“My problem?” It was the first time that the centurion exhibited any emotion other than a stiff professionalism. “How is it my problem, sir?”
Stiger stood and picked up his coffee. He took a sip as he eyed the centurion.
“You have sixty days to rectify Mectillius’s deficiency,” Stiger said.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir?”
“It’s really very simple, centurion,” Stiger said. “You and your other officers from second cohort will spend time each day instructing Mectillius on reading, writing, and arithmetic. At the end of that time, I expect Mectillius to be able to function as any other centurion in this legion. Unless, of course, you feel I made a mistake in promoting him from optio to centurion?”
“Um, no, sir,” Nantus said hastily. “You did not make a mistake, sir.”
Stiger took a deliberately slow sip of his coffee, his eyes on the centurion. He realized that in the future he would have to be more careful with his promotions, to avoid issues like this. Gods, he hated camp politics.
“Let me be clear,” Stiger said, “when I say ‘expect,’ I mean it to happen. I will not tolerate failure. Is that understood?”
Nantus’s mouth fell open as his eyes moved from the imaginary spot to lock with Stiger’s gaze. He snapped his mouth shut. The centurion’s face turned red.
“I asked you a question, centurion,” Stiger said, hardening his voice. “Is that understood?”
“It is, sir,” Nantus said. “In sixty days Mectillius will be able to read and write adequately.”
“Excellent. Is there anything else you wish to discuss?”
“No, sir.”
“Dismissed,” Stiger said. The centurion snapped back to attention and saluted. He spun on his heel and stalked out of the office. Stiger watched him go. He was not about to deny Mectillius his chance without good cause, nor would he allow the rank to be snatched away. It would be cruel and unfair.
Stiger sat back down and returned to his strength totals.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Stiger looked up to find his senior clerk had returned.
“Setinnunus, chief of the engineers, is here to see you, sir,” Nepturus said.
Stiger rather suspected the rest of his day would be very busy, and with all that needed doing in the construction of the defenses, he figured this was only the beginning. He now had an army at his disposal. He had to prepare them for what was coming.
“Would you care to see him before or after we go through the list of appointments I’ve made for you this morning?”
“Send him in,” Stiger said. “I will see him first. Then we can go over your list.”
Chapter Thirty
Placing both hands on the top of the barricade, Stiger looked out on the ridgeline or, more correctly, on his newly constructed wall. The smell of fresh dirt was strong. This was the second time he had fortified this small ridge. He hoped it would be the last. Around him, thousands of men toiled at the backbreaking work. They had been at it for four days, and what had been accomplished was quite impressive.
Sabinus, Salt, and the last of the junior tribunes, Severus Milanus Varenus, had joined him for a planned meeting. He had just finished a tour of the defenses, his second for the day, and was extremely satisfied with the progress of the defensive works. The position had become quite strong.
A gentle gust of wind blew around them. Stiger turned his gaze outward as Salt was running through the list of things that would be wrapped up in the next few hours.
“I expect,” Salt continued, “for the remainder of the bolt throwers to be assembled and in place by sundown. Also, the movement of missiles should be completed within the hour . . .”
The river below glittered almost blindingly, reflecting the sunlight. Without a single cloud to be seen, the sky was incredibly blue. It was, for lack of a better word, a perfect day. Perhaps it was a little crisp, but it beat the rain that had moved in and out the night before last.
Fishhook-like in shape, the ridgeline he had selected for his battlefield bent outward at the middle and gradually ran back on the flanks, almost to the water’s edge in either direction. The natural feature created a sort of a half-bowl shape in the center, backed up by the mud-colored river, which was running high and fast due to the recent heavy rains. Debris, limbs, trunks, and occasionally an entire tree flowed downriver, moving by at a speed that was surprisingly fast. The stone bridge, with a long, single arch spanning the river, was the only way within view to cross.
