The Tiger's Fate (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 3)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Seconds later, the century was through the brush. None of the orcs had noticed the advancing line emerging from the darkness. Stiger saw no need to draw attention and continued the steady, silent advance, not wanting to give away the assault until the last possible moment. He studied the orcs, many of whom had on only furs. Very few appeared armed or wore armor. They were clearly not expecting trouble.

  They are in for quite a surprise, Stiger thought grimly and glanced over at Lan, who was at his side. The lieutenant was ashen with a grim but determined expression. Then there was a shout from one of the orcs, who stood, pointing over at the legionaries. Others turned and stood in astonishment. A ripple of surprise spread rapidly through them.

  “Charge!” Stiger roared and thrust his sword toward the enemy. Setting the example, he broke into a run.

  The legionaries behind him shouted their war cries and charged forward, eating up the last of the ground to the enemy. Orcs scrambled to their feet, many backpedaling. A number of those few who had weapons stood and bravely made ready to receive the charge.

  Running the last few feet with his men, Stiger picked out an orc who hefted a large war hammer, the end studded with nasty-looking spikes. The anger and rage Stiger had been struggling to hold back exploded. He screamed as he closed the last few feet. The creature snarled, bearing its animal-like teeth at him. Stiger’s sword flared into blue brilliance as he attacked, which he hardly noticed as he ducked the orc’s powerful swing and planted his armored shoulder into its midriff, his momentum adding to the strength of the blow. The orc huffed from the impact and staggered backward as Stiger brought his sword around, striking out.

  The sword sank with ease into its side, and the orc screamed with agony. There was an intense sizzling, like an egg frying in a pan, and with it the creature’s eyes glazed over, the light of life extinguished. Stiger pulled back, and with a groan of escaping air from its lungs, the orc dropped like a child’s discarded doll. The creature’s greenish-looking blood sizzled, popped, and hissed, smoking as the power of the sword burned it off of the blade.

  Suffering, the sword hissed with what seemed like a deep feeling of exultation in Stiger’s mind. Stiger stood transfixed as the last of the blood rapidly burned and boiled off of the blade. Then the legionaries from the Fourth Century pushed past him, slamming into the disorganized body of the enemy with a loud crash, intermixed with screams and cries of pain as short swords struck home to deadly effect.

  Reason returned and, with it, the sword’s brilliance dimmed, returning the blade to its normal appearance. He put the sword from his mind and instead glanced around to get a better sense for the fight, for battles frequently needed direction.

  The vast majority of the orcs were running. A small number stood their ground, fighting desperately against the legionaries. Some had weapons; others did not and fought with their teeth and bare hands.

  “See to that knot,” Stiger shouted, pointing with his sword at ten orcs who had banded together and were encouraging others to join them.

  “Take them down,” Ruga’s optio, an equivalent to a corporal, shouted. The optio led several men forward, with more joining them.

  A few feet away, Stiger saw a legionary knocked bodily down by an unarmed orc, who had thrown a powerful punch to the side of the man’s helmet. The legionary’s sword went flying, landing in the snow. The orc stood over the legionary, reaching down toward the man’s neck. Stiger charged the orc, who, seeing the legate coming, straightened back up, eyes wary. Stiger jabbed out with his sword and the creature nimbly danced back. The orc roared as a sword was unexpectedly thrust into its back by another legionary. Injured, it turned toward the legionary. Stiger lunged forward and stabbed deep. The orc staggered and Stiger struck again, cutting it down.

  Recovering, he turned and quickly glanced around. The momentum of the charge had carried the fighting beyond him. The legionary who had been knocked down had pulled himself up to his knees. Stiger helped the young man to his feet. He appeared shaken, but no worse.

  “Come on, son,” Stiger encouraged. “Go get your sword and get back in the fight.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the legionary said, reaching up to feel his helmet, where he had been hit. Stiger saw a good-sized dent there. The man’s eyes went wide as he felt out the dent.

  “Your sword,” Stiger snapped with irritation to get the legionary’s mind back on what mattered. He bent down and picked up the discarded weapon. “Those orcs aren’t going to kill themselves.”

