The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “You must try,” Stiger said. “What is the worst that can happen? The High Father will simply withhold his healing. Am I correct in that?”

  Father Thomas glanced over at Therik. His lips formed a thin line.

  “Very well, I will do as you ask.” The paladin turned his gaze back to Stiger. “However, I warn you in advance . . .” Father Thomas paused to spare Therik a quick look. “He is an orc and, should this succeed, there may be unforeseen consequences.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” the paladin admitted. “To my knowledge, nothing like this has ever been attempted. No orc I am aware of has ever received a blessing from the High Father.”

  The paladin handed his torch over to Stiger and stepped back to Therik. He placed a hand upon the king’s chest. Therik flinched.

  “What you do?” Therik asked in a mere whisper.

  “I may be able to heal you,” Father Thomas said, gazing down on the mutilated orc. “However, for the attempt to succeed, you must pledge yourself to the High Father.”

  “I know nothing of your god.” Therik coughed again.

  “It is true you know little of the High Father. However, you can learn,” Father Thomas said. “The High Father is a loving and forgiving god, not a vengeful one.”

  “I have failed my people,” Therik said. “Can he offer forgiveness for that?”

  “There is but one way to find out,” Father Thomas said. “Will you accept his healing? If granted, will you pledge to learn more about my god?”

  “I will,” Therik said. “He may not like what he see in me. Castor did not.”

  Father Thomas smiled and then closed his eyes, bowing his head.

  Therik’s eyes rolled up and closed as well.

  Stiger, Sabinus, and Prestus stood silently and watched, waiting. It was as if they collectively held their breath. The silence stretched. Sabinus let out a sneeze. In the silence of the chapel, it sounded explosive, causing Stiger and Prestus to start. Sabinus gave the other two an apologetic look.

  The paladin began to mutter something. Stiger assumed he was praying. Time passed. Eying the paladin, Stiger did not sense a welling of power. Nothing seemed to improve. In fact, Therik’s breathing became shallower and more erratic.

  Stiger chewed his lip as he watched. A thought occurred to him and he sucked in a startled breath, tossing both torches he had been holding to the floor. They landed in a shower of sparks. He stepped up to the altar and hesitated a moment. Then he placed his hand on the paladin’s. Father Thomas opened his eyes and looked over at him in question.

  “Shall we do this together?” Stiger said. “As the High Father’s champion and his paladin?”

  Father Thomas’s eyes widened a fraction.

  “Let’s try it,” the paladin said. “As High Father’s champion and me, his paladin.”

  Father Thomas bent his head over Therik. Stiger did the same, closing his eyes. He had never attempted anything like this before, so he decided to calm and center his being. He reached within himself, going deep, using Eli’s teaching to help focus his mind. When he felt at peace, Stiger offered up a prayer.

  “High Father,” Stiger said aloud in a clear tone. He poured all of his conviction and faith into it. “I humbly ask you grant your paladin the power to heal this orc, Therik, for he has turned away from Castor. Take him into your keeping and flock if you deem him worthy.”

  There was no reply, and no surge of power. Nothing whatsoever happened. Stiger was trying to make this a joint effort, for in some way he could not explain, he sensed it was the right thing to do. And yet, something clearly wasn’t working. Stiger racked his mind. Then it hit him. How could he have been so blind? Rarokan had given him the solution. It was the divine spark that was part of his life force, the ability to call upon and use will.

  “High Father, grant me your strength,” Stiger said, adding to his prayer. He steeled himself for the next part. He had already made his decision. It was now time to reinforce it. He just hoped it worked. “I have strayed. For that, I humbly ask your forgiveness.” Stiger paused briefly. “I will proudly take up your standard as your champion, whether you heal Therik or not. I am yours, forever in service, duty, and life.”

  Stiger felt a small spark flare in the darkness of his mind. It was like being on one of the dwarven underground roads, with a light far off in the distance. The light grew with intensity. Stiger recognized it as the High Father’s power answering both of their calls. The light welled upward with frightening force, channeling its way through the paladin, though Stiger also felt a small measure of it coming through him as well.

