The Tiger’s Imperium

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I surrender, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “Go,” Stiger said and pointed with his sword in the direction they had just come. “Surrender to the first of my men you come across and you will be spared.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  The men moved past, almost edging their way by, looking quite nervous, as if Stiger would turn on them and kill them all. He watched them for a moment, then stepped forward and, one-handed, opened the throne room door, which swung open easily and almost without sound. He stepped back, lest there was someone waiting on the other side.

  There were no defenders lying in wait. The throne room beyond was empty and as he remembered it. Rectangular-shaped, the room was wide and long enough that the emperor could hold court for three or four hundred petitioners. Thick marble columns supported the roof thirty feet above. Chandeliers with dozens of fat tallow candles hung from crossbeams. None were lit. Windows provided much of the light. These had been set high above near the ceiling.

  The throne room was sparse. There was no furniture, no seats or benches, other than the curule chair. It was standing room only and that was intentional. The floors were polished black marble, the walls white marble.

  At the end of the throne room, set against the far wall, was the curule chair. It sat upon a raised dais. A large mosaic of an eagle in flight took up the entire wall behind the chair. It was a representation of the divine spirit.

  Stiger could see a man sitting slumped forward in the chair and what looked like a woman sprawled at his feet and unmoving, tangled up in a dress. The man was wearing a toga. He also wore a crown of wreaths. It was Lears.

  The hobnails on Stiger’s worn boots clacked loudly against the marble as he walked slowly toward the throne. He stopped just before it and gazed upon Lears.

  Lears looked slowly up at him, blinking. He held a cup in a hand that shook violently. His eyes were wide, and he was sweating profusely. The expression on his face was a strained one, filled with intense pain. Stiger blew out an unhappy breath, thoroughly disgusted by the man before him.

  “Lehr Pompentius Lears,” Stiger said, “we meet again at last.”

  Eli stepped forward and grabbed the cup from Lears’s hand. He sniffed at it and then grimaced.

  “Poison.” The elf dropped the cup, as if it had burned his hand. The contents spilled out onto the marble. “I don’t believe he drank all of it.”

  Lears spoke with a hoarse voice. “I couldn’t. I wanted to,” he sobbed, “but I couldn’t. I thought I could, but dead is dead.” A heartbeat later, he groaned and grabbed at his stomach with a hand. “The pain. It hurts. I don’t want to die.”

  Stiger felt dull, empty. He had been looking forward to this reunion for years and it was not going the way he had hoped. He had wanted his revenge, but this, watching a man die slowly from poison, was not it, not what he had envisioned.

  Lears looked up at Stiger and his face twisted. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  “Yes,” Stiger agreed, “you should have.”

  Kill the coward, Rarokan hissed.

  Stiger did not move. He just stared at Lears, feeling the scars upon his back like never before. He had hated this man, loathed him. Now, he pitied him.

  “I wanted to be emperor,” Lears gasped. “I wanted it so bad. I should have killed you. Why do you always stand in my way? Why can’t you for once leave well enough alone? I deserve this.”

  Stiger said nothing.

  Lears went to speak again. Instead, he doubled over in his chair, grunting in agony. Stiger looked on the man who had so wronged him and felt a wave of sadness. The sadness wasn’t for Lears, but for what had been done to him and so many others. Lears was not just a disgrace, but he had been a tool of the confederacy. The man had disgraced not only himself, but his entire family. They would live with the shame of that for years to come, just as Stiger had lived under the cloud his father had made.

  “I—” Lears began coughing. Blood frothed to his lips. It was clear he was suffering tremendously and the end was near. Stiger had thought seeing the man suffer would bring him joy. It did nothing of the kind. Lears looked up and motioned him closer, clearly losing the ability to speak.

  Stiger took a step and leaned forward, and as he did, Lears jumped from his chair, a dagger in hand, looking to plunge it deep. The blade swept toward Stiger’s neck. Stiger grabbed Lears’s forearm, stopping the point a hairsbreadth from his skin.

