The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Runoff system?” Stiger said, glancing around. “Like a sewer or an aqueduct?”

  “Very much so,” Jorthan said, joining the conversation. “If you look there, just ahead, you will see drains along the floor, next to each support.”

  Sure enough, he saw a metal grate, next to the support column that ran up along the wall. Under the dim lighting, he had missed it. He now understood why the road was raised in the center, as it was guiding any water that entered the tunnel down to the drains.

  “When the road was first constructed,” the thane said, as the grade of the road began to slope gradually downward, “the tunnel that was originally dug was far larger than what you now see, at least another twenty feet beneath us. The drain-way was constructed first and then the road was placed above it. Our engineers are quite good at these sorts of things.”

  “You would be surprised,” Jorthan said, “at how much water accumulates in the runoff system. In more populated areas, not only do we use the runoff as a source for our drinking water, but also to power mills, grind flour, and saw wood, amongst other industrial activities.”

  “There was once a sawmill at the end of the Kelvin Road,” Brogan said, “where the runoff system dumps into a river. By the time it reaches the mill, the force of the water is very powerful. At its prime, it was quite the operation. Had we more time, I would gladly offer to show it to you after we finish with the summit.”

  Stiger turned slightly, shifting is his saddle and studying the thane for a prolonged moment before he replied.

  “So, you also have doubts about the talks bearing fruit?”

  “I do,” the thane admitted after a slight hesitation. “By the gods, I do.”

  They fell into silence for a time, simply riding along and keeping their own thoughts. The grade became sharper for a short while as the road took them deeper. Then it flattened out again.

  “I have met with King Therik,” Brogan said, finally breaking the silence. “For an orc, I found him to be surprisingly intelligent and thoughtful.”

  “Truly?” Despite himself, Stiger was curious. “Have you met with many orcs?”

  “A few,” Brogan said. “They are not as long-lived as my people. Most were weak chieftains that had united a handful of the tribes nearest our lands. Orcs despise my people and yours. They think themselves a superior race. And yet, these chieftains desired to remain strong in the face of their own tribal neighbors. This was more important to them than their disdain and hatred of us. They were more interested in trading and keeping the peace than wasting their warriors against ours.”

  “Therik is different?”

  “Very. He is a strong leader and the first to unite all of the tribes, at least the ones we know about,” Brogan said. “According to our informers, amongst his people, all bend the knee to Therik. Even their priesthood fears him. For the most part he, too, desires to avoid hostilities and has kept his people out of the valley. The exception being trade missions, of course. Over the years, he and I have communicated regularly by messenger and met face to face a handful of times. I have had no cause to ever question his word, nor his intentions.” Brogan looked over at Stiger. “The worst issue we’ve had in recent years is the ambush on your person. I intend to speak with him about that, even though he likely can do little, given what’s happening to his people.”

  “The problem we have,” Jorthan said, “are the religious zealots motivated by their priesthood. With the arrival of Castor’s minion, they have gained much support from Therik’s people in recent weeks. The orcs are growing restless.”

  “That is a real problem for us,” Stiger said.

  “It is Therik’s problem as well,” Brogan said, “and why he has requested these talks. His control over his kingdom is rapidly being eroded and undermined. I fear he will not be able to contain the zealots much longer. The proof of the breakdown in his authority is the attack on you at the pond and a few other minor raids on our caravans passing close to orc lands.”

  “That is why you have called for your army to be assembled,” Stiger said to Brogan.

  “Yes, I have called on the clans,” Brogan said, “for, as you correctly surmised, I do not expect the talks to bear much fruit. The best we might be able to hope for is keeping a number of the tribes from the fight.”

  “How many warriors do you have in the valley?” Stiger hoped the number was substantial.

  “Around two thousand in the region and close at hand,” Brogan answered. “That includes the garrisons of Grata’Kor and Grata’Jalor. We will be able to call up another thousand militia. All told, when the army comes up, the clans should provide us around fifty thousand warriors.”

