There were two bored-looking guards standing post out in front of the tent. The nearest tents and sleeping men were only around ten feet away. As they waited and watched, one of those nearby men who had been sleeping on the ground stood stiffly, stretched and stumbled off in the direction of the cook wagons, which had been placed in the center of the camp.
The food wagons, Marcus thought with amusement, are better protected than their regimental commander.
Marcus and Eli had considered waiting for the regimental commander to wake and leave his tent, but that likely would not occur until the sun was well up, increasing their chance of discovery. So instead, they had settled upon a more direct approach.
On the other side of the enemy camp, there was a sudden shout, followed by cries of alarm as Bryant and Davis struck, raining arrows into the mass of sleeping men. The camp exploded into activity. Some rushed toward the action, while others remained where they were, looking in the direction of the commotion and talking excitedly amongst themselves.
Eli and Marcus waited, ready, bows nocked. Within seconds, an older man, half-dressed, pushed the tent flap aside, a stormy expression on his face. Eli loosed. Before the regimental commander had taken more than half a step, the arrow hammered into his chest. With a strangled cry, he fell backward into his tent and out of sight. The two guards who had been looking toward the commotion on the other side of the camp turned around in surprise. Marcus let fly. His first arrow flew true, taking the guard on the left in the neck. The scout corporal had a second arrow nocked as his first target began to fall, gurgling his death rattle. Marcus let loose his second arrow, taking the other guard in the back as he was turning to look at his companion in shock. The man fell forward to his knees, grunting in pain as the wind was knocked from his lungs by the impact.
Eli rushed forward, short sword drawn, carrying his bow lightly in his left hand. Marcus nocked another arrow. With the guards down, his job was to cover the lieutenant. No one seemed to be watching the regimental commander’s tent or notice the drama that was playing out. All of the attention was focused on the other side of the encampment, where men were yelling in alarm, pain and panic. Officers were beginning to shout what Marcus took to be orders, in one of the many guttural southern languages that he did not know. It sounded to the scout as if they were calling for their men to fall in.
Marcus watched the lieutenant enter the tent. Within a second or two, the elf emerged and made a dash for the trees. Eli’s sword was dark with blood. A new shout of alarm drew Marcus’s attention. A rebel officer, likely an aide, had seen Eli emerge. He was hurrying to the tent. Marcus aimed and loosed a fraction of a second later. The arrow hammered the officer squarely in the chest. He stopped, stood dumbly for a moment, clutching the arrow with both hands, before falling to his knees, a bloody froth bubbling up from his mouth. A moment later he toppled over onto his side, where he lay still.
There were additional shouts of alarm, with men pointing in their direction. Marcus calmly reached over his shoulder, drew another arrow, nocked and fired, striking another man. He loosed again and was rewarded with a scream of pain.
“Let’s go,” Eli shouted as he reached the edge of the woods. Marcus let fly a final arrow as the rebels began work up their courage to charge his position. Without waiting to see the result, he turned and ran, following on Eli’s heels into the forest and toward safety.
Five
“YOU SERIOUSLY EXPECT us to furnish levies?” Councilman Vargus asked in an incredulous tone, barking out a harsh laugh. Lieutenant Lan thought not only did the man look like a bull, he had the voice of one too. “Furnish levies…after how the empire has treated us?”
Lan had made the long ride down from the castle and into the valley to meet with the councilors. Sergeant Mills and Legionary Sulla had accompanied him as his escort. It was Lan’s first opportunity to travel into the valley and he was impressed. The valley was huge, lush and fertile. An assortment of farms occupied the base, most run by single families. Others were large enough to be called plantations. Higher up, neatly ordered vineyards climbed the slopes until the grade became too steep. The party had ridden through several small villages on their way to Riverton for the meeting, which was being held at a tavern called the Pact. No one they had encountered had looked particularly thrilled to see them.