  Locking eyes with his nemesis, he held Lears’s forearm in an iron grip and then squeezed. Lears cried out and the dagger fell to the floor, clattering upon the marble. Stiger released his grip and stepped back, down from the dais. Lears collapsed back into the curule chair, breathing heavily, cradling his arm.

  “Once again,” Stiger said, “you have failed to kill me.”

  “Screw you,” Lears rasped as a wave of pain wracked him.

  “Dog,” Stiger said. The animal growled as he stepped forward and around Stiger’s leg. Dog bared his canines at Lears, whose eyes had gone to the big, menacing animal. Lears began to tremble violently as Dog drew near.

  His gaze on Lears, Stiger hesitated a moment.

  “Take him.”

  Dog lunged forward, jaws closing around Lears’s throat. There was a strangled cry and then Dog tore open the would-be emperor’s throat. Lears spasmed, his legs kicking violently underneath the animal. Then he fell still as his lifeblood flowed in a torrent down his toga and onto the polished marble.

  Dog returned to Stiger’s side and sat down, looking up at him.

  “Good boy,” Stiger said and patted the animal’s head fondly. “You are a good dog.”

  Dog’s tail gave a wag.

  There was a long moment of silence. Therik broke it as he turned to Marcus.

  “See, I told you he was a killer.”

  Marcus gave a nod, his eyes warily on the big animal. A moment later, they shifted to the woman at the foot of the dais.

  “That is Martella,” Marcus said, with a sad note, “Lears’s wife. Despite who she was married to, I knew her to be a kindly woman. It was an arranged marriage and I do not think she derived much happiness from it.”

  “I’m guessing he took the easy way out.”

  Stiger spun. Dog barked and then growled. Handi was at the entrance of the hall and he was alone. His sword was out, and he started walking toward them, his polished boots clicking against the floor.

  “Not quite,” Stiger said.

  “As I told you earlier, my mission is complete,” Handi said. “I could have left with Veers, but I decided to stay, to serve my god even further. Through service comes rebirth to a higher station in life.”

  “You are a traitor to your people,” Stiger growled. “A good-for-nothing traitor.”

  “Not to my god.” Handi swung his bloodied sword around with the ease of a trained and confident swordsman. “When I was younger, I found myself drawn to Valoor’s temple. I never felt the High Father’s appeal or pull. I was repulsed by his priests, the regular devotions, the festivals my mother forced me to attend. Name it, nothing about your god appealed to me. It took me years to understand that I was a man reborn and sent here for a purpose, for a cause. You see, I learned I had given good service in a previous life. Valoor rewarded me with an elevated station in this life and—” Handi paused and glanced around the throne room—“well, let’s just say, with this opportunity. Valoor’s priests opened my eyes and I was graced with becoming acquainted with my past lives.” Handi’s gaze returned to Stiger. “Now I have an opportunity to perform an even greater service. That is, if you have the balls to fight me. Will you face me one-on-one? Are you man enough? Or do I have to go through them to get to you?”

  “If you faced me,” Therik said, “I’d make you suffer terribly for your crimes.” The orc lowered his sword, placing it point-first down on the floor and almost leaning on it as he glanced over at Stiger. He turned back to Handi, his tongue caressing one of his sharpene
d tusks as he considered the tribune. “I am disappointed, actually, that I will not be the one you will be fighting. Still, I will get to watch an entertaining fight, even if it will be one-sided.”

  “Son,” Marcus said and reached out an arm, “there is no need to fight him. The palace is falling. Our men should be here shortly.”

  Stiger glanced down at Lears’s body before looking over at his father. “I disagree. For all that he’s done, he has earned what’s coming. I intend to deliver justice, my way.”

  “Justice?” Handi laughed. The sound of it was harsh as it echoed off the marble-faced walls of the throne room. “Are you serious? Only Valoor delivers true justice.”

  “All right then,” Marcus said, glancing at Handi. His face hardened. “Send the bastard on to his god for judgment.”

  Dog’s growl intensified.

  “Dog,” Stiger snapped. “This one is mine.”

  Dog ceased his growling and sat down in an obedient manner.

  Stiger faced Handi.

  The tribune shot him a pleased smile filled with perfect teeth. “I plan to do great service this day.”

