The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Stiger considered the elderly captain for a long moment as he slowly chewed. He got the sense that Taithun was not attempting to be offensive and had meant nothing by the comment. The old dwarf had asked the question without malice or sarcasm. He seemed interested in hearing what Stiger had to say. Stiger had been hoping to avoid joining the conversation.

  “Busy boys don’t cause trouble,” Stiger said simply, quoting his old sergeant Tiro and wishing Taithun would go on his way so that he could have some peace before the feast.

  “Normally I would agree with such sentiments. But in our current place, what trouble could they get into out here?” Taithun gestured around them with his arms out wide.

  “Captain,” Stiger said, having tired of the conversation, “you may have confidence in your pioneers. However, it has been my experience that when in strange lands you can never be too careful. These are my men and I feel it is better to be prepared.”

  Taithun shook his head slightly. “You have that wrong. These aren’t strange lands. They belong to my people and are known to us. We are at least three hundred miles from orc lands. I might add that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to march through the impenetrable forest that surrounds this ancient city.”

  Stiger took a breath. He had learned there was no such thing as an impenetrable forest. Eli had taught him the truth of that.

  “They are unfamiliar to us,” Stiger said, after a moment’s reflection. He decided to end the conversation and added a hard edge to his tone. “Captain, you are more than welcome to set up your camp however you wish, without any fortifications and defenses. I prefer to have some basic security. Not only that, it is good exercise and practice for the men.”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Taithun said stiffly before turning to face Pixus. “Centurion, thank you for the tour. It was most educational.”

  “It has been my pleasure,” Pixus said.

  “Legate.” The dwarf captain gave Stiger a curt nod and stepped away toward the gate.

  Stiger watched Taithun as he stomped over the bridge that led out of the encampment, disappearing out into the darkness. He decided he did not much like Taithun. The dwarf had an arrogant air about him that reeked of certainty and correctness, while being blind to other alternatives. Over his long years of service, Stiger had met many an officer like him. Stiger reflected that Theo’s opinion of Taithun might have colored his.

  He had not seen Theo all day. His friend had not been at the meeting either, meaning Brogan had not invited him. Stiger wondered what the dwarf had been up to. He broke off another bite of cheese and chewed. Sensing Stiger was in no mind to talk, Pixus excused himself and stepped away, leaving Stiger alone with his thoughts.

  As he was taking the last bite of Sarai’s cheese, Dog appeared and made his way over the bridge. One of the sentries bent over and patted the animal’s head. Dog stopped briefly and licked at the hand before padding his way into the encampment.

  Dog padded right up to Stiger and sat down. Facing him with unblinking eyes, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, Dog looked him square in the face. Stiger had never known a dog who had been able to meet his gaze and willingly hold it for a prolonged time. Usually, they looked away after a few heartbeats, as if uncomfortable. Dog was clearly different.

  He was still having some difficulty believing that Dog was divine in nature. Every time he looked at the animal, he saw only a large, hairy dog. And so, he treated it as one.

  “And where have you been?”

  Dog gave a clipped bark, tail wagging in the dirt. He snapped his jaws.

  “Hungry?”

  Dog gave another bark and snapped his jaws again. Stiger chuckled and opened his haversack. He pulled out one of the wrapped chunks of salted pork. He unwrapped it and tossed it up. Dog jumped and snatched it right out of the air. He gobbled it down in a heartbeat. After the meat was gone, the animal looked back up at him expectantly.

  “At least one of us enjoys salted pork,” Stiger said, securing his haversack and tying it closed with a double knot.

  Dog snapped his jaws again.

  “That’s all you’re getting,” Stiger said. “You’ll just have to go catch something yourself.”

  Dog gave a soft whine.

  “You could always try begging from the men,” Stiger suggested. “And there was that rabbit you caught earlier. I ordered the men to share it with you.”

  Dog, seeming to understand, walked off toward the tents and the men.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Stiger turned to find Mectillius.

