The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Father Thomas shook himself and then looked back over at Stiger. “I . . . ah, um, I was just thinking that perhaps whatever rites are performed down here, they are so heinous the priests dared not allow others to witness?”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.” Stiger felt himself frown, the scar on his cheek pulling tight. “I don’t like the sound of that, not one bit.”

  “It’s just a guess.” An element of excitement crept into Father Thomas’s voice. “It is very rare to come across inner sanctums, such as this one. They can tell us a great deal about our enemy. I wish we had more time.”

  “Right.” Stiger turned to Sabinus and Prestus. The last thing he wanted was to spend more time down here. “What did you wish to show us?”

  “This way, sir,” Prestus said. The centurion led them down the hallway, stopping at the door on the left, which was open. The door on the right was closed.

  Father Thomas stepped past them and continued up the hallway toward the statue. He stopped before it and crouched down. Stiger took a step to follow, then stopped. He had not noticed until now, but the temperature in the hallway appeared to drop the closer he got to the statue. Stiger took another step. His hair stood on end and the chill intensified. He took a step backward, deciding to wait for Father Thomas.

  The paladin stood, turned, and walked back to them. He cleared his throat. “I would advise against going too near the statue. It is best to proceed no farther than these doorways.”

  “That bad?” Stiger asked.

  “That statue is something I dare not trifle with.” The paladin sounded grave. “When we leave, we will want to bury the entrance. It may not be a bad idea to fill in the stairway with debris. The locals may not know about this subterranean chamber, and I sincerely hope they don’t, for no good will come of anyone venturing down here.”

  “We will see to it, Father,” Sabinus said, and gestured toward the doorway. “Now, let me show you what we found.”

  He led them into the chapel. It was small, with a row of a dozen stone benches. The benches ran up the middle of the chapel, with three feet of space to either side. The ceiling had been rounded into a curved arch. The floor, walls, and ceiling had been smoothed out, for Stiger could see no tool marks. He went to place a hand on the wall but thought better of it when Father Thomas shot him an unhappy glare.

  Stiger settled for a visual inspection.

  An overly large stone altar was at the far end of the chapel. Something lay atop it. A line of unlit candelabras stood along the left wall. Thick white candles sat in their holders, just waiting for a light.

  “I can light a few of the candles,” Sabinus said, almost as if he had been reading Stiger’s thoughts.

  “Touch nothing,” Father Thomas said. “Disturb nothing. We are in a den of evil. There is no telling what is dangerous.”

  Stiger sniffed. There was a slight musty smell in the air and something else . . . blood. His eyes traveled in the direction the benches faced. He held his torch up for more light, shining it upon the altar. A body lay stretched across the stone top. Father Thomas and Stiger shared a glance before starting forward. The two centurions brought up the rear.

  As they neared the altar, and the torchlight played more fully over it, Stiger saw the body was that of a large orc, most likely a warrior. The creature was naked and clearly dead. It had been tortured before it was allowed to expire. Blood was everywhere. It coated the altar and had run down onto the floor. The implements of torture lay against the base of the altar, as did what appeared to be small pieces and chunks of the orc’s flesh and body.

  Father Thomas lowered his torch, shining light on the floor. There were splashes of blood, along with tracks from the torturers who had walked through it. Stiger had not noticed before, but the blood trail led out toward the door. He glanced down and found he was standing in a dried puddle of blood.

  Stiger stepped closer to the altar, his boots sticking to the floor. Stiger felt tremendous disgust at the sight of the body and almost turned away. He steeled himself and looked over the corpse. The orc’s arms and legs had been broken. White bone poked out of the left leg. The knees looked like a hammer had been taken to them. The hands had been smashed and were horribly mangled. A few fingers were even missing, including a thumb on the right hand. The stomach had been cut open with dozens of small incisions, and the entrails had been pulled partly out. These too had been cut and sliced up. The orc’s manhood had also been mutilated. Despite the creature being the enemy, it was one of the worst things Stiger had seen done to another being. It left him feeling revolted and somewhat sorry for the creature.

