The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I can put on a show, too,” Stiger said to Therik before turning. “Prefect Barunus, would you care to join me?”

  The prefect stepped over. “How can I help you, sir?”

  Barunus was a short man, and young for his post. He was in his early twenties. He had a slight accent that marked him as a foreigner. He had a confident and educated air about him. He also appeared quite cultured, and perhaps a little too refined for a life in the legion. Stiger idly wondered what had brought him to serve the empire.

  “The enemy are digging emplacements for their own artillery,” Stiger said and pointed.

  “Yes, sir,” Barunus said with an air that reeked of indifference. “I had noticed.”

  “You did?” Stiger was surprised by that. He was even more surprised the prefect had not cared to share that information.

  “Judging by the size of the enemy host,” Barunus said, “it is only natural for them to have artillery, sir.”

  Stiger’s gaze flicked back to the enemy. The prefect had him there. Stiger knew he should have expected Therik’s army to have artillery. What else did they have?

  “Do you think you can hit the other side of the river?” Stiger asked. He knew the prefect’s artillery could strike at the enemy but had put it forward as a question. Stiger did not know Barunus all that well and wanted to see how the man reacted.

  “With ease, sir,” Barunus replied confidently, turning his gaze upon the enemy. “Would you prefer me to pound their line?” He then pointed out two of the points where the enemy were digging to emplace their own artillery. “Or would you like the positions they are preparing to be hammered?”

  “Let’s hit their infantry first,” Stiger said. “I would like to boost morale and strike first blood. Later, after they’ve moved up their artillery and you have something to shoot at, then you can go after their machines.”

  “You going to attack?” Therik seemed aghast. “Without talking first?”

  Stiger blinked as he turned his gaze on the orc. He had not expected this to be a problem.

  “I see no need to talk. We all know what’s about to happen.”

  “It no seem right,” Therik protested. “No honor, yes?”

  “You mean it’s not honorable?” Theo asked, sounding amused.

  “Yes,” Therik said with a bob of his large head. “Not honorable.”

  “He thinks you are not honorable,” Theo said with a smirk thrown at Stiger. “I would have called you disagreeable, but that’s just me talking.”

  Stiger ignored Theo.

  “After what Castor and your son did to you, you want to go down there and parley?” Stiger said.

  “It is right to talk first. But truthfully,” Therik said, “I don’t want to go near minion. I do want show them I live.” A nasty undertone crept into his voice. “Scare them even more, I think. Some of tribal chiefs have second thoughts about backing my son. And minion worry about how I healed. Yes, I might like that.”

  Stiger considered Therik for a long moment before speaking. The king did have a point. Perhaps he could use Therik at some point to damage the enemy’s confidence.

  “There are times for honor. This isn’t one of those times. We’re gonna let our artillery do the talking for us.” Stiger turned to his artillery commander. “Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” Barunus said, calmly. “With your permission, I will hold back our bolt throwers and the smaller machines to conserve our supply of missiles and lightweight rounds. They will be more effective when the enemy moves for the bridge and comes closer.”

  Stiger gave a nod of acceptance. “Fire when you are ready.”

  “With pleasure, sir,” Barunus said.

  The prefect offered Stiger a salute and then moved off, climbing down the platform. Salt made his way up the ladder a few moments later and pulled himself up onto the platform. Climbing with armor on was not as easy as it appeared.

  “I hear we are giving them a bit of a welcoming reception, sir,” Salt said and gestured back the way he came. “I do think our prefect of artillery has a little spring in his step.”

  They both turned and glanced back. Barunus was striding rapidly across the field behind the line toward his command post. Now that Salt mentioned it, Stiger thought the artillery commander did indeed have a spring to his step. He was more eager than he had let on.

  “He plays it cool as ice, sir,” Salt said, “but really Barunus’s just like a little child with a new toy. He can’t wait to use his artillery, especially since there was no opportunity to employ those large stone throwers against the Tervay.”

  “I think you are right,” Stiger said.

