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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Stiger looked out across the bridge. All he needed was for the orc army to come to him and fight him here. If the enemy turned away toward one of the other crossings, he would be in a difficult spot. His cavalry was out shadowing the enemy’s line of advance, keeping an eye upon them. Thankfully, the enemy did not have cavalry of their own and were unable to hinder his eyes. Stiger was receiving regular reports on their movement. He had also instructed Cannol to hit any orc scouts that moved in the direction of the two nearest crossings. He hoped by doing this to keep the enemy ignorant of them for as long as possible.

  Based upon the latest report, which had come in a short while ago, the enemy was making right for the bridge and his position. The orcs who had traded with the valley undoubtedly knew of the bridge, but Stiger wondered if they knew about the other crossings to the east and west. Out of habit, Stiger absentmindedly rested his hand on the sword hilt and felt the reassuring electric tingle. He glanced down at the weapon for a moment and contemplated it.

  What else can you do? Stiger silently asked the sword, wondering on its abilities and the potential risks of continuing to use it.

  Not unexpectedly, the sword did not answer. Stiger resolved to speak to Father Thomas to seek the paladin’s guidance just as soon as time permitted. He had meant to do so before, but something always seemed to come up. His thoughts returned to the coming battle and he looked out across the river. Though the enemy was not yet in sight, it was only a matter of time now.

  A hammering behind him drew his attention. A platform was being constructed right behind the defensive rampart. In fact, six platforms were under construction. Each would hold one of First Cohort’s bolt throwers. Unfortunately, the cohort’s catapults had been placed atop the walls of Castle Vrell. It would have been impossible to rapidly disassemble and move them, so Sabinus had brought the bolt throwers. All things considered, Stiger was well pleased he had the deadly machines on hand. When used properly, they were very potent weapons.

  “Artillery,” Sabinus said at his side, following the legate’s gaze. “Every soldier’s friend.”

  “As long as you are not on the receiving end,” Stiger said dryly.

  “Very truly said.” Sabinus glanced up at the sky. The first hints of dawn had appeared.

  Stiger glanced over at the centurion, who suddenly grinned back at him. Sabinus was one of the original members of the Thirteenth, magically preserved for well over three hundred years. He was a hard-bitten, nail-eating fire-breather of a veteran, who had put in over twenty-five real years of real service to the empire before coming south with Delvaris. Before he had been placed into stasis, he had achieved the coveted rank of primus pilus, the most senior centurion of the legion and commander of the First Cohort. The primus pilus, a career soldier, was also an advisor to the legate. A smart legionary commander would always listen to his most senior centurion.

  “What was it like?” Stiger asked the man. “What was it like being held in magical stasis for centuries? How did it feel?”

  Sabinus chuckled. “I felt nothing, just closed my eyes one moment, and the next opened them to find myself here in your time. It was like waking prematurely from a nap, and feeling anything but rested. It took me a day to recover to the point where I could walk steadily, and another ‘til I felt somewhat normal. At first I had difficulty believing that any real time had passed, but then . . . ” Sabinus gestured around him at the fortifications. “I believe now, I can tell you that. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious is all,” Stiger said and was silent for a time. “You fought here before, didn’t you?”

  “That I did, sir.” His expression became clouded. He started to say something further and then hesitated.

  “Go on,” Stiger encouraged him. “Tell me about it.”

  “Last time, we brought more men and artillery. We also had time to properly dig in. The river was fuller too, as it had rained.”

  “Tell me more,” Stiger ordered when Sabinus had trailed off, clearly lost in his thoughts and memories. He wanted to hear about what Delvaris had done and how the fighting here had gone down. Perhaps there was something he could learn that might prove useful in the coming battle.

  “We fortified this same ridgeline, though to be honest, I remember it being some feet higher. I recommended we destroy the bridge here, but the legate thought otherwise and insisted that we do no such thing. Brogan, that is Braddock’s father, and the legate wanted to have the battle here on this side of the river.” He paused and pointed down toward the bridge. “That was a nice big stone bridge back then, dwarf-built, not the flimsy thing below.” Sabinus pursed his lips as he looked down at the wooden bridge below them. “So much has changed since my time, sir.”

  “This is now your time,” Stiger said, sharing a sympathetic look with the man. He could not guess how much Sabinus had left behind. What had he given up . . . a family, a wife, children, friends? There was no going back for Centurion Sabinus.

  “There were,” Sabinus continued, “two other bridges, some miles to the east and west, that we destroyed though. The enemy swept down the valley to this point, nearly double our strength. They poured across the bridge. Funny thing, though, they only crossed the bridge and made no attempt to ford the river itself. Perhaps the water was moving too fast or high. Regardless, they still made it across. The enemy filled up this here bowl before the ridgeline and came right at us . . . bold-like. All day we held and they kept coming. The bulk of the dwarven army, which was late, finally arrived. With the dwarves holding part of the line, the legate sent several cohorts, along with a contingent of dwarves, down the river a ways to sneak across and flank the orcs on the other side, who were waiting to cross. The flanking movement was handled and executed perfectly. Caught the orcs flat-footed, it did. We went over the top and into them hard. After a tough time, the orcs fell back to the south, where the next day we fought another battle and properly defeated them.”