  “Did you touch anything?” Father Thomas asked the two centurions, looking over at them. “Prior to us coming down here, did you handle anything?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t,” Sabinus said and glanced over at Prestus, eyebrows raised in question.

  “I didn’t touch nothing,” Prestus said. “I swear it.”

  “What about the closed door across the way?” Father Thomas asked. “How did you know that chapel is empty?”

  “I did open the doors,” Sabinus said, with realization and a dawning fear. He glanced down at his right hand.

  “I will check you both over later to be certain you’ve not been tainted,” Father Thomas said. “How about anyone else?”

  “We are the only ones who have been in here,” Prestus said.

  “I posted the sentry at the landing to make sure no one else comes down other than us,” Sabinus said.

  “Good thinking. At least there are a few in this legion who can listen,” Father Thomas said, with a sharp glance thrown over to Stiger. “Make sure you touch nothing as well. Your life may depend upon it.”

  “I always listen to your words of wisdom,” Stiger said.

  “I think that is still to be determined,” the paladin said with a heavy breath and a slight frown. “We both know you like to do things the hard way.”

  Stiger rolled his eyes as the paladin turned back to the orc. He began a visual examination of the creature, holding the hissing torch close to the body.

  Stiger glanced around the room, not quite understanding why Sabinus had requested his presence. Though what had been done to this orc was hideous and heinous, the priests had simply killed one of their own. As he saw it, this was likely tied to some arcane religious rite honoring Castor. Stiger was more than ready to leave. He fairly itched to be on his way.

  Leaning over the body, Father Thomas, however, seemed a little more interested. He moved slowly and completely around the altar, taking his time, and was exceedingly careful to touch nothing. Stiger wondered what the paladin found so interesting. Perhaps, it was just an opportunity to study another religion’s practices. After a time, Stiger grew impatient.

  “You called us here.” He turned to Sabinus. “I hope it wasn’t just to see this body.”

  “Look closer, sir,” Sabinus said. “Recognize anything on him?”

  Despite his distaste, Stiger did as requested and joined Father Thomas in a closer examination. He began with the face. It had been beaten to a bloodied pulp. The mouth was open in a silent scream. The tusks had been pulled out. He saw them at the altar’s base, by his feet.

  The creature was apparently fresh, for Stiger noted greenish blood trickling from a cut along the jaw. It ran down onto the stone of the altar, joining the dried blood that thoroughly coated the floor. It told him the torture had been done recently, perhaps continuing up until the moment the legion had moved into the town.

  Stiger recalled the elderly priest sprawled upon the steps of the temple. Had he been responsible for this sickening display? He found it hard to believe that one elderly orc had done all this by himself. He had to have had help. Where were the others? Where had they gone?

  Stiger brought his gaze lower, moving to the neck and chest. He froze as the torchlight reflected on something metal around the neck. His hand holding the torch gave an involuntary shake. He had not seen it at first. The
skin around the neck had swollen almost completely over the metal. But from what he could see, Stiger recognized it immediately. It was a gold torc and a near twin to the one that Stiger wore on his armor harness, the prize he had taken in battle. Stiger studied the orc’s face as his hand touched his own torc.

  “I think this might be Therik.” Stiger glanced over at Father Thomas.

  “I believe it is,” Father Thomas said softly, straightening up.

  “I recognized the torc,” Sabinus said, “which is why I called you both.”

  “Good job,” Stiger said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why would they kill their king?” Stiger asked. “Especially after he did his very best to kill me and Brogan? Why go to all the trouble to do this? To torture him so?”

  “That, my son,” Father Thomas said, “is an interesting question, and one I am afraid we do not have the answer to.”

  “Perhaps because he failed,” Sabinus said, drawing their attention. “Pardon my observation, but Castor does not seem to be a very forgiving master.”

  “That is one distinct possibility,” Father Thomas conceded, “one amongst many I can think of.”

