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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Under continual fire from the bolt throwers, which were cracking away at the enemy, the orcs poured out into the bowl and started up the slope of the small ridgeline toward the legionary positions. All along the line, the men prepared themselves. Watching the orcs climb, Stiger suddenly felt helpless. It was a terrible feeling and one he had not truly experienced until this moment. He became very still. Stiger had never commanded so many men on the field of battle. In the north, against the Rivan, he had taken part in battles that were larger in size and scope, but this was different. He was the ultimate authority on the field. It was a sobering thought, and the weight of his responsibility had suddenly come to rest heavily upon his shoulders. Should he fail, how many would die? Conversely, Stiger wondered, what would the cost be should he succeed?

  Most of the fight was now out of his hands. He had placed his men in a superior position, given the necessary orders, and had reserves standing by, ready to be fed into the battle. He even had Lan and his troop available to act as messengers. The truth was that Stiger’s command had grown beyond him. He was no longer responsible for a single company and fighting his own men, but a small army. Others who were on the spot would have to make the critical decisions about how best to fight their units. He could not do it for them. For the first time in a great long while, he abruptly realized he would have to rely upon others to do the job he was accustomed to doing himself. The thought depressed him. Is this what it’s like to be a legionary commander? Does General Treim feel as helpless?

  A volley of javelins, thrown from a century to his right, arced up in the air and slammed down into a group of orcs charging up the ridge. The javelins, for the most part, were well-thrown, and a number of orcs were struck down. Another volley followed that one.

  “Sir?”

  Stiger turned to Lan and raised an eyebrow in question.

  “I am afraid . . . ” The lieutenant jabbed a thumb at an optio who looked a little uncomfortable. “ . . . they would like you to step back behind the rampart, sir, so that they can properly do their job.”

  Stiger looked at the militia optio and several legionaries nervously waiting for him to step back and behind the protection of the earthen rampart. They stood ready with their shields resting on the ground to the sides. Stiger took a deep breath and glanced around once more before stepping down. He gave a nod to the optio and his men, who moved up to the rampart. The tops of their chests were visible from the other side, providing them partial cover for when the enemy arrived. There had been no time to erect a wooden barricade atop the earthen mound, and even if there had been, there were no trees within easy reach. This battle would be fought on pastureland.

  Sabinus had brought the legion’s eagle with him. Legionary Beck stood there, proudly holding the Thirteenth’s eagle, point resting in the snow. It glinted brightly under the sunlight and would be visible across the entire field. Stiger had instructed Beck to stay close and follow him wherever he went. Two legionaries from the 85th had been assigned as guards for Beck and the eagle. It would not do to allow the enemy to capture it.

  Stiger glanced one more time around his line. He could see other unit standards held up high, men standing to the line, shields presented forward in anticipation of receiving the first orcs. Along his line, javelins flew through the air, raining down on those below, who were climbing the ridge. The first ranks retained their javelins, while the second and third ranks threw for all they were worth. Every few seconds there was a CRACK from a bolt thrower as the light artillery released. From his spot—he had selected it due to it being the highest point on the field—Stiger could see the entire line and the bridge below, though much of the bowl was concealed from his view. Stiger looked around for a higher vantage point but did not see one. He did see an empty open-top supply wagon parked several feet away. The wagon was still hitched.

  “Lieutenant.” Stiger turned calmly to Lan. “Would you be kind enough to bring that wagon closer to the line? I would prefer a better view of the battle.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said as the first of the orcs hit his line.

  Stiger turned away to watch the action. This was the moment of truth. He moved up behind the militia holding this portion of the line. In their armor, they were mostly indistinguishable from other legionaries, though in some cases, it fit poorly. The first orcs scrambled up the rampart, only to receive jabs and thrusts from javelins seeking soft, unprotected flesh. An orc howled in agony as a javelin punched through its left leg. Hefting a stone hammer, it dropped the weapon and snatched the javelin with both hands before it could be pulled back. The creature ripped the javelin free from the legionary and began to slowly draw the weapon out from its leg, when a jab from another legionary thrust through its throat. Yanking back, the legionary completely ripped the creature’s throat open. The orc staggered backward before it was pushed aside by a fellow. It tumbled back down the slope and out of sight.

