Stiger watched anxiously as Brent struggled to get his men reorganized, for many legionaries had broken ranks to chase after the fleeing rebels. Stiger caught a glimpse of what looked to be a rebel officer going down under a flurry of swords before he returned his focus to the center.
Slowly but surely, Brent’s lines reformed and the lieutenant began wheeling his formation around to hit the center from the side. The movement took time, but was well-executed. The enemy commander in the center must have seen what was happening and understood he was facing certain disaster, for the pressure on Stiger’s line abruptly eased. A moment later they began, in good order, to pull back.
“Sergeant Blake!” Stiger shouted, cupping his hands to his lips. “Sergeant Ranl! We will advance upon my word!”
Both sergeants acknowledged and began issuing orders to the corporals, getting the company ready to push forward. Stiger could see his men were tired and weary. However, they were legionaries of the empire. Nearly every day they were worked, drilled or exercised to near exhaustion. This, combined with rigid discipline, was designed to deliver unquestioning obedience and make one tough soldier, an incredibly formidable opponent. This was the legion’s secret. It was the reason why legionaries endured the fatigue of battles better than their enemies. Stiger had trained these men and there was no doubt in his mind they would do as ordered.
“Advance!” he shouted, waving his sword in the air. His men stepped forward and began to advance upon the enemy. Within seconds, both lines were once again back in close contact. The fighting intensified and the rebel company was forced to halt their backward movement. Brent’s force pushed home into the flank of the enemy, slamming into it. At the same time, the enemy force on the right side, pushed by Banister, abruptly collapsed. The rebels ran for the rear in panic. Moments later, like an accordion, the center company pressed from the front and one flank folded and broke.
Stiger breathed a huge sigh of relief as his men began to slaughter the disorganized enemy. He closed his eyes briefly and offered a prayer of thanks to the High Father. It was time to withdraw.
There were fresh enemy companies coming up and it was only a matter of time before they moved forward and he found himself once again tightly engaged. He could not afford to let his men get too far out of control. He called out to Blake and Ranl to reform the men who had surged forward after the fleeing enemy. The sergeants and corporals got to work, blowing their whistles. The 85th slowly began to reform. But the 95th and 33rd under Banister and Brent were completely disorganized as they chased down the enemy from the field.
What I wouldn’t give for some good legionary horns, Stiger thought, for when fighting in larger formations, the legionary was trained to listen for horn calls, such as a recall to reform.
Stiger looked about for Eli to send runners to both lieutenants when, suddenly, there was a loud explosive roaring to the right. He turned and blinked in astonishment, not quite sure he believed his own eyes.
From amidst the fleeing enemy, a large ball of fire rose up into the air and then fell into the middle of Banister’s company. There was a terrific explosion, with men thrown bodily into the air while others were blown apart, arms and legs flying. A gout of flame shot up into the air from where the ball of flame had landed and within a stone’s throw, the concussive force threw men flat.
Shock settled across the field, as men from both sides simply stopped what they were doing and looked in utter surprise. Another massive ball of fire arced up into the air before falling amidst Banister’s men with a terrific explosion.
Banister’s company, a moment before in pursuit of fleeing rebels, broke. Men scrambled to their feet and, screaming with fear, ran for their lives. Stiger’s men and those of Brent’s company began inching backwards. The enemy, already in a state of panic, continued their flight from the field, while those enemy companies having freshly come up simply stopped and watched the show.
As the last of the broken rebels cleared the field, a tall, out-of-place-looking man wearing brilliant red robes was left standing alone. He had a long black beard that was neatly braided and his jet black hair was tied back in a long ponytail. He held forth a hand up and away from his body. His red-robed sleeve slipped back to reveal a heavily tattooed forearm. A ball of fire formed in the man’s palm. It began to smoke heavily as the ball of flame grew in size and intensity. The fire smoked a dark black, as though it came from burning pitch or oil. A moment later, he jerked his hand and the ball of flame was released. It seemed to leap forth, reaching skyward before losing velocity and falling back to earth amongst Banister’s fleeing men. The ball of fire touched the ground with another terrific explosion and concussive blast that knocked those nearest from their feet.
