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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  The archers continued their deadly barrage, firing missile after missile at the bridge crews. The men carrying the bundles of sticks had dropped the bundles in the trench and begun to work at the oversized sharpened stakes, ripping them up so that the bridge crews could get through.

  Shortly thereafter, with deep, hollow thuds, the first of bridges fell into place across the trench. This was almost immediately followed by a massed cry from the enemy line, arrayed in ranks across the far side of the battlefield. The order had been given to advance and the three infantry companies began their slow march across the field. Standards and pennants fluttering and snapping in the breeze, the enemy infantry line was quite a sight. They looked smart and well-turned-out. For a moment, only a fleeting moment, Ikely admired their courage and discipline. Then the feeling passed. These men meant to kill him and he aimed to do the same.

  The lieutenant turned to look down the reverse side of the earthen rampart. There, at the base, the legionaries waited for the inevitable order to move up to the wooden barricade to prepare to repel the enemy. Standing in three ranks, they looked grim and expectant. Corporals and sergeants paced the lines, speaking to their men, working to calm nerves and fears by cracking jokes.

  Ikely glanced off to his left, looking for the captain. He located Captain Stiger around thirty yards off, making his way back toward the center of the line, where Ikely was positioned atop the wall. The captain, still wearing General Delvaris’s armor, complete with helm and blue general’s cape, looked cool and confident as ever. He strode forth with a purpose that seemed infectious.

  Ikely held a deep respect for his commanding officer. There seemed nothing that the captain was incapable of doing. He had taken an undisciplined and demoralized company and given the men their respect back while turning them into a well-oiled machine of first-rate killers. The captain had done the same for the garrison of Vrell.

  Captain Stiger had been moving up and down the line, having a word with the men, passing out encouragement as he went. There was an impulsive cheer from a group he had just said something to, which was taken up by the entire line. The captain paused and punched his fist into the air. The cheer grew louder.

  The lieutenant shook his head in admiration. The captain seemed to be born for this kind of thing, born to inspire and born to accomplish the impossible. The captain had taught Ikely a lot about leadership and for that the lieutenant was grateful.

  On the march to Vrell, he and the captain had spent many nights talking quietly around the campfire. Most of it had been designed by the captain as instruction for his executive officer. They had spent hours talking, using sticks to sketch in the dirt, discussing strategy and tactics. They had discussed everything from formations to equipment to the ground and what made some officers great and others failures. They had also spent time talking through the battles the captain had fought in. Ikely had done his very best to take it all to heart and was doing his utmost to be worthy of his captain’s trust. The captain had put his trust in his executive officer and for that Ikely felt deeply honored. He was determined not to let Captain Stiger down.

  “Disperse the archers,” Ikely ordered. Ranl passed the order along and the archers set off at a run for their preplanned positions along the barricade and top of the wall. There would be no more massed fire. Their job would now be that of identifying and picking off enemy sergeants and officers or simply targets of opportunity.

  Ikely, from his spot, could look back and down toward the catapults, which the enemy could not see and had no idea existed. Ikely had only seen such artillery at practice, never in action. He was curious to see how they performed, though, to be honest, he was more interested to learn how the enemy would react. He hoped it would to be a shocking surprise.

  “Sir,” Ranl said, drawing the lieutenant’s attention back to the field. The enemy were nearing the marked line that the catapults were sighted for. “I think we should let them have it.”

  “Give the order to commence firing,” Ikely ordered, remembering to show only the calm and collected facade of an officer in control. On the inside, though, he was a bucket of nerves, but it would never do to show his anxiety.

  Ranl gave the order, waving the small blue flag for Corporal Durggen. A rope was pulled and with a deep creaking groan and a loud crack, the first catapult released and fired, followed within seconds by the second machine.

  The stones whistled ominously overhead, traveling in the direction of the enemy. Ikely followed the shot. The first stone tore a hole through the enemy’s close-packed ranks, kicking up dust and clods of dirt, appearing to kill several outright. The second took off the head of a man in the front rank and slammed the man immediately behind to the ground.

  The enemy seemed to hesitate in shock and then, with officers and sergeants shouting, continued forward with a roar, closing ranks. Ikely looked back at the catapults. Durggen and his men were working hard to reload the machines and at the same time adjust the range. It would be at least another two minutes before they could fire again.

  “Sergeant Ranl, time to see to your duties,” Ikely called. “Designate a man to spot and mark the range. The catapults are to fire at will.”

  Ranl saluted and turned to Corporal Smith, who had been waiting for that very purpose. He handed the corporal the blue flag and imparted some final instructions to which Ikely did not pay attention. The lieutenant was more concerned about the enemy steadily crossing the field and drawing closer by the second. His stomach did a nervous flip and he gripped his shield tighter. He wanted to be anywhere but here at the wall. Family, duty, honor and courage kept him from running. He ground his teeth. He was resolved to do his duty and see this through.

  The snow had picked up and was coming down heavily. It seemed to be sticking, coating the ground in a light layer of white. Ikely glanced up at the sky. The snow appeared to only be a passing squall. He could see clear sky beyond. Turning back to the field, the enemy line was getting closer with each step. Beyond them, at the edge of the field, another fresh company was marching up, brilliant blue standard snapping in the cold wind. There was another thunderous cheer from the legionaries behind him and Ikely turned.