  Another orc, hefting a large sword, took its place. The creature batted away at the numerous javelins that were thrust in its direction. Despite the orc’s efforts, one found purchase in its belly. The legionary wielding the javelin thrust deeply and then jerked the weapon back, inadvertently pulling the orc forward. The creature grunted and fell into the mass of tightly packed legionaries. It died under a flurry of sword strikes from those in the second rank.

  “Lock shields,” Tilanus shouted to the front line as a wave of orcs crested the top of the rampart. The shields snapped together with an audible thunk, legionaries thrusting over them with their javelins at the orcs. Those in the second and third ranks stood close behind the first, ready to enter the battle when needed or called to do so.

  The struggle was intense and hot work. Stiger watched. He itched to draw steel and join them, but refused the urge. He needed to stay focused on the battle as a whole and look for opportunities. A clatter behind him signaled the arrival of the wagon. Lan pulled the heavy supply wagon up, just behind the last line of men, before engaging the brake. Stiger immediately made for it and accepted Lan’s hand. The lieutenant pulled the legate up and into the bed of the wagon. He then helped Eli up.

  From the wagon’s bed, Stiger could see the entire battle. Nearly the whole line was engaged, with the exception of those men nearest the water. The orcs seemed to be ignoring them, where he had made sure to make his defenses the strongest, the trench deeper and the rampart rising to a much greater height. Looking down at the enemy in the bowl, Stiger was stunned at how many orcs were crammed down in there, waiting their turn to get at his legionaries. They were literally standing shoulder to shoulder. The bridge was packed tight. On the other side of the river, the orc army had also spread out, coming close to the riverbank, but not quite to its edge. They were watching the fight across the way.

  One of the railings on the bridge gave way, collapsing under the press, and a number of orcs went tumbling into the fast-moving water. They sank from sight and were not seen again. Those who had been nearest to the collapse shied away from the edge, though the press of bodies inevitably sent additional orcs over the side and into the water.

  “Lieutenant.” Stiger pointed out the ends of his lines, which intersected with the water. The orcs were still avoiding them, which was odd, but could be explained by the difficulty of overcoming the defenses there. “Send a rider to Vargus and Quintus. Inform them to strip the ends of their lines by half and use those men as a reserve wherever they might need them.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant beckoned two waiting dispatch riders over to him and spoke to them, passing along Stiger’s orders. They mounted up and galloped away.

  Stiger was pleased. So far his line was holding. The orcs were having trouble scaling and overcoming both the trench and rampart. Once they reached the top of the dirt wall, they were being rapidly cut down. Stiger noted that his legionaries had thrown the last of their javelins. Only those in the front rank still had theirs, and of those, there
were fewer and fewer, as the weapons were either snatched away or bent and rendered useless. His men were increasingly forced to draw their short swords. It meant that the fighting would become more dangerous.

  “Look at that,” Eli said, drawing Stiger’s attention to the rear. Coming down the mountain were a number of small figures. They were leading a team of oxen pulling what appeared to be a medium-sized catapult. Behind the catapult were several large supply wagons that lumbered along slowly.

  “Those are gnomes,” Lan said. “Where did they come from?”

  “I would imagine Old City,” Stiger said and turned back to the action. The gnomes were still some ways off, and one catapult, though welcome, would not make a material difference to this battle, but any assistance was welcome. He hoped that more help was on the way.

