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

by Marc Edelheit

  “We did, sir,” Sabinus said and turned, leading Stiger over to a separate group of prisoners that he had not seen. These were being held behind a communal tent. There were three men in total. Swords drawn, five legionaries stood around the prisoners, who sat in the muddy and dirty snow, looking quite miserable.

  The prisoners stood when they saw Sabinus approaching. Stiger could read the concern upon their faces. All three were disheveled and only wore tunics, which were dirty and stained with blood, that appeared to be not their own.

  Sabinus pointed to an overweight man, who looked more like a merchant than a soldier. “He is the most senior one we could identify so far, a general. He’s not the army commander, but apparently the second in command. The other two were responsible for parts of the army. I am not sure their rank translates to anything we have, but I believe you might have called them colonels in this time.”

  Stiger studied the general. The man was tall, bearded, and had a belly that bulged from under a dirty gray tunic. His hands and arms were a little pudgy and showed no telltale marks of arms training. He reminded Stiger more of a baker he’d once known back in the capital.

  Stiger thought for a moment, trying to recall the baker’s name. He snapped his fingers. Thetas, yes…that was his name. He’d baked bread and pastries for Stiger’s family. Thetas had been a client of his family’s—at the time, one of thousands.

  When Stiger had left to join the legions in the North, his family’s number of clients had dwindled to only a few loyal dozen, Thetas included. The rest had abandoned the Stigers for other powerful families. In truth, Stiger could not blame them, for who wanted to align themselves with a house in disgrace and under imperial disfavor.

  Where Thetas had appeared kindly, this man appeared spoiled and privileged. There was something in his eyes that Stiger just did not like.

  “Do you speak Common?” Stiger asked the man.

  “I will tell you nothing,” the man said in fluent Common. His voice, however, trembled.

  Stiger stepped closer, with Dog following a few paces behind. Ruga had returned from looking over the other group of prisoners. The centurion moved around to Stiger’s side, with the clear intention of intervening, should the prisoner become aggressive.

  “What is your name?” Stiger asked.

  “General Zoc,” Sabinus said, when the general refused to respond. “His own bodyguard pointed him out to us. That bunch over there.” Sabinus pointed to the first group Stiger had seen.

  Zoc shot the other group an unhappy scowl.

  “I would recommend you cooperate,” Sabinus said to Zoc. “Your army is shattered. There is no one coming to save you. Our legate holds your fate in his hands.”

  Zoc’s eyes narrowed slightly and shifted from Sabinus to Stiger. At first, he looked uncertain, then his gaze hardened. He drew himself up, chin jutting.

  “I have sworn myself to Valoor. Do your worst to me. I shall be rewarded in death with life and rebirth.” Zoc’s features twisted with hate. He spat on Stiger’s boots. “Imperial scum…the Cyphan will defeat you and crush the empire. You will get nothing from me but disappointment.”

  Without hesitation, Ruga slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of the general’s face. Zoc had not seen the blow coming and went down like a bag of potatoes tossed from the back of the wagon.

  “When you speak to Legate Stiger”—Ruga stood over him—“you will show more respect or that is the least you will receive from me, you traitorous bastard. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t crucify the lot of you rebels.”

  Ruga kicked Zoc powerfully in the side. The general’s breath whuffed out and he rolled in the snow. The other two prisoners took a step back.

  “That’s enough,” Stiger said, when Ruga looked about to deliver another kick.

  “Legate Stiger?” one of the other prisoners gasped. “You are a Stiger?”

  “I am,” Stiger said and it came out more as a growl.

  “I will tell you whatever you want to know,” the man said. “Please don’t kill me. As long as you spare my life. I will tell you everything.”

  “What is your name?” Stiger asked the man, who looked to be in his mid-forties. He had the look of a farmer about him. His hands were calloused and his skin had a weathered appearance.

  “Tacus,” the man said, his voice trembling with fear.

  Stiger looked back on Zoc, who had rolled onto his back. The general was staring in horror at Stiger. His cheek bled from where Ruga had struck him.

  “All three of you will tell us everything we want to know,” Stiger said quietly. “Of that, there will be no doubt. The longer you hold your tongues, the more difficult it will be for you, the more you will suffer.”

  Stiger met each of their gazes before taking several steps away. He beckoned Sabinus over.

  “Question them,” Stiger said. “Use whatever means you feel needed. I want to know what they know of the strategic situation in the outside world.”

  “I will see to it, sir,” Sabinus said with a glance back at the three. “I will put a good man on it. They won’t hold out on us.”

  “I know they won’t,” Stiger said. He looked back at the three prisoners. Zoc was still on the ground, his fearful eyes upon Stiger.

  “There is something not right with that man over there,” Arnold said, drawing their attention.

  Stiger had forgotten about the former sergeant. He had not initially followed Stiger over to see the senior officers. Arnold was now around three yards away and had turned back toward the other group. He was pointing.

  Stiger turned his gaze to the prisoners. There were ten of them. Five wore armor. Stiger figured they had been on guard duty when the attack had gone forward. The rest had on only tunics. Most did not even have footwear. One had a bad cut on his right arm. He cradled it with his left, but the wound still bled freely.

  At first, he wondered what Arnold was on about. Then Stiger went cold and his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. His gaze locked onto the man Arnold was pointing to. He wore armor and looked just like the other guards, only he wasn’