“We need to organize our supply,” Stiger said, “build a train, and prepare for an extended movement. By extended, I mean all the way back to the empire.” He gestured with a hand at his two tribunes. “You both will be working exclusively toward that effort. The army cannot march and fight on an empty belly. Braddock has brought up additional food stores from Old City, with more on the way. Those supplies are going to be moved to the new depot that is being built in the valley, at Bridgetown.”
Stiger paused again and sucked in another breath.
“Bridgetown will become the main collection point for all supplies. I want our own supplies moved and added to that depot. We’ll need to scrounge up any transport, mules, wagons, and carts you can lay your hands on. Supply will have to travel with us and after us as we march east along the Vrell road. Depots outside the valley will need to be established, with regular shipments following. As I see it, we must develop a supply system that will be able to continually replenish what we consume as we advance. That includes absorbing any supplies we capture or can manage to forage.”
“That’s a big job, sir,” Ikely said.
“It is,” Stiger said, “and why I want you both on it.”
“Yes, sir,” Ikely said. Severus shifted uncomfortably.
“Braddock,” Stiger continued, “has assigned a dwarf by the name of Tegoth. I understand he is as old as the rocks and nearly an invalid, but he understands supply. He should be arriving at the valley depot with a staff in the morning. Go meet and coordinate with him.” Stiger paused, looking between Ikely and Severus. “I want you both to keep me apprised of not only your thinking but your progress and…any problems that develop. As senior tribune, Ikely, you will lead this effort. Severus, you will assist.”
“You can count on me, sir,” Ikely said, after a very slight hesitation.
“Me too, sir,” Severus said.
“I know I can,” Stiger said. “Ikely, you are now in charge of all transport, wagons, carts, mules…whatever moves, it’s yours. That does not include Hux’s horses. Hux would likely skin you alive if you tried to take any of his beloved mounts.”
“Yes, sir,” Ikely said. “I won’t touch his horses, unless I absolutely need to.”
“Good,” Stiger said. “Braddock and I decided you will spearhead this effort. Tegoth will assist you. He will remain behind in the valley, as he is too crippled by age to travel much.”
“Yes, sir,” Ikely said.
“Do either of you have any questions?”
“No, sir,” Severus said.
“And you?” Stiger asked, when Ikely did not immediately answer. The newly promoted senior tribune had shifted his gaze down to the map and was rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Stiger had given Ikely a big job, and by his expression, he was fully coming to that realization. “Do you have any questions?”
“Plenty, sir,” Ikely said, looking up. “Feeding an army of over eighty thousand is likely going to keep me a little busy. I will need a staff to help make it properly work and a good number of men and dwarves assigned to supply. Let me meet with Tegoth, see what he has to say, learn what resources the dwarves have available, and then get my thoughts in order before I begin throwing at you what I will need to make this work.”
“That’s agreeable.” Stiger was pleased. It was the right answer and reinforced his decision to put Ikely in charge. “You both have a lot to do and time is short, as I intend to move just as soon as the road is ready.”
“I understand, sir,” Ikely said.
“Good,” Stiger said. “I will not keep you any longer. Dismissed.”
Ikely and Severus both snapped to attention, saluted, and stepped out of Stiger’s office. He watched them go, then looked over at Salt, who appeared somewhat amused.
“I trust you will check in on them?” Stiger asked. “Get nosy and provide a little guidance now and again?”
“You know me better than that, sir,” Salt said, with a wry smile. “I will hold their hands like they were my own children…well, at least until I’m confident they know what they’re doing. I learned a long time back, over three hundred years ago to be precise, a full belly on campaign is preferable to an empty one, sir.”
In many ways, Salt reminded Stiger of his old sergeant, Tiro. They were both cut from the same cloth, intelligent, practical, experienced, and unflappable. Salt was worth his weight in gold. He had also become a friend.
“That three hundred years joke is beginning to really wear thin,” Stiger said. “So much so, it is almost threadbare.”
