The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5)

by Marc Edelheit

  After Sarai’s loss, he had found a measure of peace in Garand Gerkane. Stiger wondered if the city was still there and just as peaceful as he recalled. He suspected it was and hoped in the future there might be time one day to return.

  The dwarves came out of their tents and into the cold. They cheered him, almost as vociferously as his legionaries. Stiger well understood their emotion. He had restored the Compact, delivered the traitor Hrove to their thane, and brought the Thirteenth Legion with him from the past to help fulfill a prophecy dear to their hearts.

  For the dwarves, his actions meant the time of shutting out the world was at an end. They eagerly looked forward to what they called their return. Stiger thought perhaps the world, the Cyphan included, were not ready for them.

  Tyga, chieftain of the Rock Breakers, stepped forth from an overly large tent painted in his clan’s colors. It was likely his headquarters. Two guards wearing plate armor were posted before the tent. They snapped to attention as their chieftain strode past. With him came two other dwarves, likely his senior officers.

  Tyga moved slowly to the edge of the roadway and there came to a stop. The two officers stepped to either side of their chieftain. Even for a dwarf, Tyga was powerfully built, with bulging muscles and a broad chest. Tyga wore a well-cut tunic and a pair of dark leather boots, which sank into the fresh snow. His forearm was bandaged, for he had taken a wound at the battle before Old City. As he waited for Stiger to come nearer, he rested his hands upon his hips.

  Unlike his warriors, the chieftain of the Rock Breakers did not cheer, but instead offered a solemn nod. Tyga was the near spitting image of his father, Rohka. Stiger returned the nod and then he was past, continuing his way up the road toward Castle Vrell, its massive fortified walls reaching vainly for the gray overcast sky.

  A gnomish camp was next. Braddock had broken the gnomes up, with the rationale that if they were left together there would be trouble, and not the little kind either. Having gotten to know the mean little shits, Stiger had readily agreed with the thane’s thinking.

  Still, he thought, even broken up, they were likely to cause trouble. Only by keeping them busy could one truly keep the gnomes from trouble, and sometimes not even then. Right now, there was little for the majority of them to do, and that worried Stiger immensely.

  The gnomes, wearing simple gray tunics with black boots, did not cheer, nor did they show any emotion. They lined both sides of the road and silently watched as Stiger and his party rode into their midst.

  Stiger glanced back at Therik, who was still riding at Severus’s side. The orc’s face was drawn. His hand rested on his sword hilt, while the other held the reins to the horse tightly. Stiger could well imagine the former king’s thoughts, for orcs and gnomes did not mix well.

  Something had occurred long ago between the two races that left not only hard feelings on both sides, but bad blood. What that occurrence was, Stiger did not know. The gnomes and dwarves refused to talk about it. What mattered was that the gnomes were holding a serious grudge. Despite that, they knew Therik was an ally and, as such, tolerated him, at least for Stiger’s sake.

  A gnome wearing a black tunic emerged from a tent identical to the others. Before the tent was a black standard. The standard’s fabric, emblazoned with the skull of an orc, rippled as the wind tugged at it. The gnome strode forward, toward the road. The other gnomes silently made space for him and drew back several paces.

  Dog stopped before the gnome. The two considered each other for a long moment. Then Dog turned away and continued up the road. The gnome’s eyes followed the animal before shifting to Stiger.

  “Greetings, Cragg.” Stiger brought his horse to a halt. He spoke to the kluge in Dwarven.

  “Stiger,” Cragg replied. “Is good you live.”

  “It’s good to see you too.” Stiger understood Cragg was not making a joke. He was deadly serious. Stiger glanced around at the gnomes. “Keeping your boys busy? Lots of training, I hope?”

  “No,” Cragg said simply. “Not much to do. They grow bored.”

  “I don’t need trouble, Cragg,” Stiger warned, hardening his voice. “You promised me you’d keep them in hand.” Stiger pointed up toward the castle in the distance. “I have enough trouble waiting for me on the other side of the pass. I don’t need to be worrying about your gnomes causing havoc with the dwarves or my legionaries.”