Still in shock, Stiger stood motionless. The enemy had a wizard! Wizards never got involved in battles! It was an unheard occurrence.
How do I fight a wizard? Stiger asked himself, completely unprepared. He was about to call for a general withdrawal, when there was a flash from his peripheral vision, as Eli darted by. The elf pushed roughly through the ranks, nocking an arrow to his bow as he did so. Once in the clear, he brought his bow forward, pulled back, aimed for a fraction of a second and let go. The arrow flew true.
The wizard’s hand was once again afire and stretching forth to release yet another deadly ball of flame when the arrow struck home, easily piercing the wizard’s red robes to lodge deep in the man’s right side.
The wizard staggered, eyes wide with shock and pain, both hands reflexively going to the arrow shaft that protruded from his side. As his flaming hand touched it, there was a deep thump as the spell was abruptly released. This was followed by a horrible scream as the ball of fire exploded upon the wizard, engulfing and consuming him. The scream lasted but a few heartbeats before his lungs burned and he could issue no more sound. He fell to his knees as the fire burned away skin, flesh and then muscle. So hot was the inferno that in mere moments it had burned itself out, leaving only a pile of ash where once there had been a living, breathing wizard.
A stunned silence descended upon the battlefield, followed a heartbeat later by a hearty roar of approval from the legionaries. Stiger’s shoulders sagged in relief. What had looked like certain defeat only moments before had turned to victory. He took another deep breath and stood tall. The battle was far from over.
“Sergeant Blake, Ranl!” Stiger snapped in his loudest parade-ground voice. The newly-arrived enemy company was still there and another was coming up behind them. “Reform the men!”
“Yes, sir!” Blake responded.
With the help of the corporals, the sergeants began to reform the company. Brent was also reforming his company. Shattered, Banister’s company had fled the field, leaving behind only their dead and wounded. Stiger did not have time to think of them.
Once both companies were formed up, Stiger ordered his and Brent’s to advance a short way and form a line to cover the field while details worked quickly to remove the wounded and dead, which took just shy of thirty minutes. The enemy, though they formed a line of battle, watched from a safe distance as Stiger’s men worked. They did not advance onto the field, but remained where they were, silently watching the legionaries go about their work. Had they moved forward, Stiger would have immediately called for a withdrawal, but they did not seem inclined to do so.
Lieutenant Banister was one of the wounded. He had been badly burned and having seen the man’s wounds, Stiger doubted the lieutenant would survive the night. Once they had collected and removed the dead and wounded, Stiger’s company marched off the field first, followed shortly by Brent’s. They moved off smartly in the direction of Vrell and Ikely’s defensive position, where they could rest and reorganize.
The men were exhausted from the fight. Stiger could see it as they marched wearily down the road. Eli trotted up and fell in next to him. For a while they were both silent, Stiger brooding upon the fight and the significant losses he had suffered. The loss of Banister himself was m
ajor, since he was short of good officers. They may have won the fight and bloodied the enemy yet again, but at what cost? Then Stiger recalled that the losses could have been far worse had it not been for Eli’s skill with the bow.
“Nice shot,” he said to Eli amidst the rhythmic crunch of many sandaled feet. “Very timely too.”
“He never saw it coming,” Eli agreed with a self-satisfied, full-toothed smile directed at his friend. “He never saw it coming.”
Fourteen
STIGER SAT BEFORE the fire in front of his tent. Eli was out checking on the enemy. Ikely was making the rounds, as he was the duty officer this evening. Brent was seeing to the wounded. Alone with his thoughts, the captain was mulling over the day’s skirmish. He had lost over forty men and another thirty-three injured, most with severe burns. The enemy had suffered far more heavily, but that did not make him feel any better. Stiger could ill-afford any losses. The rebels, however, could.
