She turned and said something back into the forest in the same tongue and slowly lowered her weapon. Two additional figures materialized from the darkness. Both were larger and clearly male. One was nursing his shoulder, where Marcus was sure his knife had landed. That much Marcus could make out in the moonlight.
“For the moment, we are safe,” Eli said, turning back to Marcus, slowly relaxing, the tension leaving his posture. “Do not make any threatening moves or reach for your weapons.”
“Who are they?” Marcus asked, carefully straightening up from the crouch he had been in.
“Elves,” Eli replied simply, returning his attention to the female, who seemed to be their leader. In the darkness Marcus could not make out their features too well.
“Your people?” Marcus gasped, startled. “What are they doing this far south?”
“These are not my people,” Eli responded in a strained tone. “There should be no elves this far south.”
Remain silent, Eli rapidly signed with his fingers. Danger about.
Eli turned back to the other elves, whereupon they began a rapid-fire conversation in what Marcus took to be elven. While Eli conversed with the leader, the uninjured male elf began to attend to the one Marcus had wounded.
Desiring to help, Marcus moved for his pack, where he had a needle, thread and some bandages for tending to wounds. Instantly the clearing became silent and filled with tension. The female had her bow up, aimed at Marcus, with an arrow nocked. The scout froze and slowly turned toward Eli, who was looking at him with an alarmed expression.
“I have needle, thread and bandages in my pack,” Marcus explained to Eli, who then translated to the leader. She eyed him oddly for a moment before nodding once and lowering her bow. The tension faded as Marcus quickly retrieved what he needed. He handed it over to the elf treating his wounded comrade, who took it without a word of thanks.
Marcus stepped back to Eli, who had continued his discourse with the leader, speaking at length before turning to the scout.
“We will have a fire,” Eli announced to Marcus, as if it had been decided.
“This close to the enemy?” Marcus asked skeptically. Until recently, he would never have dreamed of questioning an officer. Eli had taught him to question everything.
“They have guaranteed our safety,” Eli stated. “Let us gather some firewood.”
Within a short while, a small fire was started and soon they were all seated about it on the ground. In the firelight, Marcus discovered that the leader was stunningly beautiful. Her face, perfectly proportioned, was framed with long, straight, red hair. Her skin was smooth and pale. Her up-tilted eyes were a deep hazel in color and her ears, pointed like Eli’s, poked ever so slightly from beneath her hair. Marcus felt her slim nose seemed almost delicate. She was so perfect that it made Marcus’s heart ache to simply look upon her. He wanted nothing more than to protect her from danger. The other two elves looked similar to Eli but slightly different. Their manner indicated they were confident and sure of themselves.
While Eli and the female talked, Marcus sat cross-legged on the ground. Unable to comprehend their language, he settled for observation.
These elves were dressed in loose-fitting deerskin tunics and pants, in forest greens and browns, which were designed to blend into the background. Each carried bows that were similar to the ones Eli and Marcus carried, but slightly larger and more powerful-looking. Their arrows were held in small skin quivers and, from the length of the ends, appeared to be around four to six inches longer than the arrows the scouts used. They also wore swords. Beyond that, they carried no pouches, packs or haversacks. The lieutenant being the only elf he had ever known, Marcus did not know if this was how the High Born normally moved about the forest, perhaps even living off of the land. After a moment, he disregarded that thought. He rather suspected that they had dropped their packs before closing in on him.
Having witnessed what Eli was capable of, Marcus was more than a little nervous that these elves seemed allied with the rebels. More concerning was that just minutes before, they had tried their very best to kill him. Now they sat about a small fire, almost appearing peaceful.
“Ah—Lieutenant?” Marcus spoke up, abruptly realizing something that chilled him to the core.
Eli looked over questioningly, with a raised narrow eyebrow.
“There are more of them out in the trees, sir,” Marcus said quietly. “I can feel it.”