  Stiger could feel the paladin guiding the power, shaping it to his will and feeding it to where it was needed in Therik’s body, repairing the damage that Castor’s priests had wrought. He did not understand how Father Thomas was doing what he did, but that did not really matter. Therik was being blessed by the High Father. He had been accepted and deemed worthy.

  Stiger keenly felt the touch of the High Father. He was closer than he had ever been to his god. It was exhilarating, awe-inspiring, and at the same time frightening. He felt infinite depth and majesty of the High Father’s mind brushing against his own. For a moment, it seemed the great god looked directly his way, and Stiger was filled with a sense of loving warmth, the kind a parent bestows upon a child. It lasted for both an eternity and a heartbeat, then the High Father’s attention passed.

  The closeness to his god and the flow of power was pure euphoria. He did not ever want it to end. Then, after a time, the power began to slack into a trickle before stopping altogether. The High Father’s touch left him, the direct contact severed, and he was alone once again.

  You will never be alone, Rarokan said to him. There was a sullen taste to the wizard’s words in his mind. For I am with you, always.

  Stiger’s mood soured.

  You lied, Stiger said, probing for the wizard’s mind. The barriers were back up.

  Yes, champion, Rarokan replied with disdain. And that is the last time you shall read my thoughts.

  Perhaps, Stiger thought back.

  There was no reply.

  Stiger’s eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for him to focus. He looked down upon Therik and saw the orc completely mended, whole and uninjured. The king slept, breathing deeply. A dark greenish color was returning to his unblemished skin. Therik was completely naked, with the exception of the torc around his neck. Stiger blinked. The torc had gone from a gold color to silver.

  Stiger tore his gaze from the torc and shifted his position, feeling stiff and very tired. He looked over at Father Thomas and saw an utterly changed man. The paladin had aged at least ten years. His gray hair had thinned considerably. It had fallen out onto his shoulders and down around his feet, almost as if someone had just cut his hair.

  Gazing upon Therik, the paladin gave a pleased smile and then his legs gave out. Stiger caught him before he could fall and gently lowered him to the ground. The paladin seemed to weigh almost nothing. “I think you know what comes next,” Father Thomas said.

  “A long rest, I take it?” Stiger said.

  “The more difficult the healing, the more life force it takes,” Father Thomas said. “Don’t worry, I gave up more of mine so it would not take yours.”

  “What?” Stiger asked, alarmed. “Why?”

  Father Thomas grinned broadly. “We were truly blessed today, for you and I have accomplished something that’s never been done. We have brought an orc into the fold.”

  Father Thomas’s eyes started to roll back.

  “Rest easy,” Stiger said, “for we shall carry you back with us.”

  “I expected nothing less from the High Father’s champion,” Father Thomas said, reaching a wrinkled and aged hand up to Stiger’s cheek before lowering it back to his side. He closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

  Stiger eased the paladin’s head to the floor and then stood, his joints and muscles protesting. It felt as if he
had been holding the same position for hours. He saw that Sabinus and Prestus were still there. Stiger wondered how much time had passed.

  Prestus abruptly fell to his knees, both hands clasped together. Sabinus joined him a heartbeat later.

  “Oh, get up,” Stiger snapped.

  “Praise be to the High Father,” Prestus said in an awed voice that shook with emotion. “We witnessed a miracle.”

  Stiger gazed upon the veteran, a little surprised at the man’s response.

  “I don’t know how else to describe it, sir,” Sabinus stammered at first, “but you both were encased in white fire as you healed Therik. It was so bright, we had to look away.”

  Stiger did not like the look in their eyes, which shone with devout faith and belief as they gazed upon him.

  “You named yourself the High Father’s champion,” Prestus said. “The paladin called you that as well. Is it true, sir? Are you gods blessed? Are we led by the High Father’s champion?”

