The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Welcome back, sir,” Centurion Atta said and offered a proper salute as Stiger reached him. The centurion was a boxy, compact man with a grim, plain face. He gave off the impression of being hard as iron. Stiger held his hand up in a half wave, as Sabinus had instructed was Delvaris’s custom. Then Misty was clunking over the first wooden bridge. Tail wagging, Dog trotted along to the right of Stiger’s horse.

  “Atta,” Sabinus greeted as he guided his horse onto the bridge after Stiger. “Nice to see that ugly mug of yours survived.”

  “It will take more than these savages to lay me low, sir,” Atta replied.

  “I’m certain of that,” Sabinus said, turning in the saddle as he passed. “Knowing your kind and happy disposition, you’ll likely meet your end at the hands of a drunk in a bar fight.”

  “Naw,” Atta replied. “That’d never happen. Drunk or sober, I am the meanest bastard around, sir. You should know that by now.”

  Sabinus, along with Atta’s men, gave an amused chuckle. Then they were past, with Theo and Father Thomas having caught up and riding just behind Stiger and Sabinus.

  Stiger leaned over and looked down into the trench. It was filled with orcs. Some of the enemy were still alive, injured but living. They writhed in pain. He saw a good number had been impaled upon spikes set in the bottom. Likely they’d been shoved on them by their fellows as the orcs pushed forward toward the walls. He noted there had been no attempt at filling the trenches with sticks or bundles of brush to safely pass through. This told Stiger the enemy had not expected to encounter such obstacles, which meant they’d not done a proper reconnaissance on the encampment. It spoke of a lack of planning and preparation by Therik’s army.

  Stiger’s anger burned at the live but injured orcs in the trench. It was creatures like these that were responsible for Sarai’s death. He almost stopped to deal with them himself. He felt Rarokan pushing for it but clamped down hard on the urge before it could grow. He had things to do. Stiger had been ruminating on what he wanted to do during the ride and had a fairly good plan hatched out.

  “We’re gonna have to do something about that,” Stiger said and pointed down into the trench at the orcs that still lived. One with a vicious stomach wound glared angrily at him. Greenish blood frothed at the creature’s mouth as it bared its tusks in hatred. Stiger glanced over at Sabinus. “There could be some shirkers down there.”

  Sabinus glanced over the side of the bridge, a sour look on his face. “There could be.”

  Stiger swung his gaze around. He marveled at the number of javelins and arrows that dotted the landscape between trenches. It was quite incredible. He’d never seen so many missiles used to such deadly effect.

  After such a fight, Stiger had expected to see groups of the followers sent out to help gather up the arrows and javelins for repurposing and possible reuse. They should also be happily looting the dead. He was surprised not to see them. Starting over the second bridge, he brought Misty to an abrupt halt.

  “What is it?” Sabinus asked, stopping also.

  “The followers,” Stiger said and pointed at the encampment. “Where are they? Surely they’re not inside. The encampment isn’t big enough.”

  “Ah.” Sabinus nodded in understanding. “After the tribune and I paid you a visit, he sent them out of the valley. It was for their own protection and to limit the size of the encampment. They have their own camp just on the other side of Castle Vrell in the forest. One of the auxiliary cohorts is providing security. I’ve been there. It is a good camp, with a trench and solid walls.”

  It made sense to Stiger. Especially the part about limiting the size of the encampment. That meant less wall to defend if it came to a fight. At the same time, he also understood that it would not have gone over too well with the men. They were now separated from their unofficial families. The tribune was surely not a popular man. Satisfied with the explanation, Stiger started Misty forward again.

  Rough-hewn scaling ladders lay by the hundreds haphazardly scattered about amongst the dead. Stiger felt the scar on his cheek pull tight as he smiled grimly. It was abundantly clear to him the orcs had not known who and what they were facing. He bet they understood now, and if they didn’t, he would shortly do his best to educate them.

  They clunked over the last bridge and then were through the gateway. The gate detail stood to attention. An older man, wearing the armor of a senior officer along with the chest ribbon of a camp prefect, met them just inside the entrance.

