The Tiger’s Imperium

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  It had taken several years, but eventually the legions had been able to adapt to the brutal winter conditions. That was the real strength of the empire. When the going got tough, the legion never quit. And if there was a defeat, the empire always came back, with more legions filled with hard men spoiling for a fight.

  Dog nudged at him again, more insistent. He looked back down at the animal and felt himself scowl. Dog snapped his jaws and gave a low growl that caused Stiger’s escort of four, who had taken up position a few feet away, to look around.

  The animal gave a bark and then snapped his jaws with a clicking sound. Dog seemed quite insistent, impatient.

  “Alright, I’ll stop dragging my feet.” Stiger let out a long breath. He’d been dreading going in. He pulled the tent flap aside. Ducking, he stepped through into the tent. The light was dim, for only a single lamp hung from the ceiling.

  The tent was warmer than the outside and smelled strongly of herbs that burned in a brazier along the back wall. Unlike the other sick tents in the medical compound, only one patient was present, his wife.

  Venthus had been seated on a stool. Next to him was a cot, upon which lay Taha’Leeth. She had been wrapped up in a heavy blanket. Only her head, neck, and arms were exposed. The terrible wound she had received was concealed by the blanket. Stiger could see the small bulge along her side where she had been heavily bandaged.

  A small table lay within arm’s reach of Stiger’s slave. It held a bowl filled with water. Several cloths had been laid upon it, as was a pitcher and a clay mug. A bucket underneath held soiled bandages, thick with dried blood.

  “Master.” Stiger’s slave rose stiffly to his feet, more through age than anything else. He bowed with his usual show of respect.

  Stiger did not hear Venthus greet him. Despite the warmth of the cloak, ice abruptly coursed through his veins, seeming to freeze him in place by the entrance flap. His breath caught in his throat. Though he had spent several hours with her the evening before, seeing his wife this way was incredibly painful. He did not like it one bit. She looked so still and pale, he thought she might have expired during the night. Then he spotted the telltale steady rise and fall of her chest.

  Relief flooded through his heart and suddenly he was able to move once again. The paralysis was gone. He took two wooden steps forward. She was so very pale and frail-looking, it tore at him. Stiger had become accustomed to seeing her strong, confident, and full of life that it was still a shock to see her on death’s doorstep. He longed to hear her voice, feel the touch of her fingers against his skin, the warmth of her naked body pressed close against his, her soft lips …

  “How is she?” Stiger asked in a near strangled whisper, pulling his eyes away from his wife. “Has she shown any improvement?”

  Venthus clasped both hands before him. “I am sorry, but no. Since last evening, her condition remains unaltered, master.”

  As he turned his gaze back to Taha’Leeth, Stiger did not immediately respond. Ignoring Venthus, Dog moved around Stiger and padded up to her. He laid his big, shaggy head upon the side of her cot and against her arm. He licked her hand, then whined softly. It was a pathetic sound and made Stiger feel even worse.

  “The wound she took would have killed anyone else,” Venthus said in a tired and weary tone. The old slave blew out an almost ragged breath before continuing. “She is strong-willed. I believe, given time to heal, she will recover. I have no idea on whether it will be a full recovery or …”

  Venthus gave a shrug of his shoulders as Stiger looked back over at him.

  “Or there will be complications,” Stiger finished.

  “That is certainly one way to put it,” Venthus said. “The blade went in deep and she lost a lot of blood. There is no telling what, if any, long-term damage was caused.”

  “And the baby?” Stiger asked.

  Venthus said nothing.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Stiger considered Venthus. The man was more than his slave. He followed a god that was not in the High Father’s alignment or the enemy’s. His god was involved in the Last War somehow, but he stood apart. At least that was how Venthus had explained it. From Delvaris, Stiger had inherited not only Venthus, but the relationship as well. And it was a complicated one.