  “We’ve seen Castor’s priests conduct a sacrificial ritual,” Stiger said. “It looked nothing like what has been done to Therik.”

  Father Thomas continued his examination. “This, I am afraid, is altogether something different.”

  The paladin stretched out a tentative hand to touch the body. Stiger reached out and grabbed the paladin’s wrist.

  “Are you certain, Father?” Stiger asked, for he needed the paladin and could not afford to lose him. Stiger feared what would happen should he have to face Rarokan without the training Father Thomas had promised.

  “I am quite certain,” the paladin said and firmly removed Stiger’s hand. Then, quite deliberately, he placed his palm gently upon Therik’s naked chest.

  Therik took a sudden gasping breath and arched his back. Everyone in the room jumped, taking a step back. Stiger shook his head slightly as his heart hammered in his chest. He could not believe that Therik still lived.

  Bloodshot eyes fluttered open. Therik turned his head slowly, his unfocused gaze settling upon Father Thomas. Therik said something in his own language.

  The paladin looked over at Stiger, who shrugged. “I don’t speak orc, Father.”

  Therik cleared his throat. It was a pitiful sound, and he seemed to struggle just to do it.

  “Kill me,” Therik spoke in dwarven. It came out as barely more than a raspy whisper. “End my suffering.”

  The paladin shot Stiger a questioning look.

  “Why did you betray us?” Stiger asked, stepping closer. Though the anger and rage had left him, Stiger wanted to hear why Therik had done what he had. What had been his thinking?

  There was still the matter of revenge he had promised to Brogan. Gazing upon the shattered body of the king, Stiger realized that Castor’s servants had punished Therik far more than he or Brogan ever could.

  “We came to you openly to treat,” Stiger said when Therik had not answered. “I want to know why you did it.”

  Therik’s gaze flicked to Stiger and his eyes widened slightly. He blinked several times, as if working to clear his vision. The king looked between Stiger and Father Thomas, as if seeing them for the first time. “You are dream. You cannot be here.”

  “We are real,” Father Thomas assured the king.

  “No,” Therik said, becoming excited. He body began to shiver. “Must be trick.”

  “It is no trick,” Father Thomas said.

  “Why did you betray us?” Stiger asked again, feeling somewhat surprised that he pitied the king’s fate. Therik had to be in terrible agony. Stiger slowly drew his dagger, so the king could see. He would offer release for information. “Answer me and I will do you a kindness, something I feel you do not deserve.”

  Therik’s gaze fell on the dagger, before traveling back to Stiger’s face.

  “I did not cross you.” Therik coughed up bloody spittle. He groaned and choked a little, before coughing once again. “It was my son. I don’t know how he knew . . . but he did.” Cough. “My son betrayed. It was he who led Theltra against my camp and Brogan’s. They killed Karan. I no betray. I came for hope.”

  Stiger stared down at Therik, wanting to disbelieve but couldn’t. There was no point in the king lying. Therik was clearly dying, likely just moments away from taking his last breath.

  The king’s eyes sharpened. He looked intensely at Stiger and picked his head up off the stone altar with some effort. He groaned as he did it. “You should not be here.”

  “We came to destroy the temple,” Stiger said. “Your people attacked Vrell and killed many.”

  Therik gave a moan that was half wail, then coughed violently, again arching his back in pain. He cleared his throat with some effort and spat out greenish bile onto his chest. Stiger thought it likely the king was slowly choking on his own blood.

  “People of town had no part in that,” Therik said with some force, struggling to speak the words. It came out slow and slurred. “They be peaceful, what you call”—cough—“civilized. They craft, they build, they not make war.” Therik coughed again and then worked to clear his throat. It seemed to take a tremendous effort. “They nothing like mountain tribes. You came here to destroy and punish. Instead you start holy war.”

  “A holy war?” Stiger asked, going cold as the realization of what he had done sank home.