  “We have a tent for you, sir,” the optio said, “right over there. It’s not much, I am afraid. Not like your regular tent, sir.”

  Stiger looked where indicated. A small one-man tent stood amongst the communal tents. The side flap was open and had been tied back. There was just enough room that he would be able to stand up inside. He knew there would not be a cot. He would be sleeping on the ground, using his arms for a pillow.

  “It is better than spending the night out in the open,” Stiger said. “I am sure it will be fine. Thank you, Optio.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mectillius turned to go.

  Stiger glanced up at the dark sky.

  “Optio?”

  “Sir?”

  “Have all of the sentries been posted yet?”

  “Not all of them, sir,” Mectillius said. “The men are still working at setting up the camp. Would you like me to put them out?”

  “I would,” Stiger said and then thought of something else. “For the feast, I will require an escort.”

  “Centurion Sabinus thought of that, sir. He has already spoken with Pixus,” Mectillius said. “He has ten picked men. They are readying themselves as we speak.”

  “Good,” Stiger said. “They will not be partaking in the feast, if you understand my meaning.”

  “Do you expect trouble, sir?” Mectillius asked.

  “No,” Stiger said. “But I don’t want to take that chance.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mectillius said. “The men will keep a clear eye. I will make sure of it.”

  Stiger gave a nod of thanks and Mectillius left.

  He glanced down at his armor. It was dusty from the day’s travels and dirty from his explorations. To say it needed some attention would be an understatement. He had no intention of going to the feast without wearing it. No matter what he thought of Therik, there was no way he planned on fully trusting an orc or, for that, matter Brogan. It bothered him that the thane had been preparing to kill Therik.

  Stiger picked up his saddlebags and removed the brush and towel he used for cleaning his armor. He also had a small bag of sand, but now was not the time clean down to that level. He glanced down at his armor. It was presentable enough. He would just have to make do with a good wipe down and a little bit of scrubbing. He put the brush and towel down next to him on the stone block and then began untying the laces, loosening his armor up.

  Stiger finished brushing. He blew on the metal to remove the last bit of grit that had become tucked in a groove, then leaned back and looked over his armor. It hadn’t been a deep cleaning, but it was enough. Despite having only spent an hour at it, he was pleased with his work. The sky was completely dark now. The moon had begun its nightly climb into the sky. It provided just enough light to see.

  All work on the camp had ceased sometime within the last half hour. Several fires had been set, both inside and outside the camp. Those fires on the outside were for the watch, to help make sure that no one approached unseen. The men sat around campfires or before their tents in small groups, eating and cleaning their kits. There was much jawing, interspersed with the occasional laugh.

  Stiger looked up and glanced around. He found the sounds of the camp somehow comforting. The army had been his home for a long time, at least until he had met Sarai.

  Stiger saw Sabinus make his way across the makeshift bridge and into the encampment. The centurion spotted him and made his way over. Sabinus appear
ed to be in a good mood.

  “Good evening, sir,” Sabinus said. “Lovely night.”

  “Been out exploring?”

  “No, sir,” Sabinus said and glanced off into the darkness beyond the walls. “I was inspecting the trench. Though I’d love to have a look around some tomorrow, if there is time. To think, Karus walked the streets of this city.”

  “I know what you mean,” Stiger said. “It is kind of surreal when you think on it.”

  “You poked around a bit, sir,” Sabinus said. “Do you think there is anything worth finding?”

  “No.” Stiger returned his brush and towel to the saddlebag. “Not without doing some serious digging, that is for certain. This city’s been abandoned too long. It’s all overgrown and ruin.”

  “I think you are right on that. Other than fallen stones and broken pottery shards, there is not much left.” Sabinus shook his head. “One of the men digging the trench found a small silver coin about four feet down.”

  “A coin?”

  “It was old and corroded. I had a look at it,” Sabinus said. “You can’t make out what it was, but I let him keep it as a memento.”

  “That’s nice,” Stiger said. “I bet he was the envy of all the men.”

