The Tiger’s Imperium

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I believe you already know Tenya’Far,” Stiger said.

  “I do,” Treim confirmed.

  “He doesn’t know Cragg yet,” Eli said and chuckled softly. “Or Therik.”

  Stiger let out a heavy breath. “Our gnome allies are not the easiest to work with. They are problematic during the best of times.”

  “Gnomes?” Treim shared a look with Aetius. “What are they?”

  “A troublesome people,” Stiger said, “allied with the dwarves. They will prove to be a pain in your ass, but are worth their tiny weight in gold, especially in a fight. Braddock will help guide you in managing them.”

  “That is, if they can be managed,” Eli said.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” Ruga said, entering once again.

  Stiger thought the centurion looked irritated, almost flustered. That was un-Ruga-like, for Stiger had seen him in battle. Very little ruffled the centurion’s feathers.

  “What is it?”

  “A Prefect Nouma is here, sir,” Ruga said. “He is insisting to see you and wants to move to the head of the line. He is very demanding, sir, and rude. He brought some of his men and seems bent on replacing mine as guard, sir. Can you believe that bullshit?”

  “Who is Nouma?” Stiger asked, looking to Aetius and Treim, wondering what the man was thinking.

  “The Praetorian Guard’s commander,” Treim explained. “He can be a bit insufferable and has airs of importance above his station. Our late emperor relied heavily upon his advice and that of Tribune Handi as well. You met the tribune in the crypt.”

  “Since the siege began,” Aetius said, “both have been inseparable.”

  “I know Handi,” Stiger said unhappily. “I’ve had dealings with him in the past. He was General Kromen’s chief aide.”

  “We’ve had to put up with them both,” Aetius said. “Nouma commands what’s left of the Guard, around three hundred men in total.”

  “Once the siege began, he should have been removed,” Treim said. “However, we needed him and his men to help hold the walls. I had no idea how the Guard would react to his replacement. And since he had the emperor’s ear and trust … removal was not a viable option either.”

  Stiger felt his irritation mount again. As a legionary, he had a ready dislike for the praetorians, who were not considered true legionaries by the regulars. “Then he is no longer important.”

  “The term importance varies,” Aetius said. “I am certain he sees things differently.”

  “He’s going to have to see it my way,” Stiger said. “I already have a guard, one I know I can rely upon and that has been battle-tested.” Stiger looked to Ruga. “You’re not getting off that easy, Centurion.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ruga said, with evident relief.

  “What with the siege, it could be said the praetorians have been battle-tested as well,” Aetius said.

  “How did they perform?” Stiger asked.

  “They fought,” Treim said simply.

  “Right then.” Stiger looked to Ruga. He would deal with one headache at a time, and he still had business to finish that was much more important than assuaging a praetorian’s puffed-up sense of self-importance. “Tell him to wait. I will see the prefect when I am done here, not before.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ruga saluted and left.

  Stiger turned back to the three men and considered them for several heartbeats. It seemed so unnatural to be giving orders to General Treim and Colonel Aetius. For more than a decade, he had been the junior officer and had looked up to both men. They had been his role models and Treim his unofficial patron.

  Since that time, Stiger had learned much, seen even more, become seasoned and hardened. He had dealt with exotic and alien races, with princes, princesses, kings, thanes, a troublesome kluge, a wizard, and more. He had even named an orc a friend. He’d fought multiple battles, all desperate fights, and each time managed somehow to come out on top.

  The young man who had joined Seventh Company and marched north to fight the Rivan was wholly different than the one who’d been transferred to the southern legions, restored the Compact with the dwarves, retrieved the dread sword Rarokan, traveled into the past, and returned as the High Father’s Champion with the entirety of the Lost Thirteenth Legion at his back.

  Cut off from command, Stiger had long since become accustomed to being the highest man on the ladder, making the hard decisions that needed to be made. And now that he had returned to the empire, nothing had changed. Unexpectedly, he was in command, still calling the shots. It felt both odd and at the same time right.

