The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “A simple reward for faith, my son.”

  “Simple?” Stiger asked. “I don’t think so. It looked like it took a lot out of you.”

  “The child was almost to the boundary from whence there is no return,” the paladin said. “It took effort to pull him back and set things right.”

  “And the High Father desired that child healed?”

  “Oh, yes,” Father Thomas said. “Without the High Father’s blessing, there would have been no healing. All I can do is ask for my god’s assistance.” He glanced over at the family. “Though I am called to confront great evil, this small service brought me great joy.”

  The paladin’s gaze swung up to Thane’s Mountain and a grim expression came over him. Stiger followed the gaze. They both remained silent, considering the mountain.

  “Reminiscent of how things began once before, traveling to that mountain.” The paladin looked over at Stiger. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Stiger said. He had been thinking the same thing. He had first gone with Braddock. Now, Stiger was traveling to the mountain with Braddock’s father. It was all too similar. “That last time, things did not go as expected. Perhaps this time it will end with us going back to where we belong.”

  “I wouldn’t plan on it,” the paladin said.

  “You believe we are stuck here?” Stiger said. He already had come to that conclusion, but he wanted to hear it from the paladin. “In this time?”

  “I do, my son,” Father Thomas said. “I do not see how we can return. This is now our time.”

  Stiger scratched at his jaw and studied the mountain.

  “That’s not such a bad thing,” Stiger said.

  “I don’t quite follow you.”

  “Do you think if I survive what is to come . . .?” Stiger stopped. He could not bring himself to continue.

  “Ah, that,” Father Thomas said. “You are wondering if you will be able to go back to Sarai?”

  “Something like that,” Stiger said and pulled his canteen from a saddlebag. He unstopped it and took a swig, more to wash the taste of wine out of his mouth than anything else. “Something very much like that.”

  “It is not simply surviving,” Father Thomas said. “We must prevail over the evil that is even now growing amongst the orcs.”

  “If a life with Sarai is the reward for defeating the minion,” Stiger said, shaking the reins in his hand slightly, “then I will make certain that we do.”

  The paladin did not immediately answer.

  “I am afraid it is not likely to be as easy as that,” Father Thomas said.

  “It never is,” Stiger said, thinking of his conversation with Thoggle.

  “All right, you lovely bastards, yokes and shields up,” Pixus called loudly to his men. “Time for a little hike.”

  The dwarves had marched out of the town and were half a mile down the road. Stiger watched silently as the men grabbed their shields, which were in their protective canvas covers, and slung them over their backs. Heavy yokes were hoisted up and settled into a comfortable position on the shoulder.

  Carrying his own shield on his back and yoke on his shoulder, Pixus walked up and down the length of the column, checking his men to make sure all was ready and in order. He returned to the front of the marching column and nodded to the standard-bearer, who moved into position.

  “Forward,” Centurion Pixus called out loudly to his men. “March!”

  Stiger watched the eighty-some legionaries of Fifth Century begin to move forward, sandals rhythmically crunching the dirt of the road. It was a familiar sound, something he had not heard for quite a while. It was also, in a way, comforting. And yet, he had the increasingly uncomfortable feeling he was heading down a path from which there was no return. Destiny, fate, and duty were dragging him onward, and he hated it.

  “An old sergeant once told me, ‘Nothing worth doing right is ever easy,’ ” Stiger said.

  “It sounds like something a good sergeant would say,” the paladin said.

  “So far,” Stiger said, “that’s proven apt advice.”

  Stiger nudged his horse into a trot, leaving the paladin behind. He caught up with the men, passing by the century’s mule train and bringing Misty to a halt midway along the column. Stiger looked them over. Most of them appeared to be long-service veterans with a handful of youths tossed in, likely recent recruits. Stiger made a decision. He dismounted and, leading his horse, marched alongside the men. At the head of the column, Sabinus saw what he was doing and stopped his mount. He waited for Stiger to catch up and then himself dismounted.

