision the sword had shown him, of a mortally wounded Delvaris confronting a minion of Castor. The vision had helped Stiger and Father Thomas defeat the minion they had faced. The sword had also spoken to him, as if it were alive. The chill that ran down his back returned. He shivered slightly, glancing around with understanding. He was looking upon a battlefield, and it no longer felt or reminded him of his first battle. Stiger glanced down at Delvaris’s magical sword. Was it the vision the sword had shown him that made this place seem familiar? Or was it something else?
Uncomfortable with such thoughts, he increased Nomad’s pace, intent on leaving the ancient battlefield behind.
Yes, the sword hissed in his mind and Stiger nearly jumped in his saddle. Remember this place . . .
Three
The dwarves led the party toward the northern end of the valley. They passed through several more villages, where the locals turned out to greet them just as enthusiastically as those in Bridgetown had. Some older men even dressed themselves in ill-fitting
legionary kit that they had used in their youth. These stood to attention as best they could and saluted Stiger. He offered them a respectful nod. More than a few shed tears at his passing or seemed overcome with feeling. They cheered him with Delvaris’s name.
Stiger did not feel worthy of such attention. That was what bothered him. That and they viewed him as Delvaris reborn. Stiger was being treated as a returning hero and yet he had done nothing to deserve their adoration other than being selected by fortune and birth to restore the Compact.
“They have long awaited your coming,” Vargus informed him. “You are more than just the legate. To my people you are a symbol that their faith in remaining vigilant mattered.”
“How do you feel about that?” Stiger asked of him, somewhat sour after they had ridden through another village.
“The gods in their wisdom foretold of your coming,” Vargus answered. He looked over at the legate with a level look. “But I think you are just a man, like any other. The gods have simply favored you more than most.”
Stiger returned Vargus’s look before facing front. He was silent for a time as he considered the man’s words. Truth be told, Stiger felt as if he had become caught up in something greater than himself. He was not sure that was such a good thing. All he wanted was to be a soldier of the empire and serve with honor. He felt trapped, deeply ensnared in a strange prophecy he did not yet fully understand. Worse, his actions would have a serious impact upon the empire he served and loved. That could very well end poorly for him.
Should the emperor not support the decisions he had made, his family line could come to a premature end. By tying himself to the Compact, he had already bound the empire to the dwarves and, in that alliance, his own family’s fate. Besides service to the empire, family honor was everything to an imperial noble. The thought worried him more than he cared to admit. Stiger’s family was an old one. He could trace his roots back to the founding of the empire. Old or not, he feared it would not be enough to counter the emperor’s wrath.
Stiger’s only consolation was the scroll from Emperor Atticus. The empire already had a long-standing treaty with the dwarven nations. Stiger had only reinforced it. It was some comfort, but he was unsure how it would all play out. He took a deep breath and ran his hand through Nomad’s mane. With the events of the past few weeks, he found he could no longer deny that the gods had plans of their own for him. No matter the potential costs to his family, he would just have to do what he considered to be in the best interests of the empire and hope for the best. Gritting his teeth, he resolved to do just that.
“You are correct, centurion,” Stiger replied, sparing Vargus a grim smile. “I am but a man.”
Vargus looked over at his legate, but said nothing further. Stiger returned the centurion’s gaze until the large man looked away to maneuver his horse around a deep rut in the road.
He was but a man.
Stiger looked ahead toward the northern end of the valley. Snowcapped mountains rose above the tree line. Thane’s Mountain towered above them all like an older brother. Sourly, Stiger wondered what additional surprises waited for him there.
The road soon became little more than a logging track after they passed through the last of the settlements. It took them up from the base of the valley to the hills, and then to the slopes of the mountain and into the tree line. Stiger found it odd how the hills on this side of the valley were not cultivated for vineyards or grazing.
He was not a farmer, but he suspected it had something to do with the shade. Thane’s Mountain towered over them, casting its imposing shadow across this part of the valley, and it was only early afternoon. He realized it must block the sun for a good portion of the day, though perhaps, he thought, watching the dwarves ride just ahead, the real reason was that the dwarves had prohibited cultivation here.
In the shade of the mountain, without the sun to provide some warmth, the cold intensified with the elevation. The track climbed steeply, which soon became no more than a path, barely distinguishable from a game trail. As the trees and brush closed in, they were forced to dismount and walk their horses in single file, one behind the other. Eli for once stayed with the party and did not wander off into the woods, though Stiger suspected he badly desired to do so. Eli led Wind Runner right behind Nomad and Stiger. Taha’Leeth, Aver’Mons, and Marcus were somewhere to the rear. Braddock and his dwarves, knowing the way, led the party onward.
