Stiger thought on his sword, which over the years had taken that very spark from so many. He glanced down at it. “My sword has the ability to take what the High Father wants back.”
“I know,” Father Restus said, sounding saddened. “Even that which Rarokan takes and burns to manipulate events in this world … that too eventually returns to the High Father … just in a different form.”
Stiger had not known that. He fell silent and turned his gaze back to the funeral pyre.
“You carry a dread weapon,” Restus continued after several moments, “but it was the High Father who commanded that it be forged. It was our lord who set limits upon the wizard, an individual who thought he had none. We must have faith the High Father knew what he was doing when he had that weapon forged and the wizard locked within.”
“So, I should let him take the full measure of the souls it kills? Hold nothing back from its dreadful thirst?” Stiger asked. “Let the wizard grow powerful? I think that would be dangerous, don’t you?”
“I did not say that,” Restus said. “I only understand the sword to be a dangerous tool, a weapon to be used when needed. Only you and you alone have the ability to control and contain Rarokan’s ambitions. When it comes to the Soul Breaker, you must use your own judgment and be guided by the High Father. Just as I am guided to do what I deem necessary.”
Stiger looked over at the elderly paladin and their gazes met. He wondered for a moment if the paladin understood what it meant to be the High Father’s Champion.
“I am a Stiger,” he said. “I too am a weapon, and where I go, death follows. I have come to accept that.”
“You are the High Father’s weapon on this mundane world,” Restus said. “You have the ability to shape events like none other since Karus himself.”
Though he understood the truth in Restus’s words, he still felt a wave of unease at hearing it put so plainly. So much rested on his shoulders.
“When I go to Mal’Zeel,” Stiger said, “we both know death will follow after me. With what needs to be done, I must be ruthless, uncompromising. Only the end goal matters at this point, for we are mere months away from the planes and planets aligning. When they do, the World Gate can be opened again. We cannot afford to lose, for if we do, a darkness will fall over this world. That is why I must hold nothing back and do what needs doing, no matter how distasteful. That is why I will fight to make certain it is our side, our alignment, that has the choice as to whether or not we open the Gate.”
“And that, my son,” Restus said, “is why you are his Champion, his choice for the future of us all. You will hold nothing back when it matters.”
The fire gave a gushing roar as it fully consumed the funeral pyre, drawing their attention. The waves of heat rolling off the fire were intense; so too was the smoke. Both men took several steps back, then stood and watched. Stiger found himself lost in the flames. He felt the High Father’s presence here this day. It seemed to be all around them, on the air itself, like a great warm blanket wrapped around one on a winter’s day. Stiger found it comforting and knew the great god was watching in approval.
“It is time for you to cement the loyalty of the legions,” Restus said. “That which was promised so long ago … empire without end … begins here, this day.”
The paladin’s words broke the spell. Stiger blinked. Tioclesion’s body could no longer be seen within the flames. He wondered how long he had stood there. Had it been just moments or longer?
He looked over and saw General Treim standing with both Eagle-bearers. The general held two thick pieces of rounded wood that had been painted white. They were legate batons. Each had been carved from an oak, shaped, smoothed, and polished before being painted white.
Standing just behind Treim were Legates Oney and Theego. It had not been a pretty moment when Salt had learned that he was to be promoted. The man had been deeply unhappy by the move. But, in the end, he had accepted it. Salt had understood the necessity of having a highly experienced professional officer in command of the legion.
Stiger shared one last look with Restus. “An empire without end.”
The paladin gave him a nod, and with that, Stiger started over toward them, leaving the burning funeral pyre behind, along with Father Restus. He stopped before the general.
“The legions present you their honor,” Treim said loudly.
Those in the nearest ranks could hear him. Those unfortunates farther away would only be able to see what was happening. And yet, they also would know what was transpiring. What was about to be performed was a ritual as old at the empire itself. Perhaps even more ancient, Stiger considered, now that he knew the Roman Empire had been real and was not just legend. Karus had been from Rome, a true Roman. Which meant, he, as a descendent of the great man, had Roman blood running through his veins.
