The Tiger (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 2)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Sergeant Blake, who had been following behind, pulled up his mount next to the captain. The sergeant looked less ill at ease on horseback than he had when they had first begun their journey. Stiger had discovered, to his amusement that Blake was a terrible rider. The sergeant had been terrified of his mount, but that had not stopped the tough old veteran from tagging along. He was there to make sure that no harm came to Stiger. Accompanying the sergeant was an escort of five troopers from Lieutenant Lan’s command, which fanned out protectively around the captain. Stiger handed his canteen over to Blake, who took it gratefully.

  “And here I thought marching built up the thirst, sir,” Blake said, taking a long pull before handing it back. Stiger nodded absently.

  Corporal Beni hurried over from a nearby work detail. He, like all of the legionaries, wore his segmented armor while he worked. There was no excuse for removing it. The only relief the men were permitted was to stack their shields and helmets. They were legionaries and an enemy army was approaching. His men had to be prepared at a moment’s notice to fight. Such was the way of the legions, whether in peace or in war.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the corporal saluted.

  “The work seems to be progressing well,” Stiger said with a nod in reply to the salute. The corporal had been assigned several files of men from the garrison, along with his own file, to work this stretch of road. They had accomplished a great deal in the short amount of time they had been at work. The road was almost completely blocked with piles of felled trees. “Any problems?”

  “No, sir.” Beni struggled not to grin. “Not at all. Them garrison boys are a bit rusty, but as they say, ‘It’s not the toil that’s hard, but the legion’s discipline.’”

  Stiger was amused by the corporal’s comment. Beni was taking well to his responsibilities. He was showing real promise. Once again, Stiger was thankful for Blake and Ranl. The two veteran sergeants had recommended good men for promotion and it was paying off handsomely. Should Beni survive the coming storm, Stiger had no doubt the corporal, given more seasoning and time, might one day be promoted to sergeant.

  “We are making good progress, sir,” Beni continued in a more serious manner, clearly proud of all they had accomplished, “and should finish with this here stretch of road today. Tomorrow we will move on.”

  “Very good, corporal,” Stiger said with a satisfied nod. “Don’t let me keep you further. Excellent work, by the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beni replied, puffing up at the rare compliment. The corporal saluted again before returning to his work detail. Some of the men had stopped to watch and listen.

  “You lazy lot! The empire doesn’t pay you to stand around all day!” Beni shouted at his men, who jumped back to work. “Stop to bloody gawk again and you will find yourselves on report!”

  Stiger watched the detail work for a few minutes. He had never commanded such a large body of men and the responsibility alone was keeping him up at nights. He was essentially responsible for the equivalent of a regiment, or in the old cohort system around two cohorts. By rights he should have more officers to assist him. Two or three more to take on some of the burden would have been more than welcome.

  Unfortunately, thanks to Captain Aveeno and Castor, that was not to be. The garrison had been purged of her senior officers and Stiger had to work with the cards he had been dealt.

  The enemy was coming and he had to focus on that. Stiger and the garrison had been abandoned, without the courtesy of a heads-up. The legions had simply left and the more he thought on it, the more he became convinced it had been intentional. Stiger’s anger burned hot at the thought. Unknowingly, he had been sent on a suicide mission.

  They wanted the rebels to do their dirty work for them, he thought. I will show them I am not so easy to kill, no matter how outnumbered.

  Stiger had taken that anger and directed it at the rebels. They were coming and he intended to make them pay a steep price for every foot, yard and mile because that was his duty, his trust and responsibility. It was simply who he was. He would deal with the rebels first and then with those who had sent him to die.

  A large tree a hundred feet away cracked loudly and crashed into the road. Along this stretch of road, at least two hundred yards from bend to bend, there were already hundreds of trees down, blocking the way. When the trees adjacent to the road had been dropped, additional ones further in were set upon by axe parties. These then were dragged into the road and piled atop those already down. Stiger had explained in detail what and how he wanted done, in such a way that it was designed to make passage by wagon impossible and by foot difficult.

  To complicate matters for the enemy, every three hundred yards, men were hard at work with shovels and pickaxes digging trenches ten feet deep and ten feet wide. These trenches cut right across the roadway. The enemy infantry would be able to avoid the trenches and felled trees by simply walking around them, but their supply and artillery train would be forced to clear the road and bridge each gap.

  Along the road and off to the sides, the men were digging small pits. These were just large enough for a foot. Sharpened stakes were placed inside and then covered over with leaves. The Rivan had used similar pits and Stiger did not see why he could not borrow the practice. With the forest rapidly shedding its canopy, these pits would become extremely difficult to spot. It was a cruel tactic that would almost certainly cripple.

  In war, there are no rules.

  The Rivan had taught Stiger many things, but most important, through the months of hard fighting in forests of Abath, they had shown him how to effectively slow an advancing army. Accordingly, Stiger was using everything he could think of to delay the enemy.