  “I see,” Stiger said. It was a ray of sunshine. “When will your army arrive?”

  “The majority of it within the next three to four weeks,” Jorthan answered, “the rest in twelve to twenty, mostly support at that point.”

  If the orcs struck before the dwarves arrived, it meant the legion would be the only real force capable of contesting them. Stiger suspected they would be badly outnumbered.

  “What of the gnomes?” Stiger asked. “Do those numbers include them as well?”

  Both Brogan and Jorthan looked over at him, something approaching shock in their eyes.

  “Why ever would you want that?” Jorthan asked. “Gnomes are nothing but trouble. I would never recommend calling upon them for aid.”

  “We may need them,” Stiger said simply. “Should the orcs move before your army arrives, we will need all the help we can get.”

  “The gnomes have not fought at our side since we came to this world from Tannis,” Brogan said. “To ask them to do so may be unwise and give them ideas we don’t want them having.”

  They passed through a road junction. The crossroad was unlit. Stiger had seen a dozen just like it. The dwarven underground was a virtual rabbit warren of tunnels. Only a handful of other roads had been lit. There were no signs or markers that Stiger could see, and yet the dwarves seemed to easily know what tunnel went where. Occasionally they passed parties of dwarven traders or gnome work parties, but for the most part the road was empty.

  “Can you speed up the arrival of your army?” Stiger asked.

  “I have already sent messengers to my chieftains. You must understand, the clans are spread out, deep in the mountain range,” Brogan explained. “Many of my warriors have a long way to come, and before they set out, supplies have to be gathered to support them.”

  “What about the gnomes?” Stiger asked. “Do they have as far to come?”

  “Your fascination with those despicable creatures concerns me,” Brogan said.

  “There is a gnomish city within a week’s travel of Garand Thoss,” Jorthan said, sharing a look with his thane. “Should the need arise and the situation becomes desperate, I am sure we can call upon their aid. Though the thane and I will need to speak on how best to do this, if and when the time comes.”

  “As Jorthan said, gnomes are most troublesome.” Brogan frowned. “I hesitate to ask them to join us, for they are difficult to control. All it would take is an incident between my warriors and the gnomes . . . then you might see our combined army fighting itself, doing the work of our enemies.”

  “I see,” Stiger said. “Let’s hope the orcs give us the time we need then, for the bulk of your army to arrive.”

  “More importantly,” Jorthan said, “no matter how pessimistic we are on the summit, let us all pray that something comes out of these talks. For, should they fail, it is clear many on all sides will die. And our numbers are far fewer than you humans. We cannot afford such losses as your armies regularly face.”

  The thane cleared his throat loudly and shot Jorthan a look that Stiger could not fully see. The thane’s advisor sat up in his saddle.

  “That is an interesting animal you have there,” the thane said, clearly desiring to change the subject. He gestured at Dog, who was walking alongside Stiger’s horse. “Quite the pet.”

/>   “He’s not really a pet,” Stiger said, unsure how to best characterize his relationship with Dog. The animal had adopted him, instead of the other way around.

  “I heard what he did during the ambush,” Brogan said. “Though he does not have the look, you are correct. He is not pet, but an attack dog, a warrior in his own right.”

  Stiger glanced down to his side, where dog walked between the thane’s horse and his own, head held low, sniffing the ground as he went, tail occasionally giving a vigorous wag. “He certainly doesn’t have the appearance of one.”

  Brogan stroked his braided beard a few times as he looked on Dog, and then his gaze shifted back to Stiger.

  “There was a time,” the thane said, “when my people, like yours, had paladins, servants of the gods we honor. I don’t remember many of those tales, but I seem to recall one I heard my grandfather tell of a paladin on another world. He was dvergr and had a great big dog as a companion.” The thane turned to his advisor. “Jorthan, you were there for those stories. Do you remember the one I am talking about?”

