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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Yes, that is right.”

  “Where do you want us then?”

  “Directly in the center of the line, behind the valley militia. I want you formed up behind them and ready to step forward or deploy to either flank if required. I expect that this line will come under heavy assault. Once it does, the 85th will be our only reserve.”

  “Is that First Cohort forming up to march?” The centurion was pointing to their right, behind the line.

  “First will be marching to a river crossing with the intention of flanking the enemy,” Stiger informed him.

  “When I signed up, they never said life would be easy, sir,” Blake said cheerfully.

  That brought out a chuckle from Stiger that was cut short by a horn blaring in the distance. Both Stiger and Blake turned to look. Across the river, they could see the cavalry moving in one large body toward the bridge. Behind them, a screen of riders was clearly keeping watch on the approaching enemy host.

  Well, Stiger thought to himself, it is about to begin.

  The stream of civilians below began to panic, cramming themselves onto the bridge and pushing and shoving their way across. Watching them, Stiger knew that it would only get worse the closer the enemy got.

  “Send two files of men down to the bridge,” Stiger ordered Blake, pointing. “Sort that business out. I want it orderly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blake saluted and hustled off.

  Stiger continued his walk along the fortifications. He stopped near a bolt thrower and looked it over. The crew had been stacking the deadly bolts, placing them within easy reach. They snapped to attention.

  “Is your machine ready?” Stiger asked the optio in charge.

  “Aye, sir,” the optio replied. “This nasty bitch is ready to fire on your orders.”

  “What’s your name?” Stiger asked the man, who looked to be old enough to have put in at least ten years of service. That was typically the length of time a legionary would have to serve to be considered for promotion.

  “Lucius Cornelius Alexander, sir.”

  “Well, Alexander, I hope your aim is good.”

  “Dead on, sir,” the optio replied. “You can count on me and my boys to give it to them bastards hot and hard, sir.”

  There were nods all around. Stiger liked their attitude.

  “Done this before then?” Stiger asked.

  “A time or two, sir,” Alexander replied laconically.

  “Carry on then,” Stiger said and stepped past them, deciding to return to the center.

  There was a gap in the center of the line where boards had been run out over the trench for people, wagons, and animals to cross. The rampart also had a gate in the center. The gate was currently open. Stiger wanted to be there when Cannol came through. As he reached the center of his line, the first troop of cavalry was riding over the bridge. The civilians had clearly been told to wait until the formation was across. Both of Blake’s files were just starting down into the bowl.

  Stiger looked across the water. The screen of cavalry in the distance was getting closer, riding into sight as they crested a small hill and then disappearing again as they cantered down it. The sun was shining now and it was much easier to see them. The screen stopped occasionally. Stiger could imagine them studying the advancing enemy army and then moving on to a safer position from which to watch again.

  A marching army normally kicked up a good bit of dust. This time, there was no sign of that. The snow kept the ground wet, frozen, and muddy, so there was no dust in the air. As he stood there, he saw what at first appeared to be smudge in the distance. Stiger squinted, knowing what it was: the vanguard of the enemy army. He watched for a few minutes.

  Stiger turned to watch the first of his cavalry as they made it to the top of the small ridge and the defensive line. They dismounted and, one by one, walked their mounts over the planks and through the gate. They looked tired and weary. The horses looked to be in good condition, though, which was a comfort.

  “Sergeant.” Stiger called the trooper in charge over.

  “Sir?” The trooper dismounted and offered a salute, looking up at the legate on top of the rampart.

  “Hold your men ready just behind the line,” Stiger ordered. “Your company will be moving out as soon as they all come in. Make sure as the others arrive, they do the same.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stiger waved the tired sergeant on through the gate and watched the last of the formation move through. Several other troops rode through the gate in the next few minutes. Only the thin screen on the other side of the bridge remained. That and the civilians, who were now abandoning anything that slowed them down, including bags and packs. The last of them rushed across the bridge, Blake’s legionaries making sure that things did not get out of hand. Beyond them, the smudge had become a large host of orcs, of which Stiger could now differentiate individuals. The enemy were perhaps a mile and a half away now.

  “There sure are a lot of them.” Stiger turned to find Quintus.

  “That there are.” Stiger took a deep breath. “Would you be kind enough to have the recall sounded for our cavalry?”

  Quintus turned to a legionary standing a few feet from him. He had been watching the approaching enemy, as had everyone else along the line. The centurion snapped an order, and the man dashed off to find a horn blower. Within moments, another man with a horn mounted the rampart and sounded the recall. He blew on it hard, three rapid blasts. The cavalry across the river wheeled about and galloped toward the bridge. There they stopped and waited for the last of the civilians to rush across. They followed, along with the two files from the 85th, and began making their way up toward the defensive line.

  Stiger recognized Lan and watched the lieutenant lead his troop up the hill. From their blood-spattered armor, they had clearly seen some action.

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger called to him, “looks like you’ve had some excitement.”

  “Surprised a few orc scouts,” Lan said, pulling up below the legate. His men continued, dismounting before crossing the planks and passing through the gate. “I am pleased to report no casualties, sir.”

