“I’ve got the wounded tended to, sir,” Pixus said. “Father Thomas helped with the sewing and the bandaging of those more grievously injured.”
“He did not heal any of the men?” Stiger was surprised by that.
“No, sir.” Pixus gave a slight scowl as he placed his hands upon his hips. “I asked about that. He said now was not the time. I then asked when would be the right time, and he said he did not know.”
“I see,” Stiger said, thinking on the effort it took for the paladin to heal serious wounds. There always seemed to be a cost for such miracles. “I am certain he knows his business better than we do.”
“Yes, sir,” Pixus said, the scowl slipping from his face with some apparent effort. Stiger got the sense the centurion was hopping mad about the paladin refusing to heal his men. Stiger could understand that.
“All right, let me have the bad news,” Stiger said. If Father Thomas felt this wasn’t the time for healing, he saw no need to grouse about it further. He turned the focus on the subject he had been dreading. “How many casualties did we take?”
“Ten of the dwarves are injured,” Pixus said. “Their wounds range from minor to serious. Of those, two aren’t ambulatory, nor will they be anytime soon.”
“And of our boys?” Stiger asked, knowing that when it came time for the century to move, the wounded were sure to slow them down.
“Six walking wounded, four non-ambulatory, sir,” Pixus answered. “All four have serious leg wounds.” Pixus ran a hand through his short-cropped hair and shook his head slightly. “One I expect will not survive the night. Merax is a good man, a veteran of twenty-two years, sir.”
“Not Merax,” Sabinus said and turned to Stiger. “He has a woman and daughter amongst the followers. Cutest little thing you ever saw.” Sabinus shook his head sadly. “Merax isn’t too bright, but he’s a good soul, and as steady as they come, sir.”
“Fortuna can be a cruel mistress,” Stiger said, now fully understanding the centurion’s irritation with Father Thomas.
“She can be a right bitch, sir,” Pixus agreed. “He was due to muster out next year.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Stiger said. “How many did we lose?”
“I saw four go down,” Pixus said. “Before we withdrew, I or Mectillius made sure they were finished. There was no time to recover their remains.” Pixus fell silent for a heartbeat. “After a count, which I did myself, I have two additional missing.”
“Six then,” Stiger said.
Pixus gave a grim nod.
Stiger swung his gaze out into the darkness and tapped the top of the wall lightly with his fist. It was slowly crumbling with age. Gods, Stiger thought, losing even one man was costly. And yet, six was not too terrible a number. In truth, when he had seen the dwarven camp overrun, he had expected the butcher’s price to be even higher. They had gotten lucky.
Yet men had given their lives, and it pained him no less. That it was necessary never made it any easier. Stiger rubbed his jaw and glanced around the interior of the camp. He could not afford to dwell upon those unfortunate souls. He had the heavy responsibility of looking out for the living. They were relying upon him to lead them out of this mess that the dwarves had gotten them all into. Worse, Stiger wasn’t even sure he would be able to do it. He was fairly certain there would be a steep cost for whatever was to come.
Stiger was silent for a few moments. “We shall have a memorial service for the fallen later. When we’ve returned to the legion, we will see to honoring the dead.”
“Yes, sir,” Pixus said. “I had expected as much.”
Stiger considered his next words. Sabinus and Pixus waited patiently.
“I want you to rig litters for the mules,” Stiger said. “Those unable to walk will be coming with us. I do not intend upon leaving anyone behind.”
“I’ve already given the order for that, sir,” Pixus said and gestured vaguely behind himself at the other end of the camp, where the horses and mules were picketed. “The litters are ready, sir, and hitched.”
“Very good,” Stiger said, well pleased with the centurion’s initiative. Pixus was, as Sabinus had vouched, a first-rate officer. Should Pixus survive his term of service with Fifth Century, he was the kind of man who would likely see himself ultimately promoted to command of First Cohort or even at some point achieve camp prefect, a rank all centurions strove for and coveted. First, however, he needed to survive, and being an officer of the legion was by no means a safe position. Casualties amongst the officer corps always ran high. Officers were expected to set the example and lead from the front.
