“Your letter only mentioned the Thirteenth was in a magical stasis.” Treim shook his head in dismay. Though Stiger thought he read disbelief in the other’s eyes. “You went back in time yourself? That is incredible. Truly?”
“With the help of a wizard and the World Gate, it’s true.”
The general turned to look at Salt, who gave a curt nod.
“He most certainly did,” Salt rasped. “We fought one heck of a battle there too.” Salt paused, then pointed back at Stiger. “He took down a dragon by himself also. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A dragon?” Treim asked, incredulous.
“Don’t forget the mountain troll,” Therik added. “It is very difficult to kill them, and he only had a knife when he brought that monster down.”
Stiger shot both Salt and Therik an unhappy look. Recalling the past brought on memories of the farm and a sudden feeling of loss, the sting of pain. He still missed Sarai. He knew he always would. She had been a good woman, one he had planned on spending the rest of his life with. Only, she had died when the Vrell Valley had been raided by the Horde. Stiger had been away at the time and would never forgive himself for not being there when it mattered. He had a sudden flash of burying her burned and charred body with Theo, another friend, lost to the mists of time.
Since then, he had gained much with Taha’Leeth. She had filled the hole that had been ripped out of his heart and then some. But at the same time, he felt a terrible dread that she might not survive her wound. He did not think he could withstand losing her, not after what he’d gone through with Sarai’s death … not again. Who could?
A legionary messenger approached Treim, forestalling further conversation, for which Stiger was immensely grateful. The messenger saluted and handed the general a dispatch. The general opened it, read the contents, then said something to the messenger, who gave another salute. The legionary turned on his heel and left. There was a long moment of silence before the general stepped nearer and spoke. Something about Treim’s manner told Stiger the news was bad.
“I am afraid Colonel Aetius reports that we’ve still not found him,” Treim said. “Though we’ve turned the city upside down, he expects our man is no longer in it.”
Stiger felt his anger spark. That was not good news, not by a mile.
“A horse is missing,” Treim added.
Stiger turned to fully face the general.
“We’re just learning this now?” Stiger asked. “It’s been two days. Why not sooner?”
“The mounts we had,” Treim explained, “were not assigned to a cavalry unit, but were an officer’s personal property. There was no daily roll call and count taken, which would then have been forwarded to headquarters.”
“So,” Stiger said, thinking it through, “someone’s personal horse has been stolen, then? Is that it?”
“Yes,” Treim said, “and that’s not the worst.”
“Of course not,” Stiger said, for he now well understood the general was intentionally cushioning the news, dolling it out slowly so that the awful blow did not come all at once. “Tell me, as bluntly as possible, if you please.”
“The officer in question, a Captain Sectanus, Imperator,” Treim said, “his body was found a short while ago. His armor was missing, and in its place, we found the tribune’s. After checking the logs, it seems Captain Sectanus signed out of the city for a ride. This occurred shortly after the Praetorian Guard made their attempt to take you.”
“He could be anywhere now.” Stiger slapped his thigh. Handi had escaped. “How could this happen? We control the city, both access in and out.”
“He was in officer’s armor,” Treim said, “and not a civilian. The guard at the gate would have let him pass, and with few questions at that.”
“Bloody gods,” Stiger growled. “I can’t believe he survived the mob’s wrath, and then managed to escape the city.”
“Sectanus was a good officer,” Treim said. “His father just reached senatorial rank too.”
“Which means,” Stiger said, “that once he learns of his son’s murder, while under my command, he may blame me. He may even believe I was responsible and that the murder was intentional.”
Closing his eyes for a long moment, Stiger brought his anger under control. It was threatening to slip the leash. He had to watch that, especially now.
“Technically, he was under my command,” General Treim said. “But you are correct. Due to Handi, we may have turned a potential ally into an enemy.”
“You mean I may have,” Stiger said and then held up a hand when Treim started to protest. “This is my mess. I started it and now I have to live with the consequences of my own actions.”