“I stand by to receive their honor and return it,” Stiger said. “The legates may approach.”
Salt and Theego stepped forward and up to Stiger. Theego was a hard-looking man, muscular and compact. His forearms bore the telltale marks of years of arms training. He was a fighter, Stiger was sure of it. From the man’s eyes, Stiger could tell he’d seen his fair share of hard fighting. They had met the day before and Stiger had been impressed with Theego.
Both legates were at attention. They saluted.
“I present Third Legion,” Theego said first. “I swear my loyalty and that of my men to you, Imperator. We will defend the empire with our lives. In the High Father’s name, I swear it so.”
“I present Thirteenth Legion,” Salt said. “I swear my loyalty and that of my men to you, Imperator. We will fight for you and defend the empire. In the High Father’s name, I swear it so.”
“I have no doubt.” Stiger turned to Treim and gave a nod. Treim stepped forward and handed over the two batons, then stepped back a pace. Stiger glanced down at the two white batons in his hands. The wood had been polished completely smooth. The High Father’s Eagle had been carved onto both, as had the god’s lightning bolt. The work done was exquisite. One baton had XIII fashioned into it on the bottom and the other III. On Stiger’s orders, both had been made by a master carpenter in the city. The man had done excellent work.
“With these batons, I grant you both a measure of my imperium.” Stiger turned his attention to the two legates. “With imperium comes the power to do your duty for the empire. Do you understand this?”
“I do, Imperator,” Theego said.
“Understood, sir,” Salt said.
“Do not ever hesitate,” Stiger said, “to do what you feel is right and in service of the empire.”
Stiger held out the Third’s baton to Theego, who, without hesitation, took it. The man’s hard look grew sterner. By accepting the honor, Theego was tying himself inextricably to Stiger. There would be no turning back, no returning the baton. If he broke his word, forever after, his honor would be tarnished, as would that of his family’s name. He might be tolerated in polite society, but people would always have their doubts, and the whispers behind his back would forever be there. Stiger knew what that was like. It was clear Theego understood as well.
Salt took the baton when Stiger offered the Thirteenth’s to him. Salt studied it, turning it over slowly in his hand. Then, he looked up. Stiger was surprised to see tears in the old veteran’s eyes.
“You’ve gone and done it,” Salt said. “You’ve made me a gentleman, sir … you know I was born in the slums. A gentleman? A noble?”
“Aye, that I have,” Stiger said, amused and enjoying the moment. Salt was a good man, the embodiment of what a legionary should be, and finally a friend. “I don’t care where you were born. It is the man you are that I care about. The service you have rendered the empire is beyond compare, as is the sacrifice you made by choosing to go into stasis and giving up all that you had known. Salt, you have earned this. There is no doubt in my mind. Bear this imperium with pride.”
“Thank you, sir,” Salt said. “I love the Th
irteenth and the empire. I will not let you down. You have my word on that.”
“I know,” Stiger said. “Take care of the boys for me, for I love them too.”
Salt cleared his throat before answering. “I will, sir.”
Stiger gave a nod to the Eagle-bearers. “Bring forth your Eagles.”
Salt and Theego turned to look back on the two Eagle-bearers and stepped aside. Both men moved forward and lowered their Eagles before their emperor.
The sight of an Eagle always moved Stiger. Before him were two Eagles under which he had personally fought. He reached forward and rested his palm upon the Third’s Eagle. He missed the Third, just as he missed Seventh Company.
“I give you Third Legion’s honor and that of the empire, Imperator,” the Third’s bearer said. Stiger recognized him, but he did not know the man’s name.
Stiger took the standard into his hands. He was about to speak but was suddenly overcome with emotion. How many had served under this Eagle? How many had died for what it represented? Varus and others of Seventh Company had lost their lives under his command, all while he’d been attached to Third Legion.
