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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Sergeant,” Ikely said, feeling the full weight of command on his shoulders. “I want you to handle our left flank. I will take the right. We will go over the top, climb out of the trench, form a shield wall and then advance upon my orders.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Ranl said, saluting crisply. He trotted off toward the left flank. Ikely moved over to the right and waited for the older sergeant to get into position.

  Ikely’s family had sent him to the legions to add to the family honor and prestige. So far he had served with honor, yet until this moment he had not faced a test like what was now before him. His moment had come. He would not only serve his family this day but also the empire.

  “Over the top!” Ikely roared and the men surged up and forward. He followed, his shoulder crying out in pain as he carefully climbed over the top of the barricade. Slipping down the other side, into the defensive ditch below, he landed on a body and just barely missed being skewered by a sword that had its sharp end pointing upward.

  The trench was filled with rebel dead and badly wounded. As the lieutenant caught himself, his hobnailed boots landed hard on the torso of a rebel, who cried out in pain. The lieutenant ignored him and instead focused on scrambling up the other side of the trench. He discovered that pulling himself out was more challenging than he had expected because of the weight of his armor and his throbbing shoulder.

  “Form up!” Ikely yelled as soon as he had dragged himself out of the trench. He drew his sword. “Form up! Get those shields out! Dress that line!”

  He began shoving men forward and into position. This was the moment when he and his men were most vulnerable. He was taking an incredible risk coming out from behind his fortifications before the enemy had quit the battlefield. Should they hit him, his men would be unprepared and trapped with a trench and earthen wall to their backs. But what seemed to take ages in reality took only a couple of minutes. His men formed up into a line, two ranks deep.

  Satisfied, Ikely turned to see what the enemy was up to. The rebels were in an even greater state of confusion now that the legionaries had come out from behind their fortifications.

  He had placed himself directly behind the line and though he had told Ranl he would take the right flank, he found himself nearer to the middle of his line. He saw no point in moving farther to the right. It was time to renew the fight while he still had the enemy before him.

  “Draw swords!” Ikely shouted, pulling forth his own, his voice cracking due to hoarseness. Up and down the line, swords were drawn with a hiss. Ikely looked left and then right to ensure all was ready. Satisfied, he looked forward at the enemy. “Advance!”

  “HAAAAH!” nearly two hundred legionaries from the 33rd and 85th roared at the enemy. “HAAAAH!”

  “Front rank! Shields to the front!” Ikely bellowed and as one, the long rectangular shields, uniform to the legions, came up and into place.

  The rebels managed to form a weak line to face the armored wall that was inexorably marching toward them. Without the benefit of either armor or shields, the rebels had little chance. Ikely hastily glanced left and right to make sure the line was properly aligned and then the two lines met.

  Shields hammered at the rebel line and short swords, the perfect tool for this kind of close-in work, darted out, jabbing, stabbing and finding soft, unprotected flesh. Men screamed, yelled and cursed. Enemy swords hammered away uselessly on legionary shields, creating a tremendous cacophony.

  “Push them!” Ikely shouted, impatiently pacing up and down the line. “Use your shields! Push them!”

  With each fallen enemy, the line advanced. Whenever an enemy fell beneath their feet, the second rank made certain the rebel would not rise again to strike at the legs or backs of their comrades as the line pushed forward one half step at a time.

  “Get that man back!” Ranl roared to Ikely’s right, indicating a legionary who had been wounded in the sword arm and had dropped his weapon. The man was moved rearward and the legionary behind him in the second rank took his place in the first.

  “Rotate,” Ikely shouted, which the sergeants and corporals picked up and repeated. The first rank abruptly stepped back. The second rank stepped forward, fresh and ready, shields interlocking. The men who stepped back, breathing heavily, took up the second rank’s position.

  “Keep at ‘em!” Ikely shouted as the rebel line began to crack and buckle, breaking up as they were forced steadily backward. “Hit them with your shields! We have them!”