The leader cocked her head slightly at Marcus and fixed him with an intense and seemingly ageless hazel-eyed gaze that sent shivers down his spine. Once again, he felt like a strange bug being studied by a child.
“Yes, I know,” Eli responded carefully. “We are in no danger from them, at least for the moment.”
“You feel forest?” The leader addressed him directly for the first time. She spoke a soft, broken common that the scout found fascinating and attractive. Her eyes never left him. He tried not to squirm under her gaze. It was difficult to think clearly.
“I do,” Marcus replied quietly, admitting it aloud for the first time, even to himself.
Eli looked back over at him sharply, but said nothing.
“Well met, ranger,” she said, with a nod of respect. “I am Taha’Leeth.”
“Well met, Taha’Leeth,” Marcus replied politely and nodded his head respectfully. “I am Marcus.”
She flashed him a brief smile filled with needle-sharp teeth before turning back to Eli.
The two elves spent some time in discourse before Taha’Leeth breathed out a heavy breath. Then began a long period of talking where the other two elves joined in, at times gesturing and pointing excitedly. Marcus had no idea what they were discussing, but after a time, he felt somehow the danger had passed. Perhaps it was the smiles and meaningful looks that the elves began sharing.
Eventually, several hours later, Taha’Leeth stood. Eli stood as well, dousing the fire with dirt from the forest floor. The darkness returned, but not quite as deep as it had been before. Dawn was fast approaching and the gloomy early morning light was beginning to show. Eli motioned for Marcus to stand and grab his kit. Stiffly, Marcus got to his feet.
“What’s going on?” he asked, picking up his kit, including sword, bow and quiver. He secured his sword. He was careful to make no threatening moves as he did so, lest the elves get nervous. But they paid him little heed.
“We are being permitted to leave,” Eli stated firmly. “They will not trouble us, nor will they continue to interfere with our fight against the rebels.”
“Lieutenant,” Marcus said, eyeing the three elves. “Aren’t they working with the rebels?”
“They were,” Eli admitted grimly. “No longer.”
Taha’Leeth said something to Eli in elven, to which Eli replied and offered a respectful nod, which almost seemed to Marcus as if she was thanking him.
“Farewell, ranger,” Taha’Leeth addressed him once again and offered him a nod of respect.
“Farewell, Taha’Leeth,” Marcus replied, with a respectful nod in return. He also nodded to the elf he had wounded, who smiled in reply and patted his bandaged shoulder gently, as if to say it was no big deal. With that, the three elves turned and left the clearing as silently as they had come. They melted into the gloomy pre-dawn light as if they had never existed.
Eli turned and led Marcus back into the forest. Though he could not see them in the darkness, Marcus could feel the eyes of many other elves on him. Eli set a punishing pace in the direction of their own lines. He seemed in a hurry to get back.
“Eli,” Marcus asked after a bit, struggling to keep up. “What happened back there?”
“I will not speak on it to you,” Eli said, rather harshly, having abruptly stopped. “You will not speak on it to any other. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus replied, wondering how he had offended the lieutenant, whom he had considered a friend.
“It is a matter between the High Born,” Eli stated, softe
ning his tone.
“Eli,” Marcus said carefully, thinking of the beautiful Taha’Leeth. “Do you think you could teach me elven?”
“Yes,” Eli said with a grin and turned to go. “Sho’ha means hurry. The enemy will attack in strength this morning. Now, we hurry to warn the captain.”
Marcus frowned. That did not sound good. Another thought occurred to him. “Why did she called me ‘ranger’…what was all that about?”
“Taha’Leeth did not call you ranger,” Eli said, turning back, a proud look on his perpetually youthful face, lit softly by the dim gloom of the early morning light. Eli pointed a finger at the scout’s chest. “She named you ranger…”
With that, Eli set off again, leaving a stunned Marcus behind. To be named a ranger by one of the High Born meant he was one!
“Sho’ha,” Eli called from ahead. “We must warn the captain!”
Managing to gather his wits, Marcus broke into a run and followed.
