The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “You snuck off, too?” Stiger said, supposing that the orc had taken the opportunity also to wander off without an escort. At least he hoped that was the case. If Therik was looking for trouble, he had certainly found it.

  Stiger sensed Rarokan intently paying attention.

  “Yes,” Therik said. “It is a rare thing to be alone.”

  “And yet in the middle of this ancient city,” Stiger said, “we just happen to chance across one another? And by ourselves, too?”

  Therik’s eyes narrowed. For several heartbeats he said nothing, then he gave a bark of laughter.

  “Yes, human,” Therik said. “I made off while my people were busy making camp. And no, this is not chance meeting. I was looking around. I saw you and decided follow so we might speak.”

  “Honesty, then?”

  “Honesty,” Therik said, with a firm nod of the head. “Nothing more than you have shown me.”

  “I appreciate honesty,” Stiger said. “And those who are direct.”

  “Very well. If that is what you wish,” Therik said matter-of-factly. “The priests have spread word about you. They want you dead. They want it badly.”

  “Is that so?” Stiger tensed up and felt a prickle of anger. Dog sensed it, for he stood.

  “No need to worry,” Therik said.

  “And why is that?”

  “I will not take your life this day,” Therik said, and then grinned, displaying his large sharpened tusks. “Perhaps tomorrow or the day after, but not today.”

  Stiger relaxed slightly, realizing the orc was playing with him. Dog sat back down as well.

  “Should the priests learn I speak with you and did not seek your life,” Therik said, sobering, “then they happily take mine.”

  “You would let them?”

  Therik gave a growl, not unlike Dog’s. “They could try.”

  “They’ve already attempted as much with me,” Stiger said.

  “I know.” Therik pointed toward the space next to Stiger on the opposite side from Dog. “May I sit?”

  Stiger was surprised by the question, but after a moment’s reflection gave a nod.

  Therik made his way up the last few benches, giving Dog some healthy room as he crossed in front of them. He cleaned off the stone, brushing aside the dirt, before sitting some three feet from Stiger. They were silent for a time. Stiger wondered why the orc king had come. Taking a bite of the cheese, he reached over and offered the rest to Therik.

  “Thank you,” the orc king said, accepting the offering. Therik finished the cheese with one chew and swallow. “You humans must have no taste. That terrible cheese.”

  “It is army food,” Stiger said. “It is meant to feed you, keep you going, not taste good. If a person finds it tasty, there is either something wrong with them or something not quite right with the food.”

  Therik laughed, snorting through his nostrils. “Much truth in that, I think.”

  “Agreed,” Stiger said, amused.

  “This looks like pit for fighting,” Therik said, gesturing outward with his hand.

  “It is for . . .” Stiger paused. He did not know the word in dwarven for theater. “Play.”

  “Play?” Therik’s forehead ruffled. “I do not understand.”

  “Acting,” Stiger said, in the common tongue. “People pretending to be others. They put on a show for the masses.”

  “Ah,” Therik said in dwarven. “I know of this. Not for fighting, then?”

  “No,” Stiger said, “this is not a gladiatorial arena.”

  “Gladateria?” Therik said, stumbling over the word.

  “Gladiatorial,” Stiger corrected. “Men fighting for show, or condemned criminals hoping for their freedom by being the last man standing.”

  “My people have this, too,” Therik said. “We go to watch. It is very entertaining. Sometimes, sadly, fighting is not real. It is like this play you speak of.”

  “We have fake fighting, too,” Stiger said, thinking it odd that their peoples had something in common. “It can be expensive to lose good gladiators.”

  “Owners no like lose money,” Therik said. “When they lose, they become unhappy. They complain.” Therik let out an explosive breath. “Everyone brings problems to me. Sometimes, I wonder what they do before I came along.”

  Stiger gave a nod, pulled out his canteen, and took a swig of water.

  Therik held out his hand expectantly. The orc king did not carry a canteen. Stiger hesitated, thinking it somewhat odd he was sharing not only conversation but his food and water with an orc. He handed the canteen over. The orc took a modest gulp. Therik returned the canteen.