“And the loading of the mules?” Stiger asked.
“As you ordered, sir, they are being loaded with food and what water we have on hand. Mectillius returned with enough water for two days. Everything else not considered essential is being abandoned, including the tents. We should be ready to leave within a short while, if not immediately.”
Stiger wondered for a moment on the centurion’s choice of words by mentioning the tents, then it hit him.
“Leaving your personal tent, I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” Pixus said, with an unhappy look. “It’s been with me for a long while. Good-quality material, sir, well cut and sewed. I had just had it weatherproofed. Even on the worst of nights she kept me dry. I’ve never had a tent treat me so well, sir.”
Stiger had lost a fine one himself, during the campaign against the Rivan. Losing his tent had felt like he had lost an old friend. He could well understand the centurion’s attachment to it. Still, with the loss of the dwarven supply wagons, all available space was needed for their food supply, which the dwarves had helpfully added to after arriving and setting up camp. More importantly, Stiger knew that they would shortly need the additional space the tents had been taking up. When he tried to break out, this space would go to any that became seriously wounded and unable to move under their own power. He could not imagine a scenario where the enemy just let them walk out uncontested.
“Do we have any spare tents back at the main encampment?” Stiger asked Sabinus, sure that that the legion quartermaster would have replacements. “Good-quality ones, not the musty standard issue stuff from the quartermaster.”
“I can think of a nice one, really good quality, sir,” Sabinus said, scratching his jawline with his index finger. “We took it from the Tervay, after overrunning one of their camps. It’s a bit large. Must have belonged to one of their chieftains or princes, or whatever those hairy barbarians call their leaders. I believe it was slated for sale, along with the other booty we seized. It’s probably worth some good money, say four or five gold talons at least.”
“I see.” Stiger turned his gaze back upon Pixus. “When we make it back, that tent is yours, centurion. Consider it as compensation for your loss.”
Pixus’s eyes bulged. Fifth Century’s centurion opened his mouth and then closed it. Stiger had genuinely surprised the man and was enjoying the moment. It was but a little pleasure in the middle of a dire situation. More importantly, Stiger was communicating to Pixus that he expected to get them back.
“Sir,” Pixus said, “are you sure about that? My tent only cost half a talon.”
Stiger thought for a moment before replying. Half a talon for Pixus, a commoner who had clearly come up through the ranks, was a fortune. Stiger well knew the Thirteenth would never return to the empire. He was certain there was no chance any of the spoils the legion had seized from the Tervay would ever be sold for prize money. It would mysteriously disappear, just as the Thirteenth had.
“As long as you don’t sell it,” Stiger said, “the tent is yours. If at some point you don’t want it . . . well, then you can sell it and repay yourself the half talon. The rest goes to the legion’s strong box.”
Stiger looked over at Sabinus, who gave a subtle nod that Pixus did not catch. Stiger was gratified that the senior centurion of the Thirteenth approved.
“I feel this is an equitable arrangement
,” Stiger said. “Of course, if you don’t want it . . . I will understand.”
“Oh no, sir,” Pixus said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I don’t believe I can pass on this. I heartily accept your generous offer.”
“Excellent,” Stiger said, pleased with himself. He turned his gaze back out beyond the walls of the camp and his thoughts abruptly blackened with the night.
“Are you thinking of leaving tonight?” Sabinus asked the question that was clearly on both centurions’ minds.
“I would have expected an assault by now,” Stiger said simply, his eyes raking the darkness.
“Yes, sir,” Sabinus said with a glance to Pixus. “We both think it odd they’ve not tried our defenses yet.”
“Or showed themselves,” Pixus said.
Stiger turned to face both men.
“I don’t see that we have a choice,” Stiger said. “We have to get out of here. If the enemy has not yet become organized, my thinking is it would be best to go before the sun comes up.”
“But, sir,” Sabinus protested, “you said so yourself. They’re out there. What if they are waiting?”