Thirteen
“HOLD!” STIGER SHOUTED to his men.
The line was under intense pressure. The noise of the fight was overwhelming. Men screamed, shouted oaths, cursed and cried out in agony, exultation and pain. Shields hammered against shields, swords clashed and swords struck shields… Choking clouds of dust from the road were being kicked up into the air as hundreds of men struggled against each other in a confined space. Wounded fell beneath the immense press of the line and were crushed under foot by comrades and enemies alike.
“Hold, damn you!” Stiger shouted, pacing up and down behind the line. This was the first real test for his men and they were performing well. “Show the bastards legionary steel! Stab, don’t slash! It takes two inches of steel to kill. Close order now, lock those shields!”
Stiger stopped pacing and looked across his line, which was three ranks deep. His men were being heavily pressured, but they held and it was clear they were giving better than they were receiving. Directly behind the center of the line stood the standard-bearers for the 85th and the eagle.
Lieutenant Banister and his company held the right and, to his left Brent held the other side. From what Stiger could see, both flanks were in very good shape. It was the center that was at risk.
They were fighting on this field because Stiger had sprung a hastily-organized ambush about a mile to the front of his defensive line. The ground he had chosen to fight on was a large open area. It was good ground, with a slight rise on which Stiger’s men were positioned. The forest had been cut back on both sides of the road, where, years before, a farmer had once lived and worked the land. The sloping fields were long overgrown and the men on both flanks were forced to fight amidst waist-high brush and overgrowth. The abandoned farmer’s house, long ago collapsed, was to his right and behind.
The fight, which really could only be described as a serious skirmish, had been going on for the past hour and a half. Stiger had surprised and rapidly destroyed the enemy’s lead company, only to have them rush up additional forces before he could properly disengage. He had meant to strike fast and then fall back upon his prepared defensive line. To his chagrin, it had not worked out that way.
The current slug fest was threatening to turn his quick victory into a solid defeat. The captain figured he was facing close to a thousand rebels, with more coming up the longer the skirmish dragged on. Over the heads of his men, he could see yet another rebel company marching onto the field several hundred yards behind the enemy line. He would have to shortly disengage and that would be tricky, since it meant he would be making a fighting withdrawal back to the defensive line where Lieutenant Ikely was positioned with close to two hundred fresh men.
Fighting withdrawals were difficult to manage, especially when outnumbered, as he was now. The best bet would be to leapfrog his companies back, each taking a turn at rearguard. With the enemy dogging their every step, it would be dangerous, difficult and costly work. It was something he was loath to do.
He began studying the enemy to his front as his mind worked out the details for a withdrawal. The enemy force assaulting the center of his line, at least three companies strong, was better trained, armed and kitted-out than the rebels he had faced to date. These men were equipped with short chainmail shirts. They carried small, round shields and were armed with large, curved swords. They also had discipline and it was that quality that was making the fight so difficult. Are these the soldiers Eli spoke of that the enemy brought forward? Are they soldiers of the confederacy?
Stiger’s men were, however, better armed and armored. Their legionary short swords were the perfect tool for this kind of close-in work. In the press of the front ranks, the rebels were having difficulty getting sufficient room to use their larger swords, which were meant for slashing and not stabbing. Stiger’s legionaries had no difficulty jabbing out with relentless ruthlessness from behind the cover of their curved, rectangular-shaped shields. The enemy seemed to be paying a heavy price. Though in time, Stiger well understood that numbers would tell. The enemy had deeper reserves than he did. Once his men tired, the enemy would be able to overwhelm him.
As Stiger was studying the enemy directly to his front, it occurred to him that the rebels on the flanks were of the same type he had previously faced, poorly equipped and armed. It was the reason his flanks were holding up so well!
I wonder how their morale is? If I push them…will they break?
He looked around for a runner and spied Eli no more than ten feet away, directing the scouts. There were no more than ten of them and using their bows, they were peppering death down onto the rear ranks of the rebels.
