The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

“We will get out of it,” Stiger said in an attempt to assure Theo.

  “I won’t,” Theo insisted sourly. “Do you know what he did to me?”

  “Brogan?” Stiger asked, confused and wondering what Theo was on about.

  “Yeah, my bloody cousin,” Theo said, spitting mad and clenching his fists. “I can’t believe it myself. As if things could get any worse. It’s just plain awful.” Theo wagged a thick finger at Stiger. “I warned you he’s a sneaky bastard.”

  “What did he do?” Stiger was becoming alarmed. He glanced in the direction Brogan had gone.

  “He made me his advisor,” Theo said with exasperation and threw his hands up. “Me!”

  “What?” Stiger barked out a laugh, not quite sure he had heard his friend correctly.

  “I am to take Jorthan’s place. Can you believe that? Me? The thane’s advisor? I can’t possibly think of someone more unsuited. Can you? What am I supposed to advise him on?”

  Stiger stared at his friend. There was real panic in Theo’s eyes. Stiger burst out with another laugh. “You’re pulling one over on me.”

  “Don’t you laugh at me,” Theo said, his disgust and anger growing more evident the harder

  Stiger laughed.

  “I think congratulations are in order,” Stiger said, barely able to get the words out. “You went from babysitter—which, I might add, you stink at—to the thane’s advisor. Good show, old boy. Way to move up in the world.”

  Stiger clapped Theo on the shoulder.

  “I could use a good stiff drink,” Theo grumbled.

  “There are worse jobs,” Stiger said, working to catch his breath. Then an amusing thought

  occurred to him. “As the thane’s advisor, think of all the free booze. Brogan’s gonna be paying.”

  Theo froze as he considered Stiger’s words.

  “There is that,” Theo admitted a little grudgingly. “I can see a slight upside to being his

  advisor. But still . . . can you see me taking up Jorthan’s position?”

  Stiger actually could. Theo was sharp and shrewd. He had an interesting way of looking at the world. Brogan would have noticed it as well, which was why the thane had likely chosen him.

  “You know,” Stiger said, “now that I think on it, I believe you were right.”

  “About what?” Theo peered at him suspiciously.

  “You were concerned the thane’s supply of drink wouldn’t last beyond the summit.” Stiger chuckled. A few of the nearest men and dwarves looked over. “The orcs got the rest of Brogan’s spirits.”

  “They did, didn’t they?” Theo barked out a laugh of his own, finally becoming amused. “Let’s hope they choke on it, eh?”

  “If only,” Stiger said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Stiger saw Dog abruptly get up. Looking back the way they had come, Dog bared his teeth and growled.

  An icy sensation ran down Stiger’s spine as he turned and looked. He could see nothing other than the magical lanterns disappearing off into the distance. Then, he thought he heard something.

  Theo began to speak.

  “Quiet,” Stiger said.

  He frowned. The men and dwarves around him were making too much noise.

  “Quiet down,” Stiger called out, then louder, “By the gods, quiet down!”

  The voices and commotion died away, as everyone turned to look at him.

  He thought he heard something again. Stiger cupped a hand to his ear.

  A distant howl carried itself along on the walls of the tunnel, echoing up from somewhere far behind them. It was followed almost immediately by a louder yowl. Any last activity stilled with the howl. It sounded just like one of his family’s hunting hounds.

  Silence reigned.

  Then a chorus of distant howls and barks echoed toward them. Whether it was from one or many, due to the echoes Stiger did not know.

  “The hunt is on,” Stiger said quietly to himself.

  “You always seem to focus on the bright side of things, don’t you?” Theo said with a deep scowl. “Has anyone ever told you? You’re one gloomy bastard.”

  Ignoring Theo, Stiger spun around. The legionaries and dwarves were still hushed, seemingly frozen into inaction by the distant howls and barks.

  “Centurion Pixus,” Stiger called out loudly, “time to get the men moving.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Get up!” Stiger reached down, grabbing the arm of the fallen legionary to help him back to his feet. The man just sat there, dazed and appearing thoroughly confused. He gave Stiger a quizzical look.

