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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Marcus had selected the location for the scout camp. It was an isolated spot, located in a stand of thick brush, nearly at the base of the foothills, presaging the mountain range that surrounded Vrell. Though the scouts felt relatively safe, they regularly paused in their work to listen, straining for any hint of the enemy. Eli had taught them to be vigilant.

  “One who is careful lives to see the next dawn,” Eli was fond of saying. “One who is careless can only be lucky, but is not wise.”

  The enemy skirmishers had grown in number over the past few days. At times, they were thicker than fleas on a mangy hunting dog. The result of such numbers was predictable. The scouts were pushed farther and farther from the road and away from the rebel column of march, meaning that their fight was now with the enemy’s skirmishers.

  Marcus and his team had increasingly found themselves struggling to get within hearing distance of the rebel column, let alone missile range. Rebel scout teams had also grown in number, quality and boldness. It had been a rude shock to learn these men were well-trained, aggressive and bold. There had already been several savage and brutal encounters where one party had stumbled across the other.

  Marcus sighed heavily as he worked to smooth out a shaft. He had lost his first man today. Mosch had been his friend and was one of the originals from the 85th whom Eli had trained. He had been a good scout and someone Marcus felt he could rely upon to do his job. It pained Marcus to think that his friend had fallen. Worse yet, they had been forced to leave his body behind, pierced by an arrow through the thigh. The arrow had torn through an artery and in moments his friend had bled out.

  Marcus felt guilty about not retrieving the body, as he knew that Mosch, a follower of the old gods, had wanted his remains to be cremated according to his beliefs. Marcus had considered slipping back after nightfall to attempt to recover the body, but Eli had expressly forbidden it, saying that the gods would understand.

  A life in the legions accustomed one to loss and Marcus had seen men die before. Death was always a close companion. However, this was different. Mosch was the first man Marcus had lost under his command. He felt as if it were his fault, although he knew that Mosch had just been unlucky. Everyone understood that the gods could be fickle, one moment dispensing luck, the next taking it away.

  Marcus needed to put this behind him, for in a few hours, he and his team would be abandoning this camp and pulling back to rejoin Captain Stiger and the main body, which had come up in preparation for striking at the rebels.

  Ever since the rebels had pushed out large numbers of skirmishers and brought up better quality scouts, their advance had sped up considerably, eating up the miles with each passing day. The time for harassment raids, designed to sow terror, chaos and confusion, had passed. Hard fighting lay ahead.

  Captain Stiger had ordered most of the scouts back to the main body. A handful under the direct command of Eli had been excluded from this order. These few would hit the enemy one last time. Their purpose was to cause a gap to form between marching rebel formations so that the lead formation would become isolated and without ready support. To accomplish this, Eli was going to hit the second marching formation just as the rebels were preparing to break camp and start the day’s march. The raid would be prolonged and pressed, making it much more dangerous for the scouts involved. Marcus felt guilty that he was not going to be with them, but orders were orders. Besides, he was confident the captain would have some hot work for him and his boys.

  Davis finished and looked up expectantly at his corporal, who was carefully inspecting his last arrow for flaws. Satisfied, Marcus placed the arrow in his quiver and returned his tools to his bag.

  “I will take watch,” Davis said quietly, breath steaming in the frigid air. “You need sleep more than I.”

  Marcus nodded gratefully and went over to where Todd slept. He laid out his blanket and then placed his bow, quiver and short sword within arm’s reach before lying down fully clothed. He used a rolled-up, empty woolen sack for a pillow and then wrapped the other half of the blanket around him. He shivered despite the blanket, which wasn’t thick enough.

  Another uncomfortable night, Marcus thought morosely. Losing Mosch today had dampened his spirits. He understood he could not allow it to keep his spirits down.

  Sleeping on the cold, hard ground without the benefit of a warming fire sounded awful, but in truth it was really not so bad. Marcus thought back to the scared kid living moment to moment in the wretched slums of Mal’Zeel. He had not known where his next meal would come from or who would try to knife him for what little he had. Life on those streets had been hard.

  This is a much better than I had it in the capitol, he thought, gazing up through the sparse canopy at the silent stars as Todd continued to snore. The priests of Bhallen taught that the stars were suns, very much like their own, just much farther away. Marcus figured it was like the ships that anchored off the coast for the night. You could see the ship’s light, there to warn others, small in size, but the ship was there just the same. Those strange suns had worlds of their own, the priests had claimed. Marcus had always found that concept difficult to believe. Staring up at the heavens, he wondered. What if they were right?

  Is it possible those worlds are like this one? Marcus’s eyelids grew heavy as the exhaustion slowly took him. Or are they very different?

  He yawned deeply and turned on his side. He was soon fast asleep, snoring softly alongside Todd.

  Seven

  FORMED FOR BATTLE, Stiger stood slightly behind a double line of men over two hundred strong. Half were from the 85th and the other half were Lieutenant Brent’s boys from the 33rd. Breath visible in the frigid early morning air, the men were silent and grim-faced. Shields were held to their sides, bottoms resting on the ground. Swords remained in their scabbards until the order was given to draw.