This entire affair had begun when Eli had arrived with a warning that rebel scouting parties had found the defensive line early and that the enemy was making a forced night march to launch a surprise attack at first light. Why none of Stiger’s forward scouts had reported the enemy movement, the captain did not know, but he suspected the worst and immediately swung into action.
Recalling the field in which they were currently fighting was good ground for an ambush, Stiger had figured that he would give the rebels a surprise of his own. He had intended to surprise the enemy and smack them hard before retiring backward to the safety of his defensive line.
“I need two of your scouts!” Stiger shouted over the noise, hustling over to his friend. Eli nodded and called over Davis and Todd.
“Davis,” Stiger ordered, “I want you to find Lieutenant Brent over there and, Todd, locate Lieutenant Banister. Tell them, as soon as practical, I want them to go all in. They are to push forward into the enemy formations directly to their front. They only need to push the enemy to break them. Once broken, they are to collapse on the middle from the flanks. It is important that they collapse on the middle! Understand?”
Both scouts nodded, saluted and dashed off in opposite directions. Stiger stepped back toward the line. Sergeant Blake and Ranl were moving up and down behind the line, shouting orders and occasionally swapping out the front rank to give men a brief break. The wounded, if able, staggered and crawled back behind the line in ones and twos toward the aid station, which was back at the defensive line, a mile to the rear.
“Straighten that line there!” Stiger shouted. “Use your shields properly!”
The pressure on his front rank was increasing. He needed to relieve that pressure before the enemy was able to crack his line. Thankfully, he had a secret weapon and figured now was the best time to use it.
“Third rank!” Stiger shouted, cupping his hands. “Ready javelins!”
The third rank took two steps back, raised their javelins and drew the long, specially-weighted weapons back. Stiger had hoped to save this surprise for later, but he no longer had a choice. Looking left and right, he confirmed that the third rank was ready. The javelins had arrived over a week ago and the men had been practicing nonstop.
“Javelins release!” Stiger shouted and instantly, with a chorus of heavy grunts, the third rank threw their deadly weapons up into the air. The jav
elins flew upward to arc and then fall, crashing down like wave upon the rebel company. There was no hiding from the long-pointed, deadly missiles. Even if a shield were raised, the iron heads punched right through and then the shank bent, rendering the shield useless. Men screamed, died and were wounded as the javelins struck home. The pressure on the front rank slacked as the rebel ranks recoiled briefly.
Stiger smiled. He had just become the first legionary commander in over three hundred years to use javelins in battle. The legions had long abandoned the weapon, which Stiger felt had been a mistake. The captain himself had been on the receiving end of a javelin toss on more than one occasion, courtesy of the Rivan. The effectiveness of the javelin, frequently a one-use weapon, had impressed him. The soft shaft or shank of the spear was intended to bend upon impact so that the enemy could not return them in kind, unlike a short spear.
“Second volley,” Stiger called. “Release at will.”
A second ragged wave of javelins flew at the enemy, who, now aware of the danger, could do little to protect themselves. Javelins pierced shields, armor and unprotected flesh with ease, killing some outright and wounding and maiming many others.
The sound of the battle on Stiger’s right abruptly rose in pitch, followed by something similar on the left side. Both of his flanks, whose orders had been simply to hold moments before, went forward with a war cry and shout, pushing the enemy physically back, one step at a time, struggling through the brush and undergrowth. Shields locked together, parted for the inevitable jab at unprotected flesh, followed by a half-step forward, the rear ranks helping to push the front. It was a powerful drive and the rebels, caught by surprise at the suddenness of it, fell by the score.
The enemy on both flanks staggered under the weight of the slow but steady advance pushing them backward. Stiger cheered his men on as he carefully watched his own line. He needed at least one flank to break to be able to pull back. On the left, the enemy held for a moment more, then buckled and fully collapsed, turning as one and running rearward in great confusion. On the right, the enemy held on stubbornly.
The Tiger (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 2) Page 13