  “Legionary Teg!” Sergeant Ranl shouted in an enraged voice. “Use your sword properly, man! You are not some dandified gladiator. You are a legionary and a killer. Killers jab and stab!”

  Having been called out, Teg returned to proper form and focused on the rebel to his front. He moved his shield slightly and jabbed out. He was rewarded with an enraged cry as his sword bit home.

  “Good boy!” Sergeant Ranl boomed. “We will make a legionary of you yet.”

  Moments later, what was left of the rebel line collapsed and the legionaries surged forward into the mass of the confusion beyond. Legionaries rushed forward madly, screaming and yelling, killing all they came across. It took only a handful of seconds, but the enemy, as one, turned and fled the field, streaming off in all directions in an effort to escape the slaughter. It was at that moment that the real killing began.

  Nine

  “WELL MET, LIEUTENANT,” Stiger growled, coming up to Ikely. From head to foot, Ikely was covered in dried blood. His armor was dented and scratched and he had an ugly bruise forming along his left cheek. He walked gingerly. Stiger thought he looked exactly like the kind of officer the legions preferred, one who led by example and never hesitated to get into the thick of the fighting. He was proud of him. The lieutenant had the makings of a fine officer.

  Ikely offered his captain a tired smile.

  “It is good to see you too, sir,” he said, taking Stiger’s offered hand. “I would say the High Father was with us this day.”

  “Seems very possible,” Stiger agreed, turning to gaze across the aftermath of this part of the battlefield along a half-mile stretch of narrow road. Everywhere he looked there were bodies, mostly dead rebels. Legionaries were combing through the dead and taking what valuables they could find. Loot would later be collected by the sergeants and corporals, assigned a value and then distributed according to legion custom. Anyone caught failing to turn over any loot would be subjected to punishment. Swords, weapons and armor were also being collected and stacked in piles. What was useless for the legions would be dumped in a small pond a few miles away. Stiger was determined to leave nothing of value for the enemy.

  What they would leave behind were plenty of bodies.

  The wounded legionaries were being helped back to the aid station. Any of the enemy that were discovered wounded received a quick thrust and were put out of their misery. They could not and would not spare any effort to treat them. A line of rebel prisoners, under heavy guard, was being marched back toward Vrell to be sold as slaves.

  “I will offer my thanks to the gods,” Ikely commented, gazing around at the carnage. Stiger could imagine that Ikely had never seen anything like it. Stiger, on the other hand, had. He was only too familiar with such scenes. He was a soldier and this was the life he had chosen. For Stiger, the aftermath of the fight represented service to the empire. There was no nobler pursuit.

  Looking over the prisoners being marched rearward, Stiger did not much mind the opportunity to enrich himself from their sale and contribute to the pensions of the men. What concerned him was the possibility that these prisoners might complicate his defensive plan. He needed every able man and yet the prisoners would require a guard detail. He scowled slightly as he watched them march by to uncertain futures. Unlike the bandits he had ordered executed, it somehow seemed wrong to put the surrendered rebels to death. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take prisoners. Perhaps not. Only time would tell. Of course, any sale would have to wait until he linked back up w
ith the southern legions.

  Stiger had no idea how and when that would be. He hoped Eli’s two scouts, dispatched as messengers, had made it to friendly lines and that the empire knew he intended to hold Vrell.

  Best not to worry about what is out of your control, Stiger thought irritably. It is better to focus on the task at hand.

  He had no idea how many of enemy had fallen, only that it had been a considerable number. Darkly, he wondered how many of his legionaries he had lost. Later this evening, after the rolls were taken and the wounded counted, he would learn the butcher’s bill.

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Banister came up. The man’s left forearm was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage that was already soaked through with fresh blood. He looked to be in considerable discomfort. Banister was also dusty and blood-spattered, like Stiger, Ikely and the rest of the men.