The sword had been right. Bloody gods.
“Nouma’s dead,” Eli added. “What can Handi do by himself?”
“I don’t like the idea of him out there on the loose,” Stiger said.
“He’s just one man,” Treim said.
“He’s an enemy.” Therik’s tone was hard and unforgiving. “It is best to kill enemies, before they create new problems or come after you again. We should find him and kill him, end it now. Then you don’t have to worry.”
Stiger spared the orc a look. Therik was right.
“We can send a party after him,” Treim suggested. “Though I feel compelled to point out that if he has any sense, the tribune’s long gone, which likely means our search party will have a difficult time locating him. Handi may be a vile and detestable person, but he did not strike me as stupid.”
“I bet Hux could find him,” Salt said, having stepped forward and joined the conversation. “Our cavalry prefect can be very determined, when he puts his mind to it. Give the word and Hux will run him down.”
Stiger was tempted to take Salt up on his suggestion. Only he knew he could not do that. His cavalry commander’s attention must be focused on screening the army as it marched northward toward Mal’Zeel, not hunting a lone fugitive who had had his power and influence stripped from him. The cavalry could not be spared for such an undertaking, for they would be General Treim’s and Braddock’s eyes and ears, providing security against a surprise move by the confederacy. The elves would help with that too, but the cavalry would be able to range farther afield.
“Don’t waste the effort,” Stiger said, shaking his head slightly. “The security of the army is more important.”
“An enemy is an enemy,” Therik said, clearly wanting to get the last word in.
“No doubt,” Stiger said, “and I’ve got plenty to go around. If we can run him to ground at a later time, then we will. If not, maybe we will never see or hear from him again. I’d settle for the latter.”
Therik gave a disbelieving grunt to that.
“When we’re done here,” Stiger said, “tell Colonel Aetius to stand down. He is to stop hunting for the traitor.”
“Yes, Imperator,” General Treim said.
Turning his attention back to the priests, who were still singing and chanting, Stiger tapped a finger on his thigh. It never got any easier. There were always complications, headaches, and problems to be overcome. Handi was just one more enemy on a list that was sure to grow in the coming days, months, and years.
No matter how benevolent a ruler Stiger was, there would always be enemies just around the corner, waiting to pounce. What had happened with Nouma and the praetorians was not only a warning, but also a lesson to be learned. Moving forward, he had to be two steps ahead of such people. In short, he had to be more careful.
His gaze sought out Braddock, who was standing stoically before his army a few hundred yards away. Though he could easily have kept his dwarves in their encampment just outside the city, the thane had paraded his warriors in full kit and was honoring the late emperor, showing proper respect for an ally. So too was Tenya’Far with his elves. Stiger appreciated that.
When it came to the gnomes, he was not so sure on their motivation. Had Braddock forced them to attend? Or did Cragg see it a
s his duty to honor the late emperor, as an ally? More likely, the conniving little troublemaker thought there was some advantage to be gained by making a show of respect.
Cragg was standing before his assembled warriors. Though many of the gnomes wore multicolored armor, Cragg’s was jet-black. So too was his standard. It had something to do with him being the kluge. Stiger wished he understood gnome culture better. He had gotten to know them to some degree, but for the most part, the little bastards were as much a mystery to him as they were to the dwarves.
“I believe they’re ready for you, Imperator,” Treim said.
Stiger looked over to see a priest approaching with Father Restus at his side. He had not noticed the singing and chanting had concluded. Both the priest and Restus stopped five feet from him and bowed respectfully.
Restus wore a cloak around his armor that was as white as the freshest snow. It had the High Father’s lightning bolt emblazoned on it in gold. The priest wore white priestly robes. Beyond them, toward the funeral bier, a small fire had been started. It burned rather sullenly, smoke drifting lazily up into a clear sky. A priest, standing next to the fire, held an unlit torch. He was waiting expectantly, his eyes fixed upon Stiger.