  “I would appreciate you accompanying me to the capital,” Stiger said to Restus. “Having you along and in support will help bolster my case before the senate, more than a simple letter ever could.”

  “I figured you would ask,” Restus said. “And if you had not, I would have insisted on going with you. I feel called to do so. Though I must admit to some trepidation about how we will be getting there.” The paladin gave a raspy laugh. “Flying seems so strange. At seventy-two years of age, it will be a new experience for me.”

  “It is quite exhilarating,” Eli said. “You will love it.”

  “I am not so sure about that,” Restus said to the elf, “but I promise to keep an open mind.”

  Stiger eyed the old man for a long moment. Any time a paladin had ever felt called to go with him … there had been trouble waiting for them both, some evil to wipe from the world. He could not imagine worse trouble than he had already faced himself.

  But in truth, Stiger knew he should not fear what might be. Restus was on his side, and Stiger understood he needed the man. The High Father would not be sending the paladin a call to action unless there was good cause. In the end, Stiger decided it did not matter. They both had a job to do and would do it to their last breaths. If the paladin felt drawn to go with him, that was the end of it. He was going and they would both face whatever was waiting for them.

  “Father Thomas is gone.” Restus was the head of order. He deserved the truth, and Stiger owed Father Thomas. “He gave his life saving mine.”

  “I know,” Restus said.

  “You do?” Stiger asked, surprised.

  “Whenever one of my paladins passes from this world, the High Father sees to it that I know. I saw it happen, Father Thomas’s death, what you faced, the minion of Castor, the terrible wound you took, that despite my paladin’s best efforts has yet to fully heal and troubles you to this day.”

  Stiger almost placed a hand to his side. Almost.

  “I was shown it all, in a vision. I was able to witness the rising of the High Father’s Champion, you, as you rightly embraced your destiny. For that vision, I shall always be grateful. It was a tremendous blessing in and of itself and has only reaffirmed my faith and my life’s work.”

  Aetius and Treim shifted their stances, as if suddenly uncomfortable by the paladin’s words. Stiger had not expected the revelation. He did not know what to say, so he remained silent.

  “It was I, along with another,” Restus continued, “who passed on the vision to Emperor Tioclesion and shared the prophecy with him. I helped set the stage for your coming, as did my predecessors before me with Emperor Atticus.”

  “I see,” Stiger said, another huge piece of the puzzle falling into place.

  “As to Father Thomas, though a fine man, a faithful servant to our lord, and a personal friend,” Restus continued, “I grieve for his loss. At the same time, I am comforted in the knowledge that he fulfilled his destiny and in death is held close to the High Father in everlasting love. Also, another of the faithful will rise to take his place within my order. One always does.”

  “Arnold,” Stiger said.

  “Is that his name?” Restus turned and gestured at the wall to Stiger’s left. “I sense his presence somewhere to the south. I have felt him for several months now as he’s grown in power and passed his tests.”

  Heated voices bordering on outright shouting drew t
heir attention back toward the doorway. Aetius moved over to the table and set his mug down.

  “I will not be held off like a common supplicant,” an outraged voice came from the hallway. “I am a praetorian officer. My place is with the emperor.”

  “Prefect Nouma,” Ruga could be heard. “If you’d just wait … bloody hell.”

  A man in the armor of a praetorian officer appeared, with Ruga in tow. He was wearing the purple cape, the emperor’s own color. Two of Ruga’s legionaries, shields in hand and swords drawn, followed them into the room.

  “I am sorry, sir.” Ruga’s face was beet red. He looked about ready to throttle the praetorian. “They wouldn’t just take no for an answer. Were he not an officer, I would have cut him down to size. Give the order and I will show him some manners.”

  “How dare you?” Nouma turned to Ruga. “I am a praetorian, and a prefect of the first order. I do not answer to you.”

