The Tiger’s Imperium

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I enjoyed watching my captain discipline you,” Yanulus added. There was a malicious note to his voice, a hint of the cruelty Stiger had seen the man exhibit in the past. “But he clearly went too easy on you. You still don’t know your place.”

  Stiger regarded them for several heartbeats before he spoke.

  “I should thank you both,” Stiger said, in a near whisper. “You did me a great service.”

  “What do you mean?” Corus asked, scowling slightly. “What service? What are you talking about?”

  “Lashing my back,” Stiger said.

  “What?” Corus asked.

  “It made me stronger.” The experience had shaped him in ways he had not fully understood ‘til years later. But that did not mean a reckoning was not in order. It had taken Stiger more than a year before he had healed to the point where he could serve his empire again. That year had been filled with agony and pain. He had suffered almost beyond comprehension. It had been the ultimate struggle, and without Eli’s help, he would not have survived. “Recovering taught me the meaning of strength, perseverance, and willpower.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Corus exchanged a glance with his lieutenant.

  “If you say so,” Corus said, sounding unconvinced. “I’ll admit, I had hoped you’d die after being lashed. With the beating you took, any normal person would have perished. But you—you were just too stubborn to do that. You’ve always been too bloody stubborn.”

  “You and Lears gave me a reason to survive,” Stiger said in reply.

  “So, here we are,” Corus said, “all those years later.”

  “Stop wasting my time,” Stiger said, tiring of the game they were playing. He placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Let’s finish what’s between us, once and for all.”

  “I’ve wanted to duel you for years.” Corus slowly drew his sword so that it hissed coming out of the scabbard. “You can’t hide from me, not anymore.”

  “I never did.” Stiger said as he took off his bearskin cloak. He handed it to Eli. He shrugged his shoulders about to make sure his armor was comfortably positioned.

  “We do this without shields,” Corus said, “just blades.”

  “Fair enough,” Stiger said and held out both hands.

  “I am going to enjoy watching this,” Therik rumbled.

  “Your pig speaks.” Yanulus gave an amused chuckle. “Like a pet dog, can it do tricks too? I’ve heard pigs can be smart like dogs.”

  Therik growled.

  “Perhaps after my captain kills Stiger,” Yanulus said to Therik, “we will have a roast. You will be invited, of course … as the main course.” Yanulus laughed again. “I think I might enjoy that. Though who knows how orc tastes, eh? You might be stringy, like mule.”

  Therik turned his gaze full on the lieutenant, his eyes narrowing dangerously. He bared his teeth in a smile, showing his sharpened tusks. “After he’s done with your captain, and cuts him down to size, I am going to kill you, little man. And I will enjoy that, oh so very much.”

  “Enough talk,” Corus snapped, his gaze fixed upon Stiger. “I’ve been waiting for years for this chance.”

  Stiger exhaled a long breath through his nose. It steamed on the air as he pulled Rarokan out. He kept a tight lid on the door to the wizard’s prison, locking the sword’s power within. He wanted to beat Corus all on his own and without any help from the sword. He could feel Rarokan’s irritation and hunger, for the mad wizard wanted the man’s soul. Corus had the spark the sword sought.

  “Sir,” Ruga said, stepping nearer. Though he had seen Stiger fight on more than one occasion, the centurion was clearly uneasy about what was to come. “Are you sure about this? I can stand in for you. As emperor, you should not be fighting a duel.”

  “I am very sure,” Stiger said. “Stand back and do not interfere.”

  Ruga looked torn between his duty to protect Stiger and obeying his orders. There was a moment where Stiger thought he might refuse. It passed and his face hardened.

  “Yes, sir,” Ruga said stiffly. The centurion stepped back, heated gaze fixating on Corus.

  Stiger drew his dagger in his free hand. Corus watched him with what seemed like a grim eagerness. Stiger spun the dagger in his hand and then gestured at the captain with its blade.

  “Corus,” Stiger said, “this has been long in coming.”

  “Yes, it has.” Corus gave a salute with his sword and then started forward. “I am going to enjoy gutting you like a fish.”