  “What are you doing, sir?” Sabinus asked in a near whisper while leading his horse alongside Stiger’s. The centurion had made sure to put himself between Stiger and the men.

  “Sharing the miles with the men.”

  “Delvaris never did that.”

  “Well, I do,” Stiger said. “It sets a good example. Besides, I need the exercise. It has been too long since I took part in a good march and felt the ache in my legs at day’s end.”

  “Sir, please,” Sabinus said. “It may unsettle the men.”

  “They will become accustomed to it,” Stiger said, adding a firm undertone so that it was clear he had made up his mind.

  Sabinus fell silent with a heavy breath, and together they marched, leading their horses by the reins. The column passed the last of the buildings, leaving Bridgetown behind. The road ahead took them through the farm fields that surrounded the town. To their side, the men were at first silent as well. This was most likely the result of their legate being so close. Then, as time passed, they began to talk, and the regular friendly banter of an extended march began to take hold.

  As they approached the bridge, Stiger saw it was a work of stone, highly arched at the center. The bridge was nothing like the wooden one in the future. The hobnails of the men’s sandals cracked loudly on the paving stones as they made their way over its span. It was an impressive structure, and it reminded Stiger of some of the grand bridges back in the empire’s capital. A lot of engineering went into its construction. Thinking on the structures he had seen in Old City, and the apparent quality with which the bridge had been built, he decided it was dwarven work.

  Stiger made a point to peer over the edge. The river looked much deeper than it had when he had last seen it. Mountain-fed and clear, he could see straight down to its rocky bottom. He glanced over at Sabinus, recalling what the centurion’s future self had said about his recollection of the battle that happened here, in this time with Delvaris, and about how the legate had refused to destroy the bridge as the orc army advanced. Stiger felt abruptly chilled, realizing that Sabinus may very well have been speaking of Stiger himself and not Delvaris. There was no doubt in his mind that when the orcs came, he would meet them here on this spot, as he had done in the future.

  “Halt,” came the unexpected shout from ahead. “I said bloody halt!”

  The column ground to a stop, snapping Stiger back to reality. Pixus and several men were clustered about a mountain pony just ahead. One of the men was holding the reins. As he and Sabinus made their way forward, Stiger saw a dwarf lying on the ground.

  “I found him like this, sir,” Pixus said, stepping aside. “He’s alive. I checked. He’s just drunk is all.”

  Theo was passed out on the ground, clearly having fallen off his pony. The dwarf was snoring loudly. Stiger shook his head in both amusement and disgust. He considered what to do. He obviously couldn’t leave Theo here. His friend would never forgive him.

  Captain Aleric had been right to send Theo along. After the talk with Thoggle, Stiger understood difficult days lay ahead. He would likely need all the help he could get from the dwarves, and Theo would assist with that. He rubbed his jaw and glanced at the pony. Strapping Theo to his mount with all of that armor he was wearing was not an option. Removing the armor wasn’t, either. It would take too long.

  Stiger glanced around and spotted a small grove of young trees twenty yards
away. There were several saplings.

  “Have a litter fashioned,” Stiger said and pointed at the grove. “There are a couple of smaller trees over there. We will use his pony to drag him along until he wakes and is able to ride.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pixus said and called out some orders. A section of men snapped to.

  Less than thirty minutes later, the column was back on the march. They followed the road up the small ridge. The dwarven column was no longer in sight. Dog reappeared, coming up from behind at a run, barking as he came and then slowing to a walk next to Misty. Stiger glanced down at the animal and wondered what he had been up to. Tongue lolling, Dog seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Welcome back,” Stiger said to him. Dog gave a clipped bark and sprinted ahead, rapidly climbing the slope of the ridge.

  “He sure likes to run,” Sabinus said.

  “Seems that way,” Stiger agreed. His legs had stated to burn with the climb.

  At the top of the ridge, Stiger stopped and glanced backward the way they had come. The ridgeline and bowl appeared much as it had in his time, with only a few minor differences. The grass was taller, and green. Winter was not yet upon them. Beyond the bridge, he could see the tops of the buildings from Bridgetown, smoke from the chimneys rising slowly up into the sky. With little wind, the fire smoke hung over the town like an ugly pall.

