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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Tell Lieutenant Brent I am sending help.” Stiger said, accepting the report.

  The legionary saluted once more and started back the way he came.

  “Eli.” Stiger turned toward his friend. “Take two of the reserve files and push those skirmishers back. Find out if they are trying to flank us.”

  “Watch yourself,” Eli said quietly, stepping close. Then he nodded and set off.

  “You too,” Stiger said quietly to Eli’s back. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, watching Eli take two of the reserve files with him. As disciplined and motivated as they had proven to be, if the enemy managed a turning movement on his flank, despite the rugged and broken ground, things would get sticky fast. He turned toward Ikely. “Get word to the sergeants and corporals. I want them reminded that if I give word to pull back, they are to do so in order. I will tolerate no panic.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ikely said. He hesitated a moment, looking his captain square on. Stiger wondered for a moment if Ikely could read his concern. The lieutenant gave a brief nod and left to carry out his orders.

  “Sir!” Blake called. “Here they come!”

  Stiger turned and saw that the three fresh companies were marching steadily across the field. Behind them came a contingent of archers, maybe forty strong. The archers wore only light leathers, but they were uniformly equipped and Stiger took them for a professional auxiliary formation. Now things will become more difficult, Stiger thought.

  “What was that about this being a right fine day?” Stiger asked of his sergeant.

  “Why, sir, we have the enemy exactly where we want ‘em,” Blake said with a cheerful grin. “They are quite obliging and keep comin’. Could you ask for more?”

  “Sergeant,” Stiger said, returning Blake’s grin and pointing. “Concentrate our archers. I want them focusing on those archers. Hurry now…there is not much time.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blake set about bringing the archers up and concentrating them to oppose the enemy formation.

  “Javelins at the ready!” Stiger called. Javelins were handed up to the men at the front. Looking back down the reverse slope of the rampart at his supply, Stiger estimated that he had enough left for three more good throws, at best. The enemy came across the field, arrayed for battle and silent. The only thing that could be heard was the steady tread of their boots. The silence in and of itself was a little disconcerting, which was its intended purpose.

  The legionaries stood and waited for the enemy to come nearer. With a deep creaking groan, followed by a crack, another stone ball whistled overhead. It smashed into the center of the enemy line, causing an immediate gap four deep and eliciting a hearty cheer from Stiger’s men. There was nothing more motivational than friendly artillery at work, Stiger thought.

  The enemy continued on, stepping around and over the bodies, rapidly closing the gap that had been created in their line of battle. Stiger was impressed. The men they were facing were clearly well-trained and for a moment Stiger felt regret that he must inflict hurt and death upon them.

  “Release!” Stiger roared when he judged they had moved into effective range. With grunts across the line, the men threw their weighted javelins up into the air and at the enemy. Rounded shields came up and with a loud clatter and crash, intermixed with screams, the javelins crashed down into the advancing line. Dozens fell. Many were forced to discard their shields.

  “Second volley!” Stiger called harshly. Javelins were passed forward. The enemy was so close it would be hard to miss their mark. “Release!”

  The wave of the deadly missiles crashed down into the enemy battle line with another deafening clatter and crash as the triangular-shaped heads punched through both shield and armor. Dozens more fell under the barrage, including many who had just lost their shields. Stiger saw the archer formation halt and raise their bows, pointing them skyward.

  “Raise shields!” Stiger called up and down the line. “Raise shields! Prepare to receive arrow shot!”

  The legionaries took shelter, squatting down and raising their shields above their bodies for protection. Those who could crouched behind the barricade for shelter. Stiger waited until the last moment to make sure his orders were being followed and then also crouched down behind the barricade. He raised his own shield over his head and body. There was a series of thunks as arrows struck nearby shields, with many harmlessly bouncing and clattering off. An arrow buried itself in the dirt nearly two feet from Stiger’s foot. He pulled his foot in closer to his body. A man screamed a few feet away as an arrow penetrated his shield and pierced his hand, pinning it to his shield.