  “Why have you come here?” Stiger asked, looking over, as he stopped the canteen closed. He set it down at his side.

  “Why here,” Therik said and pointed down into the stone bench, “or why speak to Brogan?”

  “Brogan,” Stiger said. “Why have you asked for talks? By doing so, if I understand correctly, you put yourself at risk. Am I right in that?”

  “Why anger priests?” Therik asked. “That is what you want to know?”

  “Yes, exactly,” Stiger said and looked over. “Brogan tells me why he thinks you are here. I want to hear it from you, in your own words.”

  Therik placed both hands on his thighs and leaned forward slightly, partly turning toward Stiger.

  “I come to stop war,” Therik said plainly.

  “It has already begun,” Stiger said, just as plainly.

  “That is where you are wrong. It never ended. Gods war and be fighting a very long time.”

  “Why go against your god, then? You defy Castor, by just speaking with me.”

  “Castor is not my god,” Therik said, with deep feeling. The orc king flexed his jaw before spitting on the stone bench to their front. “I tell you, he is not my god.”

  Stiger wasn’t sure what to think, so he settled for challenge.

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Believe, don’t believe,” Therik said, looking away. He waved a hand in dismissal. “It is up to you.”

  “How can you say Castor is not your god?” Stiger asked. “Unless I have it wrong, you orcs serve him.”

  “Castor is Castor’s god. The gods’ war brings nothing to my people, only destruction, death.” Therik’s tone reeked of a deep-seated anger. “It was I. No one else united the mountain tribes. I did this. We now build cities, and work together.” Therik pounded a fist into the palm of his hand. “For first time, my people live in peace. Yes, there are petty squabbles, but we no longer war amongst ourselves. And then you come, along with—” Therik said a word Stiger did not understand, becoming more passionate. “Now, with each day, more and more tribes go over to the priests.” Therik’s face twisted with disgust. “Even my son listens to their poisonous words. All that I have built is but inches from the cliff face. It balances on knife’s edge.”

  Breathing heavily and worked up, Therik abruptly fell silent, eyes sweeping the amphitheater once again.

  “I come to stop war,” Therik said, in a near whisper. “I come to stop war.”

  “I am afraid we waste our time here,” Stiger said. “There is no stopping the fighting to come. I know that.”

  “I don’t know that.” Therik’s tone was forceful. He looked over and Stiger read pure anguish in his face. “My kingdom fall, and the war go on and on unless we can stop Cetrite and the mishkathol.”

  “Cetrite? Mishkathol? I do not know those words.”

  “Cetrite is High Priest,” Therik said with a tone that reeked of disgust. “Mishkathol is gods blessed. Both are bad.”

  Stiger froze for a heartbeat. His hand began moving toward the sword until he realized that Therik was not speaking about him, but someone else. So caught up in the emotion of the moment, the orc did not notice the move.

  “Gods blessed?” Stiger snapped his fingers in sudden realization. “You mean the minion, the direct servant of Castor? It is gods blessed?”

>   “Yes,” Therik said, slapping a palm on the stone bench. “It has much medicine. The mishkathol must be stopped. If we do not, with it come Horde, massed strength of my people. Then there be lots of death and suffering, for all.”

  “I’ve seen that,” Stiger said softly, averting his gaze. “I’ve fought against your Horde and I have no desire to see it again, ever.”

  “What?” Therik said, eyes narrowing with skepticism. “How can be? How can you be here? Nothing survives Horde.”

  “I did.’

  “Impossible,” Therik said. “The stories tell of Horde as being unstoppable as a rockslide.”

  “Believe, don’t believe,” Stiger said, turning Therik’s words back upon him. Stiger fingered the torc affixed to his chest armor. “Fighting the Horde is where I got this little prize.”

  Eyes upon Stiger, Therik fell silent. He was clearly in deep thought.

  “What did you call it? The creature, Castor’s servant?” Stiger asked.

  “A mishkathol,” Therik said in a subdued tone. “It is will of Castor in flesh and blood.”

  Stiger sucked in a breath and regarded Therik. He made a decision.