  “The paladin’s name was Survil,” Jorthan said. “I used to love those old stories your granddaddy told us. When I grew older, I sat down with him and took the time write them down.”

  “You did?” The thane looked over at his advisor with ill-concealed surprise. “Truly?”

  “I thought it was important to preserve such tales,” Jorthan said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “They are part of history, our people’s heritage, and should not be forgotten.”

  “Jorthan is something of a historian.” The thane turned back to Stiger. “He and our scholars spend a great deal of time sharing and recording all that has occurred. It is tedious, but I suppose necessary.”

  “Those unfortunates who fail to learn from past mistakes,” Jorthan said, a hard look stealing over him, “are destined to repeat them.”

  Stiger glanced over at the thane’s advisor. As a lover of history himself, he wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment, though at the same time he felt chilled by it. Destiny was forcing him to walk in Delvaris’s footsteps. With each movement forward, Stiger felt as if he were being dragged toward Delvaris’s fate.

  “Yes, yes,” the thane said impatiently to Jorthan. “You are always telling me such wise things. I do on occasion listen. Now, speak about Survil’s dog, will you?”

  “That tale your grandfather told concerning Survil and his dog seems to be true.” Jorthan looked over at his thane.

  “He told true tales?”

  “I have confirmed it through other sources, historical texts to be exact, that specifically mention this paladin and other characters in his tales as real people who lived and breathed as you and I.”

  “And here I thought he made many of them up,” Brogan said, with an amused expression. “So the dog was real, too?”

  “Survil indeed had a large, shaggy dog, like this one here.” Jorthan fell silent as his gaze traveled down to Dog. “I find the descriptions of Survil’s companion eerily similar to yours. It is believed that the animal was a gift from his god, but we cannot be certain of that. The dog was supposedly not only incredibly intelligent, but had a warrior’s heart.”

  Stiger glanced down at Dog. He had never seen another like him. “And you think he is a gift from a god, then?”

  “I wouldn’t know how to tell for certain,” Jorthan said. “However, since events around you are central to the gods’ interests, I find I cannot easily dismiss the possibility.”

  “He is the largest dog I have ever seen,” the thane added. “If half of what I’ve heard is true from the ambush, you are a lucky man indeed, for you have been gods blessed.”

  Stiger was tired of people telling him that. He felt himself scowl and glanced down at Dog again, who seemed oblivious to their conversation. Could it be?

  Stiger looked back up and over at Jorthan, as he maneuvered Misty around a hole in the road. “What God did this paladin serve?”

  “We call him the Wolf God,” Jorthan said. “I believe, in your religion, he is second only to the High Father.”

  “You’re speaking of Mars?” Stiger asked. “The god of war?”

  “I am,” Jorthan said. “Mars is but one name of many he carries, and he is god of much more than just war.”

  Stiger did not bother to reply, but his gaze fell back down on Dog, who was padding along with them. He showed no indication that he either understood or was anything other than just an animal. The thane caught his look, drawing Stiger’s attention.

  “Only time will tell of his true nature,” Brogan said.

  “Or,” Stiger said, a thought occurring to him, “I could always ask Father Thomas for his thoughts.”

  “The paladin would know more of these things,” Jorthan said. “That much is for certain.”

  Stiger’s gaze returned once again to Dog. Without even having to ask Father Thomas, he felt he already knew the answer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stiger moved back into the stall, carrying several handfuls of hay from one of the supply wagons. He tossed these onto the ground before Misty. The dwarves had also provided him a bag of oats and an empty bucket. Every horse he had known loved oats, and Misty was no exception. She had her nose deep in the bucket and was happily munching away.

  Stiger glanced around the stable that had been carved into the bedrock of the mountain. It consisted of one long central shaft with stalls for animals on each side, perhaps as many as thirty. The stone stall walls came up to chest height, at least for a man, oddly allowing the animals to see one another and interact.

  Four oil lanterns provided the only light in the cavernous space, and it wasn’t much. The stables hadn’t been used in many years.