  “Yes, sir.” The legionary took his sword and moved off in the direction of the fighting.

  A flash of intense light drew Stiger’s attention to his right. Father Thomas, wielding the large golden battle hammer that Stiger had seen before at Castle Vrell, was confronted by several orcs. The paladin was working his way toward the first of the priests. Five warriors barred his path. There were no legionaries nearby to help. The paladin swung the mighty battle hammer with ease, and it connected with an orc. There was an incredible flash of intense white light and the orc was thrown violently backward. It landed in a heap several feet away and did not stir. Stiger could hear Father Thomas speaking in an impassioned tone as he fought. It took Stiger a moment to realize the paladin was quoting scripture as he laid into the enemy.

  Realizing the danger, the orcs spread out, edging around the paladin. They were looking to come at him from all sides. Father Thomas recognized the danger and swung his hammer in wide arcs to keep them at bay. It was only a matter of time before one of them got behind the paladin. Stiger decided to not let that happen. He sprang into action, jogging over and attacking a large orc edging around behind the paladin, who turned at the last second and saw him. Their swords clanged against one another’s as the orc blocked Stiger’s opening strike, thrusting his sword violently aside. The impact set Stiger’s fingers tingling.

  Before the orc could effectively swing his large sword to block a second time, Stiger stepped closer and jabbed. The blade sank deeply into its stomach. The creature bellowed in pain and brought its sword down at Stiger, who barely ducked the blow, which scraped along his shoulder armor. The blow stung and Stiger twisted away, pulling his blade out as he did so. His sword did not glow or burn off the creature’s blood like it had moments before, and the orc did not give him time to wonder on this as it lashed out, forcing him to duck once again. This time the large blade whistled inches over his head. Without missing a beat, Stiger stepped in close a second time and punched his sword again into the creature’s stomach. The sword sank deeply and struck bone. He gave the weapon a vicious twist and then yanked it back. Blood, gore, and intestines came out along with the blade. As he stepped back, Stiger felt the hot, wet spray of blood on his face.

  The orc groaned and dropped its sword. Hands holding its ruined belly, it collapsed backwards to the ground, thrashing about. Stiger stepped forward and drove the point of his sword into its throat, bringing the creature’s life to a premature end.

  Motion to his side caused him to turn. Another orc lashed out with a sword. Stiger barely managed to get his sword up to parry the strike. He took a step backward to allow himself space to recover as the orc warrior lashed out again. Stiger caught the blade with his own, turned it aside using the creature’s own momentum, and then stepped forward, thrusting upward into the orc’s unprotected breast. Stiger felt his blade slip between ribs and bite deep. The creature gasped, immediately dropping to its knees. Locked between its ribs, the hilt of Stiger’s sword was ripped violently from his hand as the orc fell onto its side, stone dead.

  An arrow thwished by Stiger’s head to thud with a meaty thwack into something directly behind him. He turned to find an orc, war hammer held high above its head, frozen in shock. It had been about to bring the weapon down on his unprotected back. The orc stared dumbly down upon an arrow protruding from its chest. Before Stiger could react, another arrow buried itself in the orc’s neck. The creat
ure slowly toppled backwards, letting go of the hammer as it fell.

  Glancing back around, he saw Taha’Leeth up the slope, bow in hand. She offered him a thumbs up and a smile before turning her attention to her left, drawing a fresh arrow, nocking the missile, and loosing so quickly that the entire action seemed a blur.

  Recovering, Stiger quickly looked around to get his bearings. Father Thomas was in the process of killing the last orc that blocked his path to the priests. Reaching for his sword, Stiger tried to pull it free. It seemed wedged in tightly between the creature’s ribs and would not easily come loose. He placed a boot on the orc’s chest and gave a mighty pull. With a sucking sound, the sword finally came free.

  Stiger turned back toward Father Thomas, who was now advancing upon the two priests with deadly intent. The priests of Castor, with their strange dress of painted patterns, had a wild and outlandish look about them that sent shivers down his spine. They were creatures that worshipped and had been blessed by a dark and evil god, the stuff of nightmares.