The pace was a good one, and Stiger found himself perspiring, even as the biting wind blew around him, rustling the brush and stirring the leafless limbs above. Father Thomas walked his horse just behind Eli and after him came Sergeant Arnold. Thomas and Arnold were involved in a deep discussion on the meaning of a particular passage in the High Father’s holy book. Arnold and the paladin had been discussing it for the last forty minutes. Arnold was struggling to fully grasp the meaning, but by this point, even Stiger had a position on the gist of the passage. The discourse reminded Stiger of his youth and time spent before the family tutors. His tutors had droned on and on without letup for hours at a time. When the young Stiger had drowsed, they had awoken him painfully with a reed switch. Those were not particularly fond memories.
Feet crunching in the churned-up snow, Stiger had heard more than enough on the good book for one day. He wished the trooper walking his horse directly ahead would move a little faster. For a moment, Stiger considered ordering the man to stand aside so he could pass, but then changed his mind. Listening to a little prattle on the High Father’s good word wouldn’t kill him. Besides, Eli might suspect his real motivations for ordering the legionary aside and find it somewhat amusing. When Eli found something funny, he would inevitably revisit such moments, usually at an inconvenient time. Stiger had no intention of indulging his friend’s sense of humor and so he continued on, careful to let no hint of irritation show.
The trail they had been following opened up to a long, wide, peaceful-looking meadow that was covered in untouched snow. To the left and right, for over a mile in either direction, the trees stretched outward in a near-perfect line. The meadow reached forward from the trees, rising every thirty paces in a gentle grade to what looked like a series of natural shelves or terraces, with each one slightly higher than the last. The meadow ended abruptly at a sheer cliff face that seemed to rise right up out of the ground, climbing vertically a thousand feet or more, before disappearing into the clouds. Stiger had never seen anything like it. They had reached Thane’s Mountain.
Braddock and the other dwarves waited a few feet beyond the edge of the tree line. Stiger made his way over to the thane. Braddock’s bodyguard moved grudgingly aside, though only after Naggock, the captain of thane’s bodyguard, barked an order to allow him to pass. Eli followed, leading his horse after Stiger.
“This land is not natural,” Eli said quietly to Stiger, stopping him. “It has been shaped by deliberate labor.”
Stiger looked around. The snow-covered meadow appeared to be quite natural. Eli saw his look, rolled his eyes as if it were obvious, and then dug his boot into the snow, moving it aside until he hit the bottom layer, which was a mixture of ice and snow. After a moment, he scrapped enough clear to expose stone beneath.
“Paving stones,” he said, arching a knowing eyebrow at Stiger.
“Very perceptive, elf,” Braddock said, turning to face Stiger with a broad smile. “Welcome to the trading side of Old City.”
“I don’t understand,” Stiger admitted. There was nothing to see other than the snow-covered meadow, cliff face, and tree line.
“Exactly,” Braddock said, his smile, partially hidden beneath his beard, growing larger. “Garrack?”
Garrack shouted out something in his own language, which sounded like a brief chant. The view of the meadow wavered before Stiger’s eyes, as if it were a mirage on an extremely hot day, and within a heartbeat was gone. There was an audible gasp and a few oaths from Lan’s troopers.
Stiger took a step back. Where there had been nothing now stood around thirty large block-shaped buildings wreathed in snow. These had been constructed on the stone terraces that Stiger had thought natural just moments before.
Beyond the buildings and cut into the face of the cliff itself were two massive granite gates that were each at least sixty feet tall and thirty-five feet wide. There were images carved into the doors themselves and the surrounding cliff face. Stiger let out a slow breath as he took it all in. The entire cliff face had been carved full of dwarven images. It was the most impressive piece of stonework Stiger had ever seen. There were dwarves intricately carved into the stone farming, mining, tending to animals, working a forge, scribing, forming up under arms . . . It went on and on and seemed to be telling some kind of a story.
The scale and intricate nature of the carvings were incredible to behold and reminded Stiger of some of the victory pillars and arches in Mal’Zeel, each of which told the story of a victorious campaign. Those were insignificant compared to this. His jaw dropped at the sight and he looked over at Eli, who appeared just as impressed. Stiger thought this had to be one of the great wonders of the world, and no one other than the dwarves knew about it. Well, no one else until now.
“Welcome to Thane’s Mountain and Garand Thoss,” Braddock said with a knowing grin. “Otherwise known as Old City, once home to over two hundred thousand dwarves. Now that you have seen it, the illusion will no longer work on you.”
“Impressive, is not?” Garrack asked.
“That word does not adequately describe what I am seeing,” Stiger replied without even bothering to look over. He was transfixed by the sight before him and longed to examine the cliff face closer.
“Garand Thoss is small city.” Garrack barked out an amused laugh. “One day you come to real city like Garand Tyrell. Then you see true dwarven wonders.”
Stiger looked over sharply at Garrack, wondering if the dwarf was joking.
“Come,” Braddock said, mounting up. “This is nothing compared to what you are about to see.”
The Tiger's Fate (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 3) Page 6