Salt blinked, and his lips twitched with amusement at the suggestion. Stiger thought it was damn good answer. It was all he could do to keep from laughing.
“Seems he knows you quite well, sir,” Salt said.
Stiger gave a grunt. He’d grown tired of the game. It was time to move things along. “Centurion, I will be down in the courtyard shortly. My manservant, Venthus, should have sent my pack and kit down to the stables. Would you see that my horse is brought out and saddled and my gear loaded?”
“I will, sir.” Ruga saluted. “My century will be ready to march just as soon as you arrive, sir.”
“Excellent,” Stiger said.
“Thank you again for the honor of guarding your person, sir.” Ruga saluted, spun on his heel, and marched out of headquarters, as if he were on parade.
“He’s a cheeky bastard, that one,” Salt said. “I like him, but I do not know him.”
“I’ve seen him in action,” Stiger said. “He will do. Besides, his century is badly understrength, but still with sufficient manpower to act as a personal bodyguard for me.” Stiger blew out a breath. “I’d rather not strip more men from the fighting formations than needed. For soon we will need every sword.”
“Agreed,” Salt said.
“Excuse me, sir.” Nepturus approached. “A Sergeant Arnold is here to see you, sir. If you are busy, I could send him away.”
Stiger glanced over to the doorway to the hall and saw a nervous-looking Arnold standing there, gazing in their direction. He looked a bit unsure of himself. Stiger blew out an unhappy breath. He had planned to make some time for the sergeant, but with all that needed doing, it simply hadn’t happened. He turned back to Salt.
“I have business to attend to with Arnold,” Stiger said. “I will see you when we bring the legion back together in the forest.”
“Yes, sir,” Salt said. “Good luck, sir.”
Stiger gave a nod and stepped away. He moved over toward Arnold. The grizzled old sergeant snapped to attention as Stiger approached. Arnold looked clean, was freshly shaved, and his armor had been meticulously detailed. He was almost presentable, but there was still a disagreeable or roguish look about him.
Stiger thought back to when he’d first met the rebellious and uncouth sergeant. Arnold had been placed in charge of the teamsters for the supply train to Vrell. He’d been quick to anger and ill-tempered. Arnold had also been difficult to work with. Since then, Stiger reflected, the man had come a long way.
Stiger could feel something was different about Arnold, and it wasn’t simply his outward appearance. The feeling was strong, palpable. Stiger almost missed a step as he neared.
In the last few years, Stiger had become more sensitive to power, what Menos, Thoggle, and Ogg called Will. Under Menos’s tutelage, he’d become more attuned to it. As a result, he could sense a power growing within Arnold that was eerily similar to his own.
That told Stiger the man’s future did not belong with the legion. Arnold had a different path to walk, even if he had not yet come to fully realize that himself. But it was why he was here. Stiger was sure of it. The High Father had guided his steps to Stiger for a reason.
“Nepturus?” Stiger called, turning to look back.
“Sir?” Nepturus asked, standing from where he’d been seated before a table. He held a stylus in his ink-stained hands.
“I am departing,” Stiger informed the clerk. “Nothing has changed since last night. You have your orders. Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir,” Nepturus said. “The orders were plenty clear.”
“Very good,” Stiger said. “Carry on then.”
“Yes, sir,” Nepturus said. “Good luck, sir.”
Stiger turned back to the sergeant and eyed him for a long moment.
“Walk with me, will you?” Stiger asked. It was not an outright command, but coming from the legate of the legion, a request always was an order. Stiger knew with utter certainty this would be the last order he would ever give Arnold.
“Yes, sir,” Arnold said, rather nervously.
“Dog, come.”
Stiger led the sergeant out into the hallway. Dog padded along behind them. The guards snapped to attention as they passed. Stiger continued down the hallway a ways before coming to a stop. He judged they were far enough from the prying ears of the guards to easily overhear what was about to be said. Stiger wanted this conversation private. He faced the sergeant. The hallway was cold, heavily shadowed, and drafty. Oil lamps had been set into mirrored recesses in the walls every ten feet, but they weren’t enough to provide much light.