  Cragg showed his needle-like teeth in what Stiger supposed was amusement and then gave a shrug of his tiny shoulders. “You call, we come. We fight.” The gnome gestured around at his fellows. “We no cause trouble. We wait. We bored, but no trouble. I say so. They listen.”

  Stiger glanced once again around at the silent gnomes. There were thousands of them. They watched both Stiger and Cragg with unblinking gazes. That Cragg wasn’t keeping them busy was not welcome news. He had no idea how long Cragg’s promise would hold. Really, it all came down to how long the other gnomes would continue to listen to their kluge and behave themselves. There was simply no telling. From experience, Stiger knew Cragg’s reach only went so far.

  “We won’t be sitting here for much longer,” Stiger assured the kluge. “You well know that. So…keep your boys in line.”

  “I do. I send Braddock help to fix roads.” Cragg gave a nod of his small head. “We honor Compact. Soon, soon, yes?”

  “Soon enough,” Stiger said, then paused. He wasn’t sure how the gnome would interpret the next part. Would he see the truth in the words? Or would he perceive weakness to be exploited? Regardless, Stiger felt it needed to be said. “I thank you for your assistance, Cragg.”

  “Bah…thanks not needed,” Cragg said quickly and waved a tiny hand dismissively. “You hurry once work done. No keep us waiting. We honor Compact, kill enemy. No let anyone but ally to get World Gate, yes? We fight to last…keep World Gate from enemy. Yes, yes?”

  “You are a gnome after my own heart. Take care, Cragg.” With that, Stiger nudged Nomad into a walk again.

  “You don’t die,” Cragg called after him, with insistence.

  “As I said, you are a gnome after my own heart.” Stiger resisted a scowl at Cragg’s words as Nomad drew him farther away. He was about to say more when first one and then all the gnomes began to hum. Coming from thousands of tiny throats, it was an unsettling sound, almost to the point of being thoroughly unnerving. The hairs on the back of Stiger’s neck stood on end. He figured it was their way of showing him some measure of respect, which was interesting because, in his experience, they respected no one.

  Leaving the gnomes behind, they came upon another legionary cohort, the Fifth. These men cheered just as enthusiastically as those others he’d passed. They pressed tightly forward. Stiger was forced to pull Nomad to a halt. The men had gathered so closely around his horse, it was impossible to proceed farther without the serious possibility of Nomad injuring a man. Keeping a tight hold on the reins, he shook as many hands as he could. Then the officers began to reestablish discipline the old-fashioned way. The centurions waded into the press, using their vine canes to get their men’s attention and force them back.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” Centurion Nantus said as Stiger started Nomad back into a walk. “They got a little excited.”

  “No need to apologize,” Stiger said. “And no punishments for the men. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Nantus said.

  “Carry on, Centurion,” Stiger said.

  Nantus saluted. Stiger returned the salute.

  The road took them around a bend, the sides of which were steep, rocky, and unsuitable for camping. It provided a welcome respite from the throngs of cheering men, dwarves, and humming gnomes. Dog loped happily ahead, stretching his legs, occasionally stopping to sniff at something he found interesting, dig in the snow, or pee on an exposed rock. Then he was off again, dashing away.

  Stiger sucked in a breath of cold winter air and then breathed out through his nose, enjoying the moment. Therik, riding one of the stout dwarven m
ountain ponies, cantered up beside him and then slowed his horse to Nomad’s pace. It had taken more than a little convincing to get the orc on horseback and then even more work to get the horse to accept Therik.

  Stiger glanced over at the orc, who looked terribly uncomfortable in the saddle. He clung to the reins, as if afraid he would drop them and lose control. The orc’s feet almost touched the ground. Stiger grinned at the orc, for Therik’s mount appeared even more uncertain than its rider. The pony walked along in a skittish manner, rolling her eyes and flaring her nostrils, as if she was working up the courage to throw her rider and bolt.

  “That,” Therik spoke in Common. He waved with one hand behind them, while the other gripped the reins tightly. “That is nothing.”