  “You should know, I have faced one of Castor’s minions,” Stiger said.

  “A mishkathol?” Therik’s expression now turned to one of utter surprise. His tone was filled with awe. “You fought one?”

  “Alongside a paladin of the High Father,” Stiger said. “Together, we defeated it and sent it on to its master.”

  Therik just stared at him for what seemed like a long time.

  “I should disbelieve you,” Therik said, “but I do not. I see now why Brogan brought you and why priests want you dead. You are dangerous.”

  “I have come to kill your mishkathol,” Stiger said. “It is why I am here.”

  “You bring hope,” Therik said, brightening considerably. “It is why I called these talks. I wished to find hope.”

  “You have that wrong,” Stiger said, with a heavy breath. “Where I go, death follows. I bring death.”

  “Until I unified tribes, my people thought same of me.” Therik fell silent again, seemingly lost in thought.

  Dog leaned his head back down on Stiger’s leg and closed his eyes, going to sleep. Stiger glanced down at Dog, surprised, and felt himself frown. He looked back up at the orc king. Like Dog, he felt no threat from Therik, and it was more than a gut feeling. The orc king had been completely honest with him. He was certain. As incredible as it was to believe, Therik was here hoping for a way to defeat his own god. Stiger ran a hand through his matted hair. He was rocked by this sudden revelation.

  “What tribes have you fought?” Therik asked after a time. “Were they of western plains? We’ve heard tale of brothers and sisters but have had no direct contact.”

  Stiger glanced over at the orc and felt sadness for him. Therik appeared almost civilized. He had never expected to relate to an orc. Still, like everyone else not of the Mal’Zeelan Empire, Therik was, in essence, a barbarian. As an orc, he was considered even lower than that, a mindless savage. Stiger was beginning to find that was not necessarily the case.

  “Why do your people desire the return of Castor?” Stiger asked, instead of answering the king’s question.

  “Desire?” Therik snorted out a laugh. “There is no desire to it. Castor has returned and his priests have regained their medicine. It is fear that motivates my people, fear of Castor. That and priests’ sacrificial knives. It has always been way. Most do not understand we are no better than slaves to a hard and unforgiving master.”

  “But there are those who believe?” Stiger asked. “Those of your people who have faith. Are there not?”

  “Of course,” Therik said. “Until mishkathol returned, most only said words. They did not feel with heart. With coming of Castor, there are many who are blinded by faith to a god who cares not for his people. Castor does nothing for us, and for that, he never be my god. If I could kill all of his priests with my own two hands, I would.”

  “So,” Stiger said, “what will you do, then?”

  “Tonight, you, me, and Brogan speak important words,” Therik said. “We must kill mishkathol. We do that, and war ends. My people be free to build better future.” The king heaved a great sigh. “If you are to kill mishkathol, then I have a plan. Together we end the war.”

  Stiger thought of all he knew from the future. He did not have the heart to tell Therik that he suspected it was already far too late.

  Therik stood and pointed at Stiger’s golden torc. “As I told you, those I brought with me want to kill you for that. They see you wearing that as insult to people. By killing you, it will return honor to chieftain you took it from. They are loyal to me and not act without my order. Continue to wear it proudly, for though it is an outrage, it also gives you standing.”

  “And in your eyes?” Stiger asked.

  “In mine . . .” Therik opened his mouth in a sudden broad grin, a long red tongue snaking around his lower left tusk and briefly caressing it. “You killed a mishkathol and look to kill another. For that, I consider you a brother, even if you are only a lowly human.”

  Therik began climbing down the stone benches.

  At the last one, the orc king stopped, turning back. “You are not like humans I have known. Human tribes in my kingdom are weak, fearful.” The king pointed a finger at Stiger. “You not fear me. For that, I like you. Even so, I kill you one day. I promise.”

  With that, Therik turned and continued on. Stiger watched the king of the orcs as he made his way out of the ruined amphitheater and was soon lost to sight.

  Do not let him fool you, for you cannot trust him, Rarokan hissed in his mind. Orcs are of the Horde and pawns of the dark gods. They are the enemy. Better to be safe. He is alone, unprotected. We should follow and kill him now. Take his soul before he can act against us.