  The prefect had short-cropped gray hair that had long since begun to thin. He appeared tired, but at the same time there was a confident air about him that bespoke a lifetime of hard and unforgiving service. He was, as Sabinus said, in his fifties, but his advanced age had clearly not slowed the man down. He was incredibly fit and looked ready to march those younger into the ground. Stiger warmed to him immediately. He was the kind of no-nonsense officer that Stiger had come to recognize and respect. Salt had reached his position due to competence and not politics.

  “Welcome back, sir,” the camp prefect said in a voice that sounded hoarse, as if he had recently done a lot of yelling.

  “Salt,” Stiger said with a nod and dismounted from his horse. A legionary ran over and took the reins. Stiger stretched out his back as Misty was led away. Behind him, Sabinus, Father Thomas, and Theo also dismounted. Legionaries jogged over to take their horses as well.

  Tail wagging furiously, Dog jumped up on Salt, placing his big paws on either shoulder. The animal licked happily at the prefect’s face. Dog’s long tail was moving so fast it was a blur and shook not only him, but Salt as well.

  “All right, all right,” Salt said with affection, forcing the animal with some effort off him and back down. “Mangy old hound. I missed you, too.”

  Stiger recalled how Sabinus had recognized Dog as having belonged to Delvaris. It appeared that the prefect and animal were fast friends. What had Dog been up to prior to his coming to the farm?

  Salt looked over and had the grace to color slightly as he dropped the tough, no-nonsense appearance for a handful of heartbeats as he patted the dog’s head. Then the steel was back, as Father Thomas and Theo stepped up, joining Stiger.

  “May I present Father Thomas,” Stiger said, “paladin to the High Father. Father Thomas, I would like to introduce Camp Prefect Oney.”

  “It is an honor to meet you, Father,” Salt said without missing a beat and shook Father Thomas’s hand. He greeted the paladin as if the meeting were a common occurrence. Almost like true magic, paladins were extremely rare.

  “Camp Prefect Oney,” Father Thomas said.

  “Call me Salt.”

  “Salt, then,” Father Thomas said with a smile.

  “Theo,” Stiger gestured at the dwarf, “liaison from Thane Brogan.”

  Salt gave a nod to the dwarf.

  “It is a pleasure,” Theo said in common.

  The camp prefect eyed Fifth Century as it marched in, passing them by. His eyes clearly noted the absent centurion and lack of numbers. Mectillius marched the century deeper into the camp, leading them toward their assigned tents. The newly minted centurion offered Stiger a salute as he passed by.

  “Run into a bit of trouble yourself, sir?” Salt asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “We did,” Stiger said with a glance back at Fifth Century. “Pixus fell in battle. I have promoted Mectillius.”

  “Yes, sir,” Salt said. There was a hint of disapproval in the prefect’s tone. From it, Stiger understood there were clearly more senior men that had been waiting on the ladder rung to move up. Stiger’s emotions were raw from losing Sarai. He did not care in the slightest, though a small voice in his head said he should. Stiger ignored it. He was the legate. His word was law. It was as simple as that.

  Stiger looked around the interior of the camp. The tents and supply depots, which seemed unusually large to Stiger, were set well back from the walls. This was done so that, should the encampment become besieged, enemy artillery f
ire would have a more difficult time of reaching the vulnerable parts of the camp. Everything appeared neatly ordered and organized, just as it should be.

  The men that had rushed to the wall still stood along the walkway on the rampart, the interior side being a gentle dirt slope that had been packed down. They were watching the discussion between their legate and camp prefect. This included the officers on the wall as well. Stiger understood the rumor mill would soon be hard at work.

  Another cheer went up at the sight of Stiger looking their way. Stiger raised his hand to wave back. They cheered even louder. He then turned back to Salt.

  “There are a number of wounded from Fifth Century,” Stiger said. “The dwarves are transporting them to Old City. Once they’re fit to travel farther, I have been told they will be sent on to us.”