As Salt continued to run through his punch list of work needing to be completed, Stiger’s eyes fell on the ends of his line, first to his left and then to his right. Both flanks ran right up to the water. He had directed the ends of the line to be more heavily fortified and anchored. He could not allow his flanks, a natural weak point at the water’s edge, to be overcome by the enemy. If that happened, it meant disaster, for the entire defensive line could be rolled up. As such, the flanks had their own more enhanced defensive works, which not only boasted a higher rampart but also spread outward along the river’s edge, running for one hundred yards away from the bridge. If any of the enemy managed to work their way along the banks in an attempt to outflank the line, they would not have much room to maneuver and would find themselves caught between an earthen wall and the water. Swords and spears would jab down at them, not to mention arrows raining death.
Stiger’s eyes ran over the main defensive position, a fortified line that traveled across the entire summit of the ridge. A trench seven feet deep had been dug just before the summit. Using the dirt from the excavated trench, a six-foot-high berm had been constructed atop the ridge and packed down. Parties of woodcutters had been dispatched to the nearby forest and returned with logs for a defensive barricade, which was now mostly complete. The logs had been set on their sides, one atop another. Thick vertical supports had been planted into the dirt and held the logs firmly in place. The barricade added another four feet to Stiger’s wall.
Smaller trees had also been harvested. These were shaped into stakes, which were mounted before the defensive wall and barricade. There were so many, the sight of them reminded Stiger of a porcupine’s quills. Numerous stakes had also been placed inside the trench. These were sharpened to vicious, unforgiving points.
Beneath the defensive works and beyond the trench, the men were digging thousands of holes, large enough for a foot. In the holes, smaller stakes were placed and then covered over with grass and leaves. There were also plans to sow the entire bowl with caltrops. The legion had a large supply of these, and Stiger intended to use all of them.
One of the supply wagons, pulled by two mules, worked its way slowly over the bridge. It had been used to haul food supplies out of the valley for the refugees and was now returning. Salt and Sabinus had wanted the bridge demolished. Stiger had overruled them, for he badly desired the orcs to attack him here at this spot. He was creating the perfect killing ground. He knew they would come. The minion had to, if it wanted to kill him. All this before him was just a prelude to the real battle, the one between the High Father’s champion and Castor’s minion. Should he fail, the World Gate and the future would be Castor’s.
The more he thought on it, the more his confidence in their success lessened to a strong hope. That worried him. Before Stiger had traveled back in time, the Sabinus from the future had told him Delvaris fought a battle here on this spot. Well, Delvaris was dead and Stiger had taken his place. The future had changed and events were no longer moving along as they had. Still, they were close enough. Stiger knew his enemy was coming, and to get at him, they would have to come here to this spot—where he had staked everything. He hoped he had made the correct decision.
The last time he had fought here, Stiger had not had sufficient men to man the entire line in a manner to his liking. This time he did. In fact, he had more than he expected. Still, he knew there was the very strong chance he would be outnumbered.
Behind his growing defen
sive works, Stiger had placed his artillery. Really, it had been Salt and the engineers who had selected the positions. Stiger had reviewed their plans, found them more than acceptable, and simply given his approval.
At his command, he had twenty large ballistae, thirty smaller pieces, and forty bolt throwers. Each ballista had its own position and had been carefully prepared, in that the ground had been leveled and packed down. A defensive berm had been raised around each machine to protect them and the crew should the enemy also bring artillery. Stone balls had been tidily stacked next to each machine.
Covered platforms had been constructed specifically for the bolt throwers. Really, the platforms were small towers that had been set just behind the defensive line. Each platform rose ten feet above the top of the barricade, giving the machines the elevation to fire down into the bowl below.
Looking over the artillery in their positions, Stiger knew he had an impressive amount of firepower at his disposal. A few of the smaller pieces were still being assembled, but pretty much all of it was ready to go. He had seen large-scale barrages before, but never in such a confined position. It would be interesting to see how the artillery crews performed and what effect they had upon the enemy.
