The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  He had won.

  Stiger swayed slightly, feeling the rage and anger leaving him in a rush. He looked around and saw the paladin’s sword neatly cleave Cetrite’s head from its shoulders. Dog lay crumpled upon the ground a few feet away, still and unmoving.

  Therik battled his son, trading blow for blow. Hommand was giving ground and looking desperate.

  Thoggle gripped the last of the priests by the front of the tunic, holding the orc up in the air, its feet kicking desperately. White fire coursed up the wizard’s arm and into the priest. The priest’s eyes emitted a matching white light, as did its mouth, which opened in a silent scream. Stiger even thought he saw light come out from the priest’s ears. The orc went limp, and as it did, the light died. Thoggle tossed the priest aside as a child might discard an old doll.

  Stiger fell to his knees. He shivered, feeling the warmth begin to leave his body.

  He had lost. The High Father had lost.

  On his knees, Stiger blinked as his vision swam badly. It cleared in time for him to witness Therik backhand his son with a powerful blow. Hommand dropped his guard, and as he did, Therik drove his sword deep into his son’s stomach. The orc king reached forward with his free hand and pulled Hommand closer, so that their faces almost touched. Therik spat in Hommand’s face and then pushed him roughly off his sword, allowing the usurper to fall to the ground.

  Therik stood over his son, who raised a pleading hand to his father. A look of disgust twisted Therik’s face. He drove his sword downward, viciously punching it through the chest armor and into the heart. Hommand stiffened. The king released the hilt and stepped back, a look of satisfaction on his face as Hommand’s eyes rolled back and he went still.

  The minion had been defeated, and so had Castor’s high priest. As his strength continued to drain from his body, Stiger felt a great chill. He understood he had failed, but at the same time he was looking forward to joining Sarai in the great beyond. He welcomed it.

  No! Rarokan screamed in his mind. Fight Castor’s touch! Fight it!

  Stiger could not see how he could win this final battle. He felt a last reserve of energy flood into him from Rarokan. It wasn’t enough. He collapsed to the ground, looking up at the sky and thinking the blue was particularly striking. He had never seen such a beautiful sky.

  Closing his eyes, and prepared to cross over, he let go. As he did so, he felt a hand upon his forehead and warmth flood into him, but it was too late. He had already surrendered to death and could see Sarai waving to him from across the great river. He felt intense longing at the sight of her and a peaceful joy that they would soon be reunited. The boatman waited to ferry him across. All he needed was some coin.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  His eyes fluttered open. Stiger did not know where he was. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the top of a tent. He coughed, his mouth tasting incredibly dry and foul. He felt like he had not moved in over a month. All of his limbs were stiff and his joints ached.

  “You are awake.”

  Stiger turned his head. It required some effort to see Venthus moving to his side. He tried to speak and it came out as a feeble croak.

  Venthus helped Stiger to sit up. The slave handed him a mug of wine, which Stiger greedily gulped down. He coughed as some of it went down the wrong pipe. Venthus took the mug away when it was empty.

  Feeling a little better, Stiger glanced around his tent. A lamp hanging from the central pole had been lit. Stiger realized it was dark out. Night had fallen.

  “How long?” Stiger managed and then cleared his throat before trying again. “How long have I been out?”

  “A week, master,” Venthus said.

  Memory of the battle and fight with the minion flooded back in a rush. Stiger remembered dying. Alarmed, he felt for the wound the minion had inflicted upon him and at first could not find it. He lifted up his tunic to see. There was a small pink scar where the blade had pierced him. It was only a thin line, about an inch and a half in length. Stiger traced his finger over the line. It hurt slightly as he touched it. He had been so sure the wound was mortal.

  Stiger looked up at Venthus. “How did I survive?”

  “That,” said another voice, “is something I can answer for you.”

  Stiger turned his gaze toward the entrance. Thoggle stumped painfully into the tent.

  “You may leave us,” the wizard told the slave.

  Venthus glanced at Stiger in question.

