“Birds, animals,” Stiger answered with a deep sigh, as if the subject was tiresome. “If you don’t hear any birds … something or someone has disturbed them.”
“Ah …” the lieutenant nodded. “I understand.”
“Scouting is arduous work,” Eli explained further. “Over time, a scout must become one with his environment … he must feel the very life of the forest.”
“Now that, I just don’t understand,” the lieutenant admitted. “How can you feel the forest?”
“It is an elf thing,” Stiger said, waving a hand in his friend’s direction. “Trust me.”
“The captain makes a passable scout, but a ranger he will never make,” Eli said, flashing a close-mouthed smile at his friend.
Stiger frowned, declining the opportunity to reply to the dig, as he knew he was more than “passable” in Eli’s eyes. However, the ranger comment was true. Very few ever became true rangers, masters of the forest, like Eli.
“So you don’t feel the forest, then?” Lieutenant Ikely asked, noticing the captain’s frown.
“I’ve tried … believe me,” Stiger said wryly, scratching at his stubble again, which itched. He felt the urge to shave. “To frustration’s end … I have tried.”
“Will any of our scouts learn to ‘feel’ the forest?” The lieutenant asked, looking back over at Eli.
“Doubtful,” Stiger admitted. “Eli has only ever been able to teach one human to feel the forest, and he was an odd one. Bren was one very odd man.”
“A fine scout he was,” Eli nodded soberly, the merriment leaving his face.
“Was?” Ikely asked looking between the two. “What happened to him?”
Stiger said nothing. Instead, he instead pulled out his pipe and tapped it clean.
“His life force ended in the forests of Abath,” Eli finally answered, breaking the uncomfortable silence, a look of profound sadness marring his perfect face.
“Life force?” Ikely asked, looking over at the captain. “He was killed, then?”
“Yes,” Stiger said softly. “An arrow took him in the neck.”
The three became silent for a time.
“Captain,” Lieutenant Ikely began hesitantly. “The men have been asking about your back. What should I tell them?”
“Tell them whatever you flaming wish,” Stiger snapped angrily, jabbing the pipe in Ikely’s direction. The captain glared at the lieutenant for a moment before standing abruptly. He looked about to say more, then turned, and without another word, stomped off in the direction of the stream.
“I did not aim to offend,” Lieutenant Ikely said, concerned, watching the captain disappear into the darkness. “The men want to know more about the man commanding them …”
“You did not offend.” Eli breathed a heavy sigh, looking into the fire.
“What did he do to deserve such a flogging?” Ikely asked, deciding to be blunt.
“Deserve? He did absolutely nothing,” Eli responded, looking up from the fire and meeting the lieutenant’s eyes levelly. “Nothing.”
“Then why was he flogged?” the lieutenant asked.
Eli sighed deeply, looking again into the captain’s fire, which was beginning to die down. He stood, grabbed a log from a nearby pile, and tossed it onto the fire, which crackled enthusiastically. He then resumed his seat. He remained silent, staring into the fire. Ikely was beginning to think Eli would not answer. He turned to go.
“He willingly took the place of a convicted man,” the elf finally said, looking back up at Ikely with sadness in his eyes.
“He what?” Ikely exclaimed, shocked. “Why? Why would he do such a thing?”
“You must understand. The captain is a complicated human. I have known him for many years, and there are times when even I do not understand his motivations. Those under his command mean a great deal to him,” Eli explained. “He takes his duty to the empire very seriously … almost, you could say, as a sacred trust. What he considers his personal honor is bound up in it.”
“I guess I can understand that,” Lieutenant Ikely said. Personal honor was something imperial families took very seriously. “But not taking the place of a convicted man. Why would he do such a thing?”
“One of his men was accused, by General Lears, of theft and sentenced to four hundred lashes,” Eli continued. “The captain felt that the man was innocent and the punishment, shall we say, overly harsh even for a guilty man. When the captain appealed the sentence, General Lears offended and impugned the captain’s honor and that of the company he commanded. On the day of punishment, the entire legion was assembled to witness justice being administered. The captain publically insisted upon taking the man’s place.”
“And General Lears accepted the substitution?” Lieutenant Ikely asked, aghast at such ungentlemanly treatment of a fellow gentleman.
“Yes,” Eli answered.
“Four hundred lashes should have killed him!”
“Yes,” Eli answered with a small nod, “our captain is a tough man.”
“Astonishing,” the lieutenant breathed in awe. “All for an innocent man …”
Eli looked up at Ikely with a surprised look. “I never claimed he was innocent, only that the captain believed him innocent.”
“He was guilty then?”
“Very,” the elf replied with a sad chuckle.
“What happened to him?” The lieutenant asked after a moment. “What happened to the thief?”
“His life force ended in the same battle that Bren’s passed this plane of existence,” Eli explained, a look of sadness once again gracing his face. “The man gave up his life saving the captain’s.”
***
“Again,” Stiger shouted to the men. He could feel his voice beginning to grow hoarse. It had been a long while since he had personally led and conducted a drill. “Begin!”
