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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Sir,” Vargus greeted him tersely, without taking his eyes off of the action to his front. Stiger saw him wince as one of his men was brutally struck down. The man in the next rank stepped right over the body and took his place at the front rank. The men behind dragged the body out of the way, which left a stained trail of blood in the snow. “These are good boys, very good boys.”

  Stiger was not sure if the comment was directed at him, but he got the centurion’s meaning. “They are all good boys. They should not be treated so.”

  “Very truly said, sir.” Vargus glanced over at him for a moment before returning his attention to the action. Stiger stayed with Vargus for a few minutes before moving over to Quintus. He found the centurion helping a gravely wounded man to sit down behind the line.

  “Stay here,” the centurion told the soldier, who was mortally wounded. “When you can, move yourself back to the aid station. All right?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said, hands trembling, eyes wide as he worked to put his slippery insides back into his belly.

  Quintus patted him in a fatherly fashion on the shoulder and, with a sad look, stepped back to the line. He eyed Stiger as he came up.

  “I knew that boy since he was a baby,” Quintus said in a hard tone. “I will not enjoy telling his mother of his last moments.”

  Stiger said nothing as he watched the action to the Third’s front. All across his line, they were holding. The legionary shield, the one piece of kit that was more hated and loved than the helmet, was making an impressive difference. The eager press from behind was forcing the enemy up close against the shield wall, which did not allow them much room to swing their weapons, whether it be the longsword or hammer. This was creating the perfect combat environment for Stiger’s men as his boys threw their shoulders into it, pushing the shield wall into the enemy while periodically jabbing out with the short sword. The orcs at the front were getting pushed from the front and pressed from behind as well. They had almost no room to move and fight. Stiger’s legionaries, on the other hand, were in their element.

  Quintus stepped up to the rear rank. He had placed his wooden whistle loosely in his mouth and was watching the action closely. Occasionally, he or one of the other centurions called out some advice or a profanity-ridden threat. Gripping the whistle tight in his teeth, he blew two hard, short blasts. The first rank stepped back and the second rank took their place, throwing their shields forward and into the enemy.

  Stiger’s previous doubts about the valley cohorts were gone. Vargus and Quintus had done their duty and maintained the high standards of the legions, even though neither had actually served openly. He understood that these standards had been maintained down through the centuries from the original members of the Thirteenth Legion. In the last few years, after the legions had returned to Vrell, in secret the valley cohorts had continued to train and drill their men, even as the corrupted Captain Aveeno had begun spreading terror across the valley.

  Stiger moved over to Sabinus next. First Cohort was the last of the original men from Thirteenth, magically held in stasis through dwarven magic for over three hundred years. These men had served and seen a lot of action. They moved and fought better than the other cohorts, but the difference between them was slim. Looking on the men of the Vanished before him, Stiger could not help but feel awed. They had fought under the direct command of his ancestor, General Delvaris. These were men of legend, and they were fighting like it, struggling valiantly against the dark tide of the enemy.

  Despite such feelings, Stiger’s critical eye began to notice things that alarmed him. Sabinus had almost completely rotated through his ranks. If the pressure continued, it was only a matter of time until the men tired to an extent where the cohort would begin to suffer an increase in casualties. The losses so far were few, but that was bound to change.

  Stiger studied his line and those of the Second and Third, trying to think of some way to break the current dynamic. The dwarves along the wings were steadily pulling back. In a few moments, the center of the line, the position Stiger’s men were in, would start falling back as well toward the trade buildings. Until then, there was really nothing he could do, other than encourage the men to keep fighting. They would just have to hold for a bit more.

  Abruptly, several men to his direct front dropped like a handful of stones that had been thrown into a pond. The men in the second rank dropped a half second later. Black lightning reached for those in the third rank. A legionary in its path dove to the side, the lightning snapping harmlessly over him, only to connect with the man behind.

  Before Stiger knew what he was doing, his sword was in his hand and he was pushing his way through the ranks. The rage exploded and with it his sword flared to brilliance. The men nearest drew back from him.

  The black lightning flickered from existence, fading from view before he could reach it. Stepping over the bodies of his men, Stiger saw an orc priest through the gap in his line. The priest snarled when it saw Stiger and bared its teeth, tusks on prominent display. Holding forth a gnarled claw-like hand, black lightning leapt out from the fingertips, crackling and hissing with power as it reached for Stiger.

  The rage drove Stiger forward, sword held before him, to which the lightning seemed drawn. It struck against the sword in a massive blow. It was as if Stiger had just deflected a powerful sword strike. The blade crackled and hissed as the black lightning exploded on glowing steel. Pain shot through his body, and though he was better prepared this time, it still felt like his bones were being torn apart. The rage drove him onward, and he took a shuddering half-step forward and then another. Tears welled up in his eyes. Everything around him became a blur. He was beginning to have difficulty breathing, and then abruptly the attack ceased. The lightning faded from existence in an instant. Stiger found himself standing before the priest, shaken and weakened from the ordeal. His strength returned in a rush and he was able to see clearly once again.

  The priest’s eyes blinked with evident shock as Stiger punched his blade into its chest.