  “I assure you, he will be quite all right with me,” Thoggle said. “He and I have matters to discuss that are best spoken of in private.”

  Stiger nodded to Venthus.

  “You must be hungry,” Venthus said. “I will return with some stew, master.”

  Stiger had not realized how hungry he was. His stomach rumbled at the thought of food.

  “I am ravenous,” Stiger said. “Some stew would be wonderful.”

  Venthus bowed and stepped out of the tent.

  Stiger felt incredibly weak. He was having difficulty just remaining in a sitting position. It took a surprising amount of effort to remain upright. He placed his hand down on the cot to better support himself.

  “Your slave is extremely devoted to you,” Thoggle said, glancing after Venthus. “He has not left your side since you were brought in here.”

  “He belonged to Delvaris,” Stiger said. “I kind of inherited him.”

  “He strikes me as more than just a simple slave,” Thoggle said. “It would do well for you to keep an eye upon him.”

  “What happened?” Stiger asked. He had thoroughly tired of games. “The legion, is she safe?”

  “You defeated the minion,” Thoggle said, coming closer to the cot. The wizard leaned heavily upon his staff. “Well, you and Rarokan beat it.”

  “And then what?” He had been out of action for a week. He desperately wanted to know what had occurred.

  “We won.” Thoggle took a seat on a stool by his bedside. “After the minion, their High Priest, and Therik’s son fell, the orc army collapsed and fled soon after. It also helped they were being squeezed between two armies, one of which was gnomish. A few thousand of their more devout warriors made a stand near the northern end of the valley the next day and a second battle was fought. The man you call Salt led the legion quite well, I might add. The enemy was broken completely.” Thoggle gave an amused grunt. “The gnomes are busy hunting down the survivors in the mountains. The end result is the orcs will squabble amongst themselves for years to come, tribe fighting tribe for dominance. Brogan will, of course, continue his games and add to their divisiveness. All in all, I think things turned out very well for us.”

  Stiger felt tremendous relief. It was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The legion was safe, and the valley too. Sarai would be pleased with him. She had given him a precious gift, and that had been her love. She had made him want to be a better man, and he felt, in a way, that he was.

  He had a recollection of her waving to him from across the river. She was holding hands with her daughter. Sarai’s husband stood right behind her, a comforting hand on her shoulder. She seemed happy and smiled before turning away and disappearing to a place he couldn’t follow. That last bit wasn’t quite right. She had gone somewhere he couldn’t yet go.

  Stiger was comforted in knowing she wouldn’t be alone, that she was with her family. And in a way, Stiger was with his—the legion. She would not be waiting for him. That much was clear.

  “What of the future?” Stiger asked. “Everything will be as it should?”

  “From what you told me when you first arrived in our time period, the final battle did not go down exactly as it had in your future, but I think it close enough to have set things nearly right. Well, I hope so at any rate.”

  Stiger gave a weary nod. He felt himself growing tired. Sleep beckoned like a long-lost friend.

  “How did I survive?” Stiger asked, once again touching the scar. “That was a mortal wound. I f
elt Castor draining my life force.”

  Thoggle hesitated.

  “Father Thomas healed me, didn’t he?”

  The wizard gave a nod, but something about his manner alarmed Stiger.

  “Tell me,” Stiger insisted.

  “You were struck by a night blade,” Thoggle said. “It is a dreadful weapon, almost as fearsome as Rarokan. To heal you from its grip—and one is never ever really healed from such a weapon—Father Thomas gave up his own life in favor of yours.”

  “No,” Stiger whispered. He fell back onto his cot. “No, no, no! I was ready to die, to join Sarai. I saw her from across the river. I was so close. Why would he do that?”

  “You cannot be permitted such an escape,” Thoggle said. “You are the High Father’s champion, the key instrument to our future. What Father Thomas did was noble. Be grateful for his sacrifice. Make sure you do not squander his gift.”

  Stiger placed a hand upon his forehead, devastated that the paladin had given up his own life so that he may yet live. His would be another shade that haunted Stiger’s lonely nights.

