The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Then we have an understanding,” Menos said. “Make sure you defeat it.”

  With that, Menos turned in a swirl of robes and left the tent.

  Stiger sat down on his cot and ran a hand through his hair. It never got any easier. A short time before, he had been tired. Now, he knew sleep would not come easy.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Venthus entered the tent. “Can I get you anything before you turn in?”

  “Wine would be good, preferably heated,” Stiger said, “and tobacco if you can manage to scrounge some up.”

  “I think I can find some, sir.” Venthus left him.

  Stiger removed his boots and placed them to the side. He was about to lie down on his cot when one of the guards poked his head inside the tent.

  “Messenger here for you, sir,” the man said.

  “Send him in,” Stiger said.

  A dusty and weary-looking auxiliary cavalryman entered, bearing a dispatch. He saluted and then handed it over to Stiger.

  Stiger tore it open. It had been written by the prefect in command of the legion’s cavalry contingent. Prefect Hux reported a small column of orcs, seven hundred in total, had made their way down into the valley. They had begun building a camp by the ruins of Riverton. He reported their camp had a defensive berm and an outer trench. Hux expected this to be a prelude of what was to come. He stated his intention to keep an eye out and would send word should more orcs enter Vrell or the enemy begin moving in the legion’s direction.

  “Did you ride straight here?” Stiger asked, looking up.

  “I did, sir,” the auxiliary said, his tone weary.

  “Find my chief clerk, Nepturus. My guards can tell you how to find him. He will get you some food and a place for you to bed down for the night. In the morning, you can carry my response back to your prefect.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The auxiliary saluted and left.

  “And so,” Stiger said, “the final act begins.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gaze fixed upon the enemy across the river, Stiger rested both hands on the wooden railing. He was standing upon a raised platform that had been constructed right behind the centermost part of his defensive line. Its sole purpose was observation—to give him a clear and unobstructed view of the battlefield. Stiger gazed out across the river at the enemy vanguard. Father Thomas was to his left and Therik to his right. Theo stood next to Therik. Tribune Severus was a couple steps behind on the back end of the platform, conversing pleasantly with Prefect Barunus, the legion’s commander of artillery. Everyone but Therik and Theo wore their armor. They only had on their tunics.

  For over a day, the enemy had poured out of the mountains and into the southern end of the valley. There they had massed, constructing a large encampment near Riverton. Stiger’s scouts had kept an eye upon them the entire time. When the stream of arriving formations ceased coming down from the mountains, they had broken camp and begun a slow, almost leisurely march north. From the reports he had received, it became apparent the enemy numbered more than sixty thousand.

  Interestingly, they had no cavalry to screen their advance. When he had received word the enemy was on the move, Stiger had put out the legion’s cavalry with specific instructions on how to operate. Hux and his boys had shadowed the enemy, harassing and striking at foraging parties and scouts whenever the opportunity presented itself. They had ridden down hundreds of the enemy.

  Prefect Hux had even sent back a prize for the legate, a finely crafted short sword. Hux had taken the weapon in personal combat, after having ambushed a party of scouts. He suspected the enemy leader had been an orc of some standing. The sword’s grip had been inlaid with silver.

  The enemy’s march north had taken more than a day, which had allowed Stiger to further improve his position and make it that much more difficult to overcome. The men had worked at the defenses until the enemy had come in sight around four hours ago.

  The first enemy formation marched through Bridgetown in a neat column, emerging into view and moving up the road toward the bridge. Each subsequent formation, as it arrived, neatly peeled off to take what appeared to be assigned positions around two hundred paces from the water’s edge. Once in position, the enemy stood silently in their ranks, watching the legion’s side of the river. Stiger knew this was designed to intimidate.

  What Stiger thought was alarming was the sheer size of the enemy host. Though the army was still arriving, it spread outward from the bridge on both sides of the river and had begun to stack up. The enemy army arranged itself block by block in long horizontal columns with a space of thirty yards between columns. With three columns already in place, Stiger estimated there were close to twenty thousand currently deployed on the field, just one third of the enemy’s reported strength. What would the entire sixty thousand look like? That, Stiger decided, would be intimidating.