  Suffer, the sword hissed in Stiger’s mind. The priest’s eyes lost their focus as the blade hissed and sizzled. Stiger jerked the weapon back, and it came away pristine. The priest tottered for a moment before collapsing in a heap at his feet. Stiger abruptly felt incredibly drained, as if he had aged a decade in mere moments. He staggered drunkenly backward. The nearby orcs stood mute, either looking down at the body of their priest or up at Stiger in horror.

  A pair of hands grabbed Stiger from behind and roughly dragged him backward. The hole in the line closed up as the centurions shouted orders and threats at their men. The legionaries moving forward presented their shields toward the orcs as they pressed forward again, this time more carefully.

  “Sir,” Sabinus said, and Stiger realized it was the centurion who had pulled him back. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Stiger answered, blinking. He shook his head and felt somewhat better, more himself.

  “Would you be kind enough to leave the priests to me?” Father Thomas said. “That is the third one so far.”

  Stiger sheathed his sword. The incredible rage he had felt was gone, as if it had never been. In its place, he felt an emptiness, as if a hole had opened up in his soul. Stiger glanced down at his sword. He understood that some of the rage came from him, but much of it was coming from the sword. He wondered if perhaps they fueled each other’s fury.

  We are made for one another, the sword hissed in reply to his thoughts. Your fate is mine, and mine is yours.

  Ignoring it, Stiger rubbed the back of his neck. “Did you say a third one?”

  “That’s right. I dealt with one. Arnold took care of the other.”

  “Arnold?” Stiger asked.

  Father Thomas gestured behind him. Arnold was making his way toward them, clearly recovered from the miracle he had performed earlier. The sergeant was holding a gre
at golden hammer, like the one that Stiger had seen Father Thomas wield. It pulsed and throbbed with a golden light. Arnold had clearly found his purpose in life. If Stiger had any doubts before, it was clear Arnold’s future lay elsewhere. It would not be with the legions.

  “Will there be more?” Stiger asked.

  “Most assuredly, though I would recommend you avoid them if possible. You carry a weapon of some considerable power, yet you may come across something that you cannot handle alone.” The paladin paused a moment and eyed Stiger’s sword with a contemplative look. His eyes sought out Stiger’s. “As I have become fond of you, I would not want to lose you to an agent of evil.”

  “Sir,” Sabinus called his attention to a party of dwarves that had hurried over. Still feeling unbelievably worn out, Stiger drew himself up. He recognized Garrack.

  “Braddock says he pull back to shorten line some more,” Garrack explained in broken common. “It be quick.”

  “How far?” Stiger asked. The lines on the flanks were already twenty-five yards closer to the trade buildings than they had been just minutes before.

  “Up to buildings,” Garrack informed him and pointed behind them.

  Stiger immediately understood. “When?”

  “We sound horn, you fight back towards buildings.”

  “Once we hear the horn, we will begin pulling back in order.”

  “Yes,” Garrack said and left, hurrying off.

  “Send word to the other cohorts,” Stiger said to Sabinus. “We will pull back in good order and match the withdrawal of the dwarves on either flank.”

  Sabinus turned to two legionaries and snapped out orders. They dashed off into the night. A few minutes later, a series of horn blasts sounded over the cacophony of the fight. Almost immediately, the dwarves on both sides began to step backward at the quick. Orders were barked and the legionary line fell back with them.

  The enemy seemed surprised by the sudden movement and for a moment did not advance. Then, as a wave lapping up on the shore, they surged forward and the two armies were back in contact. Stiger watched silently as his legionaries pulled back fighting as they did so. Within a couple of minutes, they had reached the foundation on which the first of the trade buildings had been built, a type of terrace about two feet in height. Stiger glanced around at the buildings. There was approximately ten feet of street space between each building, enough for a wagon or cart to easily negotiate, which he assumed had been its purpose.

  Stiger stepped up onto the terrace and moved back to make sure he was out of the way. As the lines backed up, centurions snapped orders. One rank at a time stepped back and up onto the terrace, jogging back to nearly the end of the building and cross street before the next terrace, where they reformed. Stiger watched as one rank after another moved by, until finally the first rank was left alone, facing the enemy. The orcs understood what was occurring and threw themselves forward with an intensity that was frightening. The centurion standing before Stiger ordered the first rank back.

  One legionary was not quick enough. His shield was ripped away and a war hammer slammed him in the right shoulder, driving him down to the snow. Another orc stepped forward and stabbed downward with a large sword. The power of the strike punched through his armor, digging deep into the man’s chest. He flailed like a fish out of water as the orc removed the sword by placing a large boot on his chest. The orc with the hammer gave a savage roar of rage and brought the weapon down on the dying man’s head, driving it into the snow. Stiger felt sickened.

  The rest of the legionaries made it back and up onto the terrace. Holding their shields before them, they were able backpedal to safety. A fresh rank was waiting for them. Shields parted to let them through.

