Correct, the sword hissed. There is a measure of Jupiter within you, a tiny divine spark, if you will, making you very special indeed.
The High Father?
Yes . . . where nearly all other humans have lost it, a small portion of the light of creation yet remains, lingering inside of you. I arranged for the line of another with the spark to merge with your line, making that diminutive portion greater, stronger, more profound. Stiger could sense the satisfaction emanating from the sword. Then, I added destiny’s touch and you became more important.
You are saying I have some of Jupiter’s power inside me?
Even as I was punished for these actions, it is what made you acceptable to Jupiter, it is why he selected you as his champion.
Stiger missed the piece of wood he was aiming for. The axe head stuck firmly into the chopping stump, splitting part of it aside. He worked it free and stood there a moment. With every little piece of information, Stiger felt more trapped. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
What is it that you expect me to do?
Stiger waited for reply. The sword remained silent.
I grow tired of this. Answer me.
Nothing from the sword.
It enraged Stiger.
Good, the sword said, feed your anger, embrace it . . . for you will need it. Your rage fuels our connection and helps to cement our bond. Your anger frequently wakes me from my long-tormented slumber. Yet, this conversation has expended too much of my will . . . As the bond between us continues to strengthen, the effort to communicate will become easier . . . as will unlocking your potential. But my time now is growing short. Soon I must return to my restless slumber amidst the nothingness.
I am done, Stiger said to it.
Are you? the sword hissed, with a mocking laugh. I think not.
You desire to control me, Stiger said. You never will.
I already do and I always have. You are mine and I am yours. We are now one will.
Stiger felt chilled by the statement. He felt the presence that inhabited the sword leave. It was the first time he had truly ever felt Rarokan’s distinct consciousness and knew that the conversation with the wizard was over. Strangely, it left him feeling less than whole, as if he were missing a part of himself.
He resumed his chopping at a more vigorous and strenuous pace. His hands began to ache from the repeated strikes. The friction from the handle was starting to rub his palms red. Still, he continued.
Stiger only stopped when he heard horses and turned to see who it was. There were three riders approaching, moving steadily down the dirt track that led to the farm. The track ran parallel with their small pasture and, filled with potholes, was a poor excuse for a road. The riders rode along the fencing that stretched around the small pasture behind the barn. Their single cow and horse happily grazed on the grass, uncaring and unconcerned as the visitors passed.
Stiger recognized Father Thomas. The paladin wore a simple brown priestly robe. His two companions were legionaries, their armor and helmets reflecting bright flashes of sunlight. One was Centurion Sabinus and the other a tribune whom Stiger had yet to meet. Much like Sabinus’s, the tribune’s armor was of an older type, though it was that of a senior officer and not a centurion. Stiger had seen such ancient armor displayed in his family’s ancestor room, along with the wax death masks of his important forebears. Around the tribune’s chest, a pale blue ribbon denoted his rank as the senior tribune for the legion. It would be him to whom command would have fallen after Delvaris’s death.
Stiger saw no sign of Thoggle.
Dog woke as the sound of the hooves became louder. The animal stood, shook itself, and growled, low and guttural, at the newcomers.
“Fat lot of good you are, as a watch dog, that is,” Stiger said to it. The animal glanced up at him before returning to watch the riders.
As they turned their horses into the farmyard, Father Thomas spotted him standing next to the woodpile. The paladin offered him a friendly wave. Sarai stepped out of the house as the riders came up. They exchanged greetings as the three dismounted and secured their horses to the hitching mount.
As he rounded the side of his horse, the tribune came to a complete stop at the sight of Stiger. He stared for a long moment. Then he said something to Sabinus that Stiger could not hear, pointed, and immediately made his way over, trailed by Father Thomas and the centurion.