“Is it, sir?” Salt asked. “I had not noticed.”
Stiger gave an amused grunt.
“I do believe Salt and I will get along just fine,” Eli said. “I approve of his humor.”
“Great,” Stiger said, looking between the two of them and rolling his eyes. “Just bloody great.”
“If you will excuse me, sir,” Salt said, “I have a lot to do, especially if the legion is to move within two weeks. I need to speak with each senior centurion, make sure the cohorts have what they need, gear- and equipment-wise. I will also let Ikely in on the little supply stash that Thoggle put into stasis with us. I just know he will be so thrilled to learn just how much needs to be moved out of the vault. The sooner I get started on all that, the better.”
“I will catch up with you later,” Stiger said. “There are some things we need to discuss in relation to the legion’s auxiliary cohorts.”
“Yes, sir.” With that, Salt left the office, leaving Stiger alone with the elves.
Stiger looked over at the two of them. One was his closest friend in this world. The other was still a mystery to him. Whenever Stiger gazed upon Taha’Leeth, his pulse quickened, and he felt drawn to her. Elven females had that effect upon men. When it came to beauty, they were goddesses come to life.
But there was something more about Taha’Leeth that put her above the rest and called to him, almost primally. Stiger could not put his finger on what exactly that was. She was beautiful, for sure. There was no doubt about that. Taha’Leeth made other elven females he’d known look poor by comparison. But that wasn’t quite it. He considered it might be how she carried herself. Like a light in the darkness, there was something about her bearing, a dignity despite her suffering that shone through. And Stiger understood suffering. Perhaps that was it?
“I like him,” Eli said, drawing Stiger’s attention back to the present. “He reminds me of Tiro.”
“I’ve had similar thoughts,” Stiger agreed. “I miss that old veteran.”
“Me too,” Eli said quietly.
There was a cough by the doorway. Venthus entered, with a jar that steamed and three mugs.
“I thought I left you down in the valley,” Stiger said. “I expected you tomorrow at the earliest.”
“And I thought”—Venthus set the jar and mugs down upon the table—“you might care for some refreshment, master. I have some heated wine.”
Stiger shook his head. Venthus must have followed almost immediately after he’d left Old City. “Well, as usual, you thought right. I could use a drink.”
Venthus gave a slight knowing smile and poured heated wine into the three mugs. He straightened, moved over to the desk. He gathered up Stiger’s cold and half-eaten bowl of stew, along with the empty mug. “Do you need anything else, master?”
“No, not at the moment. That will be all. Thank you, Venthus.”
“Very good, master,” Venthus said. “Should you require anything further, your clerks will know where to find me.”
Venthus bowed respectfully and left. Stiger considered his body slave for a moment. Calling the man a slave was misleading. Stiger had offered Venthus his freedom. Venthus had flatly refused his manumission, and yet Stiger knew, without a doubt, Venthus was no slave. He was more than that. Stiger wasn’t quite sure what motivated Venthus to stay and play the part of a slave, but he had come to rely upon the man. Venthus made his life more bearable, and at times comfortable. They were
n’t friends, but each respected the other.
Taha’Leeth had followed Venthus out of the room with her eyes. Her face betrayed no emotion, but Stiger thought he read concern. Or was it wariness about his manservant? Stiger was not quite sure.
“I let you out of my sight for less than an hour,” Eli said, “you manage to get yourself transported to the past and come back with not just a legion, but a slave to boot.” The elf’s gaze traveled over to the fire, where Dog slept. The big shaggy animal snored softly, his chest rising and falling contentedly. “And a mangy dog.”
Stiger gave a chuckle then looked down at the wine.
“Since we have wine, shall we make a toast?” Stiger picked up a mug and handed it to Taha’Leeth. He gave one to Eli too.
“To friendships and new beginnings,” Taha’Leeth said, before Stiger could propose a toast of his own.
