Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Stiger was asking a lot from these young officers. A typical company was led by three officers, one captain and two lieutenants. Until replacements arrived, they would be running the show by themselves. This was garrison duty, and hopefully things would remain quiet.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Cannol said after a moment. He commanded the cavalry company. Why General Kromen had detailed a cavalry company to garrison duty was beyond Stiger. It seemed a waste, unless they had been initially meant to patrol the road—but even that was a waste, since the road was bracketed almost entirely by forest. Foot soldiers would have been better suited to keeping the road clear.

  “About helping the locals …”

  “Yes?”

  “How do you want us to fit that in with the training schedule you have outlined?”

  “I expect you to rotate detachments in and out of the training schedule.”

  “Are you sure you want us to help these people?” Lieutenant Brent asked. “They hate us.”

  “I know,” Stiger responded. “We need to change that. We need a quiet posting here, especially after Captain Aveeno stirred up animosity. They outnumber us. It could get ugly, and I believe we are not prepared for a revolt here in the valley.”

  “I am in agreement with you, sir,” Cannol said, and the other two garrison lieutenants nodded.

  “I have spoken with Councilman Bester and laid the foundation for a better relationship. Look at it this way: winter is coming. These people are facing starvation without a return of their food stores. That alone should go a long way to smoothing things over. Helping to repair roofs, barns, fences, gathering firewood … the little things will all go a long way toward changing their view. We need to win these people over with a little kindness and respect. I would rather have these people working with us than against us. Do all of you understand?”

  There were nods around the table. Despite the nods, Stiger knew that they harbored reservations. He would be forced to check on their progress to confirm they were doing as he intended. It would not be easy. Seven levels, nothing ever done right was easy.

  “Good,” Stiger said. He leaned over the map and traced a line that represented a road. “I have a question. This road leading north into the mountains—where does it lead?”

  There were surprised expressions all around as everyone looked closely at the map. Nothing on the map indicated there was anything at the end of the road. It was damn strange; a road to nowhere.

  “My fort is the closest and I know of no road, sir,” Cannol answered with a frown. “Hillside and trees up that way.”

  “The map looks very old,” Brent said. “Perhaps there once was a road but no longer? It’s all forest up there anyway, so perhaps there was once a logging road.”

  Eli exchanged a look with Stiger. The captain knew what his friend was thinking: dwarves. The map was extremely old and showed its age. It was possible that it was even of dwarven manufacture.

  “Something is, or was, there,” Stiger stated. “You don’t go to the effort to build a road to nowhere. Eli, send a couple of your scouts to see what they can find.”

  “What do you expect to find?” Cannol asked.

  “Dwarves,” Eli answered quietly and got quite a few surprised looks in return.

  “You are jesting,” Brent said with a laugh. “Dwarves? Seriously.”

  “Fairy tales,” Cannol chuckled, then cut it off at the serious look on the captain’s face.

  “They built this castle,” Eli stated, gesturing around them. “Dwarves are very much a real people.”

  “The lieutenant,” Stiger interrupted, raising a hand to forestall any further protest, “has had personal experience with dwarves.”

  There was a knock at the open door. Father Thomas stood in the entrance, wearing a simple tunic and pants. He was unarmed. All eyes turned to him. It was the first time Stiger had seen the paladin unarmed and without his armor. It was also the first time the man had been up and about. He looked worn, and somehow older.

  “May I introduce Father Thomas,” Stiger announced. All the men in the room had heard how Father Thomas had fought the evil within Captain Aveeno. More than a few blinked in astonishment or dropped their jaws. Stiger could guess they had expected a mountain of a man in shining armor; an impressive warrior of the High Father. Instead they received a middle-aged, physically fit man, who could pass for a legionary officer out of uniform.

  “Captain,” Father Thomas said, approaching the table. Since no one was sitting, he took the nearest available chair. He lowered himself carefully into it. “I apologize for my lengthy absence. Fighting the agent of Castor took a lot out of me.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Stiger said. “Was Captain Aveeno possessed by this evil from Castor, or was he the agent?”

  “I would not exactly say ‘possessed’,” Father Thomas replied sadly. “Castor works more subtly. I suppose Captain Aveeno was likely more of a willing participant at first, perhaps in an attempt to satisfy his own ambition. You see, once Castor gains access to part of one’s soul, the darkness spreads like a cancer, until the host is completely under the Twisted One’s dominion, permitting or really opening a conduit for a minion. Think of it as an evil spirit who enters our world and takes control of the host. Had the corruption continued, this entire valley would have fallen under Castor’s power.”

  Several of the men at the table turned pale. Boral, having witnessed the struggle first-hand, made the warding sign of the High Father.

  “How exactly did he become a follower of Castor?” Ikely asked.

  “That, I am afraid, we will likely never know,” Father Thomas admitted with a shrug. “Perhaps he came across a priest at some point and sought a favor, or perhaps it was something altogether different.”

  “A priest of Castor?” Brent exclaimed, shocked.

  “A horrid thought,” Cannol breathed, equally appalled.

  “Yes, it is,” Father Thomas agreed distantly. “Though this was somewhat different. It felt almost as though Castor was attempting to establish a more solid presence in this world. Such an attempt has not been seen for a very long time.”

