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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “When was the last time you spoke on your sins, my son?” the paladin asked, eyeing Arnold closely.

  “My sins?” Arnold barked out a harsh laugh. “Father…I’ve not been a good boy for a long while. I’ve not been particularly religious-like too.”

  “I see,” the paladin replied. He nodded to himself, as if he had suspected as much, before turning to walk back to the keep. He stepped aside to allow a stretcher-bearer pass.

  “Ah, Father,” the sergeant called after another slight hesitation. Father Thomas turned back, a bushy red eyebrow raised in question. “Will you…ah…be kind enough to hear me sins?”

  “Come to me this evening with an open heart,” Father Thomas replied in a grave manner. “I will hear your sins and so will the High Father.”

  The grizzled old sergeant swallowed, almost as if he was afraid and then gave a curt nod of acceptance. “I will come.”

  “We will see together if there is forgiveness for your transgressions,” Father Thomas said. “Have no fear. The High Father is merciful. He is loving in his blessings, especially so on those willing to repent, as long as they are open and honest with themselves.”

  Lan and the sergeant watched the paladin go as another wagon full of wounded pulled into the courtyard. The lieutenant looked down upon Paulus, whom Father Thomas had just healed and then at the mortally-wounded Banister, who was resting peacefully. He felt a great sadness well up in his heart, for a good man would soon pass from this world.

  Sergeant Mills came up and cast an uneasy look upon the mortally-wounded commanding officer of the 95th. There was no expression to the veteran’s face.

  “Who is it, sir?” Mills asked of Lan.

  “Lieutenant Banister,” Lan replied sadly.

  “Poor sod,” Mills said.

  “Sergeant,” Lan ordered. “Father Thomas will be tending to the wounded. He requires five good men to help. See that he gets any medical supplies he requires and that all of the wounded are issued with fresh tunics.”

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

  Lan looked down sadly at Banister. He would take it upon himself to provide the death watch for the man as he passed from this world to the next. No one should ever have to die alone. “I want Lieutenant Banister moved to private quarters.”

  “It will be done, sir,” Mills said and stepped off, calling for men to take the mortally wounded lieutenant into the keep.

  Lan was silent for a moment and then became conscious of Arnold staring toward the keep, where Father Thomas had gone. He could only imagine what was going through the old sergeant’s mind.

  “Sergeant,” Lan turned to Arnold, a slight smile cracking his face. “I believe you should find a quiet place to reflect upon your past transgressions, for I believe Father Thomas will expect an accounting that includes openness and honesty.”

  The sergeant looked sharply at the lieutenant, face screwing up into a scowl. “What if I forget some of me sins and cannot remember all the bad I’ve done?”

  “Be honest with yourself and the High Father. It’s not every day that you have an opportunity to be both forgiven for your sins by a paladin and potentially healed from a crippling injury.”

  The sergeant nodded but said nothing, a scowl still on his face.

  “Your heart and soul,” Lan added after a moment.

  “Sir?” the sergeant asked, scowl deepening.

  “I rather suspect,” Lan explained to the grizzled sergeant, “that the High Father will require the dedication of your heart and soul in return for his blessing and healing.”

  “You might be right on that count. Never thought to be having anything further to say to the High Father.”

  “The gods work in mysterious ways,” Lan said, turning away to look down on Banister.

  Sixteen

  “WHAT ARE YOU thinking?” Stiger asked bluntly of Eli, looking over at his friend. Ikely and Brent were standing nearby, watching also. Their breath steamed in the cold air. Stiger rubbed his hands together for warmth.

  The enemy had inexplicably not moved forward for a week. They had remained camped just three miles away, each day simply allowing the legionaries to improve their defenses. Eli and his best scouts had even gone looking for a wide turning movement but had found no evidence of an attempt.

  Then, this morning, the rebel army had moved up.

