The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “So, my Traya,” Theo started and stopped. He cleared his throat. “Traya was wonderful. We were fortunate enough that we grew up together. Our homes were within a stone’s throw. As children we played all the time.” Theo paused. “She was my oldest friend going all the way back to as far as I can remember. Even as we aged and grew to maturity, when so many others drift apart, we stayed close. I recall the day it dawned upon me she meant more than I’d ever realized. It is hard to describe how I felt, only that she was my best friend, and more than anything I wanted to grow old with her. From that day onward, there was no one else I was interested in. She was it.”

  Theo fell silent for a long moment, staring off into the distance. Stiger said nothing. He waited for his friend to continue.

  “When I finally worked up the courage and asked for her hand, I feared she would say no.” Theo smiled sadly. “You see, we were very good friends. I wasn’t sure she desired anything more from me than friendship. When I proposed, Traya actually laughed at me. Can you believe that? I can tell you it came as something of a shock. I figured worst case she would say no, but laugh at me? Never.” Theo chuckled, as if reliving the memory. “She was just nervous is all, and when she gets that way Traya tends to laugh. She accepted. I was elated beyond words.”

  Theo fell silent again, his eyes watering. The dwarf reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek as another ran down into his beard on the other cheek.

  “She died giving birth to our son,” Theo said. “After she passed, I could not bear to remain home. There were too many reminders of her. My loss was beyond words.” Theo cleared his throat again. “I could not stay even for the sake of my son.” Theo fell silent, this time for longer. “And so, I left him in the care of family and went to serve my thane.” Theo drew in a shuddering breath and let it out. He looked over at Stiger, the sadness a mask of pain on his bearded face. “After all of this, and all I’ve seen over the last few days . . .” Theo cleared his throat again and gestured toward the grave and then around at the valley. “This strikes too close to home. I am thinking I made a mistake. My son deserves a father who is there for him, not one who blames him for the loss of his beloved. I should be there. I will be there for him.” Theo looked up at the sky and his shoulders trembled slightly. “I will see this through, but after it is done, I shall return home. I will raise my boy and love him as he deserves, for life is too short for anything else. He shall grow into a proud dvergr, with much legend. I shall make him a companion fit for a thane.” He lowered his tone. “And still, to the last of my days, I shall grieve for the woman I love with all of my heart. It is the only way I can honor her memory. That, and I shall live on as she would wish me to.”

  Theo once again fell silent, resting his hands upon the top of the shovel. He was looking down into the grave again. After a moment, he glanced up and their eyes met.

  “So,” Theo said. “I too have suffered unimaginable loss. There is nothing I can do or say to make it better, other than remain with you for this difficult goodbye. No one should have to go through something like this alone”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“as I did.”

  Stiger wasn’t sure what to say. He swallowed, the emotion welling up again. It took him a moment before he could speak.

  “Thank you,” he managed.

  “It is the least I can do for a friend,” Theo said. “Shall we go get her?”

  Though he was dreading this moment, Stiger nodded and turned toward the farmhouse. Before he could take more than two steps, he discovered Father Thomas carrying her across the farmyard toward them. Sarai was wrapped in the paladin’s cloak. Stiger became angered that the man had dared to do something he felt compelled to do for himself, but then realized that Father Thomas meant nothing by it. The paladin only desired to help, and for some reason he could not explain, that made Stiger even angrier.

  Father Thomas seemed to understand Stiger’s feelings. He handed Sarai over to him. The cloak had been sewn shut, and yet the smell of burnt flesh was nearly overpowering, causing him to gag slightly. She felt incredibly light. A wetness had seeped through the bottom of the cloak. Stiger realized it was blood. He was suddenly grateful the paladin had sewn the cloak closed. He did not wish his last memory of her to be of charred and ruined skin.

  Theo climbed down into the grave, and together they gently lowered her body down into it. Once she was at the bottom, the dwarf accepted Stiger’s hand and clambered back out.