  Stiger looked over at his friend, wondering what he was getting at. Stiger had discovered Therik had an opinion on just about everything. He was sharp as a freshly honed blade. Over the long years spent in the past, Stiger had found himself coming to rely upon the orc’s counsel.

  “It means nothing,” Therik said firmly. “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” Stiger asked, resting a hand upon his thigh as Nomad continued working his way up the snow-covered road.

  “Your men”—Therik jerked his head back behind them—“they love you, yes?”

  Stiger gave a nod, thinking that over the last few years Therik had become fluent with the common tongue. Though the orc’s accent was a little guttural, he spoke quite well.

  “I suppose so,” Stiger said, after a prolonged pause.

  “It can all go away like that.” Therik gave a snap of his large fingers. “Do not make mistake like me. I tell you. It will not last forever. My people turned their back on me. The love of your people can be short-lived. You could lose everything.”

  Stiger considered Therik for a long moment. As Nomad plodded along, he looked at the road before him. The gnomes had used a horse-pulled roller to press and pack the snow down. It was quite an ingenious device and made travel easier.

  “I am mortal,” Stiger said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Therik glanced over at him in question.

  “During the empire’s early days,” Stiger said, “upon their return home, victorious generals were rewarded with a triumph.”

  “A triumph?” Therik asked. “What’s that?” “A grand parade through the capital,” Stiger explained. “Prisoners, treasure, and some of the men who had been on campaign would parade with the general. For days afterwards, there would be feasts and games, mostly for the people, but always in honor of the victorious. It was a big show, a reward for exemplary service to the empire. All shared in the general’s success, and in return, the general was treated, at least for a few days, as a near god.”

  “There are no more triumphs?”

  Stiger shook his head. “Those days have passed. Now, the most a general can expect is an ovation, being honored in a simple ceremony by the emperor and senate…perhaps a party.”

  “Why?” Therik asked.

  “Because emperors enjoy the popularity of the masses too much,” Stiger said. “A popular person, especially a successful general, is a threat to their power. So, there are no more grand displays of success.”

  “That is wise,” Therik said. “What is your point?”

  “During the triumph,” Stiger said, “a slave would ride in the chariot with the one being honored. The slave’s sole responsibility on that triumphant ride through the capital and cheering masses of the mob was to continually whisper in the general’s ear.”

  “What did he say?” Therik asked.

  “‘Remember, you are mortal,’” Stiger said and then fell silent. Everything in this world was fleeting. Having traveled from the past back to the present, that had been made only too clear. Everything changed. Nothing was permanent. The elves understood it and now so too did Stiger.

  Therik was more than correct and, without realizing it, had in a way been acting the part of the general’s slave. The adoration Stiger’s men showered upon him was transitory, a temporary thing. He loved them and they him, but that could all change. It was quite possible, at some point in the future, he could lose their affection, their trust. It was something to remember and keep close to mind.

  “Thank you,” Stiger said back to the orc as the wind gusted again, blowing a cloud of snow over them both. Stiger averted his face until the stinging gust subsided. When he looked back, Therik bared his tusks back at him in what was, for the orc, an amused grin.

  “You are mortal. Good that you understand.” Therik pointed a thick index finger at him. “You might live long enough for me to get around to one day killing you.”

  Stiger gave an amused chuckle. “I would have none other do the deed.”

  “I will allow none other the honor,” Therik said, in a tone he struggled to keep solemn.

  Then, there was no more time for talk, as they had reached the next camp. Men from Seventh Cohort poured out of their tents and began cheering. As the throngs surrounded him, Stiger glanced once more over at Therik. The big orc made an exaggerated snapping motion of his fingers, to emphasize his point. Stiger gave a nod and then turned his attention back to the men.

  Another hour’s ride brought them through five more camps and then finally to the massive walls of the castle, which sat smack in the middle of the pass.

  Castle Vrell guarded the entrance to the valley. The gate on this side of the pass was open, with a century of men standing guard. The centurion in command of the detail, Verenus of Third Cohort, called his men to attention and saluted, fist to chest.