  The sun, rising to their backs, broke through a cloud and shone down on the silent formation. Armor, freshly polished, glinted brightly under the sunlight as a cold gust of wind stirred the men’s red cloaks and caused the banners to flap slightly. Behind the formation, and in front of Stiger, stood the standard-bearers for the 33rd and the 85th. The Tiger pelt draped across the 85th’s standard made it stand out. When the enemy saw it, it would be remembered.

  From his position, Stiger could see the entire line.

  For a moment he found it difficult to breathe. The men looked simply magnificent. They had that perfect appearance, the stuff that heroic tales and legends were made of. It was an image that children and glory-seeking officers dreamed of when they thought on war. Those more seasoned and experienced, such as Stiger himself, knew better, and yet the captain still felt his heart stir in pride. These were his men, even those of the 33rd, and it was his honor to lead them forth into battle.

  Stiger sucked in a deep breath, breaking the spell of the moment and stepped through the formation to the front. He walked along the line, inspecting the men with his critical eye as he went. Lieutenant Brent followed two steps behind, nervous but quiet. Occasionally Stiger would stop to straighten a piece of armor or tug on a strap. He was putting on a show for the men, demonstrating that he had not a care in the world other than their perfection.

  He glanced over at Brent as he conducted the inspection. This was Brent’s first real action and Stiger well understood the wild mix of emotions the man was feeling, from dread to excitement and back yet again. Brent showed promise. In the coming days, he would likely be on his own, leading men into battle. He had to inspire confidence. So, Stiger was making efforts to model for the lieutenant how a proper officer should conduct himself prior to going into battle. He hoped Brent was paying attention.

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger snapped. “If you will, kindly inspect the second rank.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brent responded with a sharp salute, stepped by the first rank and set about his inspection. Stiger had intentionally given the young officer something to do to take his mind off of what was coming.

/>   If only I could distract myself so easily, Stiger thought to himself, glancing in the direction of the road.

  Stiger had positioned the men just over the crest of a steep hill, on the reverse side, away from the Vrell Road and hidden from view. The crest of the hill was roughly two hundred yards from the road, which traveled at this point between two steep hills. This small stretch of road was the place Stiger had selected and concentrated his men for his first powerful strike at the enemy.

  Having handed the rest of the inspection off to the lieutenant, the captain placed himself in the center of the formation, behind the line but in front of the standard-bearers. The men were as ready as he could make them and in only minutes, they would be going in. The rest was up to the gods… And my planning, he added to himself.

  “They should be coming shortly,” Brent stated the obvious, breaking in on Stiger’s thoughts as he stepped through the ranks, having finished the inspection. There was a nervous edge to his voice. Stiger understood that the lieutenant was filling space to avoid thinking on what was ahead. Nothing in Brent’s experience could truly prepare him for what was coming, which was also true for many of the lieutenant’s men. That was one of the reasons the legions drilled hard and continually. When untested and even tested men were faced with the most difficult of circumstances, they tended to fall back on their training, which at times had been literally beaten into them.

  “I would expect so,” Stiger responded quietly but firmly. He was also feeling the uneasy tension that presaged a fight. The last-minute worrying he suffered through was a torment in and of itself.

  The rebel advance force was made up of what was estimated to be around five to six enemy companies, numbering somewhere over a thousand men, perhaps even two. It was difficult to get an exact count because the rebels did not march as a legion would, but instead walked in large groups and bunches. Regardless, Stiger was outnumbered and the ‘what ifs’ had begun tormenting him as he reviewed his plan, looking for oversights or mistakes.

  He had devised a three-pronged ambush, the first of which was designed to bring the rebel column to a complete halt, pinning it in place at its most forward point. Then he intended to chop it neatly in half, cutting off and trapping around five hundred rebels, which he would then work to eliminate. To accomplish this, he had to force the other half of the rebel column back, or at least hold it off long enough to complete the destruction of the isolated and trapped part, before retiring farther back down the road toward Vrell and the start of his defensive corridor.

  The job of bringing the rebel column to a halt had fallen to Lieutenant Ikely, Stiger’s second in command. Blocking the road ahead, Ikely had a force that numbered around two hundred and was made up of the other half of the 85th, along with the rest of the 33rd. The captain had intentionally mixed companies with his own. This was to give the untested 33rd some additional backbone the first time they went into action, for the captain knew he could rely upon his own company to stand firm.

  Brent’s men, like the others of the garrison, had received a refresher training program over the last few weeks, but it was not as thorough as the one Stiger had put the 85th through. The captain hoped it had been enough to remind them of who they were. Only the test of battle would tell him more about the men of the 33rd.

  Ikely’s orders were to hold, no matter the cost. To give him every advantage possible, Ikely was dug in behind a fortified line that cut clear across the road. His position would be difficult and costly to overcome. When the rebel advance parties encountered Ikely’s line, they would be presented with a ten-foot trench and behind that a twelve-foot earthen rampart topped with a wooden barricade for added protection.