  “What is it?” Sabinus asked, having also stopped. He was looking curiously at Stiger. “Is something wrong?”

  “I fought a battle here. Our defensive positions ran atop this ridgeline,” Stiger said, eyes roving where he had ordered his defenses set. In his mind, he could still hear the clash of arms and screams of that desperate fight. The memory of the battle was still fresh and hot.

  Sabinus’s eyes narrowed and he studied the terrain. “With the elevation, it is good ground, sir.”

  “Yes,” Stiger said, starting to walk once again as the tail of the column caught up to them. Theo was being hauled along at the very end, just after the century’s mule train. A legionary had been tasked with leading his pony. “It is exceptional ground.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I am not sure what to say,” Pixus said, clearly at a loss for words as they entered the mountain gates that ultimately led to Old City.

  Passing the massive stone gates, he and his men were looking around, agape, staring in awe at their surroundings. Only discipline, or perhaps it was the simple momentum of the march, kept the men moving ever forward. They craned their necks around, looking at everything.

  “This is absolutely astonishing,” Pixus continued. “Ten years from now, should I live long enough to make it to a veterans’ colony, no one would believe me. They’d think I was telling exaggerated tales over cups.”

  “They’d never believe us now,” Sabinus said to Pixus. “Gods, this is my third time through here, and I hardly can trust my eyes that this is all real. I never in all my imaginings thought such things were possible.”

  “It is fairly impressive,” Stiger said. He was leading his horse and walking alongside Pixus. Sabinus was to his right. Father Thomas was ahead somewhere. The paladin had ridden much of the way with Jorthan and had appeared to be deep in conversation with the thane’s advisor when Stiger had last seen him.

  “Fairly?” Pixus asked. Stiger glanced over at the hard-bitten veteran and their eyes met. There was a questioning look there. “Just fairly, sir?”

  Stiger gave a slight shrug.

  The entrance tunnel into the mountain spread out before them. A double row of support columns to either side traveled the length of the great hole. The columns reached upward to the ceiling, sixty feet above. The floor was smooth from centuries of use and the wear of untold numbers of feet. Large fire pits, spaced out every few yards, provided sufficient light to see. Even before they had stepped through the gates, the cold of the mountain had flowed outward in an eager, if not unwelcome greeting. It was as if the cold emanated from a deep crypt, the chill of the dead reaching to pull them over to the other side.

  So huge was the tunnel that the fire pits did absolutely nothing to combat the underground chill. They only served to illuminate the way, like a row of beacons, and light the carved reliefs on the walls that stretched from floor to ceiling. Though he had seen it all before, Stiger still found himself deeply impressed.

  The tunnel was considered an extension to the defenses of the fortress, Grata’Jalor, which lay ahead and guarded not only the way into the mountain, but also the World Gate. Stiger’s eyes once again searched out the murder holes, hidden amidst the carved reliefs, and the numerous trapdoors above, at least those he could see and identify in the shadows. There were also metal portcullises, suspended above by thick, rusted iron chains. The dwarves had done their best to create the perfect killing ground, and Stiger pitied any enemy who tried to force their way into the mountain through the tunnel, for it was a death trap in waiting.

  “This,” Stiger said to Pixus, “is nothing compared to what you’re about to see.”

  The centurion looked over at him, clearly with some skepticism, and then, like his men, returned to studying the surroundings as they marched deeper into the mountain. A hush had fallen over the men, despite the noise of marching feet, clattering wagons, and dwarven voices.

  The tunnel was busier and livelier than the last time Stiger had come through. That had been hundreds of years in the future, when Old City had been thoroughly abandoned for years. Now there were dwarves seemingly everywhere, either moving in or out of the mountain on business. The legionaries marched past slow-moving wagons and carts, dwarven teamsters wrapped heavily in fur or wool cloaks and jackets, clan colors proudly displayed for all to see. The wagons were pulled by teams of oxen, others by mules or work horses. The sound of their heavy hooves on stone echoed loudly throughout the chamber, as did the rattling and clattering of wagon wheels on stone. Stiger found it almost as noisy as a battle. The thousand sounds together created a cacophony that was nearly deafening.