He had given the enemy two good bloody noses. Yet, what with the wizard, the enemy had given him one as well. Stiger still had difficulty coming to grips with that. Wizards were supposedly solitary individuals who pursued their own interests and cared little for the concerns of others, let alone those of nation states. They were dangerous and best left alone. How had this one come to band together with the rebels?
He rubbed at his tired eyes as he tried to make sense of it all. A paladin, Castor, the rebels, a strange band of elves and now a wizard! He felt as if he was becoming caught up in something that he did not fully understand. It was maddening! He ran a hand through his hair, matted and dirty from wearing his helmet for most of the day. He badly needed a bath and itched terribly. What does it all mean? Why Vrell? The answer kept eluding him.
Eli had been vague on the subject of a band of elves he and Marcus had encountered, just hours after assuring Stiger there were none in the south! He had simply said that they were not of his people. His friend would say nothing more.
Apparently, just prior to the enemy’s attempt to pull off a surprise attack, these elves had been responsible for eliminating most of Stiger’s advance scouts. Had Eli not arrived with word of the rebel’s unexpected movement, Stiger might have found himself caught flat-footed.
The captain frowned in irritation. Eli insisted the elves would no longer trouble Stiger’s men nor continue to work with the enemy. Unfortunately, the damage had been done and that had hurt the most. Stiger had lost the majority of his scouts, men he badly needed as his eyes. With fewer scouts, his ability to pull off ambushes and counterpunches was significantly reduced. It certainly made things more dangerous.
“It is a matter of the High Born and best left that way,” Eli had stated, a pained look on his perfect face. “I cannot discuss this any further.”
Stiger wondered if Eli would not say more because he chose to or whether he was in reality forbidden from doing so. Only once before had Stiger run into a similar wall with Eli and his elven brethren, which was why the captain was leaning toward the latter explanation. The more he thought on it, Stiger was sure this was a topic Eli was prohibited from discussing with non-elves. Regardless, it was frustrating and when Stiger had the time, he intended on having a serious conversation with Eli. He would demand an explanation.
A strong, chilly wind blew through the forest and Stiger shivered. Even without the wind, the night air was bitterly cold. He was in a foul mood and it was becoming fouler by the moment. He prodded the fire before him with a stick to flare it up and then hurled the stick into the blaze. He pulled his cloak tighter about himself for an added measure of warmth. Winter was nearly upon them. Lan had even reported that the first snow had hit the pass the day before, although the two inches that had fallen had subsequently melted by noon.
After the fight, he had pulled back to the defensive line that Ikely had been holding. His men were tired. They all needed a rest and he also had to deal with Banister’s company, who had fled from the field.
The legions were not terribly tolerant of units that broke and retreated from battle. By rights he should make an example of them. Decimation, the killing of every tenth man, would be an appropriate punishment. Under any other circumstance, he would have felt justified punishing the unit, but he just could not bring himself to do so. Ever since Captain Aveeno had murdered their commanding officer, the 95th had been commanded by a junior officer, Lieutenant Banister. When they broke, they had been under magical attack from a wizard. Such a thing, to Stiger’s knowledge, had never occurred before and therein lay the heart of the matter. Had it been the 85th, instead of the 95th on the receiving end, Stiger’s men might have run as well.
So, short of officers and men, he did the only thing that made sense. Stiger had broken up the 95th, assigning half to the 33rd under Brent and the remainder to the 85th. The company’s standard had been returned to Castle Vrell, where it would be boxed up. When contact was reestablished, the commanding general of the south would make the final decision on whether to reactivate the 95th.
Stiger’s thinking shifted away from the 95th and back to the enemy. His defensive position was formidable and blocked the road, stretching out into the forest on both sides. The ground beyond the flanks was broken and rugged. It would be very difficult, but not impossible, for the rebels to pull off a successful flanking maneuver.