  Looking up, Stiger spared the wounded man a brief glance before he peeked over the top of the barricade. The enemy were at the bridges and working their way across. The ladders would be going up again soon. Stiger estimated the enemy archers had time for maybe one or two volleys before they risked hitting their own. At that point, the massed arrow barrages would cease and the enemy would have to contend with isolated, independent fire. Stiger looked around and saw his own archers braving the arrow storm to return fire. Blake was there, shield held to the front, encouraging them on with shouts and curses.

  “Javelins at will,” Stiger roared.

  The last of the javelins were passed forward. Legionaries rapidly stood, using their shields as protection against missile shot, and hurled the javelins down on the enemy, who were crossing the bridges, before ducking back under cover of their shields and the barricade. One man was not quick enough. An arrow took him in the neck and he toppled over the side of the barricade and into the trench below without making a sound.

  “Draw swords!” Stiger ordered and up and down the line the swords came out. Stiger felt the familiar tingle as he drew his. The sword seemed to sing as it came free from the scabbard.

  The top of a ladder thunked into place directly to the front of Stiger. He stuck his sword in the dirt, flipped over his shield and, using the end pushed, with all of his might. The men below, holding the base of the ladder, strained against him, throwing their weight into it, attempting to keep the ladder steady and in place as others began to climb.

  “Help me!” Stiger yelled to the legionary next to him, who was still huddled behind his shield. One of the large forked sticks lay at his feet. Stiger jerked his head at it. The legionary looked up, saw what was happening, dropped his shield and grabbed the stick. Putting the forked end onto the top rung of the ladder, he pushed for all he was worth. Together they heaved the ladder away from the wall. In open space, the ladder teetered for a moment, threatening to swing back onto the barricade, before the men below lost control. The scaling ladder, with several men halfway up and clinging tightly to it, crashed backwards into the trench.

  “Take that, you bastards,” the legionary yelled at the men below. With an earsplitting crack, an arrow struck the legionary in the chest, bouncing harmlessly off his armor.

  “That was close,” the legionary said with a relieved grin directed at his captain. A second arrow struck him in the cheek, driving up into his brain and knocking his head back with the force of the impact. He fell backward and crumpled without uttering a sound, slowly rolling down the reverse side of the rampart. Stiger immediately ducked back down behind the barricade, watching the man roll until he came to a stop, an unmoving tangle of arms and legs. He had only been a foot from the man when he had been shot! Stiger shook himself and was reminded that, in war, death was frequently random. It came to the experienced and inexperienced alike.

  “Don’t forget the stones!” Stiger roared at the nearby legionaries who were still sheltering from the arrows. Several looked up at him. “Drop them on their heads!”

  The legionaries jumped into action and in moments, heavy stones, which had been piled up every few feet, were heaved over the other side with grunts. They were almost immediately rewarded for their efforts with shouts, screams and curses from below.

  Stiger glanced around to see how his line was doing. Very few of the enemy had
made it to the top of the wall, with many of the scaling ladders being forced back and over into the trench. When the enemy managed to make it over the top, the legionaries stood, presented their shields in a wall and pushed into them, short swords jabbing out. Stiger’s line was holding and the enemy was paying a heavy price for their foolish, yet determined, attempt on his line.

  Studying the situation, Stiger decided the problem for the enemy was that they did not have enough bridges and ladders to make their assault more of a success. They were just throwing lives away, which Stiger was fine with, though he had trouble understanding why they were doing it. He wondered idly, had General Kryven lived, would the man have sacrificed his men in such a way? Stiger suspected not.

  The attempt at storming the line went on for a few more minutes before it became a half-hearted effort. Shortly thereafter, the enemy began pulling back under the harassing fire of Stiger’s archers, who had plenty of ammunition. Unfortunately, Stiger sighed, he was out of javelins and was unable to inflict more pain upon his enemy. The enemy archers also pulled back.