“Effective immediately,” Stiger said, “you are released from service with the legion.”
“What?” As plain as day, Stiger could read the horror in the other man’s eyes. “I ain’t no longer a legionary, sir?” Arnold put a hand to his mouth and rubbed his jaw. “Blessed gods…”
Arnold had surely spent his entire adult life with the legions. He knew nothing else. Until Father Thomas had seen something in him, Arnold had been just another disabled legionary. Years prior, he had taken a near-crippling wound to the knee. Some officer had apparently taken pity upon him, likely for an act of bravery or the man’s past service. Rather than being discharged to fend for himself on a partial pension, he had been assigned to supply. Stiger was sure Arnold had turned to drink and worse to drown his sorrows at his misfortune.
Father Thomas had brought Arnold back from that dark place. Seeing something in the man Stiger had not, the paladin had taken him under his wing. Father Thomas had even healed Arnold’s bum knee. In response, the man had turned to the High Father like a duck to water and with a surprising vigor. Even now, Stiger noted, he held the High Father’s holy book in one hand.
“You’re no longer subject to my orders,” Stiger said, softening his tone. “I think, perhaps, if you look within, you will know the why of it.”
Arnold was silent a long moment. He continued absently rubbing his freshly shaven jaw. His gaze became distant. “This may sound strange, sir, but for some time I’ve…I dunno if I can explain…” Arnold fell silent, seemingly uncomfortable with continuing.
“Go on,” Stiger urged.
“I’ve felt the High Father’s touch, here in me chest, sir.” Arnold placed the palm of his hand upon his armor, above his heart, and his voice became a near whisper. “I can feel it burning. Each day, it seems to grow a little stronger. If I close my eyes, I can all but see it.”
Stiger understood exactly what Arnold was talking about. He felt the same himself. It was like a little white fire within, only it did not burn…but soothed. When Stiger mentally reached out to touch it, he felt a peaceful calm settle over him. He had come to understand it was his connection with the High Father. Though frustratingly, he did not fully understand how to use that connection or the power he’d been given. The few times he had used it had been sort of accidental. He’d been unable to reproduce it.
“That is why I am releasing you,” Stiger said after a long moment. “I can sense the change within you. You’ve accepted the High Father and he has judged you worthy…more than worthy. I think it is safe to say you have been blessed.”
“Me?” Arnold seemed surprised that anyone would consider him worthy, let alone the High Father. It was almost as if he’d never considered the possibility of it happening. “That cannot be, sir.”
“You have devoted yourself to his teachings. Is that not correct?”
“I have, sir.”
“I’m not an exactly an expert in these matters,” Stiger said, “by any means. I am rather new to it myself. However, I suspect the High Father has plans of his own for you. It is quite possible…you will become a holy warrior in his service.”
Even as he said it, even without Father Thomas present, Stiger understood he was speaking truth. How he knew, he could not say. He just did. The words felt right.
“A paladin? Me? Heck, sir, I’m a wretched sinner. I’d make a bloody poor paladin.” Arn
old scoffed and then remembered to whom he was speaking. “Sorry, sir.”
Stiger recalled what Father Thomas had told him of his own youthful sins and how he’d changed as a person by accepting the High Father into his life.
“You may have to atone for your sins,” Stiger said, “but it seems the High Father has plans for you just the same.”
“That’s kind of you to say, sir,” Arnold said, sounding far from convinced. “However, I find that hard to believe.”
“Regardless,” Stiger said, “as the High Father’s Champion, that is how I see it. I think you need to give this some thought, prayer even. Search for meaning from within and figure out what the High Father desires of you.”
Arnold was staring at him now. The realization of what Stiger was saying began to sink in.
“I can’t promise the path ahead will be an easy one, but it is yours to follow and yours alone. No one can walk that road but you, even as I walk my own, and mine has been plenty hard. Understand?”