The locals called Riverton a village, but anywhere else in the empire Lan would have considered it to be a moderately sized town. The town was located in the southern end of the valley and despite the size of Riverton, they had easily found the Pact, which was on the outer edge of town. The building itself was two stories high, with the second story looking as if it had been built as an afterthought. An old, weathered sign hung out front. The sign had no words, only the image of two hands shaking before an oversized mug. For those who could not read, the sign was clear enough to convey what waited inside. Like many such establishments, the proprietor and his family lived on the second floor, while the business of serving drinks occurred on the first.
The public side of the tavern consisted of a clean single room that was barely large enough for the seven tables set aside for patrons. As Lan entered, worn, tired and cold from his long ride, a large fireplace, complete with a rough stone mantle, was off to the left, fire crackling with friendly warmth. The bar, lovingly polished, was opposite the entrance and along the back wall. A small kitchen that doubled as a stockroom backed off the bar. From the kitchen, the aroma of freshly cooked meat wafted outward and into the common room, where it mixed with the smell of stale beer.
Several of the tables had been pushed together and a number of people sat around them, including the lieutenant and the councilors. This was no mean place, Lan reflected, as the meeting dragged on. It was the kind of establishment that respectable locals retired to in the evenings after a hard day’s work. Here they would have a quiet drink and share news. It was not the kind of place one would go to for serious drinking and a good time. It was cozy and warm. He liked it.
“That was Captain Aveeno’s doing,” Councilman Bester pointed out in an attempt to placate Vargus. “Not the lieutenant’s.”
“A servant of Castor?” Vargus asked mockingly, pounding the table with a large fist and rattling the mugs. “You expect me to believe such shit?”
“I was there,” Bester said, becoming hot. “I know what I saw.”
“We are not asking for levies,” Lan interjected, holding up his hands. This back and forth had been going on for some time and he was becoming frustrated at the lack of progress. They seemed to be going round and round. “We do not ask you to put men forward.”
Four of the valley’s five elected councilors were present. Lan had been briefed by Lieutenant Cannol on all of them. They included Londnom Bester, Darrik Quintus, Aallond Hief and Ash Vargus. The elderly Atticus Ravana was ill and could not attend. He lived clear across the far side of the valley and had sent his regrets, along with his youngest son, Benus Ravana. The boy, still in his teens, had a serious air about him that contradicted his years. Lan felt he looked bookish, like an accountant, more comfortable with ledgers and numbers than people. The boy sat off to the side, silently taking meeting notes in a roughhewn book, presumably for his father.
Vargus, the proprietor of the Pact, was a large, well-muscled man who had a hard look to him. Lan understood from Lieutenant Cannol that Vargus was highly respected. His words carried weight and besides running the tavern and serving on the council, he also acted as the local magistrate. Lan had quickly discovered Vargus was far from cordial, instead blunt to the point of insult and downright hostile toward the empire.
A handful of locals had also turned up, curious as to what would be discussed. They had not been asked to leave, which had surprised the lieutenant. Though he did not much like it, he figured this was probably typical of small communities, where nearly everyone got their say.
“Then what do you want?” Hief asked, a deep scowl upon his face.
“Peace, first
and foremost,” Lan explained patiently. “Captain Stiger would very much like us to work out an agreement to create a firm basis for future interactions between the garrison and the people of the valley.”
“We got that part,” Quintus said. Quintus seemed to be the chair of the council, though no such position officially existed. The others on the council simply deferred to him. It was clear the man was held in high esteem. “We can work on an agreement easily enough. What we all want to know is this support you speak of…”
“We would appreciate the valley’s assistance to help us prepare the castle for defense,” Lan explained, trying to not lose his temper. Like impatient children, they kept interrupting him. It was almost as if he were being tested. “We will do the fighting. However, we need substantial help in support roles. Such as—”
“Support roles?” Vargus barked and shot the others on the council a knowing look. Several of those watching from the bar grumbled. “You people never asked, just took and kept taking. Why ask now?”