  Eli looked back at Stiger and shrugged. They were both standing in the center of the fortified defensive line, looking out across the field toward the enemy, who were not yet deployed for battle.

  Stiger had expected for the enemy to assault his position at first light or well before. He had close to five hundred men manning a line that stretched across the road and into the forest on both sides for over a quarter mile. On both of his flanks, Eli’s few remaining scouts were operating with a handful of volunteers to keep the rebel scouts and skirmishers at bay. They were also positioned to detect and pass on word in advance of any type of flanking movement.

  A ten-foot trench had been dug to the front-facing side of an earthen rampart ten feet high and topped with a wooden barricade. The barricade raised the height another five feet. To complicate the enemy’s task, sharpened stakes had been planted before the trench, with the intention slowing and breaking up any assault. The only easy way to dislodge their position was to flank his line, and that would take time since the ground was rough, forested and broken up along either side.

  “Do you think they plan on surrendering?” Stiger asked in jest, referring to the man walking slowly forward. He was holding forth a white flag.

  “I rather doubt it,” Ikely said, cracking a smile. “Though to be honest, what would we do with the prisoners? I don’t believe we could manage to feed them all.”

  “Feeding them is only a minor concern,” Stiger chuckled. “Think of the headache of hauling so many slaves back to Mal’Zeel and then spending the proceeds.”

  “The men would be very pleased with their cut,” Ikely announced. “Sir, upon due consideration, I fully recommend accepting their surrender! It is good for morale and I am confident it would save both us and them a great deal of trouble. Besides, this entire affair can have only one outcome, that being their utter defeat. So I ask you, sir, why waste time?”

  Several of the men who were close enough to overhear the exchange chuckled at the jest. Stiger was pleased with his executive officer, who had consistently shown a calm and collected attitude. The men would soon be sharing and retelling the joke up and down the line, reducing the tension created by waiting in the face of the enemy.

  Yes, Stiger thought, looking over at his executive officer, Ikely is developing nicely.

  “What do you want?” Stiger demanded of the flag-bearer, once he was within speaking distance. The man was unarmed, but wore armor that befitted an officer. He had stopped just shy of effective arrow range.

  “Lord General Kryven of the Cyphan Confederacy wishes to present his compliments and requests the opportunity to parley with General Stiger,” the man spoke in a heavily accented voice. “If agreeable, the parley will be held between the lines this day at noon.”

  “Hmmm…Cyphan Confederacy,” Ikely said quietly. “I guess we now have confirmation about the driving force behind the rebellion.”

  Stiger nodded in agreement and turned to Ikely. “The prisoners who were questioned gave us some other name?”

  “General Masmo,” Ikely responded. “From the southern city of Turnbown. Seems he was a local they elected to general. Definitely not a confederacy general.”

  Stiger nodded before calling back out to the flag-bearer. “What are General Kryven’s conditions?”

  “None,” the officer responded, tilting his head to one sided. “Only that it be an honorable parley. All parties may come armed.”

  “Very well,” Stiger agreed, placing his hands on his hips, his general’s cloak parting as he did so. “I will meet with General Kryven at noon, on the condition that you move your neare
st men back to a distance of at least fifty yards.”

  “I believe the Lord General will be agreeable to such a reasonable suggestion, sir.” The officer saluted, turned around and walked slowly, almost casually, back to his lines.

  Stiger watched the enemy officer for a moment. So that is an officer of the Cyphan, Stiger thought. Likely the better quality formations that Eli had spoken about were Cyphan as well. Perhaps even the company they had faced before the wizard had shown up was one too.

  “No sense in tiring the men out,” Stiger said to Ikely. “Have half stand down while the other half man the fortifications. See that the men are fed, as well as rotated off the line.”

  “Yes, sir, I will see to it.”

  “Are you really going to meet with them, sir?” Brent asked, surprised.

  “Why not?” Stiger replied with a shrug. “We lose nothing by talking. It only buys us more time and…there is an added bonus.”