  This was technically his second large-scale battle where he was in command, and his first as legate of a full legion. That said, Stiger had never had so many men under his command, and his responsibilities had multiplied exponentially. Leading up to the enemy’s arrival, there had been so many decisions to be made that it got Stiger wondering how General Treim ever managed to get things done. When he had left the North, Treim commanded four legions and their auxiliaries, a force nearly the size of the enemy army that faced him now.

  Stiger used his past experiences and gut feelings as a compass. He had made decisions he hoped were the correct ones, for if they weren’t, men would die. That was a heavy responsibility, one he took seriously.

  “Plans are good,” Stiger said to himself, “but once the fighting starts, it takes on a life of its own.”

  “What?” Theo asked.

  “Just thinking out loud.” Stiger had not meant to be overheard.

  “Is true,” Therik said. “What you said. You can make plans, but once fighting starts, a good leader be, how you say . . . moveable?”

  “Adaptable?” Theo asked.

  “Yes,” Therik said. “That is word.”

  Stiger turned his thoughts inward and closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly.

  High Father, lend me your strength over the coming hours, for they shall likely be difficult and desperate. Help me in this fight and lead me to victory. Spare as many of these fine men as possible.

  Stiger made sure to commend his spirit over to the great god’s keeping. Prayer complete, he opened his eyes, just as another enemy formation came into view, marching to join those already formed up.

  To Stiger’s trained eye, his enemy appeared highly organized and disciplined. That seriously worried him. They were also uniformly equipped and they moved in a manner that spoke of repeated drill and practice. The enemy host was nowhere near the chaotic mob he had become accustomed to facing. Across the way, Stiger understood he was looking upon a professional force, one to be taken very seriously.

  There were formations of heavy and light infantry. Stiger studied the heavy infantry carefully. Those would be the most dangerous units on the field. They were equipped with chest armor, helmets, large rounded shields, medium spears, and swords. The medium spears appeared to be not only for jabbing, but throwing as well. From this distance, he could not tell the type of sword they were equipped with, but that hardly mattered at the moment. They would learn soon enough.

  Stiger was also able to make out different races. He could see what he took to be two goblin formations, numbering around two hundred each. They were shorter in stature than the orcs in the neighboring formations, standing about the height of an average man. Their skin was a bright greenish color. He could not make out much more of their features.

  “Are those trolls?” Stiger asked Therik and pointed. There was a small formation of fifty of the creatures. They towered over the orcs and were heavily armored, wearing not only chest armor, but greaves as well. They appeared to be somewhere around twelve feet tall. Their formation was much looser than the others and they looked to have orc minders.


  “Mountain trolls,” Therik nodded. “Very nasty and difficult to kill.”

  The king was right. Stiger could not imagine having to face off against such a creature. It would surely be a terrifying experience.

  “Use bolt throwers,” Therik said, pointing toward the nearest tower. “Shoot bolts at them to kill. Not even a troll can stop one. It should kill him good.”

  The suggestion was a good one. Stiger made a note to speak to Barunus about that. He continued studying the enemy. His eyes found a formation of humans, light infantry off to the left side of the enemy host.

  “Theltra.” Therik pointed as a new formation arrived.

  These were armed and lightly equipped like those they had fought in the tunnels. They marched forward, standards fluttering in the breeze.

  “Zealots,” Therik spat, “all of them. They sacrifice themselves for Castor. You make sure you watch during fight. No telling what they do.”

  “I will,” Stiger said, filing that away for later. He would have to alert his senior centurions to watch for the fanatics.

  “I did this,” Therik said, a note of pride in his voice. He pounded a fist to his chest. “I did this. Me. No one else.”

  “What do you mean?” Stiger turned to him.

  “They look like your legion, no?” Therik said. “They fight in order, with control.”