  At times, it had proven a mixed blessing and, truth be told, Stiger was not wholly comfortable with it. But Venthus had proven to be a man of his word and, once pledged, had shown himself to be incredibly loyal. More than once, he had demonstrated his loyalty in a manner which could not be mistaken. And he was doing it yet again, by caring selflessly for Taha’Leeth. Stiger doubted Venthus had left her side since he’d been away. The loyalty, in the end, was all that mattered to Stiger … well, that and the arrangement, for the two of them could never be friends. But they could respect one another and fulfill their mutual obligations to one another’s cause.

  “Tenya’Far mentioned he would be sending over one of his surgeons,” Stiger said.

  “He came,” Venthus said, “and examined her wound. He also changed out her bandages and put a poultice on. He claims it will guard against infection. Beyond that, there was little he could do for her. He said as much. I expect him to return around midday. If they had a paladin of Tanithe …” Venthus rubbed at his eyes. “Or if the warden were here … well, that would be a different matter and make things easy on us both.”

  “The what-ifs again,” Stiger said to himself.

  “The surgeon explained that when elves become gravely injured, they go into a state of deep sleep, almost like how some animals hibernate. It is supposed to help speed the body’s healing process.” Venthus glanced over at Taha’Leeth. “He confirmed she was in such a state. He said he could feel her soul working at repairing the damage.”

  Stiger felt a stab of worry, for he knew this from his time living with the elves. “Sometimes the damage is too great to fix and they do not come out of it and simply die.”

  “I am no doctor,” Venthus said. “You know that, and yet I am not without medical knowledge. I feel she will recover. And no … my god is not telling me that.”

  “I pray you are right,” Stiger said.

  “I pray as well,” Venthus said, “for I have bet everything upon you. And you know my master is an unforgiving one.”

  Stiger understood Venthus was not referring to him, but his god. The man had only one true master and Stiger was most assuredly not it.

  “We will not fail,” Stiger said. “We cannot. For if we do … we all lose.”

  “Truth.”

  A strange expression overcame the slave. His gaze went to the tent wall and became strangely unfocused. A moment later, he looked back at Stiger with distaste and his expression twisted slightly. “There is a paladin of the High Father in the camp. He came with you.”

  It was not a question, but a statement of fact.

  “Yes,” Stiger said. “Father Restus. He is traveling with me to the capital. We will be departing just as soon as I am done here.”

  “He is strong with will and faith. So much so, I can taste it.”

  “As head of his order,” Stiger said, “I would think he would have to be, or at least should be. Don’t you?”

  Stiger suddenly realized he knew little about the order of the High Father that the paladins served. He scowled slightly with the thought. Though he had known several paladins, they were still, in a way, a mystery. Yes, they served the High Father and were the guardians of long-forgotten knowledge, but beyond that, he knew very little about them.

  So far, their purposes had aligned with his. He had relied upon them and taken their cooperation for granted. In fact, as Champion, he now expected it. Stiger realized that was dangerous. What if they ever disagreed or Restus felt he was making the wrong decision and refused to support him? What then? Stiger’s mind raced. What about the rest of the church? The High Priest and everyone else who wore the holy cloth? Would they give him their unconditional support? Or would there be limits? Those questions conce
rned him greatly. What if some refused to accept him as the emperor and High Father’s Champion?

  “Though Father Thomas honored it,” Venthus said, “my arrangement might not extend to Father Restus.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to fear there,” Stiger said. “Restus seems to know nearly everything that occurred in the past. It would not surprise me if he was well aware of your bargain.”

  Venthus regarded him for several long moments before giving a slow nod. Under the dim lamplight, the slave’s eyes glittered darkly. “I have no wish to fight him. You know the truth of my words. He may not.”

  “I will see that it does not come to that.”

  The slave gave another nod. “That would be much appreciated, for I would be forced to kill him. And I would do so without hesitation.”

  Stiger felt himself scowl at Venthus.