  “Very good,” Stiger replied. “Lieutenant Cannol’s company will be heading out shortly. Your troop is to remain. Detach three men to act as personal messengers for Vargus, Quintus, and Blake. You will take your position with me, and the remainder of your men shall act as messengers. Questions?”

  “No, sir,” Lan replied.

  “Then get yourself through the line and fed, and then report back to me as soon as practical.”

  The lieutenant saluted, dismounted, and walked his horse through the gate. He was still limping slightly from the battering he had taken on the way back to the pass in Forkham’s Valley. Stiger watched him go before turning back as the last of the riders made their way up the ridge. He was pleased to see Eli, Marcus, and the other two elves, along with Lieutenant Cannol. Eli offered him a grin as he dismounted. His friend was clearly enjoying himself immensely.

  “You live for this, don’t you?” Stiger accused.

  “I suppose a little excitement makes a long life tolerable.”

  “See to your horse,” Stiger told him, suspecting that there was some truth in what Eli had just said, and for some reason Eli’s longevity reminded him of their argument back in Old City. A bit of the anger returned. He forced it down. “Once you’ve done that, come and join me if you would.”

  Eli nodded and led his horse away, with Marcus and the other elves following him.

  “Sir,” Quintus spoke up, “I wanted to report that all of the bolt throwers are ready.”

  “Excellent,” Stiger said. “They are to go into action once the enemy passes the middle of the bridge, not before.”

  “I will pass that along.”

  “Join your men,” Stiger said and returned the centurion’s sal
ute before Quintus stepped off, climbing down the reverse side of the rampart. Eli had already passed through. Taha’Leeth caught his eye. He winked at her, surprising himself. There was a small twist to her lips as she flashed him a smile, and then she was gone.

  Aver’Mons caught the exchange and turned away. Stiger suspected the elf was offended by him. Taha’Leeth was essentially elven royalty. Had Stiger been in elven lands to the north, his behavior toward her would have been much more reserved. Then again, she was from the south, and up until recently, her people had been slaves. Who knew what was considered acceptable behavior amongst her own? Stiger pushed such thoughts from his mind. He had more important things to worry about.

  Last to pass through was Cannol. Stiger had made his way down and stood by the gate and waited for him.

  “Lieutenant.” Stiger stopped him with a hand.

  “Sir?” the lieutenant asked, looking at Stiger.

  “I have another job for you. First Cohort marched for Milman’s Ford, which is located a couple of miles east of here. I want you to ride and join Sabinus. He will be crossing the ford and then falling on the flanks of the enemy on the other side of the river. Once you cross, screen for his force. You will be his eyes. After he engages the enemy, slash their flanks.”

  “I understand, sir,” Cannol said, glancing back through the gate on the enemy host approaching the bridge, just on the other side of the river. “Do you think you can hold long enough for us to flank them, sir?” the lieutenant asked. “That is quite a large force out there.”

  “Don’t worry about us holding. You and Sabinus get across the river and strike them good and hard just as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, turned to go, and then checked himself. “Oh, the last word I had from Braddock was that his army had marched and is trailing a few hours behind the orcs. I left a few men out to stay in contact with him.”

  Stiger felt encouraged by the news.

  “See Vargus before you go and take along a local guide so you don’t miss the ford. Also, once you cross the river, I want you to send a rider to Braddock. Kindly ask him to hurry.”

  “I will see to it.”

  “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, and to you too, sir.”

  The lieutenant stepped off, leading his horse toward his men. Several legionaries stepped forward removed the planking bridging the trench and then dropped the heavy gate into place as Stiger climbed back up the earthen rampart. A detail then began shoveling a waiting pile of dirt over it, with the clear intention of filling in the gap. When they were done, there would be no hint the gate had ever existed.

  Turning toward the enemy, Stiger took a deep breath. It was almost time.

  Sixteen

  Stiger returned his attention to the enemy, who were nearing the bridge. Across the river, Bridgetown burned furiously, sending huge columns of smoke up into the sky. The enemy host had stopped around a hundred yards from the wooden span. The size of the orc army was frightening. Priests in their wild outfits could be seen moving before the enemy, along with a handful of warriors who wore better armor and were clearly leaders of some sort. One orc warrior, who was far larger than any other that Stiger had seen, stepped forward. Several orcs moved with him. They advanced to within twenty-five yards of the bridge and were clearly surveying the legion’s position along the ridge, of which they could only see the defensive works.

  Stiger imagined that the large warrior was the main orc leader. Nowhere could he see the minion of Castor. The group talked amongst themselves for some time, with the leader gesturing at Stiger’s position. An orc detached itself from the group. It walked onto the bridge and casually glanced over both sides before turning back.

  Stiger heard footsteps behind him, climbing the rampart. Apart from himself and a few others, he had made sure that no one could be fully seen; only the tops of the heads of the men were visible as they peered out over at the enemy. The legionaries were on the reverse side of the earthen rampart, waiting for the order to move up. Stiger glanced back to see Lan, Eli, and Father Thomas joining him. He idly wondered where Taha’Leeth and Aver’Mons had gone off to.

  “Bless me,” Father Thomas said, once he had joined Stiger.