  Stiger stared numbly down at the bundle resting at the bottom of the grave. This was all that remained of the woman he loved. She would rest beneath this tree for eternity. A gentle gust of cold air blew by, stirring the smoke and rustling the leaves of the tree above. The horror that had been wrought here would eventually be erased by the passing of time. It was a pleasant enough spot. He hoped her spirit approved and found a semblance of peace by it.

  “Goodbye,” he said in barely more than a whisper. He took up the shovel from where he had left it sticking out of the pile of excavated dirt. He began shoveling the dirt back into the grave. After a slight delay, while he silently watched Stiger, Theo also began to shovel.

  It took a surprisingly short time to fill in the grave, much less than it had taken to dig out. As they were finishing up, Sabinus and Mectillius with the rest of Fifth Century arrived. Seeing what they were doing, the two centurions held back with the men, remaining at a respectful distance. For that, Stiger was grateful.

  “I would like to offer a prayer for Sarai’s soul,” Father Thomas said quietly. “Would you mind terribly if I did?”

  Stiger almost said no. Then, he remembered Sarai’s deep love for the High Father. She would appreciate a prayer by the paladin. It was the last mercy he could grant her. He gave a nod and only half listened as Father Thomas began to say words for the honored and loved dead and those left behind.

  His thoughts wandered back to the day he had left for the summit. He recalled their parting around the table in the kitchen, her closeness, the smell of her hair, the light touch of her skin on his, a parting kiss. He could picture her standing in the doorway, watching him leave. If only he had known he was abandoning Sarai to her fate. How he wished he had refused the call and remained. He should never have gone. Deep down he had known it was a mistake and still he had left. Stiger’s fists clenched. He should have been here, at the farm. He might have been able to do something, anything.

  Hindsight was always an unforgiving bitch.

  As Father Thomas continued his prayers, Stiger felt as if he now had a hole in his heart. He could never forgive the paladin, Thoggle, Brogan, the High Father, or any of the gods for what had been done this day. They were all at fault. He had been left with a hole, not just in his heart but in his soul. There was nothing to fill it other than duty and revenge. After this, Stiger wasn’t sure that he cared much for duty. That only left revenge.

  The wind gusted, blowing by them and once again rustling the leaves overhead. Stiger did not feel the chill air. His thoughts were on Sarai and what she would have wanted. She had loved this valley. Through her, Stiger had come to love it as well. But now, Vrell had become a painful reminder of loss. Despite that, Stiger resolved to protect it. He would do it not for the gods, the dwarves, the oracle’s prophecy, or destiny, but for Sarai. When it was safe . . . he would punish the orcs in a way that they would never forget, and the sword would help him do it.

  I will, Rarokan affirmed. We will make them suffer.

  Father Thomas had fallen silent. The short service was over. Stiger hadn’t noticed. He glanced in Sabinus’s direction. It was time to go. The peace of this place had been forever shattered. It would never be the same.

  Stiger had a sudden recollection of the farm he had come across with Seventh Company, as young officer, near the Cora’Tol Valley. The Rivan had tortured and executed a father and his two young sons. Stiger had arrived in time to rescue their mother. As if it had only happened yesterday, he vividly recalled the bodies of the young boys. The image
on that rainy night had been burned forever into his memory. It was the kind of thing you did not forget.

  Stiger had left the mother at Fort Covenant, the place where Varus and so many other good men had died, leaving this world forever. Now, he suspected he understood what she had felt—utter devastation and a terrible loneliness.

  Stiger wondered if the mother had also felt guilt at having survived her loved ones. Survivor’s guilt was nothing new to Stiger. Over the years he had left comrades and friends behind. But this was somehow different. Stiger’s guilt at living had abruptly become deeply personal.

  Stiger wiped at his eyes, which no longer teared but were itchy and sore. He straightened his back and brushed past Father Thomas and Theo over to the woodpile and up to Therik’s standard. He looked it over for several heartbeats before uprooting it from the ground. In a rapid movement, he broke the thick wooden shaft of the standard over his thigh. Then, in disgust, he threw it down onto the ground.