  Captain Stiger had given the order to climb the rampart and man the barricade. Nearly six hundred men rushed to the top, with at least two men from each file carrying a large forked stick for the purpose of pushing ladders back and off the wall. Ikely stepped back to allow the legionaries by as they brushed passed him to take their positions at the barricade.

  “Javelins at the ready!” Stiger called in a voice of steel. He had climbed the wall and stood just ten yards away. Dressed in General Delvaris’s kit, he looked like the gallant general of song, tale and legend. He was looking at the approaching enemy line. The front rank readied their javelins. There was a slight hesitation, then… “Release!”

  Grunting with the effort of their toss, the legionaries heaved their deadly missiles into the air. The javelins looked to Ikely like a wave crashing onto the beach, as they rose up and then slammed down in the middle of the close-packed ranks of the enemy. Unprepared for the barrage, the enemy shivered as scores fell, but continued to come on, a tribute to their discipline, training and courage.

  “Second volley at the ready!” Captain Stiger called and the men behind passed up their javelins. This time, the enemy was ready. They raised their rounded shields above their heads. “Release!”

  Again the wave climbed into the air and then crashed down. The small, round shields that the enemy carried did not provide full body protection. Men screamed and cried out as the javelins found soft flesh. A number of shields were hit and pierced by the iron javelin heads, long, skinny shafts passing cleanly through, ripping into hands, arms, faces and necks that had been sheltering behind. Those that penetrated a shield but did not wound immediately rendered the shield useless, for the long shanks of the heavily weighted javelins were made of soft iron so that they bent upon impact and made it impossible to remove rapidly. T
he soldiers cast their ruined shields aside and continued the advance with less protection than they had moments before.

  The enemy infantry reached the trench and began to crowd around the bridges. Priority was given to the ladder-bearers, who crossed first. The archers leaned over the top of the barricade and loosed their deadly missiles down into the mass of men below. So tight were the concentrations that it was difficult to miss and screams penetrated the wintry air.

  Ladders went up and the enemy began to climb. Large stones were thrown over the top, crushing heads, shoulders, and knocking men from the ladders. Those who made it to the top were met with shield and short sword. The noise generated by the fighting was loud. Men shouted and screamed. Swords clashed, clattered and battered against shields and armor. Ladders were pushed back and off. Some men clinging to the ladders screamed as they fell; others lost their grip and dropped off and into the trench. A scaling ladder packed full of men crashed down onto a bridge. Those waiting their turn were knocked down and crushed. Several were thrown over the side of the bridge and into the trench. Those not lucky enough to land on a bundle of sticks were impaled by the sharpened stakes below. Ikely watched the action intently, looking for trouble spots where he would need to intervene.

  A creaking groan, followed by another crack, saw a ballista ball sailing over Ikely’s head. It landed in middle of the fresh company that was marching onto the field. The ball tore through several men before coming to a rest in the dirt. The second catapult released and another stone ball went flying across the field. It hammered into the ground right before the lines of the men, showering them in a spray of dirt. The men near it shrank back but continued on.

  Ikely wondered what it would look like to see an entire legion’s artillery at work, instead of just two machines. He had difficulty understanding how one would stand up to such a barrage? How could an enemy army withstand such power?

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger greeted him gruffly, having come up along with Eli. He took a moment to survey the entire line from this vantage point, first looking to the right and then to the left. After a moment, he nodded. “I will take over here. Brent has the right. Sergeant Boral currently has the left. I want you to assume command there,” Stiger ordered curtly. “If you need help, send a runner.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ikely replied with a salute and set out for the left flank, determined to do his duty.

  Twenty-One

  “CORPORAL! I WANT you there yesterday!” Stiger shouted to corporal Beni, pointing exactly where he expected Beni to lead his reserve file. The enemy had managed to get several men over the top of the barricade and his legionaries in that position were fighting desperately as more rebels clambered over. If allowed to continue, the situation could deteriorate.

  “Follow me!” Beni shouted and his file rushed forward, scrambling up the rampart and slamming into the rebels, bashing with their shields as they pushed forward. One of the enemy was hit so hard that he’d been knocked right over the barricade and into the trench below. Short swords jabbed out viciously as the legionaries went to work. Within seconds, Beni’s reserve file had overwhelmed those who had made it over the top. The last remaining enemy, still on his feet, threw himself over the barricade and down into the trench, rather than be cut down like his fellows.

  A bow twanged right behind the captain. Eli fired at a target who had made it up and over the wall in a different spot. This was followed by a shrill scream that was abruptly cut off. Stiger paid it no mind. He was busy studying his line, looking for problems to develop.

  A short distance to the right, a legionary over-extended himself and stabbed a man on the top rung of a ladder. Letting go of the ladder, the wounded enemy grabbed the legionary’s arm as he fell, dragging the legionary over, both disappearing from sight. The next man on the ladder pulled himself over the side and punched his sword at the nearest legionary, who was caught off guard and stepped back. On his feet, the enemy soldier began swinging his sword in wide arcs to keep the legionaries back, just long enough for more of the enemy to clamber up the ladder. Before Stiger could issue any orders, Lieutenant Brent rushed forward with a reserve file and sealed the breach.

