The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  He shifted one of his legs and almost groaned with the effort. Gods, his legs ached. He took a moment to massage his left calf, which had started to cramp. After a moment, he relaxed, placing his back once again against the carved stone wall. He let out a soft sigh of relief.

  The sound of running water from the runoff system could be heard amongst the subdued talking. It came from a nearby grate and had a relaxing and soothing quality to it. To his immediate right, a ten-yard stretch of the tunnel wall was slick with water slowly bleeding out of the walls and ceiling. From this, a small stream ran along the edge of the tunnel toward the drainage grate. It was one of the reasons he had chosen this spot. The sound of the water falling into the spillway and the running water below reminded him of the outdoors.

  Stiger saw Pixus pull himself slowly to his feet. The centurion stretched, then looked about. Their eyes met. Stiger gave him a nod, which was returned. Pixus began moving about, checking in on each man still awake, speaking quietly so as not to disturb anyone already out.

  Despite leaving his tent behind, Pixus had managed to bring along his vine cane. The cane was something Stiger knew to be incredibly important to the centurion. In Stiger’s time, few bothered to carry the canes. Sergeant Blake had been one of the few and had taken exceptional pride in it.

  In this time period, the vine cane’s use was widespread amongst the legions. Virtually every centurion carried one. The canes represented the sacred trust placed in the centurionate by the emperor himself. In essence, a small measure of imperial power had been invested in each officer. The symbol of that power was the vine cane.

  Watching the centurion make his rounds reminded Stiger of himself. That time seemed like an age past. So much had happened and changed since then. Stiger’s simple world as a soldier had grown complex beyond recognition.

  Pixus crouched down next to a legionary who had a bandaged head, speaking quietly with him. He was a damn fine officer and it showed in how deeply he cared for his men. That was something Stiger could well respect.

  “Everything good?” Stiger asked when Pixus came past.

  “Yes, sir,” Pixus said. “Just making sure my boys are all right.”

  “Make sure you get some rest, too,” Stiger said.

  “I will, sir,” Pixus said and stepped away.

  Stiger took another bite of his pork, listlessly chewing. As fuel it was more than sufficient to keep him going. Salt was an excellent way to preserve meat. Pork was less expensive than beef, which was why it was the legion’s preferred meat. He reminded himself it could be worse. Had they not had the pork, he would likely be gnashing his teeth on hardtack instead. That still didn’t mean he had to enjoy it.

  Curled up next to him, Dog lay asleep. His hind legs twitched repeatedly and he gave a soft whine. Stiger imagined Dog was dreaming about chasing something, perhaps a rabbit or squirrel. He reached out and absently scratched at Dog’s neck. There was something calming about the animal’s constant presence. Stiger had to admit he’d grown fond of the hairy beggar that seemed more beast than dog. In truth, he had difficulty remembering on occasion that Dog was something more.

  As if sensing his attention, Dog abruptly opened his watery eyes and looked curiously up at him, cocking his head to one side, a floppy ear raised in question. Despite his weariness, Stiger chuckled, gently patting the animal’s head a couple times. Dog licked once at Stiger’s hand and then rested his head upon Stiger’s thigh. A moment later, he closed his eyes again, going back to sleep.

  Stiger resumed scratching Dog’s neck and finished the last of the pork, swallowing it. He washed it down with a drink of water from his canteen. He regarded Dog for a time and decided the animal had the right idea. It had been one bitch of a day and he, too, needed sleep. Leaning his head back against the tunnel wall, Stiger closed his eyes and gave in to oblivion.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Stiger’s eyes snapped open. He blinked several times. Mectillius was standing over him. The optio looked tired. His armor was dusty and spattered with green and red blood. There had not been time for a cleaning of kit.

  “Sorry for waking you, sir,” Mectillius said. “You asked to be notified after five hours?”

  “Is it already?” Stiger asked. “Seems like I just closed my eyes.”

  “I think we’ve all found time’s hard to track underground, sir,” Mectillius said. “No sun or moon to check the progress of the day. Seven levels, I am relying upon one of the dwarves, sir. I’ve no idea how he can tell the time down here, but he told me it’s time. So, it’s time.”