  “I wonder how long it will take him before he melts it down or trades it for drink money.” Sabinus let out a sigh. “Still, I think I would enjoy a walk before we return, just to say I’ve done it and had a look around.”

  “This city would have been something to see at its prime,” Stiger said, then glanced up at Sabinus. The centurion’s armor was dusty and dirty, just like his had been. “You’d better get to cleaning that. I expect the feast to begin in about an hour. At least that’s what Taithun said when he stopped by. Apparently, the food isn’t ready yet.”

  “Armor tonight, then,” Sabinus said, “instead of tunics?”

  “Armor,” Stiger said.

  “I will get right on it,” Sabinus said and headed off. Stiger watched him walk away.

  Father Thomas emerged from a tent wearing his armor, the beautiful sabre at his side. He walked over to Stiger.

  “Ready for the feast?” the paladin asked him.

  “Don’t you look just all pretty,” Stiger said, with a sudden grin.

  “It is important to look one’s best,” Father Thomas said, “when attempting to spread favorable impressions of the High Father to the heathens.”

  “Do you think the orcs will be impressed?”

  “With my armor and sword?” Father Thomas said. “Maybe.”

  “Last week,” Stiger said, hefting his armor and setting it upon the ground, “if you’d told me I’d be dining with an orc delegation, I would have thought you crazy.”

  “I believe I would have said the same,” Father Thomas said.

  “Sir!”

  The shout rang out from the front of camp. Stiger’s head snapped up, as did everyone else’s. He saw one of the sentries calling for Pixus, who was halfway across the camp. “Sir, something is happening!”

  Armor chinking, Pixus hurried over. Stiger shared a glance with Father Thomas and then picked up his armor. Standing, he hastily shrugged back into it. Father Thomas left him and jogged after Pixus.

  Stiger looked up. He could not hear what the sentry was saying to Pixus. But it did not matter. He knew without a doubt there was trouble. He began hurriedly lacing up the armor, cinching it tight as he went.

  Shouts outside the encampment rang out. They sounded panicked. He reached down and grabbed the sword by the scabbard and slipped the harness on. He had left his helmet back where Misty was picketed but gave it no thought. He moved towards the gate.

  Two legionaries ran into camp. Breathing heavily, they came to a stop before their centurion and gave a salute. Both men pointed in the direction of Brogan and Therik’s camp, speaking rapidly.

  Stiger walked over, working to finish tying off the straps to his armor. He didn’t run or jog. He had long since learned to project a sense of calm, as if nothing were amiss. He did this for the benefit of the men. A panicked leader did not inspire confidence.

  “Report,” Stiger ordered, tone rock hard as he came up to them. Pixus, Father Thomas, and the legionaries turned to face him.

  “Sir,” Pixus said, “it seems a group of pioneers came running through. As they passed our boys, they shouted the word ‘orc.’ It’s not much to go on, but these”—the centurion gestured at the legionaries who had just run into camp—“thought they saw an armed party moving in the direction of the other camps after the pioneers came through.”

  Stiger turned to the two men.

  “That’s what we saw, sir,” one said. “There was a lot of them and they were moving all sneaky-like.”

  “Could you tell who they were?” Stiger asked.

  “No, sir,” the other legionary said. “They were sneaking through the trees and brush. It was hard to make them out and we wasn’t going any closer, sir.”

  Stiger rubbed his jaw and glanced out at the forest beyond the camp. He could not see much other than trees and ruins. Stiger found he couldn’t blame the two for not getting a closer look. Had they done so, they might have been killed. Instead, they had done the correct thing and reported.

  “What were you two doing out there?” Stiger asked of them. Pixus had dismissed most of the men of the century to look after their kit.

  “Punishment detail, sir,” Pixus answered for them. “I had them gathering wood. They were the last two of my boys out, besides Mectillius’s detail. I sent the optio to fetch water about half an hour ago.”

  “How many men did he go with?”

  “Ten boys and two mules.”

  “This cannot be good,” Father Thomas said. More muffled shouts could be heard in the distance. Stiger could not tell if they were dwarves or orcs. Whoever it was seemed alarmed.