Though the evening air was chill outside, the tavern was comfortably warm, made so by a well-fed fire. Perspiring slightly, Vargus had rolled the sleeves of his tunic back, revealing scarred forearms. The marks were the kind acquired from years of arms drill and they immediately caught the lieutenant’s attention. If Lan had not known better, he would have thought Vargus could have passed for a retired legionary officer or even a sergeant. Everything about the man’s demeanor shouted retired military. As the discussions wore on, Lan found himself wondering if Vargus had served at some point in an auxiliary company.
The others had not that much about them physically to remark on. Most seemed fairly average, though all looked to have come from imperial stock. Quintus owned a number of vineyards along the south side of the valley. He was one of the main producers of the wine that Lan was becoming very fond of. Prior to the rebellion, Quintus had supplied much of the nearer cities, like Aeda, with high quality wine.
Hief was a master smith who owned a smithy here in Riverton, where he focused exclusively on the manufacture and repair of farm implements. He was also heavily muscled, though he had the look of going a bit soft with age, as his middle section was beginning to show a slight bulge.
Lan could not remember what Cannol had told him that Bester did for a living, but it hardly mattered, the man seemed genuinely friendly toward the empire and had greeted the lieutenant warmly.
“We need help preparing the defense of the castle,” Lan pushed on, ignoring the interruption. “Manufacturing of arrows, hauling rocks, pitch and oil, preparing food and bandages…”
“You want us to supply a labor force?” Quintus narrowed his eyes. “Is that it? Slave labor?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Lan said, shocked. Though these people were not imperial citizens, they were freemen, belonging to a province of the empire. They could not be condemned to a life of forced servitude without just cause. “Your people are free. We will, of course, pay.”
A drink rested before each of them, either valley-made beer or wine. Lan had elected the wine, which he found exceptionally agreeable, though not quite as fine a vintage as his family produced in Venney.
Well, it is no longer home anymore, he thought bitterly, taking a sip of his wine.
His older brother had inherited everything and as a second son, Lan had been forced into the cavalry to make his own way in the world. Serving in the cavalry was a stepping stone for those of the nobility that could not inherit. After a successful term he would be eligible to enter public service, perhaps even as a local magistrate and begin to build a comfortable life for himself. The more successful his service and honors earned, the better the position he would be able to secure upon leaving the legions.
Cut off from the empire with a rebel army marching on Vrell, the prospects of surviving long enough to complete his term were looking remote and that was one of the reasons this council meeting was so important. Lan had to convince them that it was in their best interest to help defend the valley against the rebels. Without the valley’s support, they might not be able to hold Vrell.
One of Vargus’s daughters refilled his drink, pouring warmed wine from a heated jar. Beer was refilled from a tapped keg in the corner, behind the bar. She was exceptionally pretty, with a fine figure and Lan found his eyes lingering on her from time to time as she occasionally made the rounds refilling drinks.
“Thank you.” The lieutenant smiled in a friendly sort of way at her as she finished. In return, he received a distasteful look, as if she had swallowed a bug, before she moved on, leaving him with a frown.
He let it go and chalked the attitude up to a reflection of the animosity generated by Captain Aveeno’s actions. He shrugged, hoping this meeting would improve relations. He was proud of his service in the empire’s legions and it bothered him that the people of the valley viewed the legionaries poorly, almost as enemies. Lan wished to prove worthy of the trust the captain had placed in his hands by having the negotiations succeed. However, it was becoming increasingly important to him to win these people over. The legions were here to protect these people and they had failed to do so. He was determined to make up for that failure.
“No doubt you will attempt to pay with imperial coinage,” Vargus scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in the lieutenant’s direction. “The empire has abandoned you boys and is not coming back. Your coin is worthless.”
Lan stifled an angry response and instead reached into a pocket and pulled out an imperial gold talon. He made a show of examining it, before tossing it onto the table. The coin landed heavily on the wooden table top with a solid-sounding clink. “Is gold so worthless here in the valley?”