  “I see,” Salt said and nodded to Theo. “That is very kind of you dwarves.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Theo replied.

  Sabinus had been speaking with the legionary he had handed his horse to. Having finally sent the man on his way, he joined them. Salt gave the centurion a slight unhappy scowl and then returned his attention to Stiger.

  “What happened here?” Stiger asked. “Tell me about the attack.”

  “They assaulted us early this morning, sir,” Salt said. “Thought they could catch us napping. We received warning from the dwarves little more than an hour before they hit. The messenger said there might be a surprise attack sometime over the next few days. I didn’t rightly expect it to come so soon, sir.”

  Stiger felt himself frown and glanced around. “Where is Tribune Arvus?”

  “Dead, sir,” Salt said matter-of-factly. He could have been discussing the weather. “Along with most of the junior tribunes.”

  “What?” Stiger asked, surprised. For the legion to lose the junior tribunes was unheard of. Junior tribunes were youths, coming usually from senatorial families. They came to the legion for experience and to see if army life was to their liking. They always served as the legate’s personal aides or, as the regulars tended to call them, the messenger service.

  “Arvus, dead?” Sabinus seemed rocked by the news.

  “Dead as can be,” Salt confirmed with an unhappy look.

  “What happened?” Stiger asked. He had not wished the man dead, but at the same time, he realized that Arvus’s death made his job of taking complete control of the legion a much easier task.

  “As you already know, sir, the valley was raided last night,” Salt said. “A village to the north of here was attacked. At the time, we didn’t know what was happening and that we might even come under assault. The warning from the dwarves came later. All we could see were the fires from the town. It lit up the night sky something good. Tribune Arvus thought it was simply a fire that had spread. You know how civilians are with their cook fires, sir.”

  Stiger gave a nod. Fires were common occurrences in settlements. Sometimes, if not addressed immediately, they got out of hand. In his youth, a good portion of Mal’Zeel had burned down. It had ultimately taken an army of civilians working alongside the praetorian guard to stop the fire. The fire been so serious, a wide swath of buildings had been torn down in an effort to create a fire break.

  “Well,” Salt continued, “the tribune took two cohorts and a good number of the junior tribunes to help extinguish the fires. He figured it would be good experience for them. As they neared the town, they were ambushed. Near as I can figure, we were attacked around the same time they were. Only a handful of the men made it back, sir. They came in about three hours ago and brought the tribune’s body with them.”

  Salt fell silent.

  “Which cohorts?” Sabinus asked.

  “The Ninth and the Fourteenth Altress Auxiliary Cohort,” Sabinus said. “There were maybe a hundred survivors all told, mostly heavy infantry from the Ninth. I am afraid the light infantry suffered badly. The Fourteenth exists only in name now, sir.”

  “Tell me about the assault on the encampment,” Stiger ordered.

  “They hit us in the dead of night, sir, about two hours after the tribune departed,” Salt said. “I may be old, but once the warning came from the dwarves and what with the fire lighting up the sky for all to see . . . I figured there was a strong chance something more was afoot and the legion might be in danger. I had the alarm quietly sounded and ordered everyone to the walls and the artillery manned. If I was wrong, the boys would miss out on a few hours of sleep. Well, I wasn’t. Those animals out there snuck up in the darkness, maybe seven thousand all told. Our sentries spotted them as they moved into a step-off position around the encampment.”

  “Go on,” Stiger said.

  “Well,” Salt said, “I had the boys play the helpless lamb, with everyone hidden behind the barricade and the sentries being the only ones to show themselves. When they attacked, charging and screaming like banshees, we sounded the alarm as if the camp was being roused to the danger.” He chuckled. “I waited ‘til they crossed the second trench and were well within missile range. We opened up with everything we had, including artillery. I put our slingers and archers from the auxiliaries to good use. We inflicted heavy casualties on them as they pushed up to and against our walls. When they tried to force their way over the top, we threw them back good. I am pleased to report they never even made it over the top. We easily repulsed them, sir. As they disengaged and withdrew back through our trenches, we kept the fire up, hot and heavy.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, I figure they realized how strong our defense was and they’d not caught us napping like they expected, so they called it all off. It is also possible they misjudged how many men we had here in the encampment, for they were badly outnumbered. The bastards melted back into the darkness and we’ve not seen them since.” Salt gave a shrug. “Afterwards, more fires sprung up around the valley. I understood it was a major attack.”