Arnold was silent for several heartbeats, then he gave a slight nod. “It’s something to think on, sir.”
“Good,” Stiger said and clapped the sergeant on the arm. “I would take it as a personal honor if you would stay with me, attaching yourself to my headquarters.”
“Your headquarters, sir?” Arnold shifted uncomfortably. The former sergeant glanced back down the hall. “I’m not headquarters material, sir.”
“No one is. That said, you are your own master, or really, the High Father is your master. Should you feel the call to go, you are free to do so.”
That too also felt right to Stiger. Paladins came and went at the whim of the High Father’s direction.
“Call, sir?” Arnold’s brow furrowed.
“A pull or nudge,” Stiger said. “You will know it, when it happens.”
“If you say so, sir,” Arnold said, sounding dubious, then hesitated. “About Father Thomas?”
Stiger had a sudden wash of sorrow overcome him. He cleared his throat. “He passed from this world. I…I owe him my life.”
Grief spread across Arnold’s face and his eyes watered slightly. “I was afraid it was true, sir, what I heard as rumor and such. Father Thomas was a good man, sir, a damn fine man. He saved me too. You see, I’d lost all respect for myself, sir. He gave it back.”
“He was the best of men,” Stiger agreed, then considered Arnold for a long moment. “It was always there within you…you just rediscovered your self-respect, is all. Honor his memory by serving others, just as he did. That would be a fine tribute, I think.”
Arnold fell silent for several heartbeats. He glanced down at the stone floor. “I don’t ever think I can do the man right, for what he done for me, sir.”
“It’s too early to tell,” Stiger said, “and your journey is just beginning. That said, I can think of no greater role model for you than Father Thomas.”
“Yes, sir,” Arnold said. “Neither can I.”
“Now,” Stiger said, “go back to headquarters. Find Nepturus, my head clerk. You tell him to issue you a horse, kit, and some precooked rations, enough for a week. You can catch up with me later tonight, and if there is time, we will talk more.”
“A horse, sir?” Arnold seemed confused by that. “I ain’t no good with horses. Mules yes, but horses no.”
“You’re in the service of the High Father now,” Stiger said. “Should he call you away, a horse might come in handy. Don’t you think?”
Arnold seemed doubtful of that. “I’m not partial to horses, sir. I’d prefer a mule, sir.”
“A horse,” Stiger said. “The mules are needed for the supply trains. The messengers can do with one less mount.”
“Well, they don’t like me much, but I understand, sir. Thank you, sir.”
With that, Stiger spared Arnold a final look, before he turned away, moving toward the stairs. It was time to put Castle Vrell behind him.
“Dog, come.”
SEVEN
Marching a few yards to Stiger’s front, in a column of two abreast, Seventh Cohort came to a shuffling halt. The sound of thousands of hobnailed sandals and voices reverberated off the walls of the underground road. Along with the constant starting and stopping, it was beginning to give him a headache.
Needing a break from riding, Stiger slid off Nomad. His hobnailed boots slapped onto the hard stone of the dwarven road. He took a moment to stretch out his back and then glanced around.
Dog was nowhere to be seen. He’d disappeared an hour before, racing ahead along the line of march. Apparently the repeated starting and stopping had bothered him as well. Where Dog was off to, Stiger had no idea. He was not worried though. When he was ready, Dog would return. He always did.
The Tol’Tabor was far from the largest dwarven road Stiger had ever seen. In fact, it was on the smaller side, and considerably so. Every few yards, numerous dark and forbidding shafts and side passages ran off its length. The dwarves had advised in the strongest terms possible that these ancient side passages not be explored, for they were very unsafe.
The ceiling of the road was also low, rounded at the top and lined with ancient brick that had been turned almost black with age and mold. By the thousands, small knife-sized stalactites hung from the ceiling, as if inching their way toward the ground. The road smelled unpleasantly of dampness, mold, and decay. It tickled at the nose.