  The three companies who had made the original assault had been reformed, though they now stood just inside the tree line, outside catapult range. Seeing this, Stiger wished he had some good bolt throwers, which had better range. He took a few moments to study the situation and then sent runners for Ikely and Brent. He wanted a direct report from his officers.

  “Do you think they will come again, sir?” Brent asked, looking up at the darkening sky. Brent had a light flesh wound on his neck and was touching it gingerly.

  Stiger glanced at the setting sun, which had sunk just beneath the tops of the trees, casting long shadows over the body-strewn battlefield. He then turned his attention to the enemy.

  “Perhaps,” Stiger said, feeling that it was likely the enemy would strike one more time. “How are your men holding up?”

  “Tolerable sir,” Brent said, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. He carried his helmet under his left arm. “My boys are tired, but they will endure. By the gods, they will endure, sir.”

  “What happened with those skirmishers probing around your flank?” Stiger asked of Brent. He was still concerned about an unexpected turning movement. Despite the caltrops and other obstacles laid out in the forest, Stiger felt that the enemy had had more than enough time to begin one. With luck, they had only thought of it after the first assaults and were still blundering and struggling through the forest. Off into the trees, the terrain was broken and rugged.

  “Eli and the reserve files pushed them back, sir,” Brent said. “Once they did, we had no more trouble. Eli took a couple of his scouts and went looking farther beyond the edge of our line. If they are intent on a flanking movement, Eli will find them, sir.”

  Stiger nodded and was silent a moment. He glanced back up at the sky once more. He judged it was perhaps less than an hour until complete sunset. He wanted nothing more than to pull back out of this position and was now feeling apprehensive about having made the decision to remain despite the risk. Perhaps the wiser course might have been to withdraw the moment he had returned from the failed parley.

  He considered giving the order now and then discarded the idea. If he did so now, the next assault might well catch him with one boot off and the consequences of that could be quite serious. Then again, if the enemy managed to pull off a turning movement before dark, things would get complicated. Stiger glanced over to the right, wondering how Eli was faring and if he had found anything.

  “Lieutenant?” Stiger asked of Ikely, looking for his report.

  “We can easily hold,” Ikely responded calmly. “Spirits are high. I hope they come again, sir.”

  “Gentlemen,” Stiger said, “as soon as it is dark and the enemy ceases their activity, I intend to withdraw. We will do so in order and with speed. We will leave behind a handful of skirmishers to convince the enemy we still man this line. Once we reach the next defensive line, we shall give the men a few hours rest before turning to march hard for Vrell. With our new allies, I no longer see any compelling reason to attempt to further delay the enemy.”

  “With what we did to that road,” Brent said with a sudden grin, “it should take them some time to overcome.”

  “Where is the captain?” a voice shouted urgently. “The captain! Where is he?” Stiger’s head snapped around to look in the direction of the shout. Scout Corporal Marcus was running up the line. “The captain? Where is he?”

  Several legionaries pointed and Stiger stepped forward, raising an arm, a feeling of dread washing over him.

  “Sir,” Marcus said, breathing heavily. He hastily saluted. “The enemy has a large force pushing through the forest on the right! They should hit the edge of our line in just a matter of minutes.”

  “Shit,” Stiger said, feeling a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. As if on cue, a horn blasted from the woods on the right. Another horn, from the enemy massing to his front, answered. He looked over at the right flank and then across the field. The enemy was preparing for another direct assault.

  Why had there been no warning from Eli? Stiger asked himself worried. What could have happened to him?

  Where was he?

  Stiger’s shoulders sagged as he realized what an idiot he had been. The enemy had intentionally fixed his attention with assaults that had no hope of succeeding, blinding him to the real threat, a flanking movement, which must have gotten underway the moment they first attacked, perhaps even before. They must have thoroughly scouted out his position and known the lay of the land. Instead of the broken and rugged ground hindering the turning movement, it had likely helped to conceal it. Stiger’s position was now completely untenable. He felt a feeling of despair. He was looking at a disaster.