  Stiger felt the sword’s hunger well upward from within. The power flowing in to him rapidly becoming a flood, a torrent of rage.

  “Stop that,” Stiger said through gritted teeth as he struggled to resist the urge to pursue Therik. The power battered violently at him, seeking to overcome his resistance. Stiger pushed back hard, but it wasn’t enough to hold off the deluge of hate and rage. He realized with a sinking feeling that the sword was rapidly overcoming his mind, his control. Desperate and recalling Father Thomas’s words, he thought of the High Father and the urge almost immediately receded, as if the threat alone of calling upon and receiving aid from the great god was enough to cow Rarokan.

  Stiger’s breath came in great gasps. Dog was looking up and him and whining softly.

  “It’s all right,” Stiger said, patting his head.

  Dog seemed to understand and once again laid his head upon Stiger’s thigh.

  Danger past, Stiger sat there for a time, breathing steadily and attempting to slow the hammering of his heart. He forcibly calmed himself, contemplated his words with Therik, and the struggle with the sword.

  “Nothing is ever easy,” Stiger said to himself, “and it’s not likely to get any easier.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Stiger stepped up to the fire, Brogan cast him an unhappy and impatient glare. Stiger had inadvertently kept Brogan and Therik waiting. It had taken him longer than expected to return from his explorations. Ignoring the thane, Stiger took a seat, sitting cross-legged on the rug between Father Thomas and Sabinus. He could feel the hard stones amidst the grass beneath the rug. He shifted about for a more comfortable position and then stilled.

  “Cutting it kind of close,” Father Thomas said, “aren’t you?”

  “I’ve made it,” Stiger said, shrugging his shoulders. After his talk with Therik, he had remained in the amphitheater thinking about all that weighed heavily upon him—himself as the High Father’s champion, Sarai, the sword, and everything fate had thrown his way.

  The sun had just passed behind the trees. Highlighted by the clouds, the sunset sky was a brilliant orange mixe
d with deep hues of purple. The temperature was still somewhat warm, but the onset of the coming night was beginning to leach the warmth from the air.

  Though it wasn’t a large blaze, the fire crackled and popped loudly. Brogan and Jorthan had a rug of their own just to the left. Facing them from across the fire was Therik, seated next to an elderly orc. Brogan, with a heavy breath, settled himself next to Jorthan. The thane carried a large mug, which he made a show of gazing into before taking a slow sip.

  “That is Karan,” Father Thomas said in a low tone and nodded toward the elderly orc. “He is advisor to Therik. Jorthan explained that Karan raised Therik after his mother and father were killed in a raid by a rival tribe. He is one of the king’s most trusted advisors.”

  Stiger gave Father Thomas a grateful but curt nod. He turned his attention to study Karan. The orc’s face was lined with age. The skin had gone from a healthy greenish color like Therik’s to a pale, faded green that seemed almost translucent. It hung on his arms like a burlap sack that had been used well beyond its prime. The orc’s hair had also lost any color and was now a dull, rain-cloud gray. Despite all that, Stiger read cunning and intelligence in the creature’s eyes as Karan carefully studied those across the fire.

  Stiger sensed Rarokan waking, its presence hovering in the background. The sword was clearly interested in what was to be said. Stiger also felt its hunger for blood, but that was sullenly muted and subdued, which was something of a relief.

  Brogan took another long sip and then placed the mug down at his side. He smacked his lips and wiped his beard around his mouth with the back of his forearm before looking up at Therik. There was a calculating expression on his face as he considered the king for a few moments.

  “We know why we are here,” Brogan said finally in a tone that was almost hostile. “The priests are stirring up your people something fierce. By all indications you are in a desperate position. If this is not a correct assessment, I would like to hear what is.”

  Therik opened his jaw slightly, as if taken aback. Therik returned Brogan’s gaze with a flinty one of his own. He reached up a hand, running a thumb along one of his sharpened tusks. The firelight gave the white tusks a yellowed hue. It was clear by how he had stiffened he was unhappy with Brogan’s approach.