The men locked their wooden training shields together with a mighty crash and stepped forward. “HAAAH,” resounded from close to a hundred thunderous voices.
“No, no, no!” Stiger shouted, frustration boiling over. The captain moved up to the shield line and the men relaxed their stances, practice shields thudding heavily to the ground.
“What is your most dangerous weapon?” Stiger thundered at the line of men. No one answered. He selected one man. “You, tell me. What is your most dangerous weapon?”
“My sword,” the man ventured cautiously, raising his wooden practice sword and shaking it slightly.
“Wrong,” Stiger thundered back, pointing at the man’s head. “Your mind is your most dangerous weapon. It is time to use it.” He pushed his way through the line of men so that he was behind the formation.
“Lock shields right!” the captain thundered.
The shields snapped up and thunked together loudly.
“That is NOT how you lock shields,” Stiger roared. “In a real battle it will get you planted in a shallow grave, providing fodder for the worms.”
The captain began manually adjusting the men, physically moving their shields into proper alignment. Sergeant Blake stood passively a few feet away, watching the captain work the men. The sergeant was amused, thoroughly enjoying the show the captain was putting on. It was not every day he got to see an officer act like an average sergeant. Usually officers, as proper gentlemen, declined such close contact with the rank and file. It was almost unheard of for officers to participate in regular drills. Most, only ever caring to understand company and regimental maneuvers, would not have been able to spot an improper shield alignment.
“I want every one of you to look at how these five men have their shields … properly interlocked,” Stiger told the rest of the men in the line, who stepped back to look. “These five can push at this point here, with the force of five men. You five … push forward!” The three men took the proscribed half step forward.
“Now unlock shields and jab,” Stiger ordered. The shields scraped apart a few inches and lightning fast, five short swords jabbed out and ba
ck before the shields thunked back into the original interlocking position. “Excellent. Let’s try that again with the whole line. Reform!” The men quickly reformed their line.
“Lock shields right!” Stiger snapped. “Push!” The men pushed a half-step forward and the shields unlocked in unison, the swords jabbed out and back, and then the shields locked back into place as the men shifted their weight to the opposite side, pushing the imaginary enemy line again.
“Push!”
The men took another half-step forward. The shields unlocked for a fraction of a second to allow the swords to jab out once again, and then relocked in the original position. “Push!” Stiger continued for another five revolutions.
“Stand easy,” Stiger ordered. The shield line set their heavy practice shields down on the ground with a solid thud. Real shields and swords were never used for practice. Those, being the personal property of each legionary, were saved for the real thing, and only tested in battle.
“This movement must be performed with precision and speed,” Stiger lectured, pacing back and forth along the line. “There can be no errors … there is simply no margin for mistakes. Lapses in the tiniest detail will get you or your buddy stone dead. Against rabble, the line push can be devastating. Against a formidable foe, like the Rivan, the line and the ability to perform the line push seamlessly is life!
“Discipline!” Stiger continued after a brief silence, having allowed his previous statement a few seconds to sink in. “Remember your discipline! Whichever side has better discipline will live to fight another day. Make no mistake, the real killing on the field begins only when a line comes apart and one side breaks. Those that break, die. Our line will not be the one that comes apart. We of the 85th will hold, no matter what happens. We will hold to protect our brothers and our honor. Holding the line means life! What does holding the line mean?”
“Life!” the men thundered back.
“We will practice again and again until you get it right!”
“Dispatch rider coming in,” Lieutenant Ikely announced, gesturing toward the camp entrance, where a rider had galloped up and was speaking with the sentries.
“Take over,” Stiger ordered the lieutenant, and moved off to meet the dispatch rider, who, upon clearing the sentries and entering the camp, rapidly dismounted, holding the reigns. His eyes were wide as he took in the camp and the men doing their drill. The dispatch rider saw Stiger coming, drew up to attention, and saluted with fist to chest. He then drew a dispatch from his saddle pouch.
“With General Mammot’s compliments, sir,” he said, handing over the dispatch. He was clearly nervous at being in the presence of a Stiger.
Stiger broke open the seal and quickly read the contents. The supply train had been delayed another week, perhaps two, the general informed him, which suited Stiger just fine. Under different circumstances, the dispatch might have been considered bad news. But the delay bought him time—time to get his company in order. Stiger took out his dispatch pad and charcoal pencil. He rapidly wrote out a reply and confirmation of receipt while the dispatch rider waited. He signed and sealed the dispatch, then handed it back to the rider.
“Deliver my response to the general,” Stiger ordered.
The dispatch rider saluted, mounted back up, and rode out of the encampment. Stiger stopped himself to study the dispatch rider as he departed. The man’s armor was dirty and poorly maintained. His legs were muddy from having to walk through the muck and filth of main encampment. He had also smelled awful. Stiger looked over at his own men, who just days ago had appeared shabby and undisciplined. They now looked vastly different.
Stiger let slip a small smile of satisfaction. His men were now clean and shaven, with hair trimmed short. Their tunics had been thoroughly laundered and their armor painstakingly maintained. The rust and grime had been removed, and they had been polished and waxed. His company been here five days and the change suddenly seemed very apparent.