Clearly in his late twenties, the tribune was tall, thin, and in excellent shape. His arms were muscular and his face fair, yet weathered. The tribune’s helmet hid the color of his hair, but his eyes were brown and sharp. He had a confident manner of someone accustomed to command. The tribune’s armor and red cape were of excellent quality, which established that he was from a wealthy house. He wore the ring of a senatorial family, and Stiger figured he was likely a year or two away from receiving an appointment to legate.
“What is this?” the tribune demanded of Stiger in the common tongue, all color drained from his face. He untied the straps of his helmet and lifted it off his head to reveal short-cropped brown hair that was matted. He was starting to go prematurely bald. “Great gods, it can’t be, can it? No, this is impossible.”
Stiger’s irritation only increased. It had begun with Menos. The sword had only contributed to his mounting frustration, and now this indignity, thanks to Thoggle.
“I’m not sure what you mean?” Father Thomas said, before Stiger could say anything. Stiger noticed that Father Thomas’s eyes skipped from the tribune to Dog, seeming to widen before snapping back to the tribune.
“You told me we were coming to see this Stiger you keep speaking about,” the tribune said and turned back to address Stiger. “You died. I saw your body. There was no chance of survival. How can you possibly be alive?”
Stiger dropped the axe and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. If Thoggle had been present, he could have gladly strangled the wizard.
Sabinus looked between Stiger and the tribune, his eyes narrowing. In the old tongue, Lingua Romano, he said, “Sir, you mean to tell me you know this man?”
“Of course, I know him,” the tribune said, still speaking in common, turning to Sabinus in an irritated manner. “By the gods, man, you know him as well.” A deeper look of irritation stole over the tribune’s face. “Centurion, standing orders are to speak common. When around the dwarves we need to appear open with them. Get into the habit of using common, which most all of them speak.”
“Yes, sir,” Sabinus said, switching to common. “Sir, the first I saw him was when he came through the World Gate, no more than four months ago.”
“Are you having a jest with me?” The tribune became heated. “How could you not know our legate?”
Father Thomas cleared his throat. “Ah . . . I believe I can explain.”
All eyes turned to the paladin.
“Tribune Arvus,” Father Thomas said, “the wizard Thoggle cast a spell on Stiger here so that he appears as Legate Delvaris.”
“I can confirm this is so,” Stiger said unhappily. “I’m none too happy about it.”
“It is like that illusion spell over the entrance to Old City,” Father Thomas continued in a pleasant tone. “Once you see it, the spell no longer works. It is why Sabinus and I see him as Stiger and you see him as Delvaris.”
“Magic, you say?” Arvus said, appearing highly skeptical. “Such trickery makes me terribly uncomfortable.”
“It’s most unnatural,” Stiger said.
“Exactly,” the tribune said, in agreement. He peered closer at Stiger’s face, as if doing so would pierce the magic of the spell. “You are this Stiger, then?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Stiger said. “I am Bennulius Stiger, at your service, sir.”
“This is so unusual,” Arvus said, with a glance thrown to Sabinus. “If I am to understand correctly, you are a legate”—he paused and looked to Father Thomas for confirmation—“from the future, as impossible as that sounds. Do
I have that right?”
Stiger gave an unhappy nod. “You do.”
“It is not my intent to offend in any way, but I’ve never heard of your family, sir,” Arvus said. “I assume since you are a legate, you come from good blood, a senatorial family perhaps?”
Stiger almost grinned at the tribune, thoroughly amused, and turned to Father Thomas. “Traveling back in time seems to have its advantages. I must say, this is truly a welcome pleasure.”
“I would imagine so,” Father Thomas said with a wry grin.
“What do you mean?” Arvus asked, brow furrowing. “Could you kindly explain?”
“In his time,” Father Thomas said, “the legate’s family has achieved some, shall we say, renown across the empire. Everyone of consequence knows of the Stigers.”
“As soldiers?” Sabinus asked. “Or as politicians?”
Stiger understood what the centurion was after. Sabinus wanted to determine whether the Stigers were known for their political acumen or military accomplishments. There were plenty of political hacks like General Kromen, powerbrokers in the senate with little to no military experience looking to increase their prestige with an appointment to a legion.