  Stiger did not reply but moved to meet his opponent. He knew there would be no more banter, no more goading. The time for fighting was at hand. Two skilled and determined soldiers, the best the legions had to offer, were about to cross swords.

  Corus feinted, causing Stiger to bring his blade up to block. He found only air as the man grinned, danced back a half step, then abruptly attacked, lunging out and stabbing straight for Stiger’s hip. It was a fast strike, almost lightning quick. A lesser swordsman would have been caught by surprise and thrown off-balance. But Stiger had been ready. He had expected something like it, for Corus had always been one to make the first move, to lash out. He was aggressive and preferred being on the attack rather than on the defensive, waiting for an opening from his opponent. Corus preferred to batter his opponents into submission before beating them. Stiger did not intend to give him the chance.

  He swung his blade downward to counter. The two swords met in a ringing clash. Stiger pushed his opponent’s sword toward the ground and stepped into Corus’s attack and bodily up against the man, almost hugging him.

  The tip of Corus’s sword struck the paving stone, causing sparks to fly as it grated along the ground. Corus struggled to bring the sword up, but Stiger had it firmly pinned, leaning against the man’s sword arm with almost his whole body. Without giving his opponent time to breathe, Stiger, with his free hand, brought his dagger around and drove it up and under Corus’s extended sword arm, right into the soft flesh of the armpit. The razor-sharp dagger drove inward, up to the hilt. Corus grunted from the impact.

  The surprise in his opponent’s eyes was plain, as was the pain … so too was the recognition that he had been hurt badly, even mortally. They stared at one another for a heartbeat. Corus seemed frozen in place. Stiger was not.

  Shifting his sword around Corus’s, Stiger stabbed the point into the captain’s extended thigh and pushed hard. He felt the steel grate against the leg bone as the blade went deep before emerging out the other side, just above the back of the knee.

  Corus gave another grunt of pure agony, then staggered as Stiger yanked the sword blade out. Blood fountained and flowed in a gush from the leg wound. Releasing hold of his dagger, Stiger left it embedded in his opponent and took a step back and away. Corus’s injured leg gave out and he collapsed to the ground on his side. The man’s sword clattered across the paving stones. He lay on his side for a long moment, then rolled onto his back. Blinking his eyes and panting like a dog, he stared up into the sky.

  A stunned silence followed. The fight had taken no more than a span of heartbeats. Therik had been right. Their sparring sessions had made him faster, more deadly. The proof of it was his defeated opponent. The fight was over. It had ended before it had really begun.

  There was a heavy thwack, followed by a gagging sound. Stiger looked around to see Yanulus staring at Therik in horror. The lieutenant had drawn his sword and had advanced toward Stiger. He stood, almost within arm’s reach, sword poised and frozen in the act of stabbing at Stiger’s exposed back. Yanulus dropped his weapon. His hands went to his throat, from which the hilt of Therik’s dagger protruded. He pulled the dagger free with a single yank. In jets and spurts, blood flowed from the wound. Yanulus stared at the dagger, a dumbfounded look upon his face that was almost comical.

  “There will be no roast, little man, not today,” Therik growled, “but there will be two funerals.”

  Blood spraying outward in ever increasing pulsing jets from his
ruined throat, Yanulus slowly collapsed to his knees. He held his hands out toward Stiger, almost imploringly, for help. A moment later, his eyes rolled back, and he fell over onto his side, legs twitching. His lifeblood pooled around him as it continued to pump out onto the street.

  “You’ve killed me,” Corus gasped in pain, drawing Stiger’s attention once again. The captain’s head was turned toward Stiger, his pupils wide as he stared at his killer.

  “I have.”

  Oddly, Stiger felt a sense of regret. Despite their mutual animosity, Corus had been a good officer and leader. Stiger could respect that.

  “If anyone was to kill me,” Corus said, drawing in a painful breath. Blood frothed to his lips. One of his lungs had clearly been punctured by the blade still embedded in his armpit. His speech was barely above a whisper. “I’d rather it be you. You are still a bastard.”

  Sucking in a breath, Stiger let it out slowly. “As are you.”