  “You mean they are disciplined?” Stiger said. “They fight together and not by themselves, as individual warriors? Is that it?”

  “Disciplined, is that the word?” Therik asked curiously. He tried the word again, rolling it over his tongue. “Disciplined.”

  “Yes,” Stiger said sourly. “You gave them discipline.”

  Therik beamed with pride. “It took lots of training and work to do this.”

  “Thank you for that,” Stiger said. He found it more than a little ironic that the individual responsible for the professional army facing off against him was now at his side.

  Therik apparently thought Stiger’s words extremely funny and boomed out a laugh.

  “You do realize my job is to kill them,” Stiger said, “to destroy what you’ve built?”

  “You try,” Therik said and then smiled broadly, showing off his tusks. “I help you, if you give me sword.” He gave a shrug. “Yes and no, is some sad.”

  “Why did you build this army?” Father Thomas asked, curiously glancing over. “I take it you meant at some point to war against the dwarves and strike at Vrell?”

  “No,” Therik said firmly and in a tone that sounded slightly offended. “I meant no war. Only small part of it is mine, perhaps thirty thousand. They disciplined. Others are levies and poor warriors. I keep word to Brogan. I have honor.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I made army to give my chieftains something to think on before challenging me to be king.”

  “I see,” Father Thomas said, sounding dubious. “You built an army to give your own people second thoughts?”

  “Also,” Therik added, “goblins are trouble. They difficult to put down when rise up. Having army was good way to frighten, them knowing I had a bigger stick. I only had to make example once, not twice.” He boomed out a laugh. “Then no more trouble from goblins. They follow Therik after.”

  Therik paused and heaved a great sigh. “Then there are gnomes.” He said the word with an utter loathing and disgust that Stiger found surprising.

  “What about them?” Stiger asked.

  “There be concern gnomes ignore Brogan and come for us,” Therik said. “Is why I prepared army also. My people liked that. Gnomes are no good. They no like money or peace. They sneaky, underhanded fighters who dream on nothing but killing orcs.”

  “You don’t much like gnomes I take it?” Stiger glanced over, interested to hear more on the orc side.

  “Gnomes are little shits,” Theo said. Stiger noticed that Theo was paying close attention to what Therik said.

  “They hate us. We hate them,” Therik said, as if it were that simple. “In past they kill many orcs and we kill many gnomes.”

  “Why?” Stiger asked.

  “Because, that is how it has always been,” Therik said and then became contemplative. “I think we once worship same god. Not sure. I do know gnomes were part of Horde. My people forget reason it all start. Maybe gnomes too? Now, like the dwarves, gnomes worship Thulla, god of fire and metalworking. So perhaps it is change of god which started long-running hate.”

  Stiger gave a nod, thinking on what he knew of the dwarves, gnomes, and orcs. The explanation kind of made sense. A lot of hate and suffering had been sparked by differences in one’s choice of god. The truth of that was arraying itself before him across the river.

  Stiger shifted his gaze from Therik to study his defensive line. He had ordered only half of the cohorts to the wall. The other half had been stood down and were resting. There was no point in deploying his entire force until the enemy did something that indicated they planned an immediate assault.

  Stiger’s gaze swept his line on the right side and followed it down to the water. He saw a dwarven standard planted on the rampart next to those of a legionary cohort. Thigra’s warband had been split and positioned with the legionaries holding the flanks of the line along the river’s edge. The chieftain of the Rock Breakers had welcomed the opportunity to join the defenders along the legion’s flanks.

  “He hopes to gain much legend,” Theo said, clearly seeing the direction of Stiger’s gaze and guessing at his thoughts.

  “Are you referring to Thigra?”

  “That is why he took you up on your offer to help hold both flanks,” Theo said. “Thigra’s great-grandfather, Torga, was a mighty warrior. General Torga is a legend amongst my people and is reputed to have fought with your Karus. You could almost say Thigra has been living in Torga’s shadow his entire life.”