“Father Hone,” Stiger greeted, turning his attention back to the priest with Restus. He had met with the priests of the city the night before last. Though he was the most senior priest in the city and prematurely balding, Hone was only middle-aged. “I thank you for your service. Though it had been many years since I’d seen him, Tioclesion was one of my few friends in this world. I truly grieve for his loss and I appreciate all of your efforts.”
“That is most kind of you, Imperator.” The priest gave a bow again.
Stiger’s eyes tracked back toward the funeral bier.
“It is time for you to pay your respects, Imperator,” Hone said in a gentle tone, “and perform your duty as successor.”
“Right then.” Stiger was not looking forward to what was coming. Final goodbyes were always the most difficult and painful. “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”
“As you wish, Imperator,” Hone said and stood aside to make way.
Father Restus had coached Stiger earlier in what would be expected of him. Stiger started across the field toward the funeral bier. He made sure his pace was steady and measured, knowing that all eyes would be upon him. Restus and Hone followed a few steps behind him. Everyone else remained behind, even Ruga and his men. This was something only Stiger could do.
As he approached, the priests, who had been offering prayers, drew back and formed a line behind the fire and the priest holding the torch. Stiger ignored them and stepped up to the bier. It was over ten feet tall and made of freshly cut logs. Straw had been stuffed between the logs. The smell of oil was strong, almost overpowering. It seemed the priests had doused everything with it.
Looking up, Stiger could see Tioclesion lying atop the bier. Face pale and eyes shut, he almost looked like he was asleep. His one-time childhood friend was gone. All that remained was what the elves called a shell. Stiger felt a wave of regret flow over him. The civil war that had seen his childhood friend come to power had cost Stiger so very much. He still felt pain at all that had happened so many years before. Sometimes it seemed his entire life had been filled with pain, sacrifice, and sadness, with only a few pleasant moments mixed in between.
The priests taught that the High Father challenged his followers through pain and suffering. The truth behind that was Stiger himself. He understood that. He really did. His struggles had forged him into the honed weapon he was now. Pain and suffering had made him the man he was today, a leader of men, the High Father’s Champion, and the hope for the empire, the future.
Though in Lorium he was considered the emperor, Stiger knew without a doubt, no matter what Treim and Aetius thought, a faction in the senate would not see a Stiger sit on the curule chair and adorned with the crown of wreaths, ever. Blood would need to be shed before it was all said and done. And Stiger was prepared for that. The only question was … how much blood would be required to settle things?
Thoughts of the curule chair caused Stiger to recall a memory of playing hide and seek in the vast palace with Tioclesion. He remembered hiding behind the chair’s marble legs, the gleam of the floor, the cold feel of it all to his hands and knees. Those days had been so simple, and without worry or adult concerns. Now, things were different. He had plenty of worries and concerns, an entire empire’s worth.
As if a cloud had slipped across the sun, his thoughts darkened once again. As a boy, he had thought the world a wonderful place. Only now he knew better. It was anything but. The world he lived in was a hard one, at times callous and cold, like the marble of the palace. Some preferred to believe it was not so, turned blind eyes to the reality all around, but Stiger understood the truth. In a way, he was fighting to make this world a better place. If he won, achieved all that needed doing … could he change it? He hoped so.
Stiger’s thoughts returned to Tioclesion. What had his friend fought for? He rubbed his jaw as he considered the body that would shortly be turned to ash. How much power had the man actually wielded? Handi said he and Nouma had controlled Tioclesion. How far had that control extended? Who else and what else had they power over? It was an interesting thought and one he had to be concerned over … for he could never allow anyone to gain such control or influence over him … ever. He needed to be his own man, and others would hate him for that.