  “Father,” Brent said, stepping forward, “may I be the first to thank you for delivering us from evil?”

  “The High Father deserves your thanks,” Father Thomas stated firmly. “I am only his humble instrument, and a blunt one at that.”

  “Then I will offer thanks to both.” The lieutenant offered and shook Father Thomas’ hand. One by one, the others did as well.

  Eighteen

  Stiger’s company was drawn up for review in the main courtyard of the castle. With the exception of a few men posted on the ramparts, and those assigned to escort the supply train, all of his men were present. They were clean, their equipment maintained, and from the look in their eyes, they considered themselves hard-charging veterans who had proven themselves in two fights, one of which resulted in the capture of a castle. They had shown they could march harder than any other company in the South, and they knew it.

  A real battle would be the true test of their mettle, yet Stiger was pleased. The captain was proud of how far they had come. He intended to keep working the men, focusing on improvement. The more the captain thought about it, the more it seemed likely General Kromen or General Mammot would give the garrison to one of their cronies as a reward. Stiger wanted nothing more than a challenge, and that meant getting out in the field with his men. The more effective his company, the greater chance they would remain in the field and away from the main legionary encampment.

  “What is that?” Stiger turned toward Lieutenant Ikely, who was standing to his right. The company was drawn up at attention. The captain was pointing at the 85th’s standard-bearer, who stood next to Legionary Beck with the 13th’s eagle. The sun broke through the clouds at that moment, and the golden eagle lit up.

  “That, sir, I do believe, is our standard,” Ikely answered, without a hint of a smile.

  “I know our
standard,” Stiger growled, not appreciating the lieutenant’s cheek. A crossbar had been added, and something was draped around and across the bar. “What is that thing draped across it?”

  “I believe the boys … ah … liberated the tiger pelt that was draped over the back of Captain Aveeno’s throne,” the lieutenant explained with a straight face.

  “I see,” Stiger said, with a slight frown.

  “They have also settled upon a name for the company,” the lieutenant added as an aside.

  “A name?” Stiger was genuinely surprised. Legionary companies occasionally named themselves. This usually only occurred when the men had felt they had done something impressive. Named companies were considered blessed by the gods. Tradition prohibited officers from influencing the process. As such, naming a company was a very important affair, and it was considered bad form for a company to take a name without having achieved something noteworthy. It was widely believed that doing so would incur divine disfavor. Companies who violated tradition were shunned and suffered serious runs of bad luck, from accidents to terrible assignments. Men from other companies wanted nothing to do with them, as bad luck could be catching.

  “So,” Stiger continued, his frown deepening, “having force-marched to Vrell, cleared a forest of bandits, recovered an imperial eagle, assaulted a castle and captured it—not to mention assisting a paladin of the High Father defeat a minion of the evil god Castor—qualifies my company for a name? Do you think they have done enough to avoid divine disfavor? Would the gods approve?”

  “Yes sir,” Lieutenant Ikely said, still staring forward. “I believe the gods smile upon our company, and it seems the men feel our company has earned a name.”

  “Will the gods approve?” Stiger asked, turning to face the men.

  The men shouted a resounding “Yes!”

  “And what name?” Stiger asked. He had never commanded a named company before. This was only his second command. Such names were usually fierce in nature, like the Bastards of the 5th or the Abath Avengers. What had the men settled on, he wondered?

  “Stiger’s Tigers,” the men shouted in unison.

  Stiger was silent for several moments, the shouts still ringing around the courtyard’s walls.

  “Should have been Stiger’s Bastards,” he said, a rare grin suddenly cracking his weather-hardened face, scar turning it to a slight sneer. “I do believe that Stiger’s Tigers will do.”

  The men cheered at that, and it made Stiger’s heart warm. Rarely, if ever, did a company name themselves after their commanding officer. Such an event meant that they respected their commander greatly and believed in him. Stiger let them cheer for a moment or two more before returning to business.

  “Let’s begin the inspection,” Stiger said to Lieutenant Ikely, stepping forward and up to the first man. Bennet could not suppress his grin or his foul breath as Stiger looked him over. Everything was perfect. Stiger gave Bennet a nod, and moved on to the next man. The men were his and he was theirs.

  ***

  Stiger was sitting at the table, writing out a detailed report to Generals Kromen and Mammot. The sun had long since set. A fire blazed in the hearth, heating the room. The windows had been shuttered, as the temperature dropped to near-freezing. Winter was nearing with each passing day, and up here in the mountains, at higher elevation, it would arrive early. Two lamps burned brightly, providing the room plenty of illumination. A dented pewter mug of brandy sat before him. A thorough search of the castle had revealed the ancient casks, along with a barrel hoard of valley ale. The sergeants had wisely put it all under guard.

  The captain had delayed writing his official report for several days. He had wanted the supply train to arrive so that he could report his mission to resupply Castle Vrell a success. He had also wanted to get a handle on the forces garrisoning the valley so that his report would be more complete.