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger called as Brent stepped back, breathing heavily. Blood was spattered across the lieutenant’s armor and face.

  “Sir,” Brent turned and walked over. His sword was dripping with the blood of a man he had just killed. A few scraps of flesh hung from it.

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger said as a ballista ball whistled overhead, followed shortly by a dull crump. “With Lieutenant Banister’s death, I am short on officers and cannot afford to lose you. Please be kind enough to not go forward again. You have nothing to prove. Do you understand me, sir?”

  “I understand, sir,” Brent said and then nodded. “I will not take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Very good.” Stiger patted the lieutenant on the shoulder. “Carry on.”

  Stiger took a moment to look around and study the action along the barricade. His men seemed to be holding up quite well, battling back the enemy attempts to force the wall.

  “I don’t think there were ever finer men,” Stiger said quietly to himself as he watched the action a few moments. He moved over to where Ikely had stationed himself. Ikely, in firm control of his side of the line, nodded in greeting, not taking his eyes off of the action. There was another deep creaking groan, followed by a sharp crack, which announced the launching of a stone. It whistled overheard. Stiger followed the missile, which impacted amongst the masses of the enemy forming on the other side of the battlefield.

  The enemy had brought up two fresh companies. It was only a matter of time before they formed a battle line and moved forward. Stiger studied them. If these units were anything like those that were assaulting his line, they were well-disciplined and motivated. The Cyphan Confederacy was renowned for the quality of their army. It seemed that reputation was well-earned.

  The pressure on the wall seemed to ease, and Stiger looked down upon the enemy beyond the barricade. They were pulling back. Sergeants where blowing harshly on whistles to get the attention of those who had not begun to start moving.

  “Javelins! Javelins at the ready!” Stiger shouted up and down the line. “Javelins at the ready!”

  “Sir,” Ikely said in protest. “They are withdrawing!”

  “The more I take out now, the fewer we will have to deal with later,” Stiger replied harshly, not having the time for a debate. The enemy would soon be out of range. Stiger saw there was no time for the men to ready for a massed volley.

  “Release at will!” Stiger shouted and the men who had them ready threw, grunting with the effort. At first a few arced up, followed rapidly by more. The first javelins landed with a clatter and clash. As more javelins landed, the enemy began to fall in increasing numbers, screaming and crying out in pain. The great mass of the enemy looked up and back on the plunging javelins. They turned and ran full out for the safety of the other side of the battlefield.

  Stiger watched with deep satisfaction as the enemy pulled back and out of range. That last javelin toss had hurt. They began reforming behind the fresh companies that had been brought up. As this was happening, another fresh company arrived from up the road and began to march onto battlefield.

  Wounded were crawling or stumbling back toward their line in ones and twos. Those unable to move lay where they had fallen and cried out for help or simply screamed their torment to the world. The dead in their many numbers lay were they had fallen. Stiger glanced over the edge of the barricade and down into the trench. Wherever a bridge was located, there were piles men. He estimated that at least a couple hundred lay beneath the earthen rampart and in the trench. Among the heaps of enemy dead and wounded, the occasional scarlet cloak from one of his legionaries could be seen.

  “This is a cold business,” Stiger said quietly to his executive officer, turning to face him. “While you are able, never hesitate to inflict hurt upon the enemy. There is no fairne
ss in war.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ikely said.

  Stiger turned to look across his line. On this side of the wall, there seemed few wounded, which was to be expected. The enemy had brought no artillery or missile fire. Those few who had been injured were being tended to and carried rearward on stretchers. Stiger felt pained seeing his men in such a state. At the same time, he also felt relief. They were headed toward the aid station where Father Thomas waited with the medics, to the rear at the next defensive line. When they arrived, they would be well-cared-for. Stiger bowed his head and offered a brief prayer, begging the High Father to spare as many of his men as possible.

  The sky was beginning to darken. Looking back upon the enemy, Stiger figured there were at least a thousand to fifteen hundred upon the battlefield. There would be time enough for the enemy to have one more go at it, perhaps even two, before it became too dark for them to conduct an effective assault. When that happened, Stiger would withdraw.

  “The men are giving a good accounting,” Blake said. The sergeant had been checking the men along the wall. He had been in the thick of the fighting, rushing from trouble spot to trouble spot and was covered in blood, dirt and grime. Men such as the sergeant were selected from the toughest of the tough, who had proven themselves repeatedly and did not shirk from a good fight.

  “They are good boys,” Stiger said, looking over at the sergeant with a nod of agreement and approval.

  “That they are, sir,” Blake concurred with a broad grin. “Turned out to be one right fine day!”

  “The day is not over yet,” Stiger said as a legionary rushed up and drew his attention away from Blake. The legionary hastily saluted, breathing hard.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Brent begs to report our scouts have encountered enemy skirmishers probing around and behind the right flank. He believes the enemy might be attempting a turning movement, but he sees no sign of it yet.”