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger nodded in acknowledgment. Despite his victory, Stiger’s thoughts clouded over as he took in Banister. It troubled him greatly that the other prong of his ambush had waited so long to go in. The delay had in all probability caused additional casualties and that made Stiger angry enough to spit. Though when the second prong had finally gone in, they had completely shattered the rebel attempt to break out, which perhaps had made up for the delay. There had been no time to ask the cause of the delay until now.

  “What took you so long?” Stiger asked grimly of the lieutenant.

  Banister looked away briefly, clearly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, then after a slight hesitation, he drew himself up and looked the captain square on.

  “When the action began and your men charged,” Banister explained, giving a formal report, “I am afraid Lieutenant Peal ordered the men to retreat, sir.”

  “He did what?” Stiger snapped, tiredness forgotten in a rush of anger. His blood boiled. He could not believe what he had just heard! Banister was essentially accusing Lieutenant Peal of cowardice in the face of the enemy. Such accusations were not lightly brought. If convicted through a trial of his peers, the punishment meant execution.

  “As we were about to go in, sir, he gave the order to retreat. Well, really run for it,” Banister continued, clearly deeply uncomfortable under the captain’s intense scrutiny. “I was forced to countermand that order; however, the damage had been done. I am afraid it took me some time to reform the men.”

  “I see.” Stiger fell silent. His mood had soured. Stiger had never been one to abide cowards, nor understand them. He scowled deeply at the thought of what he must now do. “What was the lieutenant’s reasoning for giving such an order?”

  “I am not entirely sure,” Banister admitted, taking hold of his wounded arm for support as a spasm of pain wracked him. Despite the cold, sweat beaded his forehead. “I believe he may have become unnerved, sir.”

  “Where is Lieutenant Peal now?” Stiger asked angrily. Peal’s apparent cowardice could have cost them the fight, had things gone differently. Officers must always set an example for their men. Peal would now become such an example, just not the one the captain had intended for him to make when he had given the man a second chance.

  Pending a trial, Stiger would be forced to order Peal’s arrest and confinement. Worse, he did not have the time for such nonsense. A trial would have to wait until they returned to Castle Vrell and were safe behind its massive walls, with winter well underway and the fighting concluded for the season. Only then would Peal be made to answer for his actions. Stiger kicked irritably at a rock, which rolled a few feet before it connected with the torso of a dead rebel.

  “I regret to inform you that Lieutenant Peal did not survive the battle, sir.”

  Stiger’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What exactly happened to him?”

  “I—ah—thought it prudent to send Sergeant Boral after the lieutenant,” Banister explained. An uncomfortable hesitation followed that seemed to speak volumes. “While I was reforming the men, the sergeant found him slain, sir. Unfortunately, no one witnessed how he died, sir. Sergeant Boral believes that the lieutenant encountered rebel skirmishers and fought his last battle.”

  Stiger felt the explanation weak. Though it was possible that enemy skirmishers had slipped through…Stiger did not believe a word of it. He could easily guess at what had occurred. Boral had more than likely dealt with the coward himself, perhaps even on Banister’s orders. The captain considered his possible actions. He kicked at another loose stone in frustration. It was not a satisfactory state of affairs.

  The men would speculate on Boral’s actions, perhaps Banister’s too, which was even worse. Such acts usually led to more trouble and might encourage future action against officers who were unpopular. Stiger was reminded of the assassination attempt on his own life by legionary Bennet. Though he had spared the man’s life, to make an example, this was far different.

  Boral had been extremely helpful in the last few weeks and Stiger had grown to like the man. He wasn’t exactly sure how he wanted to handle it, for any action he took against Boral might have repercussions on Banister. He could make direct issue of it, but in truth, Boral and perhaps Banister had saved Stiger from dealing with an unfortunate and unpleasant affair. The captain was tired and worn out from the fight. He decided to think on the matter further before taking any action.