He sucked in a breath, then let it out through his teeth. Stiger bowed his head respectfully. Clearing his mind, he took a moment to offer up a prayer, commending Tioclesion’s soul and spirit into the High Father’s loving embrace. He asked that his one-time friend have an easy crossing of the great river and a peaceful, undisturbed slumber in the next life.
“Rest well, my friend.”
He looked back up and regarded the body a moment more before turning to the priest with the unlit torch. Stiger held out his hand expectantly. The priest dunked the torch into the low-burning flames. It instantly caught, hissing and spitting angrily, like an unhappy serpent pulled from its hole. The smoke that issued forth was dark and black.
He took the torch from the priest and turned back to the bier. Stiger hesitated for a long moment. He could feel the heat from the hissing flames against his cheek. He took a step closer, within arm’s reach.
“Is this how I will end my days on this world?” Stiger asked himself quietly so that the priests could not hear. “Burned by the next emperor? What will people think of me when I am gone? Will they remember me as a butcher of my own people? A heartless killer? Just another vile Stiger who seized power? Or will I be viewed as a savior?”
The mad wizard imprisoned within his sword laughed darkly. It was malevolent and sinister. Instantly, Stiger felt a wave of cold slither down his spine.
I have seen your end.
Stiger froze. Though the sword had recently begun speaking to him again, he no longer feared its power, not completely. Menos had taught him how to master his mind and gain control over the mad wizard within.
And? Stiger asked, for the imprisoned wizard had once been a master of time and space, at least that’s what Thoggle, Ogg, and Menos had told him. Rarokan had once shown Stiger a vision of himself in the past, one Stiger had thought was of his ancestor, Delvaris. But it had not been. The sword had shown him the future, only, as confusing as it sounded, the vision had been his future in the past.
Are you going to tell me of my death? Torment me with it? Attempt to use it as a tool to gain some advantage? If so, you will fail.
No, I will not show you your death, Imperator.
Then why bother me, now? In this moment?
When compared to your end, Tioclesion got off easy. You will suffer greatly before you know peace.
Stiger was in no mood for games. With his mind, he shoved Rarokan back down into his prison and then slammed the door shut. He could almost sense the sword darkly laughing at hi
m, mocking him. He thrust such counterproductive thoughts from his mind and stepped forward. Stiger touched the torch to some of the straw. So doused was it with flammable oil that flames shot outward and spread rapidly toward the body at the top. The heat increased, and with it, Stiger took an unconscious step backward. Almost casually, he tossed the torch onto the growing blaze.
“Good bye, old friend,” Stiger said, “and thank you.”
A man in the ranks began hammering his sword against the backside of his shield. In moments, more picked up the beat, and then all of the legionaries were doing the same. The sound of it hammered at the air, in a steady thunking rhythm. This was their way of saying goodbye to the emperor. Stiger turned around to look on his two legions. Until recently, he had been one of them, an officer.
Now, he was emperor.
“I must never forget who I am,” Stiger said to himself. “I will always be an imperial legionary officer at heart … always.”
He took another step back as the heat from the blaze began to grow, radiating outward. The priests started chanting in the old tongue. As the fire blazed, reaching the body atop the pyre, the chant continued. Stiger stood there, watching the fire burn. In the flames, he saw those he had left behind: Varus, Sarai, his mother … the list went on.
“All men die,” Restus said, having stepped up next to him. “Death will one day … come for us all. That is assured.”
“I have just been reminded of that,” Stiger said, thinking on the mad wizard trapped within his blade. “Despite being the High Father’s Champion and emperor, I am mortal. It is as you say, my days will eventually come to an end, much like any other.”
Stiger was different now. Mortal … yet, like an elf, longer lived. That assumed the enemy did not kill him first.
“Life is a journey and death just another destination,” Restus rasped. “Each soul’s spark eventually fades, detaches, and returns to the High Father. We are only loaned that which makes us unique in this world … a portion of the divine. When we die, we go with it, crossing over the great river. That is what we, on this plane, call death.”
The Tiger’s Imperium Page 9