  Stiger saw the first of his men fall, one of the militia, just a few feet away. A war hammer crashed over the top of the man’s shield and down on his helmet, crushing the skull like an overripe melon. Without missing a beat, the man behind him stepped into the gap, striking at the orc that was celebrating its kill. He caught the orc in the thigh and then slammed his shield into the creature’s body, sending it back over the other side of the rampart and knocking down several orcs scrambling up the slope. It was so smartly done that Stiger wanted to congratulate the man, but there was just no time. He forced himself to keep perspective. There were little dramas like the one he had just witnessed playing out across the battlefield.

  CRACK!

  The bolt-throwing crews were keeping up a steady fire. Though they could be incredibly accurate when the operators wished, by simply firing as rapidly as they could into the bowl where the enemy was tightly grouped, it was difficult to miss. The crews were focusing on speed.

  Stiger had a sudden thought. “Send a rider to each bolt thrower,” he said, drawing Lan’s attention. He pointed toward the bridge, where the enemy was still crossing. “I want all of them focused back on the bridge. Pour it on them.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lan replied, then turned and shouted to two more of his troopers. They galloped off to spread the word. Within five minutes, all of the bolt throwers were spraying fire on those tightly-packed orcs who were stuck on the bridge, waiting their turn to move forward. A panic ensued. Orcs pushed and shoved to get forward, forcing others over the side, while a number tried to get as low as possible. There was no protection for them. The bolt throwers had the elevation and could fire right down into their midst. There was simply nowhere to go, as the bowl was packed tight. It was carnage on the bridge, which was what Stiger had wanted. Those who now made it over the bridge would know what waited for them on this side of the river. The message was clear. Death waited.

  “You . . . you . . . look,” a small, insistent, squeaky voice called up to them. “Look.”

  Stiger, Lan, and Eli looked down and into the black, beady eyes of a gnome standing beside the wagon. It was gesturing at them and was hard to hear over the noise. Having gotten their attention, it hissed at them with a displeased look.

  “There,” the gnome pointed to the catapult around twenty-five yards away. The team of oxen had been unhitched and led away. Gnomes swarmed over the machine, making it ready to fire. Other gnomes were unloading with ludicrous care what appeared to be large clay jars from the wagons and stacking them next to the catapult. The clay jars were half the size of a gnome, and four of them were required to carry one.

  “Boom.” The gnome pointed toward the orcs, as if requesting permission to join the fight. “We go boom?”

  “Okay,” Stiger said, gesturing at the orcs. “Fire away.”

  The gnome snickered, turned, and ran back the catapult, yelling in its own language.

  “What do you think are in those jars?” Lan asked, eying the gnomes curiously.

  “Lead shot, likely,” Stiger said with indifference. “Though, with the size of that artillery piece, it should surprise the orcs when it fires. I suppose it could reach clear across the river.”

  “That would be nice to see,” Eli said, glancing over at the catapult. “I wish they had brought more than one piece though.”

  “Let’s be grateful for what they did bring.”

  Tilanus blew hard on a whistle and swapped out the first rank of his militia. They stepped to the rear, breathing heavily. Stiger glanced along his line. It was a common theme. The ranks were getting swapped out. An aid station had been set up to the rear. Several wounded were being helped. A few were even being carried. Stiger looked back at the aid station and saw Father Thomas and Sergeant Arnold there helping the surgeons as the number of the wounded began to grow. It pained Stiger to see men he commanded bloodied, maimed, and terribly injured. It was always the same. He ground his teeth in frustration.

  There was a deep creaking to his right, followed by a heavy thud. Stiger looked over just as the gnome catapult released, launching a large clay jar high into the air, where it arced up and then came down smack in the center of the bowl. The result was a terrific explosion of smoke and sound that ripped the enemy bodily apart where the jar had landed. The concussive blast knocked those within fifteen feet down or into their fellows.

  Stiger was so surprised that he almost fell backward out of the wagon. Eli caught him by the arm. Lan had almost done the same, but managed to remain on his feet. Silence abruptly settled upon the battlefield as everyone froze in shock.

  The gnomes were using magic!