  Stiger’s eye was drawn to a man off to the side of the road, in the trees. He had a large bag and every few feet, he stopped to toss something metallic. He was one among many seeding this stretch of forest alongside the ruined road with caltrops. A supply of these weapons had been found in the castle storerooms. Caltrops were an ingenious yet simple weapon that had four small sharpened spikes and were arranged in such a way that, when tossed, one spike always pointed upward, while the others provided a stable base. Caltrops were small and, when scattered amongst the leaves in the forest, difficult to spot. A crippled enemy is one who cannot take his place in a line of battle.

  “The boys are working mighty hard,” Blake said gruffly, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

  “They are,” Stiger agreed, watching a detail drag a large tree into the road. Just beyond them, another tree creaked loudly before cracking with a powerful snap. It fell with an impressive crash into the road, kicking up a storm of dust and leaves. “I just hope the scouts can buy us enough time.”

  Eli’s command was a paltry force and Stiger suspected that their casualties would be rather heavy. He hoped Eli did not lose too many of his scouts, for when the enemy entered his defensive corridor, he would need them to be his eyes and ears. Without a sufficient number of scouts, Stiger could find himself at a real disadvantage. But there was no helping it. The enemy had to be slowed long enough for him to prepare a proper welcome.

  “They will, sir,” Blake said, firmly. “They have not let us down yet.”

  Stiger nodded absently as he watched the work party struggle with the tree. His mouth tasted dry and dusty. He leaned over and spat on the leaf-covered ground. It did not help. He took another pull from his canteen and then spat it out, feeling much better.

  What is so important about Vrell? Stiger asked himself, resting his hand on the saddle pommel and sitting back up straight, stretching again. It was a question that had been bothering him. There was not much of value in the valley itself, other than agricultural products. The rebels must have thought otherwise, though, for sending a force of over twenty thousand strong indicated that Vrell held some strategic importance. Stiger could not see it. There was absolutely no reason why the enemy should want the valley so badly.

  Interestingly, Stiger reflected, Castor had wa
nted it too and would have gotten it had he and Father Thomas failed in defeating the minion of the twisted god. The vision the sword had shown him had led him to believe he had witnessed General Delvaris’s last moments as he too had fought a minion of Castor. So if Stiger’s thinking was correct, Castor had coveted the valley for a very long time.

  Why? He asked himself. Castor and now the rebels… Surely those twenty thousand men were needed at the front, where they would be facing the full might of the legions. Like a puzzle lacking the final piece, he felt, he was missing something. Why is Vrell so special?

  A cold, bitter wind blew through the forest, setting off a near storm of leaves. Winter was only a few weeks off and once it arrived, fighting in the mountains around Vrell would become nearly impossible, let alone making any attempt at storming Castle Vrell’s impressive walls. The castle itself, with its massive walls, seemed nearly impregnable. However, Stiger knew from experience that there was no such thing. Where there was a will, there was always a way. Given enough men and time, Castle Vrell’s walls could be overcome.

  Stiger had just around a thousand men to defend and most of these were of questionable quality. As such, delaying the enemy’s advance had become a critical part of his plans. If he delayed the enemy long enough, at least for the first real snows to block the pass into Vrell, he would have the winter to retrain the garrison and be much better prepared for fighting come spring. If the rebels arrived before the snows, then they might just be able to take the castle from him. No matter how formidable the walls, overwhelming him through numbers alone was a distinct possibility. This was the main reason he felt he could not just wait, secure behind the walls, for the enemy to arrive. No, waiting was not an option. The rebels must be slowed and delayed as much as possible and the longer Stiger held out, the better the chance for the legions to return. There was no doubt in the captain’s mind. The legions would be back, most likely commanded by someone other than Generals Mammot and Kromen.

  As he watched his men work, Stiger understood he would have to do more than fell trees, lay traps and harass the enemy’s march. He would eventually have to give battle, perhaps several times, before retiring behind the safety of Castle Vrell’s walls to ride out the winter. If he had to fight, Stiger would do it on his own terms and not the enemy’s.

  Thankfully, the rebels were confined to one road, deep in a very dense forest. Stiger was lucky in that respect. There would be no option for multiple lines of advance, or even room for the enemy to maneuver and rapidly bring the entire power and weight of their army to bear upon him, at least until they got to Vrell.

  The captain rubbed at his tired eyes. Today he intended to visit with Lieutenant Banister. The lieutenant, along with half of the man’s company, was working to construct Stiger’s defensive lines. When ambushes were no longer possible, Stiger would stick his men behind those fortified lines and force the enemy to deploy and assault him, costing additional time and bleeding them further.

  Much of the work that was being done on these lines required trained engineers. A legion would have an engineering company attached to it to help provide skilled direction for such tasks. This was another complication he was being forced to overcome. The garrison had had only a single file of engineers under the command of a junior lieutenant. That lieutenant had been eliminated in Captain Aveeno’s purge. Luckily, the engineers themselves had been pretty much left well alone. Stiger had them busy directing and laying out his defensive lines.

  “I wouldn’t want to be the rebels,” Blake commented as he and Stiger watched another tree fall into the road with a crash and flurry of leaves mixed with dust.

  “Neither would I,” Stiger said with a solemn look directed at the sergeant.

  “Sir,” Blake said hesitantly. “I’ve been wondering something.”