  “Make it quick,” Eli said in Elven. “Yes, he’s done great harm, but don’t play with him, at least not too much.”

  Stiger gave a nod and studied Handi for a long moment. He sensed no power within the man. He doubted that Handi could use or manipulate will. He could sense no implements or devices of evil on his person either. Over the long years stuck in the past, Stiger had learned to sense those. There was nothing that might mark Handi as a servant of a dark god. That was what had made the man such a deadly agent. He had been able to slip into the background, play a fop, a pampered fool from a wealthy family, and not be noticed by the paladins. It bore thinking on, for how many more were out there like him?

  Handi stepped forward, raising his sword before himself in mock salute.

  Stiger closed off the energy flow from Rarokan and the sword’s glow vanished. Just in case he was wrong about the man’s ability to use will, he left the door open to the wizard’s prison.

  Handi gave a practice swing and then adopted a fighting stance. Long gone was the foppish attitude Stiger had first seen back in the south. It had all been a façade. Before him was a killer, and Stiger had no doubt the tribune was well trained in the use of the sword he carried.

  Handi struck first. His attack was fast. Stiger blocked. Their swords met with a clang that echoed off the marble-faced walls. Handi danced back before Stiger could counterattack. The tribune flashed another infuriating smile his way.

  Stiger studied his opponent a heartbeat and then moved to the side. Handi moved opposite. They circled each other for half a turn before Handi lunged forward again, striking out. Stiger batted his sword away with a ringing clang. Then he jabbed, aiming for Handi’s extended leg. The tribune danced back again and away.

  Handi attacked, and once more, Stiger blocked. The tribune moved nimbly back again before stepping forward and launching a furious attack, attempting to land a series of blows and strikes. Stiger blocked each one.

  As the tribune went to pull back, Stiger went over to the offensive himself, lashing out with his sword. He cut a deep slice along Handi’s forearm. The tribune hissed with pain and stepped back three steps. Stiger was about to follow when Handi immediately lunged back for another attack. Stiger blocked and this time Handi came away with a slice on the cheek that bled freely.

  “Sorry to mar your looks,” Stiger said.

  “Bastard,” Handi hissed as he touched his face wound with his free hand and then looked at the blood. “You are a bastard.”

  “I can be,” Stiger agreed.

  Grim-faced, Handi came forward on full attack. Stiger blocked each lunge, parrying them away. Handi received several more wounds in the process and, Stiger noted, was becoming winded.

  The tribune danced back several steps, eying Stiger warily. With every movement, he was dripping blood onto the marble. Sweat beaded his forehead and mixed with the blood running down his cheek. There was no fear of death in the man’s eyes, but Stiger saw now that Handi understood this fight would end with him losing. That would make him dangerous, for a cornered man might try anything.

  “It is time for you to die,” Stiger said.

  Handi lunged for a killing strike. The attack was desperately made and a tad slower than his previous tries. Stiger danced to the side, and as he did, he reached out with his free hand and gripped his opponent’s sword arm. Stiger pulled hard, yanking Handi forward and off balance, while at the same time ramming his own blade deep into Handi’s right thigh.

  The sword bit deep and Handi collapsed to a knee, gasping in pain. Stiger yanked the sword out and raised it to strike again. The tribune deliberately dropped his sword and turned to look up at Stiger.

  “Finish it,” Handi said. “I would look upon the face of my god and be reborn. Maybe—one day—we shall meet again.” Handi grinned up at him. “I think I’d like that.”

  “No,” Stiger said firmly. “There will be no rebirth for you. This ends here, for I will be taking your soul.”

  Handi’s eyes widened as Stiger’s sword began to glow once more, blue flames licking along the blade’s edge. Stiger saw comprehension dawn on the tribune’s eyes.

  Gripping his sword with both hands, Stiger fed it a little power, then sliced downward with all his might. Rarokan neatly carved through Handi’s neck, severing the head from the body. The hilt grew warm in his hands as Rarokan took both sides of the soul. The sword said nothing, but he could feel the mad wizard’s satisfaction.