  “Good that we understand one another.” Corus, with some effort, cleared his throat. “Now finish me, so I do not suffer. The pain is …” Corus gave a groan and did not finish his sentence. He recovered a moment later. “The only other thing I would ask of you … and I know I do not deserve it … spare my men. They are good boys and … I loved leading them. It was the best thing I ever did.”

  Stiger’s eyes flicked to Corus’s men. They were looking on, astonished by what had happened. Several pairs of nervous eyes met his. They did not appear on the verge of seeking vengeance for their captain’s imminent death. Duels between nobles were generally respected, the outcomes honored. It was thought by many the gods had a say in such contests. And despite how fast the fight had gone, it had been fairly fought.

  “Well?” Corus cleared his throat, then hocked up some blood. “Will you spare my men?”

  “I will.” Stiger gave a nod. “They will have a choice, to enter my service or go on their way. Will that do?”

  “Yes,” Corus said. “It is quite generous. No matter how much it pains me, I thank you for that kindness. Now, finish me. End this thing between us.”

  Stiger stepped forward. The hate he felt for the man had evaporated. Now there was only pity, sadness, and oddly regret that it had come to this. Without hesitation, and with Corus firmly meeting his gaze, Stiger drove the point of his sword down into the other’s throat, ripping it open. Hot blood shot out, spattering across Stiger’s sword arm and his face. Corus choked once and convulsed violently before falling still. It was finished. Stiger withdrew his sword and stepped back. There was now one less enemy in the world to worry about.

  Therik moved forward and retrieved his dagger. With a small towel, he calmly cleaned blood off, then sheathed it.

  Stiger turned his gaze to the line of praetorians. They looked on stunned, but Stiger could also detect worry in their expressions. It was clear they were wondering if he would honor his word to their former captain. Stiger was, after all, a Stiger. He regarded them for a long moment before speaking.

  “You know me,” Stiger said finally. “Not too long ago, we were comrades in arms. Third Legion was our home.” He pointed at Corus with his bloodied sword. “Your captain and I had unsettled business between us. It’s done and over.” Stiger paused to suck in a breath. “As I promised, I will give you a choice. You can leave now, walk away, and not look back. Or you can join us, serve me and the empire. There will be a place for all of you. On that, you have my word.”

  “If you let them leave,” Therik said, “they will go to this Lears.”

  “I agreed to let them go and I will,” Stiger said firmly to Therik. He turned to Corus’s men. “Just so we understand one another, I will do to Lears what I did to Corus. And you all know from our time in the Third together … that no matter how difficult or impossible the task seems, I always get it done. Make no mistake. I will kill Lears and anyone who tries to stop me from doing it.” Stiger paused to let that sink in. “The choice is yours. Make it now.”

  “I will serve you, sir.” A sergeant immediately stepped forward and came crisply to attention. “It will be my honor, if you will have me.”

  “What is your name, Sergeant?”

  “Sergeant Lanist, sir,” the man said.

  A heartbeat later, a second man joined his sergeant, then all of the men stepped forward. They too came to attention.

  “It seems my men will serve you too, sir.”

  “Very good, Sergeant,” Stiger said. “For the time being, you will be under Centurion Ruga’s command.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “I will follow the centurion’s orders.”

  “Now, Sergeant,” Stiger said, “would you kindly go and see that the men holding my father do not harm him? I would be irked were anything to happen to him.”

  “I will, sir,” Lanist said. He saluted.

  “Ruga,” Stiger said, “take two men and go with him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruga said and pointed to two of his men. “You both are with me.”

  They followed Lanist through the open doors and into the courtyard beyond.

  “What is your name?” Stiger asked a corporal who was standing at attention with the others.

  “Corporal Heben, sir.”

  “Go tell the rest of your men posted around my home what occurred here,” Stiger said. “If they want to join me, they are welcome to do so. If not, they are free to go. Make them the same offer I made you, understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Get to it, man.”

  The corporal saluted and hastily left, almost running down the street.

  Stiger turned his gaze back to Corus and breathed out an unhappy breath. One more enemy had been felled. The fight had not even left him winded. After all these years, their feud had finally ended in blood, just as he always thought it would.