“I will drink to that.” Stiger held his own mug up and took a sip. He savored the taste of the valley-made wine. It was quite good, smooth even, and he’d grown fond of it. The warmth filled him.
“Now,” Stiger said, setting the mug back down on the table, “let’s talk about scouting the enemy’s encampment when the time is right and what I want you to find out.”
“Yes, let’s.” Eli looked briefly about the room. “I can’t wait to get out of these stone walls and back into the action.”
THREE
Stiger groaned as he lowered himself into the wooden chair. It had been a long and busy day, the second since arriving at the castle. Hooking a stool with his foot, he slid it over, then rested his feet upon it. The fire before him crackled pleasantly. He had just thrown on two fresh logs and the blaze was growing, crackling, and spitting sparks upward. The fire provided the only light in the darkened room, for he had not lit the lamp. Dog was curled up by the fire, sleeping. He had not even moved when Stiger had entered, other than wag his tail, before closing his eyes again.
“This feels good.” Stiger leaned back, letting out a relieved sigh. “The only thing that could make this better is a warm bath. Gods, it has been years since I visited a proper bathhouse.”
Dog opened an eye to look at him in a disinterested sort of way. When he saw that nothing of importance was going on, he closed it and promptly went back to sleep.
“You need a bath too,” Stiger said to the animal.
Dog opened an eye again and gave a soft whine of protest.
“No complaining, you’re overdue for a good bath.” Stiger reflected longingly on taking a warm bath himself. Only there had not been one to be had. Castle Vrell was lacking when it came to bathing facilities. It was a fortress, with a single-minded purpose, not an imperial bathhouse. There were few creature comforts to be had, for the dwarves who had constructed the castle intended it that way.
This evening, Stiger had been forced to bathe out of a bucket. The water had been heated in the kitchen, but by the time it made its way up to him, it was lukewarm at best. Still, it was better than using cold water, and over the years he had bathed with frigid water more than he cared to admit.
He shifted slightly to get more comfortable in the chair. His body ached something fierce. He felt bruised and more than a little battered. He had sparred with Therik earlier, something that had become a regular occurrence.
They had both come to enjoy their matches. The orc was strong, fast, and very skilled. Therik held nothing back, whether it be with training weapons or just hands. The orc had seen Stiger bring down not only a dragon, but a mountain troll, the latter with nothing but a dagger.
Killing the troll seemed to have impressed Therik far more than the dragon. Why, Stiger was not quite sure. Perhaps it was because he’d used his sword on the dragon, which the king had seen suffused with magic, and only a plain dagger on the hulking troll.
Their sparring matches kept Stiger in shape and on his toes. Truth be told, he normally gave as good as he got. However, this time he had been somewhat distracted by the concerns of the coming campaign. Therik had come close to thrashing him, and badly. It was a blunt reminder that when one went into battle, one could not afford to become distracted by anything. Winning required a single-minded approach and focus.
He let out a breath and then touched his jaw lightly, which still throbbed painfully. He probed his lip with a hand and looked at his fingers. No blood. The cut had already stopped bleeding. Stiger was not surprised.
He ran his index finger along his lip, feeling for damaged skin. It was nearly mended. Ever since Father Thomas had given up his life to heal him, Stiger had found he mended more rapidly from minor wounds. He’d first discovered this a few months afterwards, when he’d been thrown from a horse and had skinned his forearm against a rock, amongst other minor injuries. The injury had bled a little, but within hours had healed completely, leaving no trace of a scar. Stiger figured it was one last parting gift from the paladin, or perhaps even his god. At least, he liked to think so.
Within the next hour, the swollen lip would look almost normal and the pain would be gone. He massaged at the soreness along his jawbone a moment, then turned his gaze to the fire. He stared at the flames for a time, thinking on the past and Father Thomas’s sacrifice. Then his thoughts shifted to the future and what was to come, what might be required of him, perhaps even a sacrifice of his own.