“Before we make any movement,” Stiger said, “I would send scouts over the wall to find the enemy.”
“And they’d likely die in the process,” Pixus added, sounding none too happy about the idea. “The bastards are probably watching us now.”
“Centurion,” Stiger said, “if you have a better suggestion, I’d love to hear it.”
“No, sir,” Pixus said. “I just wanted to make sure the legate understood the risk to our scouts.”
“Now that the watch fires have burned low,” Stiger said, “they stand a better chance of leaving the camp unseen.”
“So that is why you wouldn’t let me send a detail out to add wood to the fires?” Sabinus asked.
“Partly,” Stiger said.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after the enemy assaults our encampment?” Sabinus asked. “We all agree they’re out there. We just don’t know where at the moment. Why waste our scouts? We have food and water. Let’s just wait them out until they strike.”
“You’re forgetting about the coming raid on the valley and their intention of directly attacking the legion,” Stiger said, voice hardening. “My initial thinking was that they’d have come for us by now. We’d be able to bleed them a bit, and thin their numbers before making a break for it.” Stiger swept an arm out toward the darkness. “It’s been over two hours and they haven’t tested our walls yet, nor shown themselves.”
“Perhaps,” Sabinus said, “having taken a look at our defenses, they’ve had second thoughts?”
“The orcs might be smarter than we give them credit for,” Pixus said. “I’d not want to assault this camp, at least not without making serious preparations.”
“Scaling ladders, bundles of sticks and such.” Sabinus nodded. “They could be doing that now and most likely are.”
“That’s very possible,” Stiger said.
“The problem as I see it, sirs,” Pixus said, “if we make a break for it sooner rather than later, we just don’t know how many of them bastards are out there, waiting.”
“From what we saw over at the dwarven encampment, we do know we are outnumbered,” Sabinus said. “We have strong defenses here, including a trench and stone walls. Even if they make preparations for assault, the enemy has to overcome them first, which will not be easy.”
“All right,” Stiger said. “You both clearly understand our current position. Not only is the valley at risk, but also the legion. Our priority must be to get a warning back, and before it becomes too late. So, the question I am putting to you: Do we stay and allow the enemy to assault us, or do we make a break for it as soon as possible? Do we dare take a chance and wait ‘til morning?”
Stiger looked to Pixus first. The centurion rubbed the back of his neck as he clearly considered his answer. Though he had given his thoughts and spoken freely, he suddenly looked uncomfortable having been asked his direct opinion on the matter by none other than his legate.
“My advice . . . well, we go, sir, and as soon as possible,” Pixus said. “It’s dark out, and as you know, any action at night is a difficult thing at best. Ours tonight was the first night action I ever saw that was not even a partial cock up. With luck, we may be able to slip away and get a head start on any pursuit. That is, if they are not out there, waiting for us to make a break for it. Which means, no matter how much I dislike the thought of doing so, we have to send out scouts first to locate the enemy.”
“Thank you, centurion.” Stiger turned his gaze over to Sabinus, looking for his position, though Stiger suspected he already knew it.
“What of Brogan?” Sabinus said.
“What about him?” Stiger asked.
“Shouldn’t we be getting his thoughts as well?”
“We did this his way,” Stiger said. “That did not work out so well. Now it is my turn. I will of course consult him, but this decision is mine to make. Now, your opinion, sir?”
“We stay,” Sabinus said firmly, “and remain until morning. Then, send out scouts. With the light, they will have a better chance of survival. If it’s clear, we leave. As Pixus rightly said, night operations are asking for everything to go to pot. It’s better we leave during daylight hours. Being able to see what we are marching into will, in my mind, be the key to successfully escaping. If they attack our camp this night, we know we have the advantage in defense. They do not have the same in assault and it will prove costly for them.”
Sabinus fell silent. Pixus appeared to have nothing further to say. Both men were professionals and they apparently saw no reason to argue their points further, which surprised Stiger. Then Stiger realized that this was a result of Delvaris’s leadership style. He recalled what Sabinus had told him. Delvaris solicited opinions from his officers and then made a decision. They were simply waiting for that decision.