With extra time, his men would be much better conditioned and disciplined. Watching the lieutenant work the men through the drill, Stiger suddenly grinned. They looked, at least to his critical eye, inept. Stiger intended for his men not to simply pick up the basic drill, but to perfect and master it. Once that had been mastered, the more advanced maneuvers could be worked on.
Forgetting the dispatch rider, Stiger turned and walked back to where his men were drilling. He watched, silent for a time, as Lieutenant Ikely and Sergeant Blake ran the men through the practice exercises, shouting orders, calling attention to mistakes, and providing advice. The men were, in essence, relearning what they had already been taught, but had not practiced in a good long while.
Stiger had placed the company on a training schedule. The schedule was built around a daily rotation, with half his men drilling while the other half went out on forced practice marches, complete with full kit. The goal was not simple conditioning, but to make his men capable of marching twenty miles in under five hours. The legions prided themselves on the ability to march hard and cover great distances rapidly. The ability to outmarch the enemy was critical.
Having rotted away in the South, Stiger’s company had lost the ability to march effectively. That would rapidly change. Once his men accomplished twenty miles in five hours, they would be permitted a short break before immediately marching another twenty. A good company could easily cover forty miles in a day, usually in ten to twelve hours.
For those who were not participating in the daily practice march, the morning focus was on formation drill and mid-day was devoted to weapons and kit maintenance. This was followed up by camp upkeep and improvement. The men’s late afternoons would involve weapons and hand-to-hand drill. Each day one half of the company would march and the other half would train. Both groups would have the evenings off to recover and relax.
Stepping forward, Stiger began making the rounds, observing, providing instruction, and offering criticism or advice where he thought it appropriate. The morning wore on and the temperature climbed. The men began to perspire heavily as they worked at drill. The wooden practice shields and short swords grew heavier the longer they worked. Both practice implements were intentionally made weightier than the real thing, with the intention of strengthening the men’s arms. They were hated with a passion.
The captain eventually called a stop to the drilling and sent the men to eat. He motioned for Ikely and Blake to walk with him as he went back to the farmhouse. “Have you had an eye out for any suitable corporals?” The company’s previous corporals had been removed from the unit prior to Stiger taking command.
“We have discussed it,” the lieutenant admitted with a slight hesitation. “The sergeants would like to get to know the men better before they select candidates for your approval, sir.”
“A wise move,” Stiger nodded, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. The corporals would provide the glue that held not only a file of twenty men together, but more importantly a portion of line under the stress of combat. It was essential to not only select a respected man, but one who was reliable and capable. In a typical company, which Stiger’s current command was not, retirement, death or disability were the usual reasons behind promotion. Decisions concerning whom to promote were given serious thought, and the men selected had proven themselves to the company over a number of years of service.
Stiger was under the time constraints set by the supply train and his mission. He needed to select his corporals sooner rather than later so that they could get comfortable with their new rank and roles prior to departing for Vrell. Without the sergeants really knowing the men, any candidates they selected could potentially create problems that might not be apparent until the company was in battle.
“Will a week be sufficient?” the captain asked, mentally wincing. He knew it was an unfair thing to ask, but there was simply no choice.
“Should be, sir,” Sergeant Blake responded after a moment’s hesitation.
“Good,” Stiger said, and then dec
ided to change the subject. “I want the trees and brush pushed back another 300 yards around the encampment. This will deprive anyone wishing us ill the opportunity of close cover.”
“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Ikely nodded. “Clearing that land should yield plenty of firewood and kindling. Sir, I meant to ask about the scouts and drill …”
“Lieutenant Eli’Far will handle the training of the scouts,” Stiger answered, cutting off the lieutenant. “Those men are essentially detached, and will not be subject to drill or marching practice.”
“We have a few who are good with their hands,” Sergeant Blake spoke up. “I would like to form a detail to work on the barn. It leaks, and if we intend to stay here much longer or use this site again in the future, some repairs are needed.”
“Excellent suggestion, Sergeant. Detail a party,” Stiger said. He should have thought of that sooner. There had just been too much to get done in the basic setup of the camp. “Put them to work on the farmhouse as well. I need a few chairs and also a table for work.”
The farmhouse was a two-room affair. One room the captain intended to reserve for his personal quarters, and the other for company work. Once cleaned out and patched up, it should work nicely.
When the company returned from Vrell, if he could swing it, this site would become the company’s permanent home. The captain understood that if he kept his unit combat effective, it was likely they would be assigned real work more often than the other companies, keeping them out of the main encampment and safe from the risk of disease being bred there. The wind shifted suddenly, bringing the smell of fresh bread and drawing his thoughts away. He turned to look in the direction of the two new ovens, which had been built the day before.
“Cook’s working on the first batch of fresh bread,” Lieutenant Ikely remarked.
“Make sure he has sufficient help in preparing meals,” Stiger ordered, gesturing at the cook, who was checking on the bread. “Have the squads rotate, providing some assistance each day. I think that it would not be a bad idea to also assign him a permanent assistant. Someone properly suited to learn his job.”
Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1) Page 8