  Stiger cleared his throat.

  “What of Dog?”

  “No one has seen him since the battle,” Thoggle said. “The last I saw him was after the minion struck him with a killing spell. Later, when there was time, I went looking for his corpse and found . . . well, nothing.”

  Stiger closed his eyes, feeling sick to his stomach as the grief at the passing of both Father Thomas and Dog threatened to overwhelm him. He focused on calming himself, slowly breathing in and out. When he opened his eyes next, he discovered he had fallen asleep. Thoggle was gone. Therik was sitting on a stool by his side, and the sun was up. He could see it shining through the tent. The orc helped him sit up.

  “I am surprised you are still here,” Stiger said.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you want to claim your kingdom?”

  “There is no go back,” Therik said. “I fought with you, and no more follow Castor. My people no take me. They see what I do.”

  “I’m sorry you can’t go home.”

  “I not sorry,” Therik said and pointed at Stiger. “You dragon and troll killer. Interesting things happen by you. I stay and see more, yes?”

  “I have an elf friend who thinks as you do.”

  “I stay, yes?” Therik asked insistently. “As you offered?”

  “Yes,” Stiger said. “You can stay. I could always use another . . .” He paused, not quite believing what he was about to say, “friend.”

  “Hah!” Therik clapped his hands together, a smile breaking out. “Wizard says if I stay with you, more fighting coming. You give me sword. Now you must give armor. We kill many together. We make legend they sing of. You and I fight as friends, yes?”

  Stiger felt himself become amused at Therik’s genuine enthusiasm. Stiger felt that, in a way, he and Therik were kindred spirits.

  “Yes,” Stiger said, “my friend. We will fight together, and I promise I will get you some armor. Though I suspect the legion’s armorer will have to make it from scratch.”

  Therik gave a pleased nod and then sobered.

  “Don’t forget, one day, as promised, I kill you.”

  “You can certainly try,” Stiger said.

  Therik bared his tusks at him in a grin.

  Stiger noticed a cold bowl of stew had been set out on his camp table. He motioned for it. Therik handed it over to him. Stiger ate greedily. Though they said little after that, Therik remained with Stiger for a while. Venthus eventually shooed him out.

  Belly full, a terrible tiredness stole over Stiger. He lay back down on his cot and went to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Stiger knelt down at Sarai’s grave under the apple tree, feeling a deep sense of loss. Oddly, someone had planted white flowers around the grave. They were like nothing he had ever seen, and very similar to roses but without the thorns. The scent of the flowers reminded Stiger of the rosewater Sarai had been fond of using on her hair.

  Stiger wondered who had done it. He figured a neighbor had likely planted them. It was an act of kindness, and for that he was grateful. He thought Sarai would have appreciated the gesture.

  He wished things had been different, but there was no changing that now. He was the High Father’s champion and had work to do. He must go on. With such understanding came the sad realization that those around him might suffer for who he was. He felt bitter about that but knew in war there were no rules. He had no illusions he was fighting a war, one of the gods’ own making.

  Sarai had shown him something he had never before known. For that, he was grateful. Stiger took a deep, unhappy breath.

  She had deserved better.

  “High Father,” Stiger prayed, bowing his head, “I ask that you take care of this woman, and her family.”

  Stiger sat down, leaning his back against the tree. He remained for a time, allowing the afternoon to wear on, then finally stood. This was his final goodbye. He would never return to this place.

  It had been a week since he had woken from his wound and subsequent healing. He gazed around the ruined farm. The bodies of the dwarves and orcs had been removed. The orcs had been buried in a mass grave. The dwarves had cared for their dead, including Captain Aleric, according to their custom.

  Stiger made his way over to the woodpile that he had labored at for so long. He picked up the rusted axe, which had been where he’d left it, embedded in the chopping stump. He turned the axe over a few times and then, with a dull thud, returned it to the stump.