  “Yes?” Stiger looked over at his sergeant. Blake was rarely hesitant about speaking his mind.

  “I’ve heard it said that paladins can heal the injured,” Blake said. “Do you believe that to be true?”

  “It is true,” Stiger affirmed. “I’ve seen it done.”

  “You have?”

  “During the campaign in the forests of Abath,” Stiger explained, staring off into the distance. “A paladin joined us, Father Griggs. I witnessed him heal a mortally-wounded man.”

  “Really?” Blake asked, eyebrows raised.

  Stiger nodded, but said no more. Thoughts of that campaign and what he had faced at Father Griggs’s side yet haunted him still.

  “In the fighting to come, can Father Thomas heal those who are wounded?”

  Stiger stared hard at the sergeant for a moment before looking away. He was silent for a time, watching the details toil away. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and felt the familiar electric tingle. Several minutes passed by before he replied.

  “I have asked him that very question,” Stiger breathed quietly so that only Blake could hear and none of the escort. “He said he would do all he was permitted, at least until High Father’s call changes.”

  “I see,” Blake said.

  Stiger looked over at his sergeant with a grave look. “Father Thomas’s call did not end with the defeat of the minion of Castor. He feels a need to remain and that means there must be more evil about.”

  “Oh shit,” Blake cursed and then caught himself. “Sorry, sir.”

  Stiger agreed with his sergeant’s sentiments. “Oh shit indeed.”

  Blake abruptly turned to look in the direction of Vrell and squinted. Something had caught his attention. Stiger looked as well and saw one of Lieutenant Lan’s troopers picking his way on horseback through the work details and felled trees.

  “Sir,” the trooper saluted, fist to chest, before pulling a dispatch from a saddle bag. “From Lieutenant Lan, sir.”

  Stiger took the dispatch and opened it. He had left the lieutenant in command of Castle Vrell. Both cavalry commands had been charged with holding the castle should the citizens of the valley rise up. It was not much of a force, but having pulled the other companies out of the valley and put them to work on the road, it was all he had left. Besides, the imperial cavalry was made up of the minor nobility and they were notorious for their disdain of manual labor. Stiger doubted they would be of much help, other than holding onto the castle.

  Stretching in his saddle, he rapidly read through the dispatch. The lieutenant reported he had worked out a date for a meeting with the council to be held in the valley at a local tavern. Though the people of the valley were not imperial citizens, the council were the elected local representatives that governed some of the day-to-day affairs of the people. Stiger hoped to enlist their support in defending the valley and their homes. He had desired to attend and work to smooth out relations between the empire and people of the valley, but with the enemy marching on Vrell, he could not risk it. With luck, Lan would be able to win them over.

  The lieutenant also reported that the return of the seized food stores had begun. It had been received enthusiastically by the locals. After scanning through the remainder, Stiger took out his dispatch pad and charcoal pencil. He wrote out an acknowledgment of receipt, sealed it and handed it over to the trooper.

  The trooper saluted and started back toward Vrell, carefully picking his way back. With mixed feelings, Stiger watched him go. The more immediate threat was the approaching rebel army. The council could wait. Besides, Stiger had instructed Lan to deliberately slow the return of the food stores. The people of the valley were desperate to make it through the coming winter. As long as the food was coming, no matter how slowly, they would be less likely to start trouble. If everything worked out, Stiger would not only be able to sufficiently delay the enemy, but he would have time to get a handle on the valley during the coming winter months.

  The captain took one more look around. The nearest work detail was from one of the garrison companies. It had only been a few weeks since he had freed them from Captain Aveeno’s clutches. Though freshly shaved and lookin
g like proper legionaries, they were sorely in need of retraining. He had already been forced to start rotating them through a hasty refresher program, one day of labor and one of training. The schedule was impacting his defensive preparations, but Stiger knew there was no helping it. The garrison companies, his men now, would shortly be coming up against the rebels and they needed to be ready, which meant training and more training. With each passing day Stiger was feeling the sands of time running out. What he was not running out of were headaches and problems to overcome.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered and kicked his horse forward. It was time to check the next section of road where Lieutenant Brent and his company were hard at work. After that, they would call on Banister to see how the first defensive line was coming. As he went by, Stiger looked over at Corporal Beni. Their eyes met. Stiger offered a nod of encouragement and then continued on.

  Three

  BRADDOCK HESITATED BEFORE stepping into the council chambers. He could hear raised, angry voices out in the hallway, bickering back and forth from within. There were a number of heated discussions going on and the Thane of the Dvergr mentally winced at the thought of stepping into the room. Bickering and self-righteous anger seemed to be a failing of his race. When other peoples worked together, his frequently stood apart, just for spite.

  They act like children, he thought. They make me the adult.

  Looking dangerous, with fierce expressions and bristling with weapons, four of Braddock’s household guard stood aside for their thane. They snapped to attention, standing stiffly and eyes to the front. Two would enter after the thane and two would remain outside. While the Large Council met, upon their lives no one would be permitted to interrupt.

  “Your preposterous claim to our mine is what it is,” a voice louder than the others thundered with ill-concealed rage.