  Baring his teeth at the enemy, Dog moved over to stand beside Stiger. Though the animal was growling, Stiger could not hear him over the noise of the fight.

  “You stay here,” Stiger said to Dog. He did not want him getting underfoot of the legionaries.

  Stiger shot a glance toward the battle line, just feet away. Under the direction of Centurion Pixus, it was falling back toward them. He returned his attention to the fallen legionary. If he did not get the man moved and out of the way, he’d be trampled. Stiger released the arm and grabbed instead the armor harness. The legionary was nearly complete dead weight. Using both hands, Stiger hauled him to his feet.

  “Stand up, damn you,” Stiger shouted. The man stood, though Stiger still held him steady.

  The line was almost on top of them. A legionary in the second rank stepped in front of them and, using his shield as a barrier, moved into the gap in the line, providing cover. Almost immediately, a sword hammered down onto his shield, sending a spray of splinters up into the air.

  “Get to the rear,” Stiger shouted at the dazed man, looking him square in the face. When he failed to respond, Stiger shook him roughly, hoping for some semblance of sense to return. Blood ran down the side of the legionary’s face. It was coming from under the helmet, which had a large dent in it. The left cheek guard had been ripped away and was missing. The heavy helmet had saved him from a killing blow.

  “Do you understand me?” Stiger demanded. “You need to get to the rear.”

  The legionary’s eyes swung to Stiger’s face. He blinked and his head lolled slightly.

  “Sorry, sir,” the legionary mumbled, while making a feeble attempt to wipe blood out of his left eye. Over the sound of the fight, Stiger could not hear what he said, but instead read it off the man’s lips. The legionary’s gaze became unfocused, but he managed to repeat what Stiger had told him. “Go to the rear, yes, sir.”

  Stiger released his hold. The legionary staggered as if he had drunk too much and swayed alarmingly. Stiger was bumped and nudged from behind by a legionary. He gripped the man’s arm again, steadying him. Stiger dragged the dazed man back several feet, passing the third rank, and out of the way of the line.

  Holding the man’s arm, Stiger glanced around. The sound of the fighting inside the tunnel was intense and overwhelming. It was made unnaturally louder than it should’ve been by the close confines of the walls and all of the stone that surrounded them. The clash of weapons was magnified to a level Stiger had never heard. Screams and shouts were virtually drowned out by the echoing cacophony of the fight, which beat intensely down on the senses.

  Stiger looked to the rear, past the third rank. The mules and horses had continued much farther up the road, pulling well ahead of the defending century. The litters they dragged behind them held the freshly injured and those who had been healed but had not yet woken. Father Thomas was among them, still unconscious.

  Stiger had told the dwarves leading the mules and horses to continue on as rapidly as possible and to stop for nothing. It was safer for them this way, particularly if the Fifth Century broke. They were so far ahead, Stiger could barely make them out now, as they were passing between lanterns where the gloom of the underground lurked.

  An injured legionary was limping along after them, trailing blood along the ground. He staggered in vain to catch up. Just ahead of him, a dwarf carried another legionary like a baby, followin
g after the train. Such sights of injured men were nothing new to him, and yet it never failed to bother him.

  Closer to hand, Stiger saw Mectillius bend down to help a legionary who’d slumped down to the ground and was cradling his arm. The optio pulled him to his feet and handed him off to a dwarf who had come over to assist.

  Stiger’s gaze swung over to Brogan and his surviving dwarves. Without their armor, Stiger was unwilling to put the dwarves into the line. Each had a sword and shield. A few even carried legionary shields.

  Stiger and Brogan had organized a reserve that numbered a total of twenty-five effectives. Stiger planned on using them when his legionaries became spent. These dwarves had formed a single loose rank around ten yards behind the formation. The rest of Brogan’s boys, most injured in some manner themselves, were doing what they could to care for the wounded legionaries.