  Behind Ruga and the two legionaries appeared Handi, the former aide to General Kromen and tribune to the late emperor. Handi pushed his way by Ruga’s legionaries and joined Nouma. The tribune’s armor was expensive, well maintained, and as perfectly perfect as could be. Even the blue ribbon signifying his rank tied around his chest was a model of perfection. Stiger felt an intense wave of disgust overcome him. He found his irritation rising to new levels at the interruption. It had been made worse by the tribune’s presence.

  Oddly, Stiger found Rarokan’s attention fixated on Handi. He could feel a mounting hunger for the tribune’s soul that was akin to a man dying of thirst. He’d not felt such interest, or really effort, on the sword’s part for some time. With not a little effort, Stiger turned his gaze back to the praetorian officer, who snapped crisply to attention and, fist to chest, gave a perfect salute.

  “I assume you are Prefect Nouma,” Stiger said.

  “I am, Imperator,” Nouma said.

  “Well then, you answer to me,” Stiger said in a quiet tone, “your emperor. Isn’t that right?”

  Nouma gazed at Stiger for a long moment. The man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The prefect was not an attractive man, nor was he very tall. He stood a little over five feet. The pox had marked his face, badly scarring him. Along with a heavy brow, it gave him a brutish appearance. Where so many people were underfed and outright starving in Lorium, Stiger found it incredible that Nouma appeared well-fed, almost pudgy.

  By comparison, Treim and Aetius’s cheeks looked sunken and hollow. Both men had lost some bodyweight during the siege. Stiger was beginning to take a dislike to the praetorian. With so many headaches, Stiger did not need one more, not when he was so overwhelmed by all that needed to be accomplished. And this was a very minor headache at that, at least in Stiger’s estimation. By all rights, Nouma should have had the common sense to wait.

  “I asked you a question,” Stiger said, as he realized the tribune, who stood at attention next to Nouma, had not bothered saluting. Stiger suspected that was calculated, but not as an insult. He had a suspicion that Handi felt he had something to bargain with or trade for access to power. Whatever he had, Stiger did not care. Handi had miscalculated badly. Stiger wanted nothing from him. He felt only disgust for the man and well recalled him playing petty games of camp politics in the south. “Well?” Stiger asked the praetorian before Nouma could speak. “You and your boys answer to me. Isn’t that correct, Prefect?”

  “Yes, Imperator,” Nouma said. “The praetorians answer to you and you alone.”

  Ruga motioned for his men to remain by the door. Both took up a position on either side of the doorway and sheathed their swords.

  “Should I throw him out on his ass, sir?” Ruga asked as he stepped to the side, staring with hard eyes at Nouma.

  “I beg your pardon,” Nouma said, in a tone that was an octave too high. Even the man’s voice was beginning to grate on Stiger’s nerves.

  Stiger waited a long moment as he considered the praetorian’s armor, which, just like Handi’s, was in pristine shape. There wasn’t even a scratch in evidence, let alone any rust, a legionary’s toughest foe.

  “Has the enemy been spotted?” Stiger asked.

  “The enemy?” Nouma looked confused.

  “I am wondering what is so important that you would choose to interrupt your emperor,” Stiger said. “I believe I specifically gave orders that I would meet with you after I concluded my business with General Treim, Colonel Aetius, and Father Restus. You are interrupting important matters, sir. I would like an explanation.”

  “We are your guard, Imperator,” Nouma said. “It is our sworn and sacred duty. I could not in good conscience stand by while you lack proper protection.”

  “In good conscience?” Stiger asked.

  “That’s right, Imperator,” Nouma said.

  “I have a guard,” Stiger countered and gestured toward Ruga. “Why do I need another?”

  “Him and his boys?” Nouma asked. “They are common legionaries, with no understanding of proper etiquette. We are the praetorians, Imperator. We stand apart from the riffraff.”

  Ruga stiffened.

  “He is an officer.” Stiger hardened his tone to a sharp edge. “Due not only common courtesy, but your respect.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Nouma said.

  Stiger’s dislike for the man reached new levels. Nouma reminded him suddenly of Cethegus, his first commanding officer. Stiger had been on the receiving end of such arrogant bastards for much of his service in the legions. In his experience, men like Nouma and Cethegus were bullies, weak on character and more often than not, when push came to shove, proved cowardly. They pointed out the flaws in others to conceal their own.