  Stiger returned the salute as he gave Nomad a nudge to increase his pace. He passed into the long tunnel that would take them under the walls of the fortress. In the confines of the tunnel, lit only by a handful of torches, the sound of the hooves of the party were almost painfully loud as they clacked against the ancient stone paving. Then they were through, emerging out into the light of the castle courtyard.

  Camp Prefect Oney, known affectionately as Salt, waited. Salt had ridden ahead to begin the setup of Stiger’s headquarters. With him was Lieutenant Ikely, along with a handful of legionaries who stood off to the side. Stiger had left Ikely in command of the castle. As Stiger pulled up before them and dismounted, both offered him a salute. Holding the reins of his horse, Stiger returned their salutes.

  “Gentlemen,” Stiger said, “it is good to see you.”

  “You too, sir,” Ikely said as he gave Stiger a funny look and then quickly hid it. Stiger had gotten a lot of that of late. He had not seen his lieutenant in over five years but understood to Ikely it had only been a handful of days. Stiger had aged a bit. There were a few more lines on his face than there had been before he stepped through the World Gate. His hair was also a touch grayer.

  Another pang of loss coursed through Stiger, this time over his company. Returning to the future had not been as easy as he had assumed it would be. The boys of the Eighty-Fifth were still his men, but it was different now. The legion, the garrison, and his old company, they were all his boys now. Stiger’s days as a company commander were over, and the sight of Ikely brought it all home, and hard too.

  A moment later, Lan’s cavalry clattered into the courtyard, crowding the space with dozens of horses and riders. The troopers began dismounting around them. The men looked cold and tired.

  “Permission to dismiss the men, sir,” Lan, still on horseback, asked of Stiger.

  “Granted,” Stiger replied. “Thank you for the escort, Lieutenant.”

  “I should be thanking you, sir,” Lan said, “for getting me out of that damned dwarven underground.”

  “Even in this miserable weather?” Salt asked.

  “I don’t know how the dwarves can live underground,” Lan added, “with no sky overhead, no sun, the change in seasons. It’s gotta be a miserable affair.”

  “Jenna being here in the castle,” Stiger said, “wouldn’t have anything to do with your eagerness to put Old City be
hind you, would it?”

  Lan was silent for several heartbeats. He shifted in his saddle, as if uncomfortable.

  “You know about that, sir?”

  Stiger gave a nod. Lan’s face flushed around the bruises and cuts to his face he had taken in the recent fighting. The lieutenant looked quite a sight, a battle-scarred veteran.

  “Vargus mentioned it,” Stiger said. “He asked me to look in on his daughter.”

  “I see, sir,” Lan said, and then, to cover his evident embarrassment, turned his attention to his men as he himself dismounted. “Take your horses to the stable. You know the drill. See to their care before your own.”

  The dismounted riders began leading their horses toward the castle’s stables. One of the two stable doors was open. Yellowed lantern light glowed from within.

  “Severus.” Stiger turned to the junior tribune. He had become invaluable to Stiger as an aide. “See to your horse, get some food, and then report to headquarters. Go through any dispatches and messages that are waiting. Set aside those you deem important. I will be there shortly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Severus said and led his horse off toward the stables.

  Dog weaved his way through the men and horses, padding up to Salt. He received a vigorous scratch on the neck, followed by a pat on the head. The animal was so large that the top of his head came up to Salt’s chest. Dog tried to lick the prefect’s face. With practiced ease, Salt deftly dodged the long pink tongue. Dog in turn settled for licking the prefect’s hand.

  Ikely’s gaze fell upon the animal and he shook his head in what was clear disbelief, as the dog, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, turned his attention to him. Stiger wondered if Ikely would take a step back, as many did when first meeting his hound. Though he appeared a little uncertain, the lieutenant held his ground.

  Dog sniffed at Ikely curiously, almost hesitantly. The lieutenant’s eyes went to Stiger briefly before returning his attention to Dog. He held out his hand for the animal to sniff.

  “He’s a big baby, is all,” Stiger said. “He’ll beg food from you whenever he gets the chance. I assure you, no matter how hungry he looks or how sad his eyes get…he’s well fed, mostly by the men. They spoil him something terrible.”