“Centurion,” Father Thomas said, “they are known for their battlefield victories and conquests in the name of the empire. Legate Delvaris is actually one of Stiger’s ancestors.”
“Are you, sir?” Arvus asked Stiger with some interest. “Do you have much experience in the field?”
“I myself was at a battle Legate Stiger commanded,” Father Thomas continued, drawing back Arvus’s attention. “The battle was hard fought and against overwhelming odds. I am pleased to say it was a complete victory.”
Stiger wondered why the paladin was working so hard to establish his credibility with the tribune. He was afraid he knew the answer to his own question.
“I see,” Arvus said, straightening and turning back to Stiger. “Then it is a pleasure to meet you, sir . . . no matter who you look like.”
Arvus took a step forward and extended his hand, which Stiger took. The grip was firm, and though the tribune still looked uncomfortable, it was clear he was a gentleman through and through.
Dog stood and shook himself before padding up to Sabinus, tail wagging. The centurion smiled and patted the animal’s head before giving him a scratch on the neck.
“How did you find Delvaris’s dog?” Sabinus asked.
Stiger looked sharply at the centurion, before his gaze shifted the Dog.
“He found me,” Stiger said. “Just showed up at the farm.”
“What are the odds of that happening?” Sabinus said, shaking his head.
Stiger shared a questioning look with Father Thomas. He was starting to believe there were no such things as coincidences. The paladin shifted his gaze to Dog and his eyes narrowed.
“According to the letter confiscated with your kit,” Sabinus said, “you have been given command of the Thirteenth. Legate Delvaris had a matching letter in his possession. As incredible as it sounds, we are told both are one and the same. I assume that letter referred to you, sir?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Stiger replied and let out a long breath, returning his attention to Sabinus and Arvus. He saw a warning glance from Father Thomas. “But I am afraid my Thirteenth is not your legion.”
“I don’t understand,” Arvus said. “There is only one Thirteenth and we are encamped just a few miles from here.”
“You are quite correct on that point, tribune,” said a raspy voice. Stiger saw Thoggle approaching. All eyes turned to the wizard, who, like Ogg was beardless, as if he had freshly shaved. Thoggle gave off the impression of a dwarf entering the later stages of his life. His face was lined and wrinkled. The gray hair on his head was patched and had thinned almost to nothingness.
The wizard walked with a bad limp, which caused him to move slowly, almost painfully. His black robe concealed whatever injury or malady affected him. He leaned heavily upon his staff for support as he moved. Like Ogg’s, the staff was wooden and had a misshapen crystal mounted upon it. The bottom of the staff was capped in metal, which gave off a soft thudding sound as he moved forward one painful step at a time. “I sincerely apologize for my tardiness. I am afraid I was unavoidably detained.”
Arvus’s eyes narrowed. Stiger got the sense that the tribune was deeply uncomfortable in the wizard’s presence.
“Technically,” Thoggle continued, addressing Arvus, “it is the same legion, in his time, that is. Roughly three hundred years ahead of ours, to be exact.”
Thoggle waved his hand in Stiger’s direction as the tribune looked from the wizard to Stiger.
“Magic.” Arvus gasped and took a step back, his fist going to his mouth. After a moment, he pointed a finger in Stiger’s direction. “I would never have really believed it had I not seen the transformation with my own eyes. You are most definitely not Delvaris.”
“I never pretended to be.” Stiger gestured toward Thoggle. “That was the wizard’s work.”
“Correct, and fully I confess my guilt,” Thoggle said. “I feel compelled to admit I cast the spell upon him without his approval, or even his knowledge.”
Sabinus turned on Thoggle. “Why would you do such a thing? It demeans and disgraces the memory of a great man.”