Stiger meant to allow the enemy to come up, deploy and assault his new position before giving additional ground. Then, he would fall back to the next prepared position several miles down the road and into his defensive corridor. With each movement backward, Stiger got closer to Vrell and the safety of the castle walls.
Stiger suddenly tensed. Where a moment before there had been no one, a short, squat man in night-black robes was now standing by the fire. The man carried a staff with an oddly-formed hunk of crystal mounted upon its top. It looked like it had once had a shape but had partially melted. The firelight made the crystal sparkle with refracted light. Stiger reached for his sword, which was lying by his side.
“I mean you no ill will, captain.” The man spoke in a deep, husky voice that was tinged with an unfamiliar accent, yet he spoke the Common tongue fluently. “I am here to talk…only talk. I assure you.”
Stiger grabbed his sword and, in one swift motion, drew it from the scabbard, standing as he did so. The tingle was electric and for a brief moment, the blade glowed an intense blue before fading away. In surprise, Stiger almost dropped the weapon.
“Guards!” His personal guards were only feet away. Ikely had insisted that two men stand watch over the captain at all times. Stiger was now grateful he had given in to Ikely’s insistence on a protection detail.
Unfortunately, there was no response from them.
“They will not come,” the small man said, which was followed by an unnerving maniacal giggle. “They cannot and will not hear you.”
Chilled by the statement, Stiger took a step back, sword held at the ready. His eyes searched for his guards. They were not to be seen. Stiger blinked. The camp beyond the captain’s fire was strangely dark and ominously silent.
“Had I meant you harm, you would already be sleeping with your ancestors,” the man said, his manner becoming dangerous. “Though I readily admit that sword you carry is somewhat special and might complicate matters a bit. As I understand it, General Delvaris deserved only the best. Has it spoken to you yet?”
“What?” Stiger asked, confused, eying the intruder carefully.
“No matter,” the small man said with a negligent wave of the hand. “As I said, I mean you no harm. You have my…ah…yes, my word of honor.” He giggled.
“Who are you?” Stiger asked. He did not like this one bit. The man knew to whom the sword had belonged and that the weapon could speak! He was standing by the firelight, but Stiger could not clearly see his features. It was as if the light was afraid to touch his face. Something very unnatural was afoot.
“I am The Master,” the man said, which was followed by another strange giggle. “
The Master…it still sounds so not right to my ears. You may call me Ogg.”
“What do you want?” Stiger asked as the small man stepped closer, his face abruptly becoming clear, as if the light was no longer afraid. The captain sucked in a breath. Ogg was not human! The face was too wide and the eyes set too far apart. The nose and brow were also far too large. Though short, he was wider than a man had a right to be.
“Want?” A strange expression passed across his unnatural face. “That is an interesting question. Really interesting, I must admit. One day, when the time is right, I may even tell you.”
“Why are you here?” Stiger growled, becoming angry at the cryptic responses. “What are you playing at?”
“Those are also good questions.” Ogg took a seat before the fire on a large log next to the captain’s. He leaned his staff against a leg and shifted forward to better catch the heat from the fire. Stiger noticed that Ogg’s hands were short and stubby. He also had an extra finger!
“You…you are a dwarf!” Stiger exclaimed.
Ogg looked up at him with a very sour expression. “Some of my people would not wish it were so.”
“You are then,” Stiger stated, absolutely convinced. “You are a dwarf?”
“Though your word usage is potentially offensive…you are accurate in your assessment.” Ogg turned back to the fire. “We call ourselves the Dvergr. In our language it roughly translates to People of the Legend.”
“What do you want?” Stiger asked, not daring to take his eyes from Ogg, though his heart was racing. Eli had been right all along.
“Back to that again, are we?” Ogg asked, looking up from the fire. “Put that sword away. Let us converse like civilized beings instead of savages. You imperials do claim to be civilized?”
The Tiger (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 2) Page 14