  “You will watch over her while I am gone?” Stiger asked, though he knew he need not have done so. It just felt better asking, making certain. Stiger wanted reassurance, for he felt wretched about leaving her.

  “My word is my bond,” Venthus said simply. “As such, you know I will lay down my life for hers. Though I suspect we both know I likely will not have to make such a sacrifice. If more assassins come, whether they be elvenkind or not”—Venthus gave a dark chuckle—“they will find a nasty surprise waiting, several nasty surprises.”

  “You have summoned your pets?” Stiger asked. He had not explicitly forbidden Venthus from doing so. It had, in a way, been an unspoken understanding between them that he would not.

  Venthus gave a nod and smiled. It was a smile without warmth, one filled with a terrible hunger that Stiger found not just uncomfortable, but unsettling.

  Glancing around the tent, he saw nothing, but Stiger knew they were there, hiding and concealed in the shadows … watching. He closed his eyes, cleared his mind, and reached out to touch the High Father’s power that burned within him.

  His connection with the High Father was a shining, fiery, white sun in the darkness. Over the last few months, the fire had grown in intensity, and with it, Stiger’s strength of will had also increased. With each passing day, he felt himself growing in power and mastery of what the High Father had given him.

  As he touched it, he felt his god’s power, the warmth, the love. A sense of serene calm settled over him. It was akin to a loving embrace from a parent to a child. All sense of regret and pain at leaving washed away. He felt content, happy, loved. There was no other way to describe the feeling of being so close to his god … it was pure and utter bliss.

  And now, without opening his eyes, Stiger could feel the presence of Venthus’s pets close at hand. They were a disturbance to the peaceful bliss. There were four of them and they were dark, vile things. They seemed to squirm under the gaze of his mind’s eye and the High Father’s power, edging away, attempting to shift back out of phase, to flee this realm. Only Venthus’s will kept them on this plane of existence, holding them firmly in place. Stiger could even see Venthus himself, a dark stain upon the world, nearly as vile and black as his pets.

  Oddly, Stiger felt no urge from the High Father to deal with the pets … to send them on their way. Nor was there any push to confront Venthus. The message was clear. The pets were being tolerated, as was Venthus … accepted even.

  Some sort of an accord had been made between their respective gods. Of that much he was certain. With effort, Stiger released his hold on the High Father’s power and opened his eyes, breathing in deeply as he did so.

  The feeling of having lost something dear struck deeply at his heart as the connection was broken and wrenched away. Stiger almost sobbed as he blinked, looking around. The lamplight inside the tent suddenly seemed incredibly bright.

  “I wish you would not do that.” Venthus’s voice was strained, as if he were lifting something that took effort. “It is taking considerable will to hold them here. Accessing your power like that makes my pets uncomfortable and nervous, more difficult to contain. I think we can both agree it would be better if I did not lose my control over them.”

  “You are right. My apologies,” Stiger said.

  With Venthus and his pets about, Taha’Leeth was better guarded than if an entire cohort had stood guard on the tent, rather than the century that had been assigned. If another attempt was made, and assassins got by the guard, Venthus’s pets would tear the attackers apart, literally, and then likely set about eating the bodies. He had witnessed that happen and had no wish to see it again, ever.

  “I should be going with you,” Venthus said plainly. “My talents will be of use to you in Mal’Zeel.” The slave jerked a thumb across his throat. “I could easily handle some of your enemies, make things somewhat easier for you in taking your throne. No one would know it was murder. It could be arranged as an accident, or a death by natural causes. I could help ease you onto the throne.”

  “No doubt,” Stiger said, “but I dare not take you, not yet. Our success is not just tied to me, but to her as well. You well know that. I need you here, watching my wife, seeing her safe from threat.”

  Venthus let out a breath full of regret and disappointment. His eyes went to Taha’Leeth and the cot. “You should have let me summon my pets sooner. It might have made a difference.”