  Sabinus, along with a squadron of auxiliary troopers, had dismounted and tethered their horses. They waited a few yards away. The men talked amongst themselves or threw dice to kill time. Though there were no more orcs in the valley, Stiger was the legate. Everywhere he went, an escort would go with him, especially now that the officers and men of the legion knew his real identity.

  He had told them all who he was and why he had pretended to be Delvaris. He had also shared the emperor’s letter. Salt and Sabinus both had wholeheartedly supported his decision. Stiger had expected rejection or perhaps even outrage at the deception. Instead, the men had responded with devotion and—more surprising—loyalty mixed with sadness at the news of Delvaris’s passing.

  It had moved Stiger greatly but at the same time concerned him. They had witnessed him slay a dragon and kill a creature of an evil god in single combat. He had almost died for his troubles. In a way, they viewed him as a holy representative of their god and, though true, it made Stiger more than a little uncomfortable. He was just a man like any other, flawed and imperfect, with more than his fair share of regrets.

  Sabinus and the escort respectfully gave him space as he worked his way around the farm. After a time, Stiger found himself in the barn. The walnuts he had harvested lay scattered across the floor. He grabbed one of the nets that had been thrown down on the floor and began gathering the nuts up. He tossed them into the net. These he had harvested with his own two hands. It was one last reminder of his time with Sarai, and for some reason he felt he could not leave them behind. He tied the net closed in a loose knot and slung it over a shoulder.

  Stepping back out of the barn, he came to a stop. Dog waited just a few feet away. The animal’s tongue hung out of his mouth, making the hairy beast look a little crazy. They stared at one another for a prolonged moment, Stiger’s memories flashing back to more peaceful times at the farm. The memories were so vivid, he felt tears prick at his eyes.

  Then the moment broke and Dog bounded up to him in greeting and jumped up, throwing his large paws onto Stiger’s shoulders and licking his face vigorously. So enthusiastic was the greeting and tail wagging that Stiger was almost bowled over. He hugged the big animal’s neck.

  “All right, all right,” Stiger said, laughing, “I’ll admit it, I’m happy to see you too, boy.”

  “That’s quite touching, don’t you think?”

  Stiger eased Dog down and saw both Men
os and Thoggle standing just a few feet away. Thoggle had spoken. Dog padded up to Menos and received a pat on the head, along with a thin-lipped smile.

  “Your guardian has returned,” Thoggle said, regarding the animal that was happily accepting a scratching on the neck from the noctalum. One of Dog’s rear legs began to work as if he were scratching himself. “I am thinking this is a good sign.”

  “You plan on sending me back,” Stiger said. “Is that why you are here?”

  “To be exact, we plan on returning you to your time,” Thoggle said.

  “And I know how you’re going to do it, too,” Stiger said.

  “You do?” Menos said, raising an eyebrow.

  “See?” Thoggle said with a grin. “I told you he wasn’t as stupid as he looks.”

  “Thanks,” Stiger said. The wizard seemed more relaxed than Stiger had seen ever him. So, too, did the noctalum. They were almost friendly.

  “Has Rarokan said anything?” Thoggle asked.

  “No,” Stiger said with a glance down at the sword. “Since I woke up, he hasn’t said a word. I can’t even sense his presence. I am starting to wonder if he’s dead.”

  “Dead,” Thoggle repeated with a look at Stiger’s sword. “In an attempt to save you from Castor’s touch, it’s possible he gave you everything, including his own soul spark. Doubtful, but possible.”

  “Rarokan only cares for himself. He would do no such thing,” Menos said.

  Thoggle gave a shrug.

  “He will take instruction from me to discipline his mind,” Menos said, taking his hand from Dog and pointing a delicate finger at Stiger. “He will do it. That is non-negotiable, wizard.”

  Thoggle turned back to Stiger. “Yes, you will.”

  “You won’t hear me argue,” Stiger said, holding up his hands. “If he’s still in there, I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “There is hope for him,” Menos said. “You may be correct about this human not being as stupid as he looks.”

  “Did you both come here to insult me?”

  “Partly,” Thoggle said. “But really we came to speak with you about your future, and I mean that quite literally.”