  Stiger made his way over to Sabinus. He sensed the paladin and Theo following. Dog joined him too. One of the men held Misty’s reins. She looked somewhat recovered, but still nearly blown from the brutal ride down into the valley. There would be no more hard riding today. She would not be pushed any further than a short, easy ride. Without saying anything, Stiger took the reins and mounted up. Sabinus did the same.

  “It is time to return home to the legion,” Stiger said simply to the centurion.

  “Yes, sir,” Sabinus said.

  Stiger glanced once more around at the ruined farm, the bodies lying all around. He hated the idea of leaving the deceased dwarves just lying about for the carrion eaters. They’d died doing their duty and fulfilling Aleric’s promise to Stiger to protect Sarai with their lives. Unfortunately, there were things that needed doing. Disposing of their remains would have to wait. He looked over at Sabinus and felt a terrible anger well up on the inside. “It is time to make the enemy pay for this.”

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From the top of the hill, Stiger hauled back on the reins and surveyed the scene below. Sabinus brought his horse to a stop as well. Behind them, Mectillius called the century to a halt. Misty shifted her hooves, dancing sideways, as if uncomfortable. Stiger could understand the discomfort. She was not a horse trained for the sights, sounds, and smells of war. He took a firmer hold on the reins and she stilled. His hand shook, and he took a breath to steady himself.

  The turf and timber walls of the legionary encampment stood just five hundred yards to their front. The walls were about twelve feet high. A staked barricade made the wall just that much more formidable, adding another three feet to its height. Square, roofed timber towers had been set along the walls every ten yards. From these towers protruded the snouts of deadly bolt throwers, pointing outward.

  Before the walls, three trenches had been dug, each separated by ten yards of space. As legionary encampments went, it was quite impressive. The trenches made the position even more difficult to crack. A simple rule went that the greater the risk, the stronger the defenses. And in practice, the longer the legion stayed in place—and the Thirteenth had remained for a long time—the more powerful the defenses became. Arvus had clearly kept his men hard at work. The tribune had taken their conversation seriously about the coming threat to the valley.

  The defenses weren’t what had caught his attention. As if mute testament to the pure strength of the position, thousands of orc and human bodies littered the ground before, within, and in the gaps between trenches. Amidst numerous scaling ladders, bodies were clustered in piles around the base of the walls.

  These enemy had come fully armored. Stiger found it troubling that they appeared similarly equipped, as if they had been organized professionally with an eye toward uniformity. This was something he had not expected to see from Therik’s army. It was potentially a sign that the coming fight would be more difficult than he had imagined.

  Behind them, Mectillius muttered a harsh oath. There were a number of exclamations from the men as well.

  Stiger’s eyes swept across the dead. The sickly stench of blood was heavy on the air. The apple tree flashed in his mind, along with Sarai’s grave, and he felt his rage swell. Thousands of javelins stuck upward from bodies and the ground. Countless arrows stitched across the landscape, becoming thicker around the second trench, which clearly marked the encampment’s effective killing zone.

  Stiger’s eyes roved the battlefield, picking out tiny details, such as small impact craters where ballista ball from the artillery had landed or bolts from the powerful throwers that had impaled individuals or groups. One orc had been hit so hard by one of the larger bolts, not only did it pierce his heavy chest armor, but the bolt had also pinned him helplessly in the air, suspended about six inches above the ground.

  Stiger slid his gaze over the walls. Behind the staked barricade stood the sentries with their watchful eyes. A small cluster on the wall was looking their way. One man pointed, and then another disappeared from the wall. Stiger’s eyes soaked it all in. From the looks of things, the fight had been very one-sided. Judging by the encampment’s size, it had been constructed to hold not just the Thirteenth, but her auxiliary cohorts as well.

  “Looks like the enemy made a good try at overcoming the walls, sir.” Sabinus leaned forward on his saddle, also scanning the battlefield. “I daresay with this little bloody nose, they won’t be trying another such assault anytime soon.”