  “I see,” Stiger said and held out a hand.

  Mectillius hauled him to his feet. Stiger was stiff. His leg muscles were sore. Everything seemed to ache. He cracked his neck and felt a little better.

  “Where is Pixus?”

  “Over there, sir,” the optio said, “sleeping next to Sabinus. I was about to wake him next.”

  Stiger looked in the direction indicated. Both centurions were asleep, with their backs pressed against the stone wall. Farther down the road, Father Thomas was with the wounded. They had been laid out on blankets in neat, orderly rows. The paladin was kneeling next to a dwarf, bent over as if he were praying.

  Stiger glanced around the tunnel. Snoring was heavy on the air. As was the occasional cough from one of his men. No one—other than Mectillius, Father Thomas, a dwarf and Stiger—was awake. The dwarves had congregated just up the road a bit, with a slight separation from the humans. Brogan and Theo were asleep next to one another. Stiger stifled a yawn, wishing he could go back to sleep.

  “Wake the officers and Brogan first,” Stiger said. “Then you can roust the men.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mectillius said and then hesitated as he was about to turn away.

  “Speak your mind, Optio,” Stiger said. “Let’s have it.”

  “We’ve come about ten miles, sir,” Mectillius said, with a glance in the direction they’d come. The magical lanterns set every hundred yards disappeared off into the distance. “That’s an awfully long way. Do you really expect the orcs will follow us?”

  “Yes, Optio, I do,” Stiger said in a firm tone, wanting to put the matter squarely to bed. “Now, if you would kindly wake the officers, we have a long road ahead of us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mectillius saluted and moved off.

  Stifling a groan, Stiger reached down. He picked up his canteen and took a healthy swig before stopping it. He swished the water around in his mouth, swallowed it, and set the canteen back down next to his helmet. He was incredibly stiff and sore, even more so than he had realized when Mectillius had hauled him to his feet. Straightening, he stretched out his back and then his legs. The pain wasn’t too bad. It felt good to stretch.

  Dog looked up at him quizzically for a moment, clearly wondering what he was up to. Then the curiosity faded and he laid his head back down upon the floor, returning to sleep.

  Stiger walked stiffly over to the wounded. Father Thomas was on his knees, still bent over the same dwarf. Both hands were pressed against the dwarf’s left thigh and the paladin was incredibly still. He didn’t even appear to be breathing.

  Not wishing to disturb the paladin, Stiger was about to walk away when Father Thomas exhaled an explosive breath, then breathed in deeply. To Stiger, he seemed like a downing man who had just fought his way to the surface, almost gasping at fresh air in relief.

  After several heartbeats of simply breathing in and out, the paladin leaned back and his eyes fluttered open. For a moment his gaze remained unfocused. Then, blinking, he spotted Stiger.

  Father Thomas had changed dramatically in appearance. He had aged since Stiger had last seen him, and that had only been a handful of hours ago. The paladin’s hair was almost completely white, with a sprinkling of pepper. His face was gray and lined. So shocking was it that Stiger almost took a step back. The paladin’s hands shook as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Stiger’s eyes shifted to the wounded dwarf. He looked t
o be peacefully asleep, snoring softly. The bandages that had bound the wound lay in a heap at the dwarf’s side. They were heavily soiled and stained an ugly reddish color. The leg itself was caked in dried blood. There was so much of it, Stiger wondered how much the warrior had left on the inside, or for that matter how he had managed to survive his wound.

  No matter how hard Stiger looked, he could not see the injury or any hint of it. All that remained was an area clear of the dried blood, with smooth, unmarked skin that was perhaps a little too pink. It was as if the skin were newly made, which Stiger suspected it was.

  “He is going to pull through, I take it?” Stiger asked, already knowing the answer. He had felt compelled to ask anyway.

  “I was able to heal them all.” Father Thomas’s voice shook with weariness as he waved with an arm out toward the others. “At least those that were seriously injured and survived the journey here.” He paused and cleared his throat. “The walking wounded will have to heal the old-fashioned way. I just don’t have the strength for more, at least at the moment, anyway.”