  The train had finally arrived that afternoon, and Stiger had begun writing the long-delayed report. At this late hour, the courtyard was still a scene of chaos as wagons were driven in and unloaded. Stiger had sent for Lieutenant Peal’s company to assist with the unloading. He had also left his lieutenants and sergeants to supervise so that he could write out his report. In the morning, he would dispatch a messenger, and then begin the long wait for a reply.

  He was busily scratching away at the parchment with charcoal pencil when he heard hurried boots in the corridor outside. Guards were still posted outside his headquarters. He could hear them asking muffled questions before the door to the study opened. In walked Lieutenant Lan, Eli and a very dusty, road-weary cavalry trooper.

  “Sir,” the cavalry trooper said, exhaustion heavy in his voice. “They’re gone! The legions are gone!”

  Stiger dropped the charcoal pencil and looked at Lieutenant Lan, not understanding.

  “As requested, I detached Terrance here back to the main encampment with your dispatch about clearing out the bandit camp,” Lieutenant Lan stated.

  “I went to the encampment as ordered,” the trooper explained wearily. He was so exhausted that he leaned on the table for support. “The legions are gone, sir, and the encampment empty.”

  “The fighting season is almost upon us,” Stiger said hopefully.

  “They went north, sir, not south,” the trooper continued. “The road is all torn up in that direction.”

  “North?” Stiger asked, incredulous. Why would the army march north? Marching north was pulling back and ceding more territory to the rebels.

  Stiger had been part of armies that made unexpected movements in response to an enemy, but this was different. With those unexpected movements, messengers were always dispatched to isolated outposts or units out in the field. The captain clamped down on the stem of his pipe with his teeth as anger began to overcome his surprise. They had been abandoned!

  “You came across no messengers?” he asked.

  “No sir,” the trooper said emphatically.

  “Why didn’t you follow the army?” Stiger asked, as a thought occurred to him. That would have been the natural thing for the man to have done. There must have been a reason he had not. Stiger was afraid to hear it.

  “The whole cursed rebel army showed up,” the trooper explained wearily, “the rebels are marching north! I stayed hidden in the forest, watching them for some time. But that is not the worst of it, sir …”

  Stiger closed his eyes momentarily, knowing what was coming.

  “Part of the rebel army is marching here, sir, to Vrell.”

  “You are sure of it?” Stiger asked.

  “I am,” the man breathed, “at least twenty thousand foot. I stayed hidden in the forest and counted companies, sir.”

  Stiger stood, took a puff off his pipe, and walked over to the hearth. His mind was racing. He could understand retreating north. The southern legions were in no condition for a standup battle with the rebel army. That had been abundantly clear when he had seen the condition of the main encampment. What bothered him was being abandoned.

  Generals Kromen and Mammot had to have known the rebel army was preparing to move north. There was no way they could not have known! The southern legions were in no condition for a fight, which meant they knew that they were going to retreat in the coming days when the roads solidified and the fighting season began. They had sent him, a potential headache, to Vrell to get him out of the way. Yet in reality, they had effectively sent him here to die. The rage he felt at being so callously and intentionally abandoned burned hotter the more he thought about it. Stiger and the garrison were trapped. The enemy was coming, and if true, in overwhelming numbers.

  Stiger continued to stare into the fire as he turned over the situation in his mind. He held the most fortified position in the entire South, with over one thousand men at hand and winter coming. Winter in the South was typically the fighting season, but Vrell was in the mountains. At the higher elevations, the winter would be severe and Vrell was far from any source of enemy supply. He chuckled su
ddenly, realizing that he would be staying in Vrell much longer than he had planned or hoped.

  “Sir?” Lieutenant Lan asked, worried at hearing his captain chuckle. He was wondering if Stiger had cracked. “What do we do?”

  “We fight,” Stiger growled, turning back from the fire.

  “Fight, sir?” Lan asked.

  “We hold the castle, the most fortified position in the South. What we do, Lieutenant, is fight!”

  “The legions will return,” Eli added. “They always come back.”

  “Of course,” Stiger snapped. “We have a duty to defend Vrell and hold it.”

  “That could be years,” Lan stated.

  “Then we hold it for years,” Stiger said. Stiger turned to Blake, who had followed Lan and the trooper in. “Sergeant Blake, send for two of Eli’s scouts. We need to get word of our condition here to the legions before it is too late to sneak word out.”

  “Yes sir,” Blake said, and left.

  “How far is the enemy?” Stiger asked the trooper.

  “Two week’s hard march, maybe,” he reported. “Likely three to four. They seemed in no hurry.”

  “Eli,” Stiger said suddenly. “We need to make their life marching here hell, and slow them down long enough for winter to arrive.”

  “I can think of several places we can ambush the rebel column,” Eli said, nodding, “and a few of my scouts harassing them with bows could slow them down even further.”

  “Excellent,” Stiger said, with a fierce look. “We will also need axe parties felling trees across the road.” Stiger started pacing the room. “I think our best chance to really cut them up will be in the foothills. You could hide an army in those hills, we can …”

  “You can’t be serious, sir,” Lan broke in. “You are going to attack the enemy?”

  “I am going to do much more than that, Lieutenant.” Stiger turned to the cavalry officer. “I am going to make them regret they ever heard of Vrell.”