  One of the priests held a staff and pointed it in the paladin’s direction. Inky, spidery black lines materialized in the air and rapidly snaked themselves toward Father Thomas, who raised his golden battle hammer. The spidery black lines struck the hammer in a shower of black sparks that in a flash turned golden. The paladin grunted with effort and thrust his battle hammer forward, as one might a shield. The hammer shimmered, wavering with multicolored light before solidifying once again to gold. Where they touched the paladin’s hammer, the black spidery lines that stretched from the priest’s staff turned golden, flaring brilliantly in the darkness.

  Stiger saw the priest’s eyes go wide as the golden light rapidly worked its way back toward the priest. The orc snarled something at the paladin, but it was cut short as the golden light reached the staff. There was a flash of light and the staff began to melt. The priest released the staff, but it was too late. The golden light had spread to its hands and then arms, slowly consuming the creature in its entirety. Stiger watched in fascination and horror as the priest dropped to his knees and began to convulse violently, screaming as if the golden light were burning him alive.

  Motion drew Stiger’s attention to the other priest, who held out a gnarled hand toward the paladin. Black lightning leapt forth. Father Thomas’s gaze was upon the convulsing priest. He did not see the attack coming. Somehow, Stiger found himself at the paladin’s side, though he did not remember moving there. His sword was up and it flared with light as he put himself between the paladin and the attacking priest. Stiger raised the glowing blade, instinctively moving to block the black lightning that crackled and hissed with power as it exploded forward. Why he did this Stiger did not know, but it somehow seemed the right thing to do. Stiger pushed down his fear as the black lightning impacted upon the sword with a powerful blow that almost knocked him from his feet.

  His hand and arm went completely numb from the impact, but he did not release the weapon. He wasn’t even sure he could have had he wanted to. His hand seemed locked to the hilt, almost as if another will held it in place. The blade crackled and hissed as the black lightning exploded with power upon the glowing steel. Stiger’s arm shook from the impact, which abruptly became painful. It felt as if his bones were being torn apart. The painful sensation rapidly spread from his arm throughout the entirety of his body. He tried to scream and found it difficult to breathe. He struggled to suck in a breath and could not. Tears welled up in his eyes. His vision began to blur. The attack seemed to last an eternity, but was in reality only a handful of heartbeats.

  With shocking abruptness, it was gone, and Stiger found he could breathe once again. The pain lancing through his body dissipated and he almost collapsed to the ground as his strength fled. He closed his eyes, but then his strength returned in a rush and the pain faded to a mere memory. He blinked, feeling fresh and alert, and looked up at the priest, who backed up. Stiger thought he read fear in its eyes, and the creature bared its teeth at him, snarling something that he did not understand.

  “All right, sweetheart,” Stiger growled, advancing upon the creature. He felt a terrible need to end its life. The drive to kill it was nearly overpowering, like a great thirst that he was dying to quench. “It’s my turn now.”

  The priest continued to snarl at him, speaking words in its own language that Stiger did not understand. It stretched forth its hand once again. Though he could see nothing visible, Stiger felt an intense coldness settle about him and found he had difficulty moving, almost freezing in place. An arrow struck at the priest and bounced off with a crack, as if repelled by an invisible force. A second arrow rapidly followed the first with the same result. The orc barred its teeth again in what was a gruesome smile of rotten and yellowed teeth. It laughed at him. Struggling, Stiger found no matter how hard he tried, he simply could not move. The orc stepped closer and drew a vicious-looking black obsidian dagger from the folds of its painted robes.

  It cannot end this way!

  Stiger’s rage blazed anew as the orc made to strike him down. The sword flared with a brilliant light and abruptly he was free, able to move. In a flash he struck, the sword snapping out, smacking the hand with the dagger, severing fingers and sending the priest’s dark weapon flying. Howling in pain, the orc fell backwards. Stiger was on it in an instant, driving his sword deeply into its chest, where it slid home, slicing through bone and tissue with unbelievable ease.