  “If he wasn’t so damnably good at his work, sir,” Salt said, “you’d have never offered him command of the artillery.”

  “True,” Stiger said, though it had been Delvaris who had hired him. Stiger felt a bit of discomfort at misleading the camp prefect, for he liked Salt. He was a damn fine soldier.

  They watched as Barunus stepped by his command post and made his way over to his own platform. It was a four-story wooden tower with a flat platform on top and no safety railing. Barunus rapidly climbed up. A team of signalers waited at the top.

  Stiger turned back to the enemy across the river. “We’re about to begin thinning their numbers.”

  “With what the cavalry reported,” Salt said, “I don’t believe we will thin them all that much.”

  “Sadly, you are likely correct,” Stiger said. “However, it has been my experience that friendly artillery fire dropping stones on the enemy does wonders for morale.”

  “I quite agree with that statement, sir,” Salt said, looking across the river. “Friendly artillery is always a legionary’s best friend, unless, of course, they are accidentally dropping stone on your head.”

  Stiger had been under friendly fire himself and knew exactly what the camp prefect meant. Salt’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the far bank and the assembled formations.

  “I don’t see any bridging equipment.” Salt shot a look to Therik. “Do you have that capability?”

  “We do,” Therik said. “It may not have been brought up yet, or”—Therik gave a shrug—“it may be elsewhere.”

  Stiger felt a prickle of concern at that.

  “Do you believe your people will use it?” Sabinus asked. “I know I would.”

  “As would I,” Stiger said, now feeling Salt’s concerns on the subject were dead on. Stiger had reinforced the units holding the two secondary crossings and considerably built up their defenses. Still, the thought of the enemy forcing a crossing concerned him greatly. Stiger studied the river. The water was still high, kept unnaturally so by the recent rains, but Stiger had learned where there was the will, there was most certainly a way.

  “Salt,” Stiger said, “would you kindly see to it that our patrols along the river between us and the other crossings are doubled. I don’t want any surprises.”

  “I will, sir,” Salt said. “I will make sure it is done immediately.”

  The prefect offered a salute before climbing down off the platform.

  “I don’t see any priests,” Stiger said.

  “They’re out there with their athames and will show themselves when they are ready,” Therik said.

  “Athame?” Sabinus asked. “What is that?”

  “Sacrificial knife,” Therik said, without glancing over. “If you don’t go along with priesthood, you might be unlucky enough to find yourself under a priest’s athame.”

  Stiger suppressed a shudder. He had seen such a sacrificial rite. He had no desire to see another.

  “Do you think they will come at us today?” Sabinus asked Therik. “It’s late afternoon and will be dark soon.”

  “Our eyes are better than yours at night. My people strike when it is dark.”

  “Are you sure?” Sabinus asked. “Night actions can be tricky. All kinds of things can go wrong.”

  “Therik’s right,” Theo said. “Orcs and goblins much prefe
r to fight at night, when it is darkest.”

  There was a deep thud behind them, followed by a whistling almost directly overhead. Stiger spotted the projectile traveling upward in an arc. He tracked the progress of the ball as it sailed towards the enemy, the white of the stone shining in the fading sunlight as it climbed up into the sky. It flew true and slammed down hard amongst a light infantry formation.

  The impact kicked a large spray of dirt up into the air. For several heartbeats the shower of dirt obscured any damage done. When it subsided, it became clear the first ball had been very effective. It had carved out a good-sized gap in the formation, with more than a dozen orcs dead and injured.

  The legionaries manning the defensive line gave a cheer at the sight.

  “I hope they got my message,” Stiger said to himself.

  The enemy across the way roared back their rage.

  “They got it,” Therik said.

  Stiger turned to look on his artillery. With the exception of the one machine that had fired, the rest of the crews were standing by. Their machines had already been loaded and stood ready. An officer at each machine was looking intently back toward Barunus’s platform. They were waiting for the signal to unleash their deadly barrage.

  Barunus was standing upon his platform, with both hands clasped behind his back. He appeared as calm as could be. The prefect turned to a legionary who had been standing next to him and said something. The legionary began waving a checkered white flag, followed by a yellow one.