  “Do I need to worry about him doing something stupid?”

  “I don’t think so,” Theo said. “Thigra is a strict follower of the Way. He will do his duty and so will those of his warband. They are solid and proven warriors. No, Thigra is pragmatic, even though he dreams big.”

  “Proven warriors?” Stiger asked. “Like Taithun and his company?”

  “Nothing like him or his dvergr,” Theo said, speaking with conviction. “You can rely on Thigra. Trust me on that.”

  After the initial hostility, Thigra had warmed up to Stiger and the other officers. Stiger had supposed the feast and extended drinking session with the legion’s senior officer corps had something to do with it. Perhaps, after what Stiger had just learned, Thigra had been appeased by his key position in the impending battle. He and his warriors would have to hold at all costs. Stiger had inadvertently placed his trust in the chieftain of the Rock Breakers. If what Theo had said was true of Thigra’s warband, then Stiger’s flanks were more secure for it.

  Sabinus climbed up the ladder to the platform. First Cohort held the centermost portion of the line and was arrayed just below them. The legion’s eagle had been placed with them in a place of honor for all to see. The gold glittered brilliantly in the sun. The centurion’s expression was grim as he came up to the railing, his hobnailed sandals clunking off the thin floorboards. He stepped up next to Father Thomas and looked outward.

  “I wish you had let me destroy that bridge,” Sabinus said, leaning forward to glance past Father Thomas and over to Stiger. “There are a lot of them over there.”

  “We’ve been over this. We have to give them an opportunity to cross,” Stiger said. “I’ve told you, orcs don’t much like water. I want to give them an easy way across the river and right into our killing ground.”

  “Is true,” Therik said. “My people don’t swim well. Add armor, we too heavy and sink to bottom.”

  Sabinus gave a nod and turned his gaze back outward.

  “Well,” Sabinus said, “I’d not attack this position if I had a choice.”

  “My army attack,” Therik said and held both hands outward to encompass th
e entire defensive line. “My son see this as challenge. He come, and good chance he will win. My army strong and disciplined. They come and keep coming.”

  “We might have a few surprises for them,” Stiger said.

  “If you look, just behind their line, they’ve started digging in, sir,” Sabinus pointed. “One of my boys spotted them at it a short while ago. I’m not sure exactly what they are doing.”

  Stiger looked and, sure enough, the enemy was digging in. Stiger counted twelve large formations that made up the first column of the enemy line. Just behind that column and before the next were teams of orcs digging in. They did not appear to be beginning a defensive line, but instead a prepared position. Stiger ran his eyes along the gap and spotted more than a dozen places that teams were busily breaking ground, shoveling away.

  What were they up to?

  Stiger snapped his fingers as it hit him. He turned to Therik. “You’ve got artillery too?”

  “Not big ones like you have,” Therik said, gesturing at the nearest machine. “But we have rock throwers. Our skill at tossing rocks is not great.”

  Father Thomas stepped back from the railing. The paladin appeared abruptly troubled. His gaze darted out toward the enemy, eyes searching the field across the way. Stiger was about to ask him what was wrong when the paladin spoke.

  “I believe I shall take a tour of the line. I think the men might appreciate a kind word and blessing.”

  Stiger gave a nod, wondering what was bothering him. Had he sensed the minion? Was it that close? The thought of the creature chilled him to the bone. Father Thomas left them, climbing down the ladder.

  Stiger turned his gaze back to the growing enemy host. The more he studied the army across the river, the more he understood that exceptionally difficult hours lay ahead. His greatest challenge was before him. There was absolutely no doubt about that.

  “My people are putting on a show for you,” Therik said. “A big show. Is meant to scare.”

  Stiger agreed with that assessment. Glancing down at his defensive line below, he knew the effect it was likely having on the legionaries. Though they would man the line and do their duty, he felt he needed to give them something. Perhaps a little motivational backbone for what would be coming. A speech wouldn’t do, as there were too many to speak to and not enough time, but something just as visible.