  Suffer . . . the sword hissed, and for a moment, Stiger thought he could feel the creature cry out in his mind, a deep, terrible sound that only he heard. It was rapidly replaced with the sizzling of the sword. The anger and rage left him in a rush as he pulled the sword out, which dimmed and then stopped glowing altogether. The priest of Castor collapsed to the ground, very much dead and completely soulless. How he knew this, Stiger did not know, but the sword had done something with the creature’s soul. Of that Stiger was sure. He looked down upon his blade. It was clean, with no hint of blood or gore marring its polished surface. He stepped back, breathing hard as a hand came to rest gently upon his shoulder. He turned and found Father Thomas.

  “That was incredibly brave of you, my son,” the paladin said, looking older than his years. His eyes flicked to the sword in Stiger’s hand. “In the future, a little more caution may be advisable. You should not have survived your encounter. I suspect that artifact you carry had a hand in it.”

  Glancing down at his sword, Stiger felt incredibly drained. A shout of fear drew his attention. He turned and saw the remainder of the orcs fleeing the field. As they ran, some were pointing and shouting at him and Father Thomas. In moments, there was not a live orc in view. He saw movement to his left. Lan and several legionaries were freeing the captives, cutting their bonds. Stiger saw Lan cut a girl free, and she threw her arms fiercely around him. Stiger knew she must have been Vargus’s daughter.

  “Is it evil?” Stiger asked, turning back to Father Thomas and fearing the paladin’s answer. “The sword, is it evil? Through it, I think I felt the creature die.”

  Father Thomas closed his eyes briefly and then opened them. “I sense no evil, but that is no guarantee with such a powerful artifact.”

  “I feel like it is almost—” Stiger said and then hesitated. There was a shout and his attention was drawn to Centurion Ruga, who was calling for his men not to pursue the orcs into the trees.

  “Ruga!” Stiger shouted, turning away from the paladin. The centurion looked over to the legate. “Reform the men. Get a quick head count. No one living gets left behind.”

  “Yes, sir.” The centurion began shouting orders.

  A shrill horn blared out from the slopes, somewhat muffled by the trees. Another horn from the opposite side of the small valley answered the first.

  “That cannot be good,” Stiger said, glancing around at the trees. The alarm had just been sounded. He looked back toward Ruga. “We need to go, now.”

&nb
sp; Twelve

  Lan helped Jenna up from where she had tripped and fallen in the snow. He brushed her off, even though she was already thoroughly wet and soaked through. Taking her arm, he helped her move through the deep snow and trees in the direction of Second Cohort and safety. A horn blast sounded harshly from the darkness behind them, urging them on.

  The orc horns seemed to be getting closer. In his youth, Lan had spent time hunting with his father on their extensive lands outside of Mal’Zeel. He had enjoyed the thrill and excitement of chasing down driven game. Now he knew how the prey felt. The sandal was on the other foot. They were the prey and the orcs the hunters. Lan understood he would forever feel different about hunting.

  “Come on,” he encouraged Jenna and the other freed captives. “Keep going. The cohort is just a ways ahead.”

  The century had formed a loose screen around the freed captives as they made their way back toward the pass, moving as quickly as they could, no longer concerned about stealth. The men called to each other, watching the darkness for any hint of movement. Orders were snapped by both Stiger and Ruga, shifting the men about as they saw the need. Two of the captives had been seriously injured and were being helped along by a pair of legionaries.

  An agonized howl split the night air with a shocking abruptness. Lan’s head snapped to the right, searching the trees in that direction as he tried to pierce the veil of darkness. The moon poked out through a cloud and he saw a figure emerge with a bow in hand. Lan recognized Eli, who raised the weapon and loosed an arrow back into the trees. A large orc came out of the darkness at a run and into the moonlight, stumbling before crashing to the snow-covered ground, Eli’s spent missile having pierced its throat. Eli slipped his bow over his back and drew both his sword and a wicked-looking dagger. He turned and stepped beyond sight, moving gracefully back into the darkness of the trees. The moon retreated behind a cloud, and what little light there had been was suddenly gone. A moment later, the clash of steel sounded from the direction Eli had gone. This was followed by another howl of pain and then silence.