  “What is that, sir?” Brent asked.

  “I get to meet this Lord General Kryven,” Stiger said. “Learning more about your enemy can be just as important as scouting.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brent said.

  “I think I would like to look over our defenses,” Stiger announced. “Eli, with me, please.”

  Ikely and Brent saluted, fists to chests, as the captain and Eli left the two lieutenants. Eli followed a few steps behind as Stiger began his informal inspection. He had walked the line enough already to know that all was in order. This time was for show, to allow the men to see him calm and in control before the enemy. It was also a way to pass the time and distract himself prior to meeting with General Kryven.

  Orders had been rapidly passed along and like an ocean wave drawing back from the sand, men were moving off the line to designated spots some twenty yards back. Each file had an area where not only rations waited, but a fire was kept going. Soon men would be huddled about those fires, gathering what warmth they could. Walking along the line, Stiger received a series of crisp salutes and “sirs” as he moved by.

  “You have earned their respect,” Eli stated after Stiger had gotten his tenth or twelfth salute. “They are yours.”

  “You think so?” Stiger paused and looked at his friend.

  “I do,” Eli said. “It borders on worship. Winning will do that.”

  Stiger continued on but began to study the faces of the men. He noticed how they would stop what they were doing and watch him as he passed by. It wasn’t the cautious, semi-hostile and wary attitude men would normally use around feared or disliked officers. This was something altogether different and that made him uncomfortable. He had seen such looks before, in the North, directed at General Treim.

  “I’ve been lucky so far,” Stiger replied sourly, realizing Eli’s assessment was correct, but not desiring to admit to it.

  “It is more than that and they know it.” Eli showed his teeth. “Gods blessed, they say…”

  “Please don’t start up that nonsense again.”

  “I don’t particularly think it nonsense.” Eli’s grin grew larger at his friend’s discomfort. “They may be on to something…”

  Stiger shot his friend a withering look, turned and continued on. He looked over the left flank first, and spent some time speaking with the scouts posted on the edge of the line. He wanted to make sure they understood the need to be active and alert, lest the enemy surprise them and roll up the line. Satisfied, he went back and inspected the right flank, giving the scouts on the end of the line the same treatment. By the time they started back, more than an hour had slid by. Stiger was very pleased with what he had seen. His men were alert and ready and their morale was good.

  “If they fight better for it, so be it,” Stiger said after some time, his mind still on the hero worship of the men, somewhat discomfited by the thought. “I will use every advantage I have to win.”

  “You always do,” Eli said and followed Stiger as they headed toward the middle of the line. The captain had intentionally placed his defensive line along the top of a slow rise that could not quite be described as a hill but was pretty close. The hills on this portion of the road were much farther back into the forest. On the reverse slope of the rise, a few yards behind his defensive line and concealed from view, were two catapults that his men had constructed.

  Normally, each company hauled along two artillery pieces, usually either small bolt or spear throwers. Since Stiger’s original mission had been a simple escort, there had been no need to bring along their assigned artillery. The company machines had been subsequently left behind in the legion artillery park.

  The two catapults were an example of what made the legions so formidable. They were mostly self-reliant when it came to artillery. Each company was trained in the construction and maintenance of artillery. As long as the supplies needed were handy, any company could, at will, construct artillery.

  The two machines were of the smaller type that the legions operated. Both were capable of firing four-pound ballista balls. A supply of the rounded stone balls were neatly piled next to each catapult. Stiger had been lucky in that the castle had held a good store of ball, saving his men the trouble of having to make their own ammunition.

  Stiger smiled as he looked over the two machines. Defensive lines added to the morale of defending units, but Stiger had found that friendly artillery was also a morale booster. There was nothing a legionary liked to see more than friendly artillery in use.

  “Corporal Durggen,” Stiger called as he approached the two machines. “Is Third File ready?”