Stiger had decided to hold the meeting here along the wall, specifically to get himself out of the headquarters tent and away from the continual interruptions that plagued him. Later in the day, Stiger intended to meet with all of his senior officers to review progress and finalize defensive plans, including unit dispositions. This was simply a prelude, to help him get his thoughts together.
Severus shifted his feet as he listened to Salt’s report. He was a young man of no more than seventeen. Despite having begun his own service at such a youthful age, Stiger could not help but look at the tribune as no more than a boy. It was unfair really, but that was just how it was. Both Severus and Sabinus held tablets and had been taking notes of Stiger’s decisions about the defensive preparations. Upon return to headquarters, both would pass those decisions onto the clerks, who would cut the orders and see they were distributed to the appropriate officers.
Salt cleared his throat rather loudly. Stiger looked over and silently rebuked himself for allowing his mind to wander. He returned his attention back to the camp prefect, who had been giving a detailed report of his activities.
“Now that we have the barricade in place,” Salt continued, “I’ve given orders for the encampment’s walls to be worked on. It’s time we strengthened that position as well. I think it would be nice to have a proper wall should we have need of it.”
Stiger turned his gaze to the legion’s fortified encampment a quarter mile behind the line. The defenses were not as strong as the previous encampment. They included a single, shallow trench, a six-foot turf wall, and staked barricade. As per standard practice, the legion had carried the stakes from their previous encampment.
“Good,” Stiger said, in agreement with Salt’s decision. The legion spent its nights inside the encampment, tucked in nicely. Stiger had been surprised by the enemy before and was in no mood for taking chances. He fully intended to allow Salt to expand the encampment’s defenses. “What of arrow production? I understand from the reports I read this morning more than half of our supply was consumed during the action at our previous encampment.”
“Before we marched,” Sabinus said, “we were able to recover around five thousand arrows that can be reused.” Sabinus paused to offer a shrug. “That still leaves us short, sir.”
“To address the issue, I have at least a hundred men working on it, sir,” Salt said. “Not only are we repurposing what we managed to recover, but we’re also producing additional arrows.” Salt paused and a scowl slipped onto his face. “Now, javelins are a different matter, sir. We only have seven thousand on hand. As you are aware, they are a more difficult weapon to repair and manufacture. We’ve got men working on those we retrieved, along with the blacksmiths. However, in the short term it will not be enough to make a significant difference. We will just have to make do, sir.”
Stiger understood, and though far from desirable, on balance he was more than satisfied with their progress on the arrow front. He turned back to Sabinus.
“Do you have an update on the evacuation of the valley?”
“I do, sir,” Sabinus said. “Most of the civilians have been evacuated and are thankfully on the other side of Castle Vrell. I don’t have a precise count yet on their numbers. It is more of an estimate at this point and I’m not ready to share that either. We do have a few holdouts who refused to leave, but not many. As expected, with the refugees’ help we are having no difficulties extending the camp on the edge of the Sentinel Forest. By tomorrow they should have a solid wall and trench for protection.”
“And supply?” Stiger asked. “We need to feed them.”
“As they moved through Castle Vrell,” Sabinus said, “I had a team take inventory of the food stores brought with them and those we helped to haul out. Our quartermaster was also able to have his boys scavenge a good bit. Employing our wagon train helped things along.
“Keep in mind,” Sabinus continued as he glanced down at his tablet, “we only have a rough estimate for numbers evacuated. It was easier to tally supplies than people. I feel confident in reporting there should be enough food stores to last them for three weeks, maybe a little more . . . perhaps a little less.”
“I think that should be sufficient,” Stiger said, turning his gaze back to the river and looking to the south as if searching for the enemy, who had not yet entered the valley. “Whatever happens here will be over long before they can run out.”
“We also managed to scrape together five hundred short swords from our depot,” Salt added, “along with all of our spare shields. I don’t remember the exact number, but it was around one hundred in total.”