  “You do Castor’s work. Now, all tribes be united. You begin the Horde.” Therik gave forth sob that seemed filled with not only suffering but a terrible, wrenching sadness. “Even in death, I fail people. Priests have won, Castor has won.” He looked at Stiger and allowed his tortured body to relax back onto the stone. “Now . . . finish me. Please.”

  Stiger took a step back. He saw it now. The truth was plain. Therik had been honest in his dealings and intent. He was everything Brogan had initially said he was. Stiger had been manipulated into believing the broken creature before him had intentionally deceived.

  In his thirst for blood and power, Rarokan had unwittingly helped complete the deception by fueling Stiger’s rage and driving him onward to punish the orcs of Forkham. By coming to Forkham, Stiger had made a truly terrible mistake.

  “What have I done?”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Father Thomas said, turning to him. “There was no way to know.”

  “I should have,” Stiger said, feeling utterly awful.

  Castor’s minion and priests knew that an attack upon Vrell would’ve provoked retribution on the nearest orc community. They had never intended to destroy the legion. The assault on the encampment had all been a show, to distract away from their real objective. They wanted to use the legion. The minion knew of the future. It wanted the temple razed by humans to galvanize the tribes and bring unity, without Therik.

  Stiger had been encouraged and led along by the nose, following his ancestor’s footsteps right into Forkham. They had murdered Sarai to ensure he followed through. They had even gone so far as to plant the king’s standard on the farm.

  His gaze fell upon Therik, whose dulling eyes were still on him. The king’s breathing was becoming shallow and irregular. He understood with certainty the priests had left the king here for him to find. It was a message, and one that Stiger did not like, not one bit. They had also made an example of Therik for his efforts at peace.

  Stiger had failed to save Delvaris, and now he had failed again. At least, it felt like he had. Stiger had wanted Therik’s army to make a lunge into Vrell, and now they’d certainly come. By destroying the town and one of their most important temples, Stiger had given the orcs common cause to want revenge.

  How many tribes would come? Would it be what they had on hand, as he hoped? Or would it be all of the tribes? Would they arrive before Brogan’s army? Either way, he knew he would shortly have a fight on his hands, and he’d inadvertently given the orc
s extra motivation to win it.

  Stiger gazed back at Therik.

  “I wonder,” Stiger said to himself, as an intriguing thought hit him.

  “What, my son?”

  Stiger turned to the paladin, about to answer, then hesitated. He looked back on Therik. Was it possible? Stiger drew the paladin away from Therik.

  “Save him,” Stiger said simply to Father Thomas.

  “What?” the paladin asked.

  “Heal him,” Stiger said, sheathing his dagger.

  Thoggle had sent him along to the summit with the hope that something might come out of it. Perhaps he could still do something meaningful?

  “Heal him, as you healed those injured in the underground. Just as you restored Sergeant Arnold’s knee, heal him.”

  Father Thomas straightened, glanced at Therik and then up at Stiger.

  “I can’t do that,” Father Thomas said, as if the very concept was absurd. “And this is more than fixing a simple knee.”

  “Why not?” Stiger asked.

  “He is of Castor’s ilk, a follower of a different god. The High Father would never bless such an attempt.”

  “Kill me,” Therik pleaded, eyes sliding to Stiger’s sheathed dagger in longing. A tear ran from one of Therik’s bloodshot eyes down onto his battered and bruised face.

  “He isn’t a follower of Castor,” Stiger said, pointing to the king. “He told us himself. What if it is true? It may be everything he told us was the truth.”

  Father Thomas scowled, considering Stiger.

  “They left him here for us to find,” Stiger said. “Let’s turn this back on Castor.”

  “I don’t believe I can heal him,” Father Thomas said, uncertainty in his eyes. “Besides, even if I could, his injuries are likely beyond my ability to keep him on this side of the river.”

  “If you don’t try, how can you know for certain?” Stiger felt that he was onto something. It was as if his gut was telling him this was the right thing to do. He sensed what he thought might be an encouraging nudge urging him on. He wondered for a moment if the gentle push came from the High Father.