  Stiger’s eyes stole over two dwarves working on a man who had been dragged clear of the line. Bent over the legionary, one was in the process of tying a thick bandage around the lower leg, while the other secured a tourniquet on the thigh. The legionary looked pale and trembled, not only from the pain, but also the shock. Both dwarves were spattered with blood.

  “You,” Stiger shouted at the wobbly legionary he still held firmly by an arm. He swung the man around to face the direction of the mule train. “Go that way, understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” The legionary’s voice was a little louder. What Stiger could hear of it sounded badly slurred. He staggered off like a drunk toward the rear. After a few steps, a dwarf hustled over and took his arm, helping to guide him away from the action. Satisfied that the man was out of immediate danger and would be looked after, Stiger turned back toward the fight.

  Fifth Century was organized into the three tightly compacted ranks. The first rank was locked in heated battle with the enemy, shields to their front. The shield wall ran the width of the tunnel and formed a nearly impenetrable barrier, which the enemy was trying with great effort and energy to overcome. Behind them, the second and third ranks, shields held to their sides, stood ready to assist or to move forward to battle, when a rotation of ranks would be called.

  To the front of the shield wall, the tunnel was a seething mass of orcs. Mixed amongst them were a few humans. These came at the legionaries just as fiercely as the orcs. Without the ability to maneuver or flank, it was an ugly and brutal fight of pure endurance.

  The first of the enemy had caught up to them a little more than two hours before. This had forced Stiger to halt the column and form the century for battle. The fight had been going on ever since. The enemy showed no sign of letting up.

  Though the enemy held the advantage in numbers, as heavy infantry the legionaries had it in equipment. The enemy was the equivalent of light infantry, meaning they had no real armor and very few carried any sort of shield.

  This qualitative advantage combined with the tight confines of the underground road had allowed Fifth Century to hold like a rock, falling steadily back, one measured step at a time. The legionaries were wreaking a terrible toll upon the enemy. The tunnel was really the perfect place for a fight. Had he more men, perhaps another century, there would have been no real risk of the enemy ever breaking his line.

  Therein lay the problem. Stiger did not have the men he needed.

  Every few feet, Pixus would call an abrupt halt and the shields would come together. A heartbeat later they would momentarily part and out would snap the deadly short swords. Whenever this happened, the enemy suffered and would inevitably fall back a few paces, or they would try to. Occasionally the press from behind was so tight there was absolutely nowhere to go for those at the front. When that happened, trapped, they fell in droves to the vicious short swords. Then the shields would lock together again in an impenetrable wall and the slow, steady retreat would once again continue, creating a brief gap between the enemy and the legionary shield wall.

  To keep his front rank from becoming too worn down, Pixus rotated his line on a regular basis. It gave those fighting a short breather before being sent back into the action with the rotation.

  The century had left a trail of bodies as it backed up the tunnel. Stiger estimated they had killed or injured several hundred. And yet the enemy came on with a fanatical and frightening intensity that Stiger found more than troubling. It was chilling.

  He had hoped to get closer to Old City before the enemy caught up. He had lost the race, but there was no helping that now. They were committed to this fight, even if it meant help would likely not arrive in time.

  Stiger’s gaze swept over the enemy. He felt a stab of anger at the sight of Therik’s standard waving above the mass of enemy just a handful of yards away. Though he looked, he could not see the orc king. He felt the sword’s anger swell along with his own. If the opportunity came for personal combat with the king, he knew he would gladly seek it. He would make Therik pay for this.

  Stiger rubbed his jaw and glanced backwards. He was wondering what was taking Sabinus so long to return. He had sent him up the road to scout a junction of tunnels. There was no sign of the centurion. Frustrated, Stiger turned back to the action, eyes settling upon Pixus. When the enemy had neared, Sabinus had politely suggested Stiger allow Pixus to fight his own century.

  “As legate,” Sabinus said, “your place is overall command.”

  “Is that how Delvaris would have done it?” Stiger asked quietly.

  Sabinus gave a nod. “Trust your officers to do their job, sir.”