  Stiger almost said no, then thought otherwise. He had pledged himself once again to the High Father and meant to follow through. There was no point in shying away or denying it.

  “It seems, for better or worse, I am,” Stiger said, with a wry expression.

  There was a flash of light behind them. It lit up the chapel.

  “The altar,” Sabinus gasped.

  Stiger looked around. The altar had turned from a rough granite to snow-white marble. It was astonishing. The blood and the severed bits of flesh were gone, vanished, as were the implements of torture. The High Father was leaving his mark in this den of evil. The thought of it warmed his heart.

  Stiger turned back to the two officers. They were still kneeling, gazing upon him with reverence. An uneasy feeling came across Stiger. He may be a champion, but that did not mean he was a paladin or a priest.

  “Will you both kindly get up?” Stiger said, feeling uncomfortable. “I take salutes, not bending of the knee. Such displays are reserved for our emperor and our god.”

  Both centurions stood, their expressions awed and reverent.

  Stiger turned to look first at Father Thomas and then at Therik. The two were fast asleep. His gaze settled on Therik. The king could never go home or return to his people. Castor had already seen to that. Stiger felt a responsibility for Therik’s welfare.

  “Have the cohorts assemble for march. We’ve done enough destruction for the day,” Stiger said to Sabinus. “We are returning to Vrell immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabinus said. “What of the prisoners? Are they still to be put to death?”

  Stiger had forgotten them. He felt terrible about what he’d done and regretted his actions. He had destroyed their homes and livelihood. They were not his enemy. The innocent often suffered the most in war. Still, that did not excuse his actions or make things right. In truth, he knew for the people of this valley he never could make amends. But there was one thing he could do, and that was spare their lives.

  “No,” Stiger said. “They are to be set free, unharmed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabinus said. “It will be done.”

  “Prestus,” Stiger said, “get a team down here to haul both of them out. They should sleep for some time. I want to be clear. The orc is to be treated with complete respect. Is that understood? He is a king, my guest, and most definitely not a prisoner.”

  “Yes, sir,” Prestus said. “I will see that litters are made. No harm will come to him, sir.”

  Stiger paused and glanced around the room before returning his gaze to Sabinus.

  “Before we depart this valley,” Stiger said, “I want the entrance to this space filled in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabinus said. “There is plenty of rubble up there to get the job done.”

  “Very good,” Stiger said, and stepped by them. He moved out into the hallway and came to a halt. Something wasn’t quite right. The legionary stationed by the stairs appeared shaken. There was an odd smell on the air. Stiger glanced around.

  The statue of Castor had melted. It was now a black, smoking puddle that with every heartbeat seemed to be shrinking. The broom that had been propped up by the wall was now sinking into the black pool, as if being eaten alive. It hissed as it was slowly consumed. Stiger watched as the puddle grew smaller.

  “The statue, sir,” the legionary stammered and pointed. “It just melted. I saw it happen.”

  “Yes,” Stiger said. “The High Father paid this place a visit.”

  “He did?”

  Stiger nodded. “Do not go near that puddle.”

  “Sir,” the legionary said, “all I want to do is get out of this cursed place.”

  “That makes two of us, son,” Stiger said and patted the legionary on the shoulder. Turning away, he made his way up the stairs. When he emerged outside, he saw that the sun was coming up. He stopped and glanced back down the stairs. They had clearly been down there for hours. To Stiger it had been a blink of an eye.

  Two sentries stood before the entrance. They snapped to attention.

  Stiger looked around at the ruins of the temple and the razed town. He had made a mistake here and felt terrible about that. Now, he had to live with the consequences.

  Stiger’s attention was drawn by a bark. Dog raced up excitedly. He jumped up, placing his great big paws over Stiger’s shoulders, almost as if the beast intended to hug him. The animal’s momentum and weight nearly knocked Stiger over. He let out a laugh as Dog’s long red tongue began excitedly licking his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Good morning, sir,” Venthus said cheerfully, opening the tent flap. He carried a small portable lantern, which he set on a small table next to Stiger’s bed. “You asked to be woken before dawn.”