  Almost instantly, and in near unison, the remainder of the large ballistae, nineteen in total, released. The air was filled with screaming and whistling balls.

  The sound the balls made was generated by drilling a small hole through each. As the shot traveled at high velocity through the air, it whistled or screamed depending upon the type of hole. Having been on the receiving end of such fire, Stiger knew the sound was downright terrifying.

  He turned to see the results of the barrage. Two balls fell short and impacted the river, throwing up geysers of water. Several balls sailed beyond the enemy’s main line, impacting harmlessly between formations. Most sailed true. Deep thuds could be heard as the balls smacked home. Wherever they hit, they wreaked a terrible carnage amongst the orderly formations of the enemy infantry.

  Stiger was very pleased with what he had just seen. Barunus’s artillery crews were well-drilled and appeared highly proficient in their craft. He turned his gaze back to the machines. The crews had not waited to see the damage they had wrought but had immediately and hurriedly set about arming their stone throwers for a second volley. Legionaries all along the line cheered wildly.

  Stiger returned his gaze to the enemy’s line. He wondered how they would handle a continued artillery barrage. Would they break and fall back in a mad dash? It was certain to be a test of their discipline. He watched and waited to see what they would do.

  Several horns sounded from across the river. The enemy infantry exposed to the artillery closed up their ranks, and the wounded were dragged through the ranks and to the rear.

  “My orcs stand firm,” Therik said with pride and then he sobered. “My son sends you his own message by that.”

  “I got it,” Stiger said, and in truth he did. The enemy was quite determined. “However, I intend to continue sending mine.”

  “He eventually pull back,” Therik said. “But for now, he stands firm. I taught him too well.”

  Stiger glanced over at Therik. “It does not bother you that we kill your kind?”

  “No,” Therik said, and then gave a shrug. “Not at all. They share blood with me, but I no longer their kind. When it comes to sword, I hope to kill many.” Therik flexed a large hand, as if he were gripping a hilt. “You give me sword. I show you and them how a true king fights, eh?”

  Two thuds behind them announced the launching of the next wave of ball. The rest of the machines followed just heartbeats later as the crews raced against one another to see who could fire the fastest. The air was once again filled with whistling ball. The second wave was just as effective as the first.

  Stiger grew silent. Over the next hour, he observed the enemy. After the first few volleys of heavy artillery, the enemy commander, likely Therik’s son, ordered a tactical withdrawal. The formations pulled back in good order to a point just beyond the range of Barunus’s artillery. The prefect had called a halt just as soon as it became clear that he could do no more damage to the infantry.

  The enemy’s artillery positions were now exposed and out in the open. The orcs brought up twelve medium-sized ballistae. They had positioned them behind the fresh earthworks, which were still being worked on as the enemy machines were being assembled and readied to fire.

  Barunus begun to fire onto these positions, focusing more on the precision of his strikes rather than rate of fire. After each machine fired, measurements were taken and aim methodically adjusted. Already, his crews had scored two direct hits, effectively knocking both enemy machines out before they could even be fully assembled. The shot had hit with shocking force, splintering beams and snapping ropes. The result had been catastrophic for the crews working on the machines. They were cut down by a shower of splinters or torsion beams and bars giving way and snapping about with frightful force.

  Stiger stepped to the back of the platform after a third machine had been hit and thoroughly wrecked. He looked down on Severus.

  “Sir?”

  “Send Prefect Barunus my compliments. I am well pleased with the accuracy and proficiency of his barrage,” Stiger said. “Kindly ask him to pass that onto his crews.”

  “Yes, sir,” Severus said and stepped over to speak with a messenger as Stiger returned to his position on the platform.

  Eventually the enemy managed to fire back, but not before Barunus had knocked out three more machines. The return fire was slow and inaccurate, most often hitting the dirt wall below the barricade. Only one enemy shot had made it over the wall, where it had injured a horse. A couple shots had come Stiger’s way, clearly aimed at the tower. Both had fallen short, impacting the wall below. Stiger stood exposed, bold, and unafraid, for he knew the men were watching. He was the example. He was their strength.