In a manner of speaking, those who had given their lives were the Eagle. So too were the men who currently served. They would continue to fight under this standard. It was made of wood, the top of which had been shaped into a fierce-looking bird of prey and then painted over in gold. Each imperial Eagle was slightly different. This one clutched a fish in one of its claws and its mouth was open in an exultant scream. The implication was clear … the hunt had been successful.
Under this Eagle, the men of Third Legion would fight for the empire, the High Father, and most importantly, he understood, they would fight for each other … for that was what comrades did when things truly got ugly. And they would do it all in the name of the empire.
Stiger felt a tear run down his cheek. He cleared his throat and raised the Eagle high up into the air, studying it under the fading light of the day. He turned his gaze to the bearer.
“What is your name?”
“Santuus,” the legionary said.
“I give you back Third Legion’s honor, my honor, and that of the empire,” Stiger said. “The High Father’s honor goes with it. Protect and guard this standard with your life.”
“I will protect and guard this Eagle with my life, Imperator,” Santuus said.
Stiger handed the Eagle back to Santuus.
“Beck,” Stiger said, turning to the Thirteenth’s bearer. The man had been part of Stiger’s company and had been with him the day they’d found the standard in Delvaris’s tomb.
“Sir,” Beck said.
“I bet you never thought to see yourself here, eh?”
“No, sir,” Beck said. “And I bet you did not see yourself here either, sir.”
Stiger gave a chuckle, then sobered. Beck got the hint.
“I give you the Thirteenth Legion’s honor and that of the empire, Imperator,” Beck said, offering it up.
Stiger took the standard into his hands. Again, he found himself overcome with emotion.
“I give you back the Thirteenth’s honor, my honor, and that of the empire,” Stiger said. “The High Father’s honor goes with it. Protect and guard this standard with your life.”
“I will protect and guard this Eagle with my life, Imperator,” Beck said.
Stiger handed the Eagle back to Beck.
With that, both legions erupted into a thunderous cheer. The legions were now formally his. They were sworn to serve him and the empire. Behind him, Tioclesion’s funeral pyre continued to burn furiously.
“And now comes the hard part,” Stiger breathed to himself as he turned his gaze northward, “the taking of my empire.”
Chapter Five
Placing a hand on the side of the sick tent, Stiger stopped, hesitating to enter. The fabric under his hand was coarse and rough. He dreaded facing what he knew waited just inside. This was one battle he could not fight, one to which he was only a helpless bystander. That was an uncomfortable feeling, one he did not like.
Dog nosed his leg. Stiger glanced down at the animal, who looked right back up at him with sad brown eyes that carried so much expression. He held the naverum’s gaze for a long moment. An order snapped somewhere off in the distance caused him to look behind them both.
The sun was just coming up and the sky had lightened considerably. Stiger was in the heart of the fortified legionary encampment that had been constructed a half mile from Lorium. The encampment spread out in all directions, tents by the thousands. He never ceased being amazed at all that was fit, or really crammed, within the turf walls: the orderly streets, training grounds, mess areas, latrines, supply depots, leather maker tents, numerous smithies, depots, animal pens … the list went on and on. It took an incredible amount of effort and support to keep a legion operational, so much so that each encampment became the equivalent of a small city.
Though there was plenty of noise on the air, it was still relatively quiet. Even when the legion slept, no encampment was ever truly devoid of noise. There was always someone calling to another, a challenge shouted, the clattering of armor or a hammer at work.
Legionaries learned to sleep amidst such continual noise. Stiger himself had long since mastered the ability to nap whenever the opportunity presented itself. He had once managed a few hours’ rest while his company was stood down during an active assault on his encampment’s walls. Sleep in the army was always a precious commodity. You took it when and where you could get it.