  His thoughts churned. His officers were looking to him for direction, but he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he remembered General Treim, his mentor, giving sage advice a long time ago.

  “Sometimes,” Treim had lectured Stiger, “even a bad decision is better than no decision.”

  Something snapped in the captain. He ground his teeth as anger and rage boiled his blood. If he did not do something fast, the enemy would be able to inflict serious harm on his small force, perhaps even destroy it.

  Glancing around, Stiger knew his men. They were legionaries, accustomed to a difficult life, trained and disciplined to a high standard. Even the garrison companies had proved they were tough. His men would do as he asked, of that he was sure. Stiger’s mind began working out what he needed to do to effectively withdraw.

  “Gentlemen,” Stiger said, turning to his two officers, resolved, “we will withdraw immediately. Brent, get back to the right, take Marcus with you and prepare to receive the enemy. You must hold long enough for me to begin pulling back the main body. Understand me? You must hold at all costs.”

  “I will buy you that time, sir,” Brent said. He offered a smart salute and started off at a run for the right, with Marcus at his side.

  “Ikely,” Stiger growled, turning to his executive officer, a man he knew he could rely upon. “Begin organizing the men and start them withdrawing down the road and into the defensive corridor. I will handle the rearguard as the rest pull back. We must withdraw in order. Any panic could be the undoing of us.”

  “I understand, sir,” Ikely said gravely. “You can count on me.”

  Stiger nodded, then added, “Make sure you get to the next line and prepare it for a defense. The enemy might just follow us right back to it before they give up for the night.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ikely said, saluting, then offered the captain his hand. “I will see you there, sir.”

  Stiger shook his hand hard. “Yes, I will see you later tonight.”

  There was a cheering from across the field. Stiger and Ikely turned to look. The enemy was coming for another try at the wall. This time they were bringing many more bridges and a lot of additional ladders.

  “I believe it is about to get interesting,” Stiger s
aid and drew his sword.

  Twenty-Two

  THE SUN HAD completely set and night was coming on. The moon was up, occasionally peeking out between the clouds, bathing the land and the struggle below with her pale, ethereal light.

  Stiger had given up the left flank. He had formed a shield line near the center, facing what had been his left. The enemy had managed to get several dozen men over the wall on the left, but nothing too serious yet. They were slowly forming up. As they absorbed additional men who made it over the wall, they gave the appearance of not being prepared to push forward and join the fight.

  The men in the center, still holding the wall, battled furiously and so far had managed to keep the enemy at bay. On the right flank, the situation was more serious. The enemy pushed out of the forest in company strength and slammed into the end of Stiger’s line.

  Lieutenant Brent had only just managed to organize a shield wall to hold them off. Stiger had been obliged to send reinforcements to bolster that line by stripping his already thin center. Brent’s formation was now five deep. Giving ground grudgingly, he was slowly pulling back toward the center. As they moved backward, the wall paralleling the formation was abandoned. Those men coming off the wall were absorbed into Brent’s ranks. The pressure on the lieutenant was intense, but at the same time, with each backward step, he was inflicting hurt upon the enemy.

  Stiger stood atop the wall in the center, watching it all, or really what he could see of the action. In the field, the enemy had clearly pushed forward nearly everything they could manage. Stiger was not worried about his center or right. It was his left that was the problem. Once they got up enough men, he would be in real trouble.

  There was a deep creaking groan, followed by a crack. Another ballista ball whistled by unseen in the dark. A few moments later, following this launch, there was a flash, followed by a large gout of flame, which lit up the night. The wagon had been set afire. A torch-bearer who had lit it walked over to the catapults. He touched the flame to first one and then the other catapult. Doused in dragon’s breath, both machines immediately caught fire, burning furiously, flames reaching up toward the heavens.