  After a moment, the orcs came to their senses when there were no further explosions and threw themselves forward once again at the legionaries. The fight was back on.

  Stiger’s head snapped around to the gnomes. They were celebrating, thumping each other on the back with glee. He saw the gnome he had just spoken to doubled over with laughter.

  “Bring me that gnome,” Stiger ordered of Eli, pointing out the one he wanted. The elf jumped down from the wagon, dashed over to the gnome in question, and lifted the stunned creature off its feet. Eli ran back to Stiger and unceremoniously dumped the gnome into the bed of the wagon. It climbed to its feet, glaring at Eli while it brushed itself off.

  “You.” Stiger demanded its attention. “What is your name?”

  “Name?” the gnome parroted and looked up at Stiger with a frown on its face.

  “Yes, your name. I am Stiger.” He tapped his chest with a thumb. “Stiger.”

  “Cragg,” the gnome responded, patting its chest with a hand.

  “You are Cragg?” Stiger confirmed and pointed at the gnome.

  The gnome nodded, its intense, beady eyes fixed upon Stiger.

  “Look there,” Stiger said, pointing toward the bridge. “See that bridge?”

  “Boom?” Cragg asked, looking from the bridge back up at Stiger. “Go boom?”

  “Yes,” Stiger said, gesturing at the bridge. “Make the bridge go boom!”

  The gnome nodded vigorously, an evil smile spreading across its small face. “Go boom!”

  “Go boom,” Stiger said, pointing once again toward the bridge.

  Cragg scrambled down from the wagon and ran over to the catapult. The other gnomes had stopped to watch. Cragg began shouting what seemed like orders and cuffing those who did not move fast enough for his liking.

  “Do you think this is a good idea, sir?” Lan asked. “We will need that bridge to cross when the time comes.”

  “Don’t feel like a swim?” Stiger asked him in jest, then sobered. “When it comes time, we can cross the shallows around the bridge pylons.”

  Stiger turned back. The ends of his lines were still free from assault. Despite the strength of his defenses there, it was a logical place to hit Stiger’s line, and that had gotten him thinking. The orcs seemed somewhat wary of the water. Stiger had a suspicion that it wasn’t the cold or the weight of their armor that was keeping them from it, but something else, perhaps even an aversion to water. He wanted to
test it by destroying the bridge.

  There was a deep creaking groan, followed by a solid thud to his right. Stiger watched as another clay jar sailed up into the air. It missed the bridge entirely, landing on the far side of the riverbank in the middle of the mass of the orc army. There was another deep explosion filled with smoke that tore a hole through the enemy.

  The gnomes hooted and hollered with glee at the destruction they had wrought. Cragg, on the other hand, did not seem too pleased. He screamed at them, gesticulating wildly, becoming red in the face. The gnomes seemed to think his rage was hilarious and collapsed, doubled over in fits of laughter.

  Slowly, almost painfully, the catapult was rearmed. The gnomes scurried off of the large machine, and Cragg barked an order to a gnome standing to the side, who was holding a rope. The gnome yanked hard on the rope and launched the next jar. It flew true, landing smack in the middle of the bridge. The explosion was terrific. Boards, timbers, body parts, and splinters shot in all directions as the wooden construction came apart. With a groan, the entire middle span of the bridge collapsed into the water. In seconds, it was ripped apart by the current. Then the entire structure was concealed by the smoke from the blast.

  When the smoke cleared, Stiger saw that the bridge was a mangled wreck, with the river pulling large chunks downstream. A few orcs had managed to cling to floating timbers. They, too, were being carried away by the current.

  The orcs on the other side of the river backed up, looking none too eager to come near the water. They showed absolutely no interest in crossing. Bridge or no bridge, Stiger could not understand why they would not push forward. The fighting on the north side of the river continued to rage on, but those on the south side held their ground. The minutes wore on. No move was made to cross. Stiger wondered how long that would last.