On a normal day, the morning horn would have already been sounded. This, however, was not a normal day. After everything the men had gone through to get to Lorium, and the latest battle against the confederacy, they were being allowed the rare privilege of sleeping in, given a well-earned extra two hours of sleep. That did not sound like much, but for the average legionary it was more than enough.
Once they were up, rousted from their bedrolls, the day would begin for the thousands of legionaries and auxiliaries that occupied this fortified encampment. Things would go from being relatively peaceful to a bustling hive of regimented and closely supervised activity.
First the men would parade. Roll call by century would be taken. The count of those present, in the sick tents, or absent for whatever reason, would be reported on up to the cohort commander and then forwarded to headquarters. The men would be set to maintaining and cleaning their equipment. They would parade once again and an inspection would follow, not only of their person, but the legionaries’ communal tents. For those who did not measure up to the legion’s exacting standards, a punishment charge would be issued. They would also be sent back to correct the deficiency. Something no veteran legionary wanted to do.
Only after the cohort and century areas were policed and straightened up would the men be fed. The morning meal for the day was mush, a standard porridge of millet and chopped fruit that had been dried. Stiger had always found it quite tasteless. He hated the stuff, almost as much as he despised salt pork. Yet it kept the men marching.
Once fed, the men would be put to work, for idle soldiers were trouble waiting to happen. And the officers would see that their men were far from idle. Headquarters would assign each cohort work for the day, whether that was arms or formation drilling, enhancing the encampment’s fortifications, standing watch on the walls or performing sentry duty, distributing the supplies of captured food stores to the hungry citizens of Lorium, or patrolling the city or the surrounding region. In the army, there was always something that needed doing and plenty of men to see that it got done right.
The wind gusted, rustling the fabric of the tent. The air was cool, crisp, cold even. Sourly, Stiger glanced up at the sky. Overhead, it had clouded over, as if in promise of a coming rain, perhaps even a storm. Though he did not think it felt or smelled like one was coming on.
Despite that, he was warm, primarily because he wore his bearskin cloak. It was something he was incredibly fond of. Even in the
harshest of weather it kept him warm and comfortable.
Though they were still in the south, winter had arrived. The incessant and continual rains that plagued the region had, for the most part, ended. The ground had dried out and hardened, allowing large-scale combat operations. Still, it was not quite cold, and where he was, it likely would not become so. Lorium was just too far south.
The winters were fairly temperate. Farther north, toward the capital, there would be snow, and that was where Stiger would be heading this day. He would be leaving behind his army. It was why he had on his heavy cloak. The time was fast approaching when he would climb onto a dragon and depart, soaring up into the clouds.
Having served in the far north against the Rivan, he had seen more snow than he ever cared to admit. Northern winters were just plain brutal. There was just no other way to describe it but as a miserable experience. It wasn’t just the snow the men had to struggle against, which frequently fell feet at a time, but the bitter cold, which stung and froze exposed skin.
The pervasive cold seemed to sap the energy from even the strongest of men. Doing anything took more effort, more energy. There had been times during the darkest months of winter when the temperature had dropped to the point where it seemed to steal breath from the lungs. When they weren’t huddled around meager fires, or standing watch, the men amused themselves by spitting into the air. The spit had frozen solid before it hit the ground. It had been so bitterly cold, any who were not careful were at serious risk for freezing.
Stiger had known men who had frozen to death or lost fingers and toes to the cold. The north was a harsh and unforgiving land, a place where only the hardiest of people could manage to survive. The Rivan, once the most dangerous enemy he had ever faced, had not only survived but thrived in such weather.
The legions, when they pushed north, despite early success, had been ill prepared when the cold and snows had come. The men suffered terribly as a result. Thousands were lost to the cold alone, and even more to enemy action. Worse, the imperial army had almost faced complete destruction at the hands of the enemy, with two entire legions shattered. Stiger himself had almost died, not once, but several times. He had come perilously close to closing the book on his own personal story.
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