  Stiger glanced over, gave a nod, and then returned his gaze to the battlefield. He had been worried about the encampment, but looking at the aftermath of the assault, he knew he need not have concerned himself. Stiger was very pleased to see that, at least here, the orcs had suffered badly. The multitude of dead before him only served to whet and stoke his appetite for more. He could readily sense Rarokan’s pleasure as well, and the eagerness at what was to come.

  Sabinus leaned closer and lowered his voice.

  “When we get in there, sir,” the centurion said, “you will likely be greeted by Tribune Arvus, whom you’ve already met, but also by Camp Prefect Salt.”

  “Salt?” Stiger looked back over at Sabinus. He had difficulty believing that to be the man’s true name.

  “His name is Publius Planus Oney,” Sabinus said, “but he’s been in the legion for ages and everyone, including Legate Delvaris, calls him Salt. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s over fifty, but no one knows for sure. Nobody wants to ask him, either.”

  “Because he is a tough old salt, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabinus said. “In the legion, there’s no one that’s tougher. Half of the centurionate are scared of him.” Sabinus nudged his horse forward. “They’ll be wondering why we are sitting here, sir.”

  Stiger touched his heels to Misty’s sides, setting her in motion. Behind them, Mectillius gave the order for the century to march. Theo and Father Thomas had been riding behind the century. When the men had stopped at the top of the hill, both had ridden off to the side of the century to get a better view of the battlefield. Stiger glanced back. Both were again moving and working their way forward to catch up to Stiger and Sabinus.

  “Anything else I should know?” Stiger asked.

  “Plenty,” Sabinus said unhappily and glanced around, “but there’s no time for all of that now. Keep me near you as much as possible and I will do what I can to help.”

  “I will,” Stiger said.

  As they continued to ride nearer to the camp, a horn sounded a particular call, four long blasts followed by an even longer one. It was customary to announce the legate’s return. Since Delvaris had been absent for months, Stiger could well understand the hundreds of legionaries that began to appear on the wall a few moments later. They eagerly crowded the wall, peering out at him and his party.

  A hearty cheer went up as the wooden gates started to swing open. The men gave another cheer.

  “Delvaris was popular with the men,” Sabinus said by way of explanation.
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  Stiger said nothing to that. He was not comfortable impersonating such a great man. But those feelings were secondary. The legion needed a legate, a combat leader, and he would give them that. Stiger had a job to do and he meant to follow through with it.

  Before the gates had even finished opening, several teams of men raced out with long wooden planks and began bridging the trenches. A centurion followed after, shouting at them to pick up the pace.

  “That’s Centurion Titus Acillius Atta,” Sabinus said, swaying in the saddle slightly as he steered his horse around a body. The orc had dragged himself around a hundred yards from the nearest trench before expiring. Sabinus glanced down sourly at the creature, whose end had been far from pleasant. “Atta commands a century in my cohort. You, or really Delvaris, decorated him twice since assuming command of the Thirteenth. He is very solid and reliable and possibly the bravest soldier I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Eventually, should he survive long enough, I expect him to make senior centurion.”

  Stiger gave a nod of understanding.

  They continued to ride closer, passing through the field of dead. It was a gruesome setting. Most had been killed by missile fire. A good number, however, showed signs of having been injured and then trampled. It was an ugly way to go, but Stiger did not care. A good orc was a dead orc.

  Though he could not see the other side, the field of bodies seemed to run around the entire encampment, which meant the enemy had attempted all of the walls simultaneously. They had clearly brought a good-sized number to attack the legion. The questions in his mind was, where had the survivors gone?

  Stiger guided Misty around several bodies as they neared the outer trench. The men from the encampment finished laying their planks. They began rolling the bodies that lay in the gaps between the bridges out of the way. Centurion Atta, using his vine cane as a walking stick, stomped out beyond the outer trench toward Stiger’s approaching party. He turned and snapped an order to his men. They finished moving the bodies aside so there was an unobstructed path to the gate, then stood aside and snapped to a position of attention.