  Slightly winded, Stiger straightened. It was over. He reached down and picked up Handi’s head by the hair and regarded his enemy for a long moment. The tribune’s eyes were lifeless and unmoving. Holding the head, he turned and walked back to the curule chair, stepping by Eli and Therik, who moved aside for him. Marcus simply watched, saying nothing. At the throne, Stiger held up the lifeless head and looked into the face of the dead man.

  “Your service to your dark god,” Stiger said, “is done.”

  With that, he tossed the head aside. There was a commotion at the end of the hall. Stiger turned to see Ikuus and Hollux entering, along with a dozen legionaries. Tiro was with them.

  They spotted him and walked up to the throne.

  “We’ve won, Imperator,” Ikuus said in an exultant tone. The man’s armor was covered in blood and his sword was stained by it too. “We are victorious.”

  “The last of the resistance is being mopped up,” Hollux added. “As far as we can tell, most of the defenders are surrendering.”

  Stiger felt an intense wave of relief. Lears and Handi were dead, finished. The empire was his, or it would be when the senate confirmed him. He could not imagine the senators refusing him after this—then again, they were professional politicians. So who knew what they might do in the end.

  “What happened here?” Tiro asked, looking at Handi’s head lying upon the dais before the throne.

  “He lost his head,” Eli said and pointed at Handi’s headless body. “Surely you can see that.”

  Feeling sour once again, Stiger turned his gaze to Lears. He reached forward and removed the crown of wreaths. Turning back around and facing everyone, he placed it upon his own head. He gazed at those before him for a moment, then turned back to Lears. With a hand, Stiger reached out and yanked his former enemy from the curule chair, the emperor’s ultimate symbol of imperium. Lears’s body rolled limply down the dais steps, where it came to a stop next to his deceased wife.

  Stiger sat down. The chair, though padded, was uncomfortable and hard. Stiger supposed that was, in a way, a sign in and of itself. Emperors should never become too comfortable with their imperium. Or it could simply be that the chair, with all its finery, trim, and gold paint, was just too ostentatious to be comfortable.

  Tail wagging, Dog padded up and sat down next to the throne and Stiger. More of his legionaries had entered the hall, crowding it, including Ruga and
Lepidus. Both men grinned broadly at Stiger.

  “Long live the emperor!” Ruga shouted.

  “Long live the emperor!” came the massed shout, which echoed about the hall. “Long live the emperor!”

  Stiger had won the curule chair and an empire. He knew he should feel exultant, satisfied, proud, and—as Ikuus had said—victorious. Instead, he was angry, for he was awash in a sea of blood with no end in sight and the war for the empire and Istros was only just beginning.

  Stiger looked up at the men standing before his throne. They were silently watching him. He stood, raised his sword up into the air, and held it there a moment. He spied his father amongst them. They made eye contact for a heartbeat. His father gave a curt nod of what Stiger took to be approval.

  “An empire without end!” Stiger shouted.

  There was a moment of silence as the sound of his shout echoed off the walls.

  “An empire without end,” came the massed reply. It seemed to shake the very air of the throne room. “An empire without end. An empire without end … An empire without end!”

  Epilogue

  It was the third day after the assault on the palace. Stiger was back in his family home, sitting before the large circular fire with his father and Max. Dog lay by the fire on his side, enjoying the heat and sleeping away, occasionally snoring.

  After the fight, Stiger had not wanted to stay in the palace, not for a heartbeat. He really did not want to go back either, but knew he would need to … eventually. It wasn’t home, not yet. That was, if the empire managed to survive the next few days. Handi had damaged it, possibly beyond repair.

  Outside, like in Lorium, vast crowds had gathered, praying, chanting, and singing the day away. It seemed as if the entire city was rejoicing, celebrating. Stiger had been told the people were treating his ascension to the throne like a holiday. The city was one great big drunken party.

  Unlike the people, Stiger did not feel like celebrating. After the news he had received over the last two days, he felt dreadful. More had just arrived at his doorstep. It made him sick to his stomach. Stiger glanced down at his mug of mulled wine. He swirled the contents about before looking up at his brother.