  “I appreciate your efforts.” Stiger decided not to take the bait that had been dangled. Summoning the pets was always a risk. Stiger also had his doubts whether Venthus could manage to sustain them in this world for an extended period. The man appeared worn, haggard, and run down. Stiger well understood, it was not just lack of sleep, but the effort of maintaining his pets on this plane … forcing them to remain in a place they wanted nothing to do with. Should he lose control, the pets would vent their rage on those nearest for a time, before returning home.

  “The noctalum and I are doing everything we can to make her comfortable. It is up to Taha’Leeth now. Her body needs time to heal.”

  “You speak of Currose?” Stiger asked.

  “She checks in on your wife several times a day,” Venthus said. “Even though she herself is still healing from the wounds inflicted by Castor’s minion, Currose loans some of her will. It seems to help.” Venthus paused, suddenly becoming animated. The haggard look faded slightly. “I never thought such a thing possible. Not once in a thousand years did I consider it. Noctalum are truly masters of will, beyond anything I ever imagined. This is something I will have to research, study. I might even be able to replicate it, given sufficient time. The possibilities are endless …”

  Stiger’s gaze traveled back to the cot. Dog was still there, his head resting on the cot. The sight of his wife brought on a wave of such terrible anguish that it almost physically hurt.

  “I will give you some privacy.” Venthus seemed to sense the change in mood and his excitement faded. “Before I go … I want you to take this.”

  Stiger looked over. In the palm of his hand, Venthus held a small clay vial with no apparent opening where one would normally be.

  “What is it?”

  “A pet,” Venthus said, “or more correctly what is called a wraith. Think of it as a more dangerous pet, one I would not normally attempt to summon.”

  Stiger did not reach out to take the vial. He felt uncomfortable doing so, for he sensed a malevolent darkness residing in the vial.

  “Since I can’t go with you,” Venthus said, “I am giving you something that might help … in a time of need, a desperate moment.”

  “Oh?” Stiger was still hesitant. He was not quite sure what a wraith was … heck, he wasn’t even sure what the pets were … only that they were evil things.

  “When you have need,” Venthus said, “crush it in your right hand … only your right hand. Once you do, you free the creature from imprisonment. The wraith will be yours to command and will attack whoever or whatever you wish. It will only remain on this plane for a short span of heartbeats … then it shall return home, to the Third Level. Its appearance might shock, b
ut be quick on sending it to attack. Just point or tell it what you want it to go after and it will. The point is not to hesitate too long, or you will have wasted your chance, understand?”

  “How many heartbeats?” Stiger asked. “How long will it remain on this plane?”

  “A count of thirty at most, maybe less,” Venthus said, his palm still out. “That is more than enough for it to kill several of your kind, maybe even take on a dragon. Who knows? Only use it if the need is dire. Now take it, before I change my mind … for I went to a lot of trouble to obtain it.”

  Stiger reached out and took the vial. The clay was warm to the touch, radiating heat from within. He looked back up. “The wraith is inside?”

  “Yes,” Venthus said. “Remember … right hand only.”

  “And if I use my left?”

  “Then it will finish you,” Venthus said. “You would be committing instant suicide. I would not recommend that.”

  “And if the vial breaks another way?” Stiger asked. “Say I drop it by accident or fall on it?”

  “It will not break,” Venthus said. “At least it shouldn’t. The vial has been crafted magically to shatter the seal only in one’s hand. I doubt there are any others like it left. The wraith has been trapped within since the Age of Miracles. When it comes out, I expect it will be very irritated at having been locked away in a cage for so long.” Venthus paused, eyeing the vial in Stiger’s hand for a long moment. “I only had one other like it and when I used it … let us just say it was something to see, a sight I shall never forget.”

  With that, Venthus moved toward the tent flap. He looked back. “Use it only if you need to. It is an artifact not to be expended lightly.”

  “Thank you,” Stiger said, looking over. He slipped the vial into a pocket in his cloak. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”