He blew out a long breath and thought of taking a pipe. Stiger had always found something relaxing in the habit. The pipe and tobacco were across the room, in his travel chest. He did not feel the energy to pull himself to his feet and retrieve it. So, he did without and remained in his chair, enjoying the warmth from the blaze.
Stiger had taken a room in the keep that was a few doors down, a short walk from his headquarters. He had turned down Severus’s selection for a larger room in favor of this one. Should he be needed, his clerks would not have far to go to fetch him.
His room was small and far from ostentatious. Besides a rope bed, there was an old, battered desk, a pair of wooden chairs, a small table, his travel trunk, and the stool he was resting his feet upon. It was one of the smaller rooms in the castle, but it had its own fireplace, which was another reason why he had chosen it. Due to its small size, the fire heated the room comfortably. It was almost to the point of it being too hot, for he felt beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead.
The shutters rattled as a strong gust of wind first pushed and then seemed to suck at them. The wind whistled, as if a ghost were crying out from the great beyond. Stiger glanced over at the thick shutters, then returned his gaze back to the fire, which guttered briefly and hissed.
Another winter storm had arrived. At ground level, the storm wasn’t all that bad. It was simply delivering heavy amounts of snow, but the castle, high up in the pass, was continually buffeted by the mountain winds. When the wind gusted strongly, it sounded very much like a tempest raging at the world.
Despite his men camping in the open, Stiger wasn’t concerned about them. They were well-equipped to withstand the storm. He himself had been through much worse in the north, with Third Legion. He was sure they would spend an uncomfortable night, but that would be all. Come morning, they would begin the laborious process of digging out.
The legions were accustomed to discomfort and would manage. He had no doubt about that. However, Stiger did feel a little guilty at being indoors, with a warm fire to keep him comfortable. He did not let that bother him much, for over the years, he had more than paid his dues.
Stiger’s eyes tracked to the corner, where his sword in its ornate scabbard leaned against the wall. Where before he could sense the presence and mind of the crazed wizard within the sword, he now felt nothing, just emptiness. Rarokan had not spoken to him in years.
It had been that way ever since he’d almost died at the hands of Castor’s minion. The sword had not come back to life when he had, nor even given him any hint the being within was still there. Rarokan remained just a simple sword, a piece of beautifully crafted steel. Stiger did not know whether to re
joice or be concerned.
When he touched the hilt, he no longer felt the comforting tingle, a sign of the bond forged between the two of them had broken. He’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that the life force that had once been Rarokan, High Master of the Blue, had died in that fateful battle with the minion. The wizard had given his all in a bid to keep Stiger alive. And so, the wizard’s soul had finally passed from this world. All his plans and machinations had been for naught.
Stiger turned his gaze back to the growing blaze in the hearth. Had it not been for Father Thomas interceding, pulling him back from the abyss, Stiger would have died too. He had stood on the bank of the great river. He’d seen the ferryman and been more than prepared to cross over. Only, he had not had any coin to pay for the crossing. Father Thomas had seen to that.
Stiger blew out an unhappy breath, his eyes returning to the sword. He did not feel saddened by the wizard’s passing. There was no true regret or sense of loss. Rarokan had planned on stealing his soul, taking over his body to escape his punishment and imprisonment. The wizard had nearly succeeded, too… Stiger’s only real concern was the loss of the sword’s power. The magic was gone. He would have to somehow manage without it, which, in a way, was both a blessing and a curse.
“Excuse me, master.”
Stiger looked up. Venthus had entered with a jar and two mugs. The man wore a thick gray cloak over his tunic against the chill. He had pinned the front closed. The bottom of the cloak whispered across the stone as he moved into the room. Venthus placed both mugs down on the small table.
“I thought you might care for some refreshment, master.” Venthus held up the wine jar.
“I would,” Stiger said, with open weariness. Wine before turning in for the night sounded like a grand suggestion.
Venthus poured the steaming liquid into one of the two mugs and handed it to Stiger. His slave then returned to the table and poured a second mug.
The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5) Page 5