  As the afternoon wore on and the artillery duel continued, the enemy host grew in size and arrayed itself for the legionaries to see. It was a sobering sight. He thought of what Sabinus had told him of future events. Stiger knew with a certainty the enemy would have a surprise or two for him. But what would that be?

  Stiger caught a glimpse of Father Thomas in the distance on the left flank. The paladin wore his armor. It glittered under the waning sunlight. He was walking the line and giving his blessing, leading a prayer when requested, sometimes even stopping for group prayers. Stiger appreciated the paladin’s efforts, for the men needed every boost they could get right now. Morale was a tenuous thing, and the waiting before an enemy assault was the worst.

  Sabinus had excused himself and climbed down to check in with his men. That left Stiger with Therik and Theo. There was no talking, for nothing need be said. All three of them knew what lay in store.

  The sound of galloping hooves drew Stiger’s attention. He saw a cavalry trooper charging up to the platform. The trooper pulled back on the reins and slid off his horse. He made for Severus, who had taken to standing by the ladder below to handle the messengers as they came in.

  A few moments later Severus climbed up. “Sir, it seems enemy scouts have been spotted moving along the river to the west, around two miles from here and near the crossing, sir.”

  Stiger gave a nod and dismissed the tribune. It was far from unexpected. Were he in the enemy’s position, he would have dispatched scouts as well, searching for a suitable crossing with the intention of flanking the fortifications.

  “This,” Theo said, gesturing expansively both arms, “is something I had hoped I’d never see.”

  “I did not want to see it either,” Therik said, somewhat wistfully.

  That
statement drew both Theo and Stiger’s attention.

  “Really?” Theo turned a skeptical look upon the orc. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course,” Theo said. “You worked to change your people, and part of that is the reformed army before us. Are you seriously trying to tell me you never wanted to see it assembled and in the field?”

  “Not here,” Therik said, “and not from other side.”

  “Now that,” Theo said, “makes more sense.”

  Another rider galloped up a short while later. Severus climbed the ladder and handed the dispatch to Stiger.

  “Sir,” Severus said. “Orcs have been spotted at the east crossing.”

  “Thank you,” Stiger said, glancing down at the contents of the dispatch. From it, he learned the enemy appeared to be studying the depth of the river. That certainly was not good news.

  “Do you have patrols beyond the two crossings?” Theo asked, looking over.

  “We do,” Stiger confirmed. “Any attempt at fording the river should be spotted long before they can make it across.”

  “Even at night?” Therik asked.

  “Hopefully,” Stiger said and then felt himself scowl at the orc. He might have to increase the number of his cavalry patrols, just to be certain.

  Another rider trotted up. This one was a dwarf on a mountain pony. He did not wear armor but only a simple gray tunic with a purple cloak to indicate he was in the service of the thane. Severus made his way down the ladder and over to the dwarf and took a dispatch from him. They exchanged a few words and parted. The dwarf mounted back up and rode off.

  “Sir,” Severus said, returning. He handed the dispatch over.

  “I can’t read this,” Stiger said in disgust after opening it and handed it over to Theo. “It’s in dwarven.”

  The dwarf scanned the contents, frowned, and then folded the dispatch and put it in his tunic pocket.

  “It was addressed to me,” Theo said.

  “Well?” Stiger looked over. “What did it say?”

  “My cousin is delayed,” Theo said unhappily. “Goblins have entered Old City through some of the lower mines and tunnels. Though much of Brogan’s army is near enough to reach us in a few hours, he has been forced to push them back. They are threatening the civilians living in the city.” Theo let out an unhappy breath. “The rest of the Grata’Jalor garrison is not coming either. Brogan has made the decision to leave them in place to guard our rear, which, on reflection, I think is a jolly good idea.” He looked meaningfully over at Stiger. “I don’t think we want this line being flanked.”