  “I knew you’d take him,” Therik said, not with a little pride. He clapped Stiger on the shoulder armor. It was almost a body blow. “Fighting with me has made you better than good.”

  The orc handed Stiger his small towel. Stiger wiped the blood from his face and then cleaned the sword with the soiled towel. When Rarokan was clean, he sheathed it. As he handed the towel back to Therik, the crowd that had been watching gave a mighty cheer. Stiger glanced around, surprised. He had forgotten about them. The nearest must have heard his every word as he addressed Corus’s men.

  Stories would undoubtedly race throughout the city about how he had killed a praetorian captain in personal combat and spared the rest of the praetorians, who then pledged themselves to his service.

  The tale, like so many others, would grow in the telling. In time, Corus would become a famous villain. He would be eight feet tall, thoroughly disreputable, and as skilled as they came with a sword, which in a way he had been … just not eight feet tall. Stiger glanced at the orc. Therik had been right. Corus had not stood a chance.

  With so many witnesses, Lears would shortly hear of what had happened. He hoped the man knew fear, for with a certainty, death would be coming for him soon enough.

  “Right,” Stiger said and looked toward the door to his home. “Let’s go see my father.”

  “I am sure he will be just thrilled to meet Therik,” Eli said. “Do you think he can behave himself in polite company?”

  “Watch it, elf,” Therik growled.

  Stiger glanced once more at the orc and chuckled. “Let’s go find out.”

  With that, he started forward. Corus’s men moved aside for him. Stiger hesitated at the open doors and the entrance to the courtyard. He had stepped through these very doors over ten years before and started out on a journey of a lifetime, one he could never have imagined possible. Placing a hand on the doorframe, he patted it fondly, then stepped through and into the courtyard.

  Chapter Nine

  The courtyard was empty. There was not a soul in sight. The slave he had seen earlier was gone. Stiger looked around. He remembered the courtyard being bigger, nicer. He figured he was seeing it anew or rea
lly with an older pair of eyes. The space wasn’t all that big. There were two raised stone garden beds to the right side. As it was winter, the plants had been removed. All that remained was the dirt.

  In his youth, his mother had spent time gardening here, planting flowers and decorative plants. She took pride in her work and refused to let the slaves or servants help. As a child, he had even assisted her. Those had been good days, but they were long gone, lost to the mists of time and memory. Stiger blew out an unhappy breath at the sudden wash of memories. Some were fond, but most were painful.

  The plastered walls of the courtyard had been painted into red and black patterns. Stiger had never learned the reason for it and had not thought to ask. The paint had long since faded. The plaster underneath was crumbling too. The entire courtyard had a decayed, neglected look to it.

  On the left wall, rings had been mounted waist-high so that animals could be tethered when there were visitors or deliveries. Two of the six rings were missing. One of those remaining was hanging at an angle, clearly on the verge of falling off. Scowling, he surveyed the courtyard once again, wondering on the lack of basic maintenance. Why wasn’t his father keeping up the home? It was a question he did not know the answer to.

  He continued up to the main door, which was shut. Close behind, Eli and Therik followed. Tugging on the handle, Stiger found it unlocked. He pulled the heavy wooden door open. The hinges were well-oiled and barely made a sound as the door swung wide.

  Stiger’s home was a veritable fortress. The walls were thick and made of cemented brick covered over in plaster. There was only one main entrance and exit. This was it. The door, too, was thick and could be barred from the inside. It would take a heavy battering ram and team of determined men to even attempt to force it open.

  Stiger peered into the near darkness that greeted them from the open doorway. Beyond was the grand hall, which was lined with beautifully crafted marble columns, each reaching up to the ceiling thirty feet above.

  This hall was the family’s public face, the central feature of the house, from which all rooms and passageways connected. It was the showcase that visitors were to be awed by, boldly proclaiming and displaying the family’s grandeur, wealth, prestige, and power. The grand hall was also the venue where most guests were entertained. Few were permitted the privilege of venturing into the family’s private quarters and suites.