  The dwarven teamsters paid them little attention, though a number did stare with what Stiger took to be disgust or suspicion at the sight of humans entering their sacred mountain.

  It had surprised Stiger to see the massive stone storehouses out in front of the mountain well-maintained and clearly in use. Prior to entering the mountain, they had passed by a caravan with over a hundred wagons preparing to depart for some unknown destination. The caravan wagons had nearly all been completely loaded, most having heavy tarps secured over their loads.

  “The legate is right,” Sabinus said to Pixus. “Wait until you see Grata’Jalor.”

  “The fortress that you told me of?” Pixus said, sparing his fellow centurion a look. “The one that guards this city of theirs?”

  “Yes,” Sabinus said and shot Stiger a warning glance to say no more. “That’s right.”

  “I still find the concept of an entire underground city difficult to swallow,” Pixus said. “Even after setting my eyes upon all this.”

  “As did I,” Stiger said.

  “What is that?” Pixus was pointing just ahead toward one of the large open fire pits. He was gesturing at a small diminutive creature busy taking split wood from the back of a cart and tossing it into one of the fire pits. The creature moved efficiently and with haste, seeming to want to finish its task rapidly.

  “That,” Stiger said with a heavy breath, “is a gnome.”

  “A gnome?” Pixus sounded as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing, not to mention hearing. “I thought they were just fancies of imagination, sir. Creatures that lived only in myth and tale?”

  “Like dwarves?” Sabinus asked him. “Up until a few months ago, we all would have said they weren’t real either. Remember our surprise when we saw our first dwarf?”

  Pixus nodded absently and stepped nearer the fire to get a better look. Stiger and Sabinus went with him.

  The gnome turned, its black eyes glittering in the firelight as the three humans approached. Stiger h
ad always found it slightly disturbing that gnomes had no pupils. The small creature, half the size of a dwarf and painfully skinny, was dressed in a simple tunic of plain brown wool. The tunic, patched over in numerous places, was made of coarse material and draped down past its knees, almost to the creature’s black boots. The gnome’s skin was an ashen color that could almost have been described as gray.

  Stiger idly wondered if the creature’s pallor was a result of it spending much of its life underground. The gnome ran a hand through its short black hair as it said something in a harsh, clipped tongue that Stiger did not understand but supposed was gnomish. Whatever it had said didn’t sound very pleasant.

  “I wouldn’t get too close,” Theo said, coming up from behind. The dwarf was leading his pony. Red-eyed and hair askew, he looked terrible. “The vicious little shits can be dangerous when provoked.”

  Theo had woken about an hour before. Showing no signs of embarrassment, the dwarf had dragged himself off the litter, detached it, and mounted his pony. Stiger suspected that he was still somewhat drunk, as his cheeks were flushed and he swayed slightly as he walked.

  “That little thing?” Pixus asked, clearly in disbelief. “It can’t be much stronger than a young child. Why, there’s no doubt I could overpower it with ease.”

  “They have a mean streak,” Stiger said.

  “A mean streak doesn’t adequately describe their temperament,” Theo said to Pixus. “Oh, and when dealing with gnomes, it’s not the individual that you have to worry about, but all of them devious, evil little monsters.”

  Theo casually gestured at the next fire pit, where five more gnomes were working. They had allowed the fire to burn out and were shoveling ashes into a cart. Two of the gnomes were inside the fire pit working. Another wagon, stacked with wood, stood nearby.

  “How many of them are there?” Pixus asked, eyes moving from the work detail to the gnome before them.

  “Too many,” Theo said unhappily. “Thankfully the little monsters mainly keep to themselves and live deeper into the mountains than my people. We dvergr try to have as little to do with their kind as possible. However . . .” Theo gave a shrug. “They are inextricably tied to my people, as we are to them.”