  The paladin looked over at the dwarf he had just healed. He reached out and ran a finger along the fresh skin on the leg, almost as if marveling at his own handiwork.

  “He will sleep for a few hours,” the paladin said, voice trembling with exhaustion. “When he wakes he will be weakened, as healing such a fearsome wound takes some of his will as it does mine.”

  “I am sure he will be most grateful,” Stiger said.

  “His thanks should go to the High Father, for it was by his grace and this dwarf’s faith in our god such miracles are made possible.”

  “Are you saying that if he did not believe in the High Father you would be unable to heal him?” Stiger asked.

  “That, my son,” Father Thomas said, “is a good question.”

  “Meaning you don’t know,” Stiger said. “Have you ever tried such a healing?”

  “I believe it would be up to the High Father. I would not be able to be the conduit for his grace unless he willed it. That, my son, is what matters.”

  Stiger thought on that a moment. It sounded reasonable enough.

  “What about you?” Stiger asked, understanding such healing took a tremendous toll. “I seriously doubt you will be able to march or ride.”

  Father Thomas moved himself stiffly from a kneeling position to one of sitting. It seemed to take a great effort, for he swayed slightly, as if dizzy. His eyes closed for several heartbeats, then opened and looked straight up at Stiger. It took him a moment to focus, but when he did, the paladin appeared confused. His eyes began to roll back. Stiger realized Father Thomas was on the verge of passing out.

  He knelt next to the paladin.

  “Lie back.” Stiger eased Father Thomas to the ground. “Rest.”

  “But, my son,” Father Thomas protested in a weak voice, the lids of his eyes clearly becoming heavy. He mumbled something incoherent.

  “Rest easy, Father,” Stiger said. “I’ll have a litter rigged for you. We will take good care of you. On that, I promise.”

  “Thank you, my son,” Father Thomas said in a shaky whisper, and with that his eyes closed. His breathing became deep and steady.

  Stiger studied the paladin. He looked like an old man. The skin around his eyes had become heavily lined with age, looking very much like crow’s feet. The skin on his hands had also become wrinkled and spotted with age marks. He had lost his youthful vigor.

  With each healing, Father Thomas was giving part of his life force. How much more could Father Thomas take? It worried him, for Stiger was apprehensive about facing the minion alone. Could he defeat such a creature by himself?

  When the time comes, I will be with you, Rarokan said, as if it were not a concern. Stiger realized the sword’s presence had been with him since he had woken. Fear not, for you are never alone.

  Stiger felt a comfort in that, but at the same time serious concern. He was becoming accustomed to Rarokan always being there.

  He heard the scuff of approaching footsteps from behind and turned. It was Brogan, along with Pixus and Theo. Stiger stood, legs protesting as he straightened up.

  Brogan gasped; the breath seemed to have caught in his throat. “What’s wrong with him? How did this happen?”

  “He’s exhausted, is all,” Stiger said and then gestured toward the dwarf lying next to the paladin. “He healed him and the others that were gravely injured.” Stiger pointed at the nearest man, who slept as soundly as the dwarf at his feet. “I’ve seen this type of healing before, and it takes a terrible toll upon the paladin. Given time, he will recover.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Brogan said, and then what Stiger had told him hit home. He gazed down at the dwarf and over at another one a few feet away. His eyes moved on to a legionary. All were asleep, but it was abundantly clear they had been healed of their gruesome injuries. The thane’s mouth fell open just a little. The thane blinked rapidly.

  “He healed Tommen. A miracle.” Brogan stuttered a little as he spoke, awe plain in his tone as he gazed down at the healed dwarf.

  “That is incredible,” Theo said, stepping nearer and examining Tommen’s leg. “Just incredible.”

  Brogan turned his gaze upon Stiger. “Stories tell of a paladin’s ability to perform such wonders.” He looked back down on Father Thomas and shook his head slightly. “My people have not had such a warrior priest amongst us since my grandfather’s time. To be told one is such a thing, and to witness such a miracle is something else entirely.” The thane glanced over at Theo. “We have been blessed this day.”