To light the way, each cohort had been forced to bring torches and lanterns with them. Shadows flickered and played madly across the walls. There was none of the magical lighting he had seen on other more prominent dwarven roads.
A pair of wagon tracks had been worn into the stone that ran along the road’s length. This led Stiger to believe the Tol’Tabor had not originally been intended for travel. Its purpose had clearly been for mining and hauling ore.
He had once been given a tour of an active dwarven mine. He’d seen similar tracks worn into the stone, along with the heavy wagons that hauled the ore. Their iron-rimmed wheels had, over countless years, made such tracks.
Ahead, in the distance, the glimmer of daylight beckoned. It seemed tantalizingly close. They were nearing the exit of this subterranean world of darkness and flickering shadow. The journey had taken a little over five hours. It should have been quicker, and that frustrated Stiger, but there was nothing to be done to speed things up.
The delay was primarily due to the stop-and-go nature of the legion’s movement, as units farther along in the column of march, for whatever reason, came to a brief stop and then after a few moments started forward once again. Despite having allowed a half hour separation between cohorts, the legion still managed to stack up.
Stiger wanted nothing more than to ride ahead. He was itching to do it. And as legate, he had the option of doing just that, making his way forward. Instead, he restrained his frustration and waited behind the tail end of Seventh Cohort.
Sabinus had operational and tactical command of the legion, as First Cohort would be the first from the underground. The senior centurion was one of his most seasoned officers, and Stiger had long since learned to put his faith in such men.
Besides, Stiger understood nothing was likely to happen for several hours yet. Even if the enemy became aware of First Cohort’s presence, it would take time for word to reach them and their general. Then, it would be hours before the enemy could assemble and march against the Thirteenth’s position. Moving an army took not only time, but extensive planning and preparation. Stiger understood such things did not happen immediately.
Also, he had deployed the elves and the legion’s scouts to the forest, hours before First Cohort marched out of the underground. To them had fallen the job of creating a protective screen around the Tol’Tabor’s exit. Once First Cohort arrived, they would extend that screen out toward the Vrell road and ultimately beyond, in the direction of the enemy’s encampment. Their mission was to blind the enemy, until it was too late and the majority of the legion was in place and deployed.
As a result, Stiger felt it was unlikely the enemy would discover the legion so soon. So, he remained patient as could be, at least outwardly…and waited for Seventh Cohort to painfully creep forward, a few steps at a time, before inevitably stopping again.
“Ah, sir,” Ruga said, stepping over to him. The centurion cleared his throat loudly. “Might I be bold enough to make a suggestion to the legate? I hope you don’t mind, sir.”
Stiger felt himself frown slightly but nodded for Ruga to continue.
“Perhaps it might best to continue to ride, sir,” Ruga said. “Then, at least one of us can keep his feet dry.”
Stiger sucked in a cold breath of air through his nose and slowly let it out. The Tol’Tabor was in a serious state of disrepair. In places, parts of the ceiling had come down. The dwarves had had to move the debris out of the way and brace other portions of the tunnel with thick wood beams.
Much of the road was wet and slick, with flooded portions ranging from several inches deep to more than a foot. Water continually dripped from the ceiling, showering those below, making the march just that much more miserable.
Stiger glanced over at the centurion, then down at his feet. He was standing in a small pool of cold water. He looked over at the nearest of the men, who had only their sandals for protection. He was sure the march along the wet road was quite uncomfortable, just as it had been through the snow. However, the legionary sandal was more of a shoe or boot than true sandal that civilians tended to wear. It wrapped tightly around the foot. When it became wet, the leather dried quickly and helped to retain heat. It made marching in terrible conditions like this possible, at least for a time.
“It won’t be the first time my feet have been wet,” Stiger said as he cracked his neck. He would share the misery with his men. It was the least he could do. “I’ve been too long in the saddle anyway. I need to stretch my legs.”
“Yes, sir,” Ruga said, in a tone that conveyed he still thought it a bad idea. “If you think so, sir. I am sure the legate knows best.”
The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5) Page 12