  “No, not good at all,” Stiger agreed and then turned his gaze back to the two legionaries. “If you had to guess, who do you think they were?”

  “I thought they were orcs, sir,” said one of the men.

  “And you?” Stiger asked the other.

  “In the darkness, I couldn’t see very clearly. I took his word for it, sir.”

  Stiger shared a glance with Father Thomas.

  “You are thinking Brogan went back on his word to me?” Father Thomas asked. “Aren’t you?”

  “You have to admit it is possible,” Stiger said. “Though I would not have expected such after what you said.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” Father Thomas said in an unhappy tone.

  “Call the men to arms,” Stiger ordered Pixus.

  The shouts in the distance grew in intensity.

  “To arms!” Pixus roared, turning away and moving back toward the center of the camp. “Form up! Full kit, including javelins. On me! Now!”

  A moment later, a massed shout rose up from the darkness, somewhat muffled by the trees. This was followed by a sound Stiger was only too familiar with. Battle. He stepped across the bridge and out before the camp, scanning the trees. He saw nothing, but that did not mean anything.

  There was another massed shout, followed by a loud clash. This one was also muffled by the trees, but it sounded farther away. Stiger heard animal-like roars mixed in with the shouting and clatter of arms. He had heard those roars before. Orcs in battle.

  Stiger felt the sword’s presence and interest return.

  The nearest fighting seemed like it was in the direction of Brogan’s camp. For all of Therik’s talk, and the thane’s machinations, had it been a double-cross, then? From the sound of it, Brogan, instead of Therik, was the likely target. Taithun had just left the camp and he’d not been in his armor. Had it been Brogan going back on his word to the paladin, Taithun would never have visited. He would have been with his warriors preparing to attack Therik’s camp.

  Stiger scanned the darkened trees, mind racing. Therik had not brought enough orcs to overwhelm Taithun’s company, even if there were no defenses o
n the dwarven camp. Who was attacking whom? Fifth Century’s camp had not been assaulted. Why? What was going on?

  Glancing back on the walls of the camp, the legionaries of Fifth Century were falling in, hastily pulling on their armor and equipment. Men who already had theirs on were assisting others. Pixus and Sabinus crossed over the bridge and stepped up to Stiger. Father Thomas trailed after them, but stopped a few feet short of Stiger. The paladin’s attention was fixed in the direction of the fighting.

  “Your orders, sir?” Pixus asked, a hard look to his face as he tried to peer through the darkness and trees to see what was going on.

  “We have seventy men on hand?” Stiger asked, as he considered sending scouts out. “Is that right?”

  “Sixty-nine, sir,” Pixus said. “Not counting the officers and Father Thomas.”

  The sounds of the fighting behind the trees grew louder. It appeared as if the dwarven camp was under serious assault, but he just wasn’t sure. He had no idea what was going on, and that frustrated him.

  Stiger was leaning towards it being Therik that had crossed Brogan. If so, the legionary camp could fall under attack at any moment. He felt torn. Should he take the men and go to the aid of Brogan or at the very least venture out from behind the walls? If he did go to determine what was going on, and the camp came under assault, he may not have enough men left behind to hold it. Stiger bit his lip. He could send scouts out to reconnoiter. He had no idea of the enemy’s numbers or, for that matter, even who they were. But sending scouts out would take time, and if the dwarven camp was indeed under attack, such a delay might ruin any chance he had of making a difference.

  Stiger met Sabinus’s eyes. He saw a similar indecision in them. Sabinus clearly understood the situation. It was this shared understanding that drove Stiger to act. He glanced around their camp, knowing he had to do something. But what? And then, it hit him.

  Nothing was holding them here. There was absolutely nothing worth defending other than the camp itself and their supplies. The encampment’s only value was in the strength of its defense.

  “We will take the entire century out,” Stiger told the two officers. “I believe Brogan’s camp to be under attack. We will venture out to his aid.”