  Stiger sat up on his cot, the blanket falling to his waist. The tent was chilly with night air. The brazier in the center of the tent had long since gone out. It had provided more smoke than heat and had not been very helpful at combating the cold. The thick woolen blanket had done more.

  Stiger stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Pulling the blanket aside, he swung his legs off the cot. The rich rug beneath his feet felt good. Stiger stretched his arms again. Dog, who had been curled up in the corner of the tent, raised his head. He looked around before apparently deciding nothing interesting was going on. Dog lowered his head and closed his eyes.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Stiger rubbed the back of his neck. He felt more tired than when he had gone to bed. The day after the raid into Forkham, he had marched the legion north all the way across the valley to the position Salt was busy preparing. They had arrived late the night before and made a fortified encampment just beyond the ridgeline, where Stiger’s defenses had been laid out by the engineers and were starting to take shape. The demands of command had kept him up later than most.

  “Around four hours, master,” Venthus said, busying himself by lighting the lamp attached to the tent’s main pole, “and, might I say, you needed the rest. Since you’ve been back you have been pushing yourself too hard.”

  Stiger reached over to the table next to his bed and grabbed the pitcher and empty jar. He poured some wine. He swished the wine around in the jar several times and then took a healthy swig, washing the sour taste from his mouth.

  “You have not been yourself, master,” Venthus said, “not yourself at all.”

  “I haven’t?” Stiger was suddenly on guard. He placed the wine jar back on the table.

  Venthus stepped back from the lamp, which now burned brightly in the dim tent. He fed it more wick. The light from the lamp rapidly grew and filled the tent with a yellowed, cheery glow.

  “No, master,” Venthus said, moving over and tying back the flap of the tent. It was still dark outside, though the sky had begun to lighten some. “Before you left for Forkham Valley you seemed rather upset, which, I might add, is understandable, given all that has happened to Vrell.”

  Stiger relaxed a little. This man was Delvaris’s personal slave and had
likely been his servant for years. He out of anyone would know Delvaris the best. Stiger understood; he would have to be on his guard.

  “I’ve laid out a fresh tunic for you.” Venthus pointed toward a table.

  Stiger looked and saw the neatly folded tunic. Boots rested before the table. They had been cleaned of the mud and dirt that had coated them.

  “I am afraid your armor will not be ready today,” Venthus said.

  “Oh?”

  “Unfortunately, it is needing a lot of attention,” Venthus continued. “It is in a very sad state.”

  “We had some difficult days,” Stiger said, “and it got a little spirited with the orcs on our way back from the summit.”

  “Hmmm,” the slave said, “so I had heard.”

  Stiger yawned.

  “Both the leather master and the armorer have been working on it all night. I was told many of the leather fittings and straps need replacing. The leather master seems to think the straps were aged, almost as if old leather had been used when it was last repaired, which was just before we left the capital.” Venthus shook his head in dismay. “It’s very strange. I made sure to use the best leather master available.”

  “It must have been the air under the mountain,” Stiger said, understanding that was not the cause at all. Stiger had gotten the armor from Delvaris’s tomb, over three hundred years after the man had died. The leather straps and fittings should have rotted away. Instead, they had been well preserved. Stiger wondered if magic had something to do with it. Prior to traveling back to this time, he had used the armor hard.

  Venthus gave a shrug and turned to face Stiger. “Do you wish assistance dressing?”

  “No,” Stiger said. “I will manage this morning.”

  “Shall I bring your morning coffee?” Venthus asked. “Or would you like it in the command tent?”

  “Coffee?” Stiger’s head came up eagerly. “I could use some good coffee. Now would be fine.”

  “Very good, master,” Venthus said and ducked out of the tent.

  Stiger stood, stripped off his tunic, and donned the fresh one. It smelled clean and freshly laundered. He glanced around the tent. When he had arrived last night, he had been beat and turned in as soon as he had been able. He had not given the tent more than a cursory once over.