  Stiger was silent as he thought this through. “That second battle . . . is that where General Delvaris fell to the minion of Castor?”

  “General?” Sabinus asked and then nodded. The centurion looked at him in a funny way that made Stiger more than a little uncomfortable. “That is right, you call legates generals now. Yes, Legate Delvaris fell in that battle, but not before he took down the minion.”

  They were silent several minutes. Stiger found himself recalling the vision the sword had shown him back at Castle Vrell, of the fight between Delvaris and Castor’s minion. Stiger took a breath and slowly let it out.

  “The orcs seem a pretty determined bunch,” Stiger said, moving the subject off of Delvaris.

  “As long as priests are present, they can be very stubborn,” Sabinus said. “Take them away and they crumble easily enough.”

  “When they were flanked here at the bridge, did their morale break? Is that why they fell back to the south side of the valley?”

  “No, sir,” Sabinus answered. “They fell back in good order. Truth be told, both sides were exhausted. We did not even attempt to pursue until the next day.”

  “I see,” Stiger said, chewing his lip as he thought on what the centurion had just said.

  “Sir.” A legionary hustled up to the two officers and hastily saluted. “Dispatch here for you.”

  Stiger took the dispatch and opened it, scanning the contents. “Thank you. I will not have a reply.”

  The legionary saluted and left. Stiger handed the dispatch over to Sabinus. The centurion read the contents and then looked up at Stiger with no little amount of surprise. “You asked Braddock to do this?”

  “Yes,” Stiger admitted. “He was to march just as soon as the orc army passed him by.”

  “Then he will not arrive in time to help us hold?”

  “No, he will not,” Stiger said. “Braddock will come up behind the enemy after they are fully engaged in assaulting our line. At tha
t point, the orcs will be trapped. It is my intention to destroy the enemy and not give them an opportunity to escape.”

  “How large is the enemy army?” Sabinus asked.

  “We will be outnumbered.” Stiger surveyed the work around him.

  “How many are there?” Sabinus pressed.

  “Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty thousand, perhaps more.”

  “Between the three cohorts, the 85th, and the cavalry, we will have a little over two thousand to hold the line?”

  “We have five hundred militia who joined us,” Stiger reminded him. “I estimate our current strength to be around three thousand.”

  “Old men.” Sabinus spat on the ground.

  “Those most recently retired, the ablest of them,” Stiger replied. “I sent the rest on to Old City to look after the civilians. Should we fail to hold, they can join Hrove’s warriors and any survivors in defense of the mountain and the World Gate.”

  As Stiger had expected, Braddock had opened the city to the people of the valley. Wagons, horses, mules, livestock, and families, some walking and some riding, were still streaming over the bridge below, up the ridge and by legionaries, who were digging in. The line of people and animals stretched out of sight behind a series of small hills on the other side of the river.

  Stiger understood that people were taking other routes, using river crossings both to the north and south. He felt responsible for them all, and it made him more than a little uncomfortable at the risk he was about to take. But that was warfare in a nutshell. Without risk, and the occasional bold stroke, there could be little reward.

  Stiger gestured toward the naturally shaped bowl before them. “I expect the enemy will only be able to get, at most, around three thousand across the river at any one time. This is a powerful position. We should easily be able to hold, at least long enough for Braddock to arrive with his army.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabinus said.

  “You have given me an idea though.” Stiger looked around and spotted Vargus fifty yards away, inspecting the construction of the defensive works. He was moving along the line with Quintus at his side. Stiger started over toward the other two centurions, with Sabinus following.

  Vargus saw Stiger and nudged Quintus, who turned. The legate noted that both men looked tired. Stiger felt just as weary, but it did not stop him from his duties. They braced to attention and saluted.

  “How far is the nearest river crossing?” Stiger asked as he joined the two officers.

  “That would be Milman’s Ford,” Quintus said, pointing. “About two miles east. If you are concerned about the orcs crossing the river, we have a troop of cavalry watching for that.”

  “I am not concerned about that,” Stiger said with a wave of his hand. “What I am worried about are the dwarves.”

  Both centurions looked at him with questioning expressions. Stiger explained his plans for the battle and what he had arranged to happen with Braddock. The two centurions looked at each other for a moment, as if thinking the same thing, before turning back to Stiger and Sabinus.

  “Sir.” Quintus spoke up first. “That would then put the river between us and the dwarves.”

  “I am fairly confident that when the time comes we can clear this side,” Vargus added. “However, that bridge will become a chokepoint. We may be unable to get sufficient men across in time to aid our allies.”

  “Having given it some thought, that is also my thinking,” Stiger informed them. He glanced around his defensive works and mentally calculated the minimum number of men he needed to effectively defend this line. He nodded to himself and then turned back to his officers. “I intend to send First Cohort to make a crossing at Milman’s Ford. Once the cavalry comes in, they will follow and join up. That would put over eight hundred infantry and two hundred cavalry over the river and free to strike the enemy at will.”