“I had to act before more set their eyes upon him, including the soldiers of your legion. Legate Delvaris’s death was unexpected,” Thoggle said, “and should never have happened the way it did at the hands of a servant of Castor. The minion traveled into our time to change things . . . and make events in the future more favorable to its dark god. That is the problem we face. To put things right and to save everything, he,” Thoggle said and pointed a hand at Stiger, “must become Delvaris.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Stiger said, though it only confirmed his suspicions, as did the conversation with Menos. He glanced over at Father Thomas. “It smacks of Delvaris reborn, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Father Thomas said, and gestured at the wizard, “but we feel it is necessary.”
“You must assume Delvaris’s identity,” Thoggle insisted. “In essence become the man, keeping to much of what you know he did and in short finish his work here in this time. You must not stray far from the path Delvaris set.”
“Impersonate him?” Stiger said, feeling deeply unhappy. His headache was becoming worse. “There is no honor in that.”
“Honor, legend,” Thoggle said, “such words matter little under the circumstances.”
“Your own people feel you have no legend,” Stiger said. “Perhaps it should come as no surprise you would care so little for such things. But it does just the same.”
Thoggle turned his gaze upon Stiger and a look of extreme weariness passed over the wizard’s face. When he spoke, he sounded much older than he had moments before. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that because my people feel I have none, that I am without legend. Legend, honor . . . they are words. Actions speak louder.”
“They do,” Stiger conceded, feeling somewhat rebuked. “I’ve met more than a few who mouth such words for matters of convenience.”
“Of course actions matter,” Father Thomas said and then turned to Stiger, steering the conversation away from rocky ground. “Thoggle’s spell would not affect those who knew you before the casting, like Sabinus or Sarai. For those who don’t know you as Ben Stiger . . . well, they would see Legate Delvaris, not only in name but look and sound as well.”
“I am uncomfortable with this notion,” Arvus said, a look of distaste crossing his face. “Very uncomfortable.”
“You are uncomfortable?” Stiger shot a look at the tribune. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Kindly take no offense with this, but I don’t know you,” Arvus said. “I don’t care what your orders from Atticus say or your appointment to the legion, whether in my time or yours. No matter the machinations of the wizard and paladin, you will not command the Thirteenth. Wit
h the death of the legate, that is rightly my responsibility and trust.”
“It must happen this way,” Thoggle said to Arvus. “Should he not assume Delvaris’s mantle, all will be lost. It is why we asked you to conceal the legate’s death from your men. I have to ask. Do they still believe he is traveling with the thane?”
“They do,” Arvus said. “The men still believe Delvaris is traveling with Thane Brogan to the dwarven capital deep in the mountains. As discussed, we have told them he is expected to return any day. Though I must say I feel this deceit impugns my honor.”
“It is necessary,” Father Thomas said. “We have a plan to set things right.”
“I have my doubts,” Arvus said. “The High Father’s scripture teaches the gods gave us freedom of choice. As such, it stands to reason the future is wholly unwritten.”
“That is where you are mostly wrong,” Thoggle said. “With the paladin and Stiger here, we potentially know what will happen if we do nothing, and what could happen if we try to fix things. We must work to repair the damage done by Castor’s minion. That is all that matters.”
“I need to hear more,” Arvus said. “I cannot do as you say without compelling proof.”
Thoggle gave the tribune a long look and was silent for several heartbeats. “I dare not tell you much, but be assured that the future of your empire and my people is at stake. If you doubt me in this, ask the paladin.”
Arvus looked to Father Thomas and raised his eyebrows in question. “Is it as dire as he says?”
“I am afraid the wizard speaks truth,” Father Thomas confirmed. “The empire is at risk, and should we not act, evil will almost certainly triumph.”
Arvus looked as if he wanted to argue the point with Father Thomas. Stiger could see the struggle in the other man’s eyes. A paladin was the direct holy representative and conduit of the High Father. His word was above reproach.
“And this man can save us?” Arvus gestured toward Stiger. “Are you so certain?”
The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4) Page 12