  Stiger had listened to the advice and held back. Though he had to admit to himself it had taken a lot of self-restraint. So, Stiger watched the action, occasionally giving an order or helping an injured man. Sabinus had been correct, of course. Stiger was the legate, the general. No matter how much he felt the pull to join the action, his role was now to keep an eye on the big picture. And truth be told, Stiger was very satisfied with how Pixus was handling his men.

  Why hold back? Rarokan hissed, abruptly intruding upon his thoughts. Draw me, feed me, awaken my will . . . complete the bond.

  Shut up, Stiger thought back at the sword. It had been talking to him sporadically since the fighting had begun. Not only could he feel it fueling his anger, the sword was exerting immense pressure on him to personally take the fight to the enemy. The pressure almost made his head hurt, as the sword sought with increasing strength to control his actions. It was only with extreme effort he had been able to resist.

  Coming here, Rarokan continued, to this time, has weakened me. My power is divided, maddeningly split. So too is my mind. Until we return to our own time, you must feed me. Only by doing so can I help you. Together we are one, together we are power, together we have a combined will. Use it. Use me.

  The flow of power from the sword increased. Stiger staggered a step at the intensity. With each passing moment, he was having increasing difficulty holding the sword’s anger and desire in check.

  He saw a man fall, pierced through the neck by a spear that had been thrown over the shield wall. It was frustrating to watch and do nothing. He should be fighting with the men.

  Fight. The sword prodded him onward, and with it another flow of power actively fueling his anger. It was almost impossible to resist the urge to join the fight.

  In a frightening turn, Stiger understood he was losing the battle of wills with Rarokan. It was becoming more difficult to withstand the assault on his mind. The flow of rage surged, and with it Stiger felt his sword hand, of its own accord, go for the hilt.

  “No.” Stiger ground his teeth in frustration, straining with all his might to resist. Only with a ferocious effort did he manage to stop and hold the hand in place.

  Cease this now, Stiger ordered. End it. This is not the time for me to fight. I need to keep my head and direct the action.

  At first there was no response. It was as if Stiger’s willpower were a dam. Upriver the floodwater had built to dangerous levels. The water was threatening to spill over. Once it did, the dam wo
uld be compromised and there would be no turning back.

  Wield me, strike at the enemy, become more than you are, the sword replied.

  Do you understand me? By the gods, listen to me! Someone needs to direct the action or we are lost. Stiger gave voice to his rage. “Stop it!”

  There was a hesitation, and then a slight lessening of the pressure. It was almost as if Rarokan was thinking things over.

  I understand, came the sullen response, and almost instantly the urge and pressure abated, though the sword’s presence in his mind remained. Rarokan was intently watching what was going on, looking for its chance. I can wait a little longer.

  Stiger puffed out his cheeks and wiped sweat from his brow. He felt drained but at the same time thankful. Rarokan was no longer interfering with him. Stiger glanced around, studying the action. In his struggle with the sword, he had momentarily lost track of what was going on. Not much had changed, other than the line had drawn nearer. Stiger backed up several paces to give room to the third rank.

  Pixus blew on a small wooden whistle, three short, rapid blasts. The front rank abruptly stepped back, moving to the rear, past the second and third ranks. The second rank, now the first, brought their shields up with a solid-sounding thunk and locked them tightly together. A moment later, the enemy pushed forward and hammered into the new front line in attempt to break its integrity. Pixus’s men held and pushed back, throwing their shoulders into their shields.

  Pixus blew on his whistle again, two short blasts. The shields scraped apart, just a matter of inches. Swords darted out, jabbing and poking. There were screams and cries of pain. Pixus blew again, this time a longer blast. When it ceased, the century resumed falling back, one steady half -step at a time.

  Stepping over their dead, dying, and injured, the enemy was not as eager to close as they had been. A number of the enemy at the very front were clustered around a fallen orc. Stiger figured it had been a respected tribal leader. He felt some satisfaction they had taken him down. The legionaries were handling the enemy roughly, and anything further that they could do to affect the enemy’s morale could only help.