  The trade buildings had been constructed in neat, even rows. The centurion commanding this century had moved up and placed his line almost midway down the first row of buildings. The street between buildings permitted five men to stand shoulder to shoulder. The space served to limit the number of orcs who could fit through the gap between buildings. Stiger glanced upward. At around twenty feet in height, the buildings looked too tall for the orcs to easily scale. The walls were made of large stone blocks fitted so well together that there were no easy handholds. There was no way that the enemy would be able to easily batter their way through the walls, as they were quite thick. The orcs would have to fight from an inferior position.

  Behind the line, fresh ranks waited their turn to become the first rank. It was a good defensive position, and it reminded Stiger of some of the city fighting he had taken part in a few years before, where the combat had occurred in the narrow confines between buildings. In that instance, Stiger’s men had been the aggressors, when they had helped to take the city of Certa from the Rivan. The sandal was on the other foot now, and Stiger was the defender. It was an uncomfortable thought, and Stiger hoped the outcome of this fight tuned out better than it had for the Rivan, who had been nearly slaughtered to a man.

  Stiger felt confident his men would be able to hold for some time. He went to the back of the building to the cross street between rows. He quickly made his way along the line of buildings, checking on his entire line. The only potential trouble spot was the very center, with the main thoroughfare that was much wider and moved between buildings directly up to the main gates of the mountain. When he arrived there, Stiger was surprised to discover his legionaries resting and not in direct contact with the enemy.

  To their direct front, the gnomes were throwing themselves at the orcs. Surprisingly, the mean little creatures were ripping the enemy to pieces. They were small enough that they barely came up to an orc’s knees, where they struck at the unprotected legs of their enemies, hacking away, until the larger creature fell, and then they swarmed over and efficiently dispatched it.

  Stiger found Quintus watching them calmly. His men were formed up into six ranks of twelve across and were waiting calmly for orders, shields resting upon the ground. Quintus had a small reserve that he had created. These waited a few feet behind. To the Third’s left and amongst the buildings on the other side of the road, the dwarven line began, extending all the way to the far flank.

  “Sir, I was just about to send a runner,” Quintus said. “Braddock extended his lines to this road. We only need to hold this stretch here and back the way you came, at least until you hit the other wing of the dwarven army.”

  “I can see that,” Stiger said, still watching the gnomes fight just twenty feet ahead.

  “They are going to pull back in a moment,” Quintus informed him.

  “How can you tell?”

  “We’ve done this dance a couple of times now,” Quintus told him. “Watch.”

  The gnomes, on some signal Stiger could not detect, broke off what they were doing and ran as quick as they could, little legs pumping hard toward the legionary lines.

  “Ready shields,” Quintus called as the gnomes raced through the legionary ranks. Once the last of the gnomes were through, the shields came up and swords were leveled toward the orcs.

  “Advance.”

  Quintus led his cohort about ten steps forward before bringing them to a halt. The orcs advanced warily toward them. It was the first time Stiger had seen them show any kind of real caution in this battle. Judging from the number of bodies left behind by the gnomes, the orcs had been handled roughly. He glanced behind at the gnomes and saw them celebrating, thumping one another on the back. Their high-pitched laughter echoed along the walls of the trade buildings to either side.

  “They will rest a few minutes and then come charging through our lines at the orcs. We will pull back a ways. They have their fun, and then we repeat it all over again.”

  Stiger shook his head, but it seemed to be working, though judging by the number of small bodies left on the field, the action had not been completely one-sided.

  “Tell you the truth, sir,” Quintus said, �
��I don’t think those vicious little shits have any fear.”

  “It is a good thing they are on our side then,” Stiger said. “Do you know where Braddock is currently?”

  “I was told he had set up a command post somewhere near the gates to the mountain.”

  “Kindly send word to the other cohorts that is where I will be. I do not plan to be long.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stiger found Braddock around fifty yards from the gates. Hrove and several aides were leaving as Stiger arrived, heading in the direction of the gates to the mountain. Hrove gave Stiger a nasty smirk as he brushed by him. Ignoring the surly dwarf, Stiger continued on and was waved through the screen of bodyguards by Naggock. He saw that Braddock was surrounded by aides, including Garrack and Ogg. Tyga was also present. Garrack saw Stiger and made his way over to him.

  “Not very friendly, is he?” Stiger said, jerking a thumb at the back of the retreating chieftain.

  “Hrove?” Garrack asked, furrowing his brow and looking. “Do not trouble yourself. No one likes Hrove, but is loyal. That is all that matters.”

  The thane looked up and spotted Stiger.

  “Legate,” Braddock greeted, beckoning him over. “How are your legionaries?”

  “We’re holding,” Stiger informed him. “And your dwarves?”

  “The same,” Braddock told him. “Our situation has improved somewhat. I feel fairly confident that we can continue to hold the orcs for some time, perhaps until morning.”

  Stiger glanced up at the position of the moon. By his reckoning, dawn was at least four hours away. He agreed with Braddock’s assessment. In amongst the tight confines of the trade buildings, his men should have no trouble holding, though with time they would begin to flag and tire. Then again, the orcs would have the same problem. It was quite possible both sides would fight themselves to a stalemate.

  “The enemy has taken heavy losses, and still they come,” Braddock said with some frustration in his voice. “They willingly sacrifice ten to take down one. I have never seen the like.”