  “When did they withdraw?” Sabinus asked.

  “About two hours before dawn,” Salt said.

  “What have you been doing since the attack?” Sabinus asked. It was not meant as an accusation, just a simple question.

  “Rather than venture out without any intelligence,” Salt said with an unconcerned glance in Sabinus’s direction. He returned his gaze a heartbeat later to Stiger. “I thought it best to hunker down for the night and assess the situation in the morning. As soon as it was light enough to see, I put out the cat for the day, sir.”

  “You sent out the cavalry to reconnoiter?” Stiger asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We saw one of the squadrons in the distance,” Stiger said. “Your decision was the correct one, Prefect. Well done.”

  “My thoughts exactly and thank you, sir,” the prefect said without any hint that he’d ever had doubts. “I had no idea on the enemy’s strength, only that from what we saw of the assault there were a lot of them creatures out there. I was taking no chances until I knew otherwise.”

  “And of the scouts you sent out?” Stiger asked. “What have they reported so far?”

  “It seems that the civilians were hit fairly hard,” Salt said. “Many buildings and fields were burned, though from the nearest village there are a surprising number of survivors. I understand the local militias put up a good fight of it. I am guessing—and, mind you, this is only a guess—that with the exception of our encampment, the enemy used light and scattered forces to cause as much mayhem and destruction as they could while sending their hammer to try and crack this nut.” Salt held out his arms to indicate the encampment. “Though it looks right bad out there in the valley, the loss of life may be limited to some degree.”

  Stiger bit off an angry retort before he could voice it. He wanted to rage at the prefect, tell him there was nothing limited about Sarai’s death. It took some effort but he managed to clamp down on his emotions. Deep down, he understood what Salt had said was a reasonable assessment and likely true. The man had meant nothing by the statement of what he saw as
possible fact. Besides, he knew nothing of Sarai.

  Stiger cleared his throat. “And the raiders? The orcs? Are they still in the valley?”

  “From what we can tell so far, most seem to have gone south, sir,” Salt said. “They appear to be leaving the valley, with all the spoils they can carry. They are moving in small groups up into the mountains. One of our squadrons caught up with one and ran them down. They reported the orcs had several wagons full of wine and meat they’d plundered.” Salt paused and glanced back toward the parade ground. “I was preparing to dispatch four cohorts to see what can be done to help the civilians.” He turned back to Stiger. “Now that you have returned, sir, how would you like us to proceed?”

  Stiger looked over at the parade ground. A few yards off, he saw the cohorts assembling. Javelins and shields at their feet, the men were checking equipment, filling their haversacks with rations, and generally preparing themselves for march. He figured that if the orc raiding parties were heading south, there was a good chance they were making for Forkham Valley.

  Go after them, Rarokan hissed with eager anticipation.

  We will, Stiger said silently back to the sword.

  Stiger’s anger surged at the thought of a pursuit. He wanted revenge for what was done to Sarai. His hand sought out the sword hilt, the tingle running up his arm. The rage coursed through his veins. He would make them pay. But at the same time, if he followed them to Forkham—and he intended to—he would be treading in Delvaris’s footsteps. With the loss of Sarai, he didn’t much care anymore about that. All he wanted was to pay the orcs back in kind. Razing the temple and anything else in Forkham was but one step toward doing just that.

  “Salt, I want you to prepare the entire legion for march,” Stiger said, glancing up at the noon sky. “I would like to move in an hour or two, if we could.”

  “And where, sir, are we going?” There was no surprise in the prefect’s expression. “Do you wish to leave a garrison to cover our supply? Or are we taking everything with us? If we are, I am afraid we won’t be leaving in an hour or, for that matter, even two.”