Both arguments were sound. Both had merit. Regardless, Stiger understood the ultimate decision, as usual, lay with him. If he chose poorly, it would translate into blood and death. Heck, if he chose correctly it would likely see the same. He eyed Sabinus a moment, wondering what the centurion would do if Stiger chose against him. The senior centurion of the legion knew Stiger was not actually Delvaris. Pixus did not.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Stiger started, but stopped when a sentry just feet away hissed out a warning. The sentry was intently gazing outward. Stiger moved over to the man.
“Look, sir.” The sentry pointed out into the darkness. “Someone’s out there, sir.”
Gut tightening, Stiger followed the sentry’s finger. The man had good eyes, and it took Stiger a moment of searching. The moon had slid behind a cloud, making it difficult to see much more than darkness. Then, he saw it . . . movement. But was it an orc or dwarf?
The moon had moved behind a particularly dense cloud. No matter how much he squinted, he could not make out the person moving around approximately thirty yards away. It did appear as if the individual was doing his best to move without being seen. Stiger reached his hand down to Rarokan, touching the hilt. The darkness brightened a little and Stiger could better see. The solitary figure emerged from the shadows. It was a dwarf, and he was moving stealthily toward the gate in a slow, steady manner, moving from tree to tree. Whenever possible, he sought out the darker shadows.
“Pass the word,” Stiger said quietly to the sentry. “A friendly is coming in. No noise is to be made. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said and moved off, speaking to the next sentry several feet away.
Stiger turned his gaze back to the dwarf, who was slowly approaching the trench. As he came nearer, Stiger saw that it was Hogan and his jaw tightened.
The sentry returned. “Go fetch the thane,” Stiger said to him, and the legionary immediately jogged off.
“May I come over?” Hogan asked quietly, with a nervous glance behind. It told Stiger volumes about w
hat was out in the darkness, just out of view.
“Yes,” Stiger said.
Hogan quickly climbed down into the trench and then clambered up the other side. He held his hands out. Stiger and Sabinus had to reach over the other side, armor scraping on the stone. They hauled him up and over the wall. For his size, Hogan was surprisingly heavy.
“A little hazardous out there,” Hogan said, dusting his hands off and brushing the dirt from his pants.
Brogan jogged up with Father Thomas. The thane’s head was bandaged in a white cloth. “Hogan,” Brogan said, anger heavy in his tone. “What the blazes happened? Taithun’s dead, Jorthan’s dead. So many died because of your failure. Explain yourself, before I have you executed.”
Hogan seemed unruffled by his thane’s rage, not to mention the threat of his imminent death, which surprised Stiger a little. Brogan wasn’t the forgiving type. The scout captain regarded his thane for a heartbeat, his expression concealed behind his beard.
“We did not miss them,” Hogan said, “even after you changed the plan, I had scouts covering the city and just beyond it. Any large body coming in from beyond my ring of eyes would have been spotted with plenty of warning to spare.”
“Well then”—Brogan placed his hands on his hips—“explain it to me then. How could this happen?”
“They didn’t sneak into the city while we were here, sire,” Hogan said and then pointed downward. “They arrived from under our feet.”
“What? Through our tunnels?” Brogan said. “All roads leading to the city were collapsed. The only road left is the one we came in on, and I know they did not come that way.”
“We scouted the underground spaces, and, as you say, all other roads were pulled down. They are still collapsed. We even checked what remains of the sewers and aqueducts. All were either impassable or showed no signs of activity,” Hogan said, then heaved a sigh. “In the last hour, we’ve found where they came out and think it was one of the old mines. It’s on the edge of the south side of the city. Those mines lead nowhere, just down to the deep. It seems the orcs either burrowed into an existing mine, or located it, digging the entrance out weeks, if not months, ago and then concealing the entrance, with themselves inside. I think that the most likely explanation. They must have been waiting, with no sign for us to find that they were already here.”
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