  “I rather think we could all use the High Father’s blessing about now,” Stiger said to the paladin. Father Thomas laughed at that, startling some of the nearest legionaries, who had been looking grimly on the enemy below.

  “You sent off First Cohort?” Eli asked.

  “Yes, I sent them on a wide flanking movement to the east. Cannol’s company will be joining them as well.”

  “An interesting move,” Eli added as he surveyed the orc army. “Gets you more men across the river around the time Braddock’s army strikes.”

  “Let us hope it works out that way,” Stiger said. It all came down to timing, and Stiger was concerned. For all he knew, the enemy could be aware of Braddock’s advance and was preparing to turn on the dwarves.

  “I am sure Braddock understands the gravity of the matter.” Eli’s attempt at reassuring him had the opposite effect. This fight before him would be the largest battle that Stiger had ever commanded, and he was worried, though he was doing his best to keep it from others. He had bet large on this battle.

  The orc leader abruptly turned, having seen enough, and walked back to his army. He began pacing in front of his orcs, apparently giving a speech, his arms gesticulating wildly as he talked to them. Though Stiger could not hear what was being said, the orc army roared approval. It was clear the leader was stirring them up.

  “Man the wall!” Stiger shouted, and all along the fishhook defensive line, men stepped up to their places. To the enemy, it would look like an army had sprung up from the ground. Stiger meant it as a show to get their attention and also to interrupt their leader’s morale-building speech.

  Across the way, the orc army stopped cheering as the legionaries came into view atop the rampart. The enemy leader turned, saw Stiger’s men, then apparently said something, for the orc army roared their rage and hate at the legionaries and began to chant something that Stiger could not quite hear clearly.

  “I think they are chanting a word, perhaps even a name. It sounds like Sovat, whatever that means,” Eli suggested and shrugged when Stiger looked over at him. “I don’t speak orc.”

  “What?” Stiger asked, with some amusement. “Not enough time on your hands, after learning dwarven?”

  “I think I will add it to my list,” Eli said dryly.

  “That way,” Stiger grinned at him, “next time you can be more useful.”

  Eli grinned back, amused.

  Stiger looked around and spotted Centurion Tilanus from the militia. He beckoned the man over.

  “Legate?”

  “Are your men ready to hold the center?”

  “They are at their positions,” Tilanus replied. “We will hold, as Delvaris himself held at this very spot.”

  “The 85th is just behind you,” Stiger said with a gesture. “Do not hesitate to call for aid if you need it. I expect the center shall be their focus.”

  “I will, sir,” Tilanus assured him.

  “I am counting on your men.”

  “They are good men, sir, just retired within the last couple years.”

  “I know. That is why I put them at the center. According to Vargus and Quintus, they are the most experienced and seasoned on the field this day. I needed the best.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tilanus puffed up at the compliment.

  “Resume your post,” Stiger ordered as the orcs roared again from across the river.

  Tilanus saluted and returned to his men, just feet away. Stiger knew his words had been overheard and would be passed to each man under the centurion’s command, which had been his intention all along. They would fight harder knowing that he was cou
nting on them.

  Stiger turned back to the enemy and caught Eli’s eye. His friend well knew what he had just done, and why he had done it. Eli had seen him manipulate men to his will before. Though he suspected Eli disapproved, it was nothing new. A good leader knew how to get the best out of his men. A poor leader did not. It sounded a bit coldblooded, but it was necessary. Stiger shrugged.

  A harsh horn sounded from the enemy, followed by a tremendous battle cry that dwarfed the others so far. The orcs surged forward toward the bridge. It rapidly became a chokepoint, chock full of the enemy as they fought each other to be the first across the wooden span. A few of those who could not get onto the bridge through the press, after a slight hesitation, splashed into the water, where they carefully began to negotiate the shallows around the support pylons.

  Stiger had expected some of the enemy to attempt to swim across the river, but the orcs seemed to shy back from the fast-moving water, keeping to the silt-filled shallows around the bridge pylons. An orc ventured too far, lost its footing, and disappeared beneath the surface. Another slipped and quickly followed the first. Moments later, a handful more were rapidly swept away and under the surface. Surprisingly, no other orcs ventured into the water after that, the remainder electing to cross using the bridge. Stiger wondered if orc armor was simply too much dead weight to be easily countered. Perhaps, Stiger considered, they could not swim?

  CRACK!

  Stiger almost jumped as the nearest bolt thrower released. The bolt slammed into the middle of the throng of orcs crossing the bridge. A series of cracks from the other machines sounded as they also fired. Stiger saw one bolt pass clean through the chest of an armored warrior and strike the creature behind, dropping them both and knocking down a third. One orc near the railing of the bridge was hit so hard, the missile’s energy carried him over the side and into the water, where he disappeared from view. The bolt thrower crews sprang to work reloading. Stiger had seen bolt throwers in action before, and knew a good crew could fire two to three rounds per minute. In the old days before Emperor Midiuses’s reforms, each imperial legion had carried around sixty such machines with them. These days, a legionary company carried two machines, either bolt throwers or small catapults. Again, Stiger had the feeling that the legions had lost something with those reforms.