  “I,” Quintus said carefully, “am not sure I’m comfortable stripping our defensive line of nearly a third of our strength, even before the enemy has arrived.”

  “What if the enemy angles toward the crossings or even splits off a force to take one?” Vargus said.

  “Then the cavalry will alert us and we fall back toward Thane’s Mountain . . . at least long enough for Braddock’s army to engage the enemy’s tail,” Stiger said. “If they don’t move for one of the crossings and continue on straight for us when the dwarves hit them, then Sabinus, moving along the water’s edge, will attack them on their flank. We will push over the top and clear this side of the river out and then cross the bridge and link up.”

  “Sir.” A legionary approached the officers, interrupting. He saluted. “Dispatch from Lieutenant Cannol.”

  Stiger took the dispatch and then dismissed the legionary.

  “The enemy is less than an hour away,” Stiger summarized, looking up at the brightening and cloudless sky. Soon the sun would be warming the land and bringing some much-needed warmth. The night had been bitterly cold. “They have yet to detach a force for any of the crossings. The lieutenant feels they are coming here, to us.”

  “Well then,” Sabinus said, “I had better get my boys formed up.”

  “Are you committed to this course of action?” Quintus asked Stiger, clearly hoping to change the legate’s mind.

  “I am,” Stiger growled. The more he thought on it, the more it made sense. He turned back to Sabinus. “When Cannol arrives, I will give him orders to ride and join up with you. You are in overall command of this expedition, though when you go in, I want Cannol’s company slashing at the enemy’s flanks. Don’t waste them away as dismounted infantry.”

  “What if the dwarves are late?” Sabinus shifted, running a hand through his hair. “The longer we are across the river, the greater likelihood my command will be discovered. How do you wish me to proceed under such circumstances?”

  “I rather suspect that in such an eventuality we will be under tremendous pressure,” Stiger said. “My order to you, sir, is to do what you think practical. If that means falling back to the ford, then do so. If you feel you can attack those enemy forces before you on your side of the river with a prospect of success, then do so. We shall post lookouts for you. When you go in, we will go over the top. You will be the man on the spot. So, ultimately, it will be your decision to do what you think best.”

  “I see,” Sabinus said, and a hammering nearby drew his attention to one of the bolt throwers. “I will leave behind the men assigned to the bolt throwers. They are experienced in the operation of the machines. You, I think, will need them more than I.”

  Stiger nodded in agreement. It was what he had been thinking as well.

  Sabinus cracked another grin at Stiger. The centurion gave him what Stiger thought to be an odd look as he snapped to attention and saluted smartly. Stiger returned the centurion’s salute and then offered his hand.

  “Just like old times,” Sabinus said, taking his hand warmly. Stiger felt chilled by the man’s words.

  “Ones I unfortunately did not live through.”

  Sabinus looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead settled for a simple, “Good luck, sir.”

  “To you as well.”

  Stiger watched Sabinus stomp off and then turned to the other two officers. “Quintus, reposition your men to hold the left, and Vargus, take the right. The militia will hold the center, while the 85th acts as a ready reserve.”

  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Stiger decided to break it. “Gentlemen, we only need to hold the line. The dwarves will come. When they do, we must be ready. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Vargus said.

  “I understand, sir,” said Quintus. “You can count on our men. They know that they are all that stands between the orcs and their families.”

  “Then let us show the orcs what the legions are made of.”

  Stiger tu
rned away from the officers, allowing them to get back to work. He wished Eli were with him, but his friend was out with the cavalry. He moved up to the edge of line, carefully crossing over the trench and climbing the rampart. On top, he surveyed his entire line and began to wonder if he had made the right decision. As usual, the self-questioning and second-guessing of his own plans had begun. Stiger knew it would torment him right up until the fighting began. He slapped his thigh in irritation.

  First Cohort had already begun pulling off the line. He watched them for a moment before turning back to the bridge and the bowl beneath his defensive works. Once the orc army arrived, they would pour across the bridge, down into the bowl below him, and then up the slopes of the ridge to test the defenses. In his mind, he could see the battle developing as if it had already happened. Would it go as he had planned? He hoped so, but in war, nothing was certain.

  Alone, Stiger began to walk the line. Wherever he went, men were busy preparing for the enemy. Water carriers with buckets drawn from the river were making the rounds. Details were also distributing rations. Eyes came up, tracking him as he passed. Many called out a greeting or gave him a spontaneous cheer. Stiger replied with a simple nod and continued on his way. How many of the valley cohorts viewed him as Delvaris reborn? The thought made Stiger uncomfortable, as if he were someone other than himself, which he knew he was not.

  If they fight better for it, so be it. I will play the part.

  “Sir?” Blake had come up and interrupted Stiger’s thoughts. The newly-made centurion saluted. The only change Stiger noted about the former sergeant was that he now wore his sword on his left side, as befitted an officer. “I understand the 85th is to act as a reserve? Is that correct, sir?”