“How many men do we have with the refugees?”
“Fifth Century, sir,” Sabinus said. “As you know, they are understrength. Mectillius can help to provide security and a little training to show the refugees what end of the sword use. Prefect Brayus of the Sixth Gaemelian acknowledged his orders and will be returning today. They are expected to arrive this evening. As instructed, he will leave two hundred men at the camp to help augment its defense.”
“That’s not a whole lot,” Stiger said, feeling unhappy about not being able to provide more for the defense of the followers and valley refugees.
“Keep in mind, sir,” Sabinus said, “our count does not include able-bodied men and dwarves, most of whom are part of community militias. My understanding is most arrived armed. If I had to make a guess, and not counting the men we are leaving, there are likely more than two thousand armed men and dwarves on hand. I’ve asked Mectillius for a more detailed tally.”
“The garrison in Castle Vrell also has over a thousand warriors,” Salt said. “I exchanged messages with the dwarven commander, a fellow named Voran. He promised to send aid if called upon.”
Stiger nodded, somewhat satisfied. It was at least one less headache he had to worry about.
“Who will be in overall command of the camp’s defense?” Stiger wanted to be certain it was Mectillius. As a legionary centurion, he would be considered senior over any auxiliary officer. Stiger knew that Salt wasn’t happy with the man’s promotion. He did not want any petty games going on to slight the newly promoted centurion.
“That would be Mectillius,” Sabinus said.
“It should be good experience for him,” Salt said.
Stiger gave a satisfied nod. Salt had apparently accepted Stiger’s decision, with no reservations or hard feelings. The legate had made a decision; he had accepted it and moved on. This was as it should be, but Stiger knew camp politics could be an ugly thing. Salt was a professional officer and Stiger was becoming impressed with his camp prefect as a man who only wanted to do his duty to the best of his ability.
“He’s a steady man.” Stiger’s mind returned to the Vrell Valley. “And what of our c
avalry?”
“As ordered, the bulk of our mounted soldiers returned this morning,” Sabinus said. “What we have left out there are primarily scouts, maybe one hundred horses in total.”
Stiger gave another satisfied nod. The cavalry had been tasked with riding throughout the valley, encouraging people to leave and helping where they could. Now that most of the civilians had been evacuated, it made no sense to keep them out. He had pulled them in so they could rest their horses before the coming action.
“Our scouts,” Stiger asked, “have they reported anything?”
“Nothing as of yet, sir,” Sabinus said. “There has been no sign of the enemy.”
There was a long moment of silence. Salt and Sabinus shared a glance.
“Are you sure the orcs are coming, sir?” Salt asked. Doubt laced his tone. “They took a beating when they came against us. And with what we did to their town and temple . . . well, it should be clear enough we are not to be taken lightly.”
“I have no doubts,” Stiger said. “The raid on Vrell was only a prelude. The intelligence we have from the dwarves confirms this. Make no mistake, they are coming with an army, not only for the valley, but also for Old City. We are honor-bound by treaty to help the dwarves defend both, which, as I explained, is why we are here.”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Salt said, with a slight scowl. “Right now we are the only ones on the field. You say we are allies and I know the dwarves say they are coming, but all I see is our ass hanging out of the toga.”
Stiger had to chuckle on that one.
“Right,” Stiger said. “Brogan’s coming with his army. It is as simple as that. Now, what else do you have for me?”
The tough old veteran looked down at his sandaled feet a moment before glancing back up. “Sir, we are putting all of our efforts here at this ridge. I am concerned about the other two crossings along the river to our east and west.”
“What of them?” Stiger asked.
“They have minimal defenses, and compared to this, the fortifications we’ve constructed are laughable. I would expect the enemy to march up to the river, take one look at the strength of our position, and then begin looking for alternate places to cross. Our scouts have scoured the river and the two most likely places to cross are at those two secondary crossings.”
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