Bester looked up and actually smiled at the lieutenant, amusement dancing in his eyes. “No, it is not. Gold has value here.”
“Then we can pay,” Lan insisted firmly, leaving the coin out for all to see. “Though I respectfully suggest that it is in your interest to assist us…to work with us.”
“Why is that?” Vargus demanded.
Lan’s patience with the confrontational councilman was reaching its limit and he struggled to control a sharp retort. Instead, he took a deep breath, which he followed with a slow a sip of his wine before continuing.
Lan set his mug of wine down on the table. “I don’t believe the rebels will view your previous support for the empire in a favorable light. Your people are bottled up in this valley. Without help, the castle may fall. If it comes to that, well… I think you can imagine what will likely happen to your people.”
“We should never have supported the empire,” Vargus snorted in disgust, glancing over at his fellow councilors.
Hief, a sour look on his face, nodded in agreement. “It was a mistake and now the legions have gone. We will pay for our shortsightedness with the blood of our families.”
“The legions always come back,” Lan said, eying Vargus and Hief before shifting his gaze to Quintus. “Help us to hold the castle! The legions will be back. Of that you can be sure.”
“We are of the empire, or have you forgotten?” Bester asked in an appeal, shooting a look around at his fellow councilors. “We cannot abandon our roots and commitments so easily.”
“Where has that gotten us?” Vargus retorted angrily, slamming an empty tankard down on the table, having just drained it. “We invited them into our valley. They have given us nothing but heartache. They don’t even remember the Compact, let alone honoring it anymore, as is their responsibility!”
“Captain Stiger asked me to app—”
“Captain Stiger,” Quintus interrupted. “I’ve heard a lot of this Captain Stiger. Why isn’t he here? Why send you in his stead?”
Lan took another deep breath. He had never conducted a negotiation like this before. He well understood these men were angry with the empire and as such he was doing his level best to remain calm. He was also not sure what the Compact was. Perhaps it was some agreement the legions signed when the empire had annexed the valley. W
hen he returned to the castle, he intended to ask Cannol.
“The captain offers his regrets…unfortunately he is in the field—”
“Can he stop them?” Bester asked, steering the subject away from rocky ground. “Can he stop the rebels before they get to Vrell?”
Lan thought carefully on his response, as all eyes turned to him and the tavern became deathly still. He briefly considered dissembling, but immediately discarded that thought. Though it was no fault of the empire, these people felt that they had been betrayed. Trust had to be rebuilt. That was why he had to be straight with them. If he could rebuild that sense of trust, perhaps they would take steps to support the legions. Honesty was in order, no matter how distasteful the truth.
“No,” the lieutenant said, after a very pregnant moment. “Captain Stiger cannot stop the rebel army. We simply do not have enough men. The rebels can only be delayed, hopefully long enough for winter to set in and snow to block the pass for the season.”
A heavy silence seemed to have settled upon the tavern, broken only by the pop and crackle of the fire. Bester leaned back in his chair, breathing in deeply and exhaling heavily, cheeks puffed out. He exchanged looks with Vargus, whose anger had drained away and now looked weary.
“Then you mean to hold the rebels at the castle,” Vargus said, more as a statement than a question, his gaze coming up to meet Lan’s.
“That is part of the plan,” Lan admitted, not wanting to reveal too much, or even mention the captain’s defensive corridor. There was a chance that there were rebel sympathizers present. He could not take the risk of giving out too much information. “Captain Stiger will fall back upon the castle when he judges it practical. To hold beyond this winter and ensure the safety of the valley, we need your help and support.”
“Son, just how large is this rebel army?” Quintus asked, running a hand through his hair.
“We believe the enemy’s strength to be around twenty thousand strong. Perhaps more, perhaps less. Regardless, it is a substantial force.”
The Tiger (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 2) Page 5