  “Truly,” Theo said. Stiger noticed that despite his wonder on the healing, Theo appeared to be in a sour mood. The look he gave Brogan back was without warmth. The thane did not catch it.

  Stiger glanced over at Pixus. The centurion was standing there silently. He did not look at all surprised.

  “Centurion,” Stiger said, “we’re going to need a litter for Father Thomas.”

  “I will see to it, sir,” Pixus said. His gaze flicked back to the paladin. “How long will he sleep, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Stiger said, and in truth he didn’t. “Perhaps a few hours or even a day or more. He needs to recover his strength.”

  Pixus gave a nod and moved off toward his optio.

  Brogan shifted about, as if he if he had something he wanted say. The thane swallowed and then straightened his back.

  “This miracle has moved me greatly.” The thane gestured down at the sleeping Tommen. He then looked back at Stiger. “I will say it again. I owe you my thanks. Without you, my remains would now be moldering out in the open, forever lost to my family.” Brogan gave a slight cough. “I shall not forget what you did for me or my people.”

  “Your thanks are not required,” Stiger said. “I am certain you would have done the same for me had our roles been reversed. In fact, I would expect it.”

  The thane stared at him for a prolonged moment. “Of course, and yet I still feel compelled to tender my thanks just the same.”

  “As would I,” Stiger said. “You are not in any way in my debt. We are allies. Let’s not speak of this again.”

  “As you wish,” Brogan said, a look of relief passing over him.

  “On your feet, ladies,” Pixus hollered, the shout echoing off the walls of the tunnel. There was a chorus of groans as the legionaries and dwarves stirred. “Time to once again use those wonderful things the gods saw fit to give each of us. Now, come on, ladies. On your feet.”

  “You heard the centurion,” Mectillius called out, giving a legionary who hadn’t yet stirred a not-so-gentle nudge with his foot. “Drop your cocks and grab your yokes.”

  Pixus prodded a legionary who had not moved with his vine cane. When the legionary failed to wake, the centurion smacked him hard on the side with the cane. That woke the man up. A moment later, he was scrambling to his feet.

  “Varenus,” Pixus said to the legionary as he shook his head. “I d
on’t believe I’ve ever seen you move so fast. I may just wake you up more often with my vine cane.”

  Varenus looked in horror on his centurion, who gave him an amused wink and moved on to the next man.

  Stiger turned back to the thane, who was gazing once more over those who had been gravely injured. Despite the commotion in the tunnel, they continued to sleep deeply. Stiger understood that had to do with the healing process.

  The thane glanced up the tunnel in the direction they would be going and then back on Stiger.

  “I think we should push hard,” Brogan said. “Say another five miles before a short break and then another five after that. How does that sound?”

  “Good to me,” Stiger said. “When do you think your messenger will reach Old City?”

  “If he makes decent time, and I have no reason to think otherwise, Talik should arrive sometime tomorrow,” Brogan said. “With any luck, we will have a contingent of warriors from the garrison at Grata’Jalor marching our way soon enough.”

  “I will pray to Fortuna and the High Father to speed him on his way,” Stiger said, glancing around. The legionaries and dwarves were beginning to fall in. Stiger saw a team had started to work on a litter to be pulled behind Sabinus’s horse. He assumed this was for Father Thomas.

  Brogan excused himself and stepped away towards his dwarves, who were readying themselves. Stiger rubbed at his tired eyes. They had such a long way to go, and he was certain the enemy was following. It had gone from a suspicion to conviction. They were coming. He felt it to be true. Soon enough there would be fighting.

  They are coming, Rarokan said.

  Stiger closed his eyes, feeling his stomach sink. This entire expedition had gone thoroughly to shit and there was nothing Stiger could have done. And it was about to get much worse.

  “A bloody mess this is,” Stiger said to himself.

  “You’ve got that right,” Theo said. Stiger had not noticed his friend remain behind.