  Outside, the sound of yet another hymn could be heard on the air. Though Stiger had not yet made an appearance, he had been told by Ruga the crowd had only grown in size as the day had progressed. Their singing, in a way, soothed him and kept him from striking the obnoxious man who stood before him. He glanced toward the window and took a deep breath, slowly letting it out. That they had been there all day amazed and worried him at the same time. He had no experience leading civilians. He knew he would have to learn to deal with them, for they were now his subjects and his responsibility, just as surely as his legionaries.

  “What Prefect Nouma is trying to say,” Handi said smoothly, “is that, by custom and right, the Praetorian Guard should be protecting your person, Imperator, keeping you safe.” He glanced over at the prefect. “There is no one better suited and prepared to handle this task than Nouma and his men, a detachment of which are waiting just outside.”

  “Exactly,” Nouma said. “We are here to help, Imperator, not hinder.”

  “So,” Stiger said, “you would guard my person?”

  “We would,” Nouma said. “By custom and right, it is our duty. There is also the matter of the donative. But that can wait for a later, more appropriate time.”

  “Donative?” Stiger felt himself scowl. He rubbed his jaw, not liking the sound of that.

  General Treim shifted his stance and crossed his arms. Aetius stepped over to the nearest window and glanced out at the crowd beyond, who were singing so loud the words of their latest hymn could clearly be heard through the thick walls of the building.

  “It must be negotiated.” Nouma shot General Treim a disdainful look. “This is done between the emperor and the guard. It does not involve you.” Nouma turned his gaze back to Stiger. “It would be better handled in private, Imperator.”

  “I see,” Stiger said and looked to Handi. “And why are you here?”

  “I am the emperor’s tribune,” Handi said importantly, as if that explained everything. When Stiger did not immediately reply, he continued. “I belong at the imperator’s side, as your aide, helping to guide you through the more difficult matters that arise. I offer my counsel, experience, and connections.”

  “Your counsel?” Stiger slowly stood and then stepped closer to the man. He examined Handi’s perfectly made and fitted armor.
It was exquisite work. The smith who had made the armor was truly a master at his craft. It had likely cost the tribune a fortune. Handi’s armor was as unlike Stiger’s as could be, which, though well maintained, was scratched, pitted, and dented from battle. It had belonged to his ancestor, Legate Delvaris.

  Stiger had taken the armor, along with Rarokan, from the great man’s tomb. Though it was old and looked slightly archaic when compared to modern armor, Stiger had become quite fond of it, attached even. His armor had become like an old friend. He supposed, with his ripped and tattered blue cloak, he looked shabby in comparison to the tribune.

  Oddly, Rarokan’s attention was still fixated on Handi. That in and of itself was worrying. Why?

  Kill him now, Rarokan hissed. To allow him to live is dangerous. He is an enemy. A strong will has been used around him. He is dangerous. Kill him.

  No, Stiger thought back, wondering what game the sword was playing at. Not without good cause.

  Mark my words, you will regret this …

  “What happened?” Stiger asked Handi abruptly, ignoring the sword. “I’m curious. Do tell.”

  “I am afraid I do not understand, Imperator,” Handi said.

  “Sure you do.” Stiger’s anger had been kindled to a burning fire. All it would take was a spark to fully ignite into an inferno. He could feel the sword trying to feed and stoke the rage, encouraging him to draw and attack. Rarokan wanted Handi dead, and badly too. He felt his fingers begin to twitch toward the hilt of his sword. The urge to draw it became almost overpowering. Stiger pushed back, shoving the mad wizard’s mind down into its prison and closing the door, locking it away … at least for a time. Surprisingly, it took some effort and some of the will the High Father had lent him.

  “When the southern legions marched north,” Stiger said, “why was word not sent to me at Vrell? Why was I abandoned? Why was I left to die?”

  “I’d like to know the answer to that as well,” Treim said.