  “Sir.” The corporal snapped to attention and saluted fist to chest. The men of Third File stopped what they were doing and also braced to attention. They had been unloading additional balls from a wagon and piling them neatly along with the rest.

  Unfortunately, when Stiger gave the order to pull back from his current position, the wagon along with the two machines would have to be abandoned. They would not be able to take them back through his defensive corridor. A few hundred yards behind the artillery, the road had been thoroughly destroyed. It pained Stiger to leave a good wagon behind, but he was consoled by the fact that it had been put to good use in the construction of this line.

  “Third File stands ready, sir,” Durggen said confidently.

  “Excellent.” Stiger made a show of carefully inspecting the catapults. “Nice work, corporal. Your men did well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the corporal responded proudly, puffing up his chest. “The rebels are in for one heck of a surprise, sir.”

  “Yes, they are,” Stiger agreed. “I am sure Third File will hammer them good.”

  “We will, sir,” Durggen affirmed. “You can count on that.”

  “Make sure when it is time to fall back that both catapults and the wagon are destroyed.”

  “I have a good supply of dragon’s breath.” Durggen gestured at several sealed jars and a crackling fire a few feet away. “When the time comes, nothing will be left for the enemy, sir.”

  Stiger nodded and continued to look over the catapults. An earthen mound had been built to stabilize and level the catapults at a slight angle against the slope. Both machines had been tested to ensure that, when fired, the balls safely cleared the crest of the rise and the top of the barricade.

  Both would be able to throw their balls up to a distance of four hundred yards, which was pretty standard for machines of this size. The enemy did not know it, but they were already in range. Stiger almost grinned at the thought.

  In the North, he had seen much larger machines in action against several besieged Rivan cities. One had been so large that the ammunition fired was called ‘wagon stone,’ because a wagon was required to haul it. Each ball had weighed around three hundred and fifty pounds.

  “Carry on.” Stiger was satisfied that all was in order. He stepped off for his camp fire with Eli still following. The captain’s tent, along with those of the men, had already been taken down and moved back to the next defensive line,
a quarter of a mile away.

  Stiger’s fire, which he had left at a good blaze, still burned, but low. In the cold morning air it provided little warmth. He threw on several more logs and poked it up a bit. He then sat and pulled out his pipe and tobacco. A few moments later it was lit and he was puffing away.

  Eli took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. A cold, brisk wind blew hard and the sky was a heavy overcast. By the look of it, rain or perhaps even snow was likely. The fire slowly grew to a comfortable blaze and began to share its warmth. The two friends were silent, both staring into the fire.

  Stiger glanced up at Eli and considered demanding answers on that strange band of elves. Would he answer? If not, how then would it affect their friendship?

  After a moment, Stiger decided now was not the time. It would have to wait.

  For now, he was more concerned about what was coming, but experience had taught him to remain calm and not let his imagination get the better of him. Besides, having the men see him argue with Eli right before a potential battle was not the right move. It could shake their confidence. The worst thing he could do was to show anxiety. The men needed to see him strong and confident. In short, they needed to believe that he was in control.

  Stiger smoked his pipe, thinking about the future and what it held. After hearing what Ogg had to say, he had immediately sent a dispatch to Lan and warned the lieutenant to remain vigilant. The likely axis of an attack would be from the valley side. He had asked Lan not to inform the men that it would be dwarves, but instead dissidents from the valley. Stiger was unsure how his men would react to learning that there was a dwarven kingdom nearby and that the dwarves meant them ill.

  Stiger had made the decision to tell no one, other than Eli, Ikely and Lan, about Ogg’s visit. This might have been a mistake, but he was already facing one determined enemy and did not wish to unduly alarm anyone. He could not afford to send men back to the castle, as that would weaken his chances of delaying the enemy. It would also increase the likelihood of the enemy being able to inflict significant losses on him. No, he had decided, he would deal with one problem at a time and hope everything would work itself out in the end.