  The rebels would be compelled to halt, scout Ikely’s position and then take time to make a decision on what to do. In Stiger’s estimation, the rebels would either deploy to assault Ikely’s position or attempt to flank it. The defensive line not only blocked the road, but also stretched into the forest on both sides. Like the others they had built, it ran a full quarter mile in length. To make the job more complex for the enemy, caltrops had been laid in the forest around the edges of the defensive line.

  Whatever the rebel commander decided to do, whether it was a direct assault or a flanking movement, would eat up time. Even if he just sat there and watched Ikely in an indecisive sort of way, it suited Stiger just fine. It all came down to time and this was something Stiger did not intend to give the enemy.

  On the other hill, opposite from Stiger’s position, the captain had positioned another two hundred under the command of lieutenants Banister and Peal. This force was made up of the 95th Imperial Foot and the remnants of Captain Aveeno’s command. They were similarly hidden on the reverse side of their hill and out of view from the rebels.

  The central part of Stiger’s plan was to keep the enemy from discovering his hidden assault prongs. The captain had unleashed nearly all of his scouts, along with some extra men to work the sides of the road, beginning about a half mile before the ambush point. These would have already directly engaged the rebel skirmishers, and pinned them down, sucking them into a protracted fight for control of the flanks. If it worked, which it seemed to have done, the rebel column of infantry would arrogantly continue to march forward, oblivious to the fact that with every step forward, they were pulling farther and farther ahead of their protective skirmish screen. This would deprive the enemy commander of his eyes, allowing both of Stiger’s ambush prongs to go unnoticed and undetected until it was too late. Stiger was waiting for the enemy column marching by on the other side of the hill to come to a halt. When it halted, he would know they had encountered Ikely’s line.

  Since the enemy had only ever encountered harassment attacks, Stiger hoped their commander would not suspect a larger ambush lying in wait along his flanks. Ikely’s fortified line was also meant to distract. He wanted the enemy commander’s attention focused exclusively on cracking Ikely’s line and not thinking on his flanks. Why come out and fight when you had a perfectly good fortified defensive position to hold? Regardless, Stiger would not give him very much time to think about the risk to his flanks.

  Stiger held a second, smaller force, just a handful of scouts, in reserve. He would commit these when the enemy column came to a halt. These few, according to Eli, were the best of his best. Stiger would use them to strike the enemy directly to the front of his position. Their job was to harass the halted column until they provoked a response.

  Stiger expected the enemy, deprived of skirmishers, to deploy to force the scouts back and away from the road and up the hill toward his position. When the enemy pushed, Stiger had instructed the scouts to give ground grudgingly, fighting the entire way…until they reached the crest of the hill. It was at this point they were to break and run in a panic, drawing the enemy after them and right into Stiger’s waiting ambush, which would, at that point, push off hard, crest the hill and then drive right down to the road below. He hoped to catch the enemy disordered and unprepared.

  Banister and Peal were to watch for Stiger’s prong to kick off down the hill. Once Stiger was committed, they were to advance down their side of the ambush. The idea was for both assault prongs to slam into the rebels along the road, overwhelming them as the two pincers snapped closed.

  For better or worse, Stiger was committed. He had no other choice, no matter what happened. Although the rebel force he was about to attack was most likely double his size, they were strung out along several miles of road and the captain meant to hit them smack in the middle. The ambush spot was narrow and confined, allowing little room for the rebels to deploy their entire force, while Stiger would be able to concentrate his.

  To further pad his chances, Stiger had dispatched Eli with the rest of the scouts to attack the next rebel formation, farther back along the road. Eli was to time it so that he hit them right as they were preparing for the day’s march. In this way, Stiger hoped to create a large gap to form between rebel marching formations. With luck,
it would work and the second rebel marching formation would not be in a position to render assistance to the first when Stiger sprung his ambush.

  And so Stiger worried, concealing his anxiety from the men. The plan sounded complex but was in reality fairly simple…as long as everything went according to plan. Stiger had seen the Rivan pull a similar move to great effect, and the captain saw no reason not to borrow from them. So far, things seemed to be working as expected, which was unusual and concerning, for in war nothing ever went according to plan.

  Stiger’s attention was drawn to the crest of the hill, where a scout appeared. The scout made his way slowly and carefully over the crest so that he was not seen by the enemy below. Once over and shielded from view, he spotted the captain and hurried over to him. The men in the ranks stepped aside and allowed him through.

  “Sir, beg to report. The enemy column has come to a halt. I reckon company strength, just over the other side of the hill. They have dropped packs and yokes. I didn’t see any skirmishers and they don’t look like they are expectin’ any trouble either, sir,” Todd said, saluting fist to chest.

  “Corporal.” Stiger turned toward Scout Corporal Marcus, who stood waiting patiently with a group of five scouts. They had arrived a few hours ago and were critical to the plan succeeding. Wearing leathers and boots and carrying short bows, they contrasted starkly. “Take your men in.”