  “See that his body is recovered,” Stiger ordered of Ikely. “Since the lieutenant is unable to answer for himself, he will be buried as befits a legionary officer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ikely responded. “I will see to it, sir.”

  “We will take all of our fallen from the field,” Stiger added after a moment’s further thought. “The rebels’ bodies remain where they are. It will serve warning as to what they can expect.”

  Ikely and Banister nodded. Banister had begun to shake slightly from the fatigue and pain.

  “Banister,” Stiger said, gesturing at the man’s arm, “get yourself to the aid station and have that seen to.”

  “I will, sir,” Banister replied with a nod. “Once I have seen to my men.”

  The wounded lieutenant stepped off in the direction of his men. Stiger and Ikely watched him go. Neither said anything for several seconds.

  “Sir,” Ikely said tiredly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. He drew himself up and offered a smart salute, a large smile plastered on his face. “Congratulations on your victory. We really cut them to pieces.”

  Stiger gazed across the field once more. It was a good, solid and complete victory. The rebel advance column had been thoroughly smashed and those he had trapped had been destroyed, as he had intended. Though there were many more rebels where these had come from, he had given the enemy a bloody nose.

  Stiger nodded, returning Ikely’s smile. “Excellent work on your end too. I expect a full report on your actions later this evening.”

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Brent hurried up to them. Stiger had left the lieutenant supervising the cleanup of the ambush site, a quarter mile up the road and away from Vrell. The lieutenant’s armor was streaked and spattered with blood and his face was dust-covered like everyone else’s. “Lieutenant Eli’Far sent a scout to report the enemy is on the march and should be here in three hours, perhaps more. Eli has also broken off his fight and should be joining us shortly.”

  “Well, then,” Stiger said, and looked up at the sun, which was almost directly above them. By his reckoning, it was slightly past noon. “Let’s get our fallen off the field and the men behind our fortified line. We can give the men a well-earned rest and get them fed. I suspect it will be close to dusk by the time the enemy arrives. I rather doubt they will attack us until tomorrow, especially when they see the surprise we have left them.”

  “Sir,” Brent asked surprised. “Do you mean to hold?”

  “No,” Stiger admitted. “I do not. We are only looking to delay them. I expect that we will pull out sometime in the morning.”

  The men had performed wonderfully. Before he asked more of them, they needed rest and some time to recover.
He would allow them that and in the early morning hours, well before daylight, he intended to pull the bulk of his men back, leaving a number of scouts to man the fortification. To them would fall the job of convincing the enemy that the fortification was fully manned. With luck, the rebels would be forced to deploy and make an assault, eating up valuable time. The scouts would naturally leg it as soon as that happened.

  A few miles down the road, Stiger’s defensive corridor began and continued nearly the entire way to Castle Vrell. The defensive corridor stretched over forty miles in length. Clearing the road would take effort and that translated into time.

  Ikely turned abruptly to gaze upon the line of rebel prisoners being marched off. An odd expression slid onto his face and he suddenly turned back to Stiger with a lopsided grin.

  “Sir,” Ikely spoke up, “I’ve just had a marvelous idea.”

  Ten

  BLAKE APPROACHED THE prisoners. Huddling around a fire, the group numbered around thirty. They were under a watchful guard. Having run during the fight four days prior, the prisoners had been recently taken by Eli’s scouts. They had been found wandering, hopelessly lost in the woods. Blake saw that they had just been fed. Two of the guards were collecting empty bowls. The prisoners looked miserable, weary and beaten.

  The rebellion was over for them and their futures were far from certain. Having rebelled against the empire, they would probably end up as slaves, most likely either working a plantation or in a mine. Such a life was a terrible existence, where lifespans were measured in months and not years. A lucky few might be selected for the gladiatorial schools, where they would have a chance to live well, earn fame and possibly freedom, should they prove good enough. If they were unlucky, they would be nailed to a cross and crucified as an example to others. The prisoners understood this. The empire did not tolerate rebellion.