  Prior to bringing the animals inside, a team of dwarves had worked hurriedly to clean out the space. A layer of undisturbed dust and debris had covered everything. Cobwebs had stretched from ceiling to floor and every which way. Some of the webs were disturbingly thick, almost the width of his finger. Stiger dreaded encountering the spider that had spun it. He did not much care for spiders.

  The dwarves had found tools, including brooms and shovels, in a closet. They swept the dust and debris out and onto the road.

  Those same dwarves were now busy caring for the ponies. Two legionaries were tending to the four mules from the century’s train.

  Sabinus was in the next stall over from Stiger, grooming his horse. Stiger was pleased to see the centurion doing his own work, instead of assigning it to the men of Pixus’s century. He was alternating between humming and whistling a tune Stiger had never heard. Sabinus wasn’t very good at either. Stiger had almost joked with him that it was a good thing he had entered the legions. Almost. He did not know Sabinus well enough yet to take such liberties. So, he remained silent and listened as he worked on caring for Misty. He had to admit, besides the centurion’s poor skill at music, it was a catchy tune.

  “I picked up Azerax in Iveria, about a year ago,” Sabinus said, without looking up. “She cost me a pretty little fortune. She comes from working stock, but she’s was worth every talon. I couldn’t ask for a more loyal and steadfast horse.”

  Sabinus patted Azerax’s neck affectionately and then resumed his brushing.

  Stiger glanced over, hearing the pride in the centurion’s voice. It made him think on his own trusty mount, Nomad. Stiger felt a pang of sadness of his loss.

  “You have a fine horse, centurion,” Stiger said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “A good horse is like that,” Stiger said. “Care for her and she pays you back tenfold.”

  “True,” Sabinus said. “I don’t often get to ride. I usually march with the men, or when in camp I’m stuck attending to the legion’s business. Sadly, on most days she’s picketed with the rest of the mounts and rather neglected.”

  “So,” Stiger said, “when you can, it is an absolute joy to ride.”

  “Exactly, sir.” Sabinus looked up. “Dead on right.”


  “I know the feeling only too well myself,” Stiger said as he looked over the job he had done at brushing Misty down. He was quite satisfied with his work. He had made sure to completely remove the dust and dirt from her coat.

  Stiger had been amazed at how much dust there was under the mountain. Combined with the chill, more than a few of the men now had a sporadic cough. The dwarves seemed wholly unaffected. Perhaps, Stiger considered, they were just accustomed to it, as this was their natural environment.

  He ran a hand along Misty’s back. Her coat was smooth. Before they set off tomorrow, he would groom her once again. Between now and then, anything that found its way onto her coat and under the saddle could easily rub her raw, resulting in sores and infection.

  Stiger checked the mane and tail. He had made sure to brush both. He set about carefully picking the hooves clean, making certain they were free of any rocks and debris that might have become stuck during the day’s ride. Thankfully there had been no rocks, but he found some trapped grit. Cleaning the hooves kept a horse from bruising herself as she walked.

  Stiger looked over the saddle, which he had hung on the stall wall. Using a small towel he had wetted earlier, he wiped it down, removing the dust. The saddle was a sad piece of work, past its prime. At the same time, it was well broken in and made for a comfortable ride. Once clean, he hung the saddle on a pair of hooks set into the wall just outside the stall. Sabinus’s saddle, having also been cleaned, hung just below it.

  Lastly, he turned to the water trough. There was running water in the stables. It flowed in and out through a basin on the back wall, at the far end. The water came from the runoff system Brogan had mentioned. After having cleaned the trough free of filth, he drew several buckets and filled it. Still focused on the oats, Misty ignored the water. Stiger knew that would not last. The ride this day had been a long one.

  “Well, I’m done here,” Stiger said to Sabinus, returning the brushes to his saddlebags, along with the small wool towel he had used for the cleaning of the saddle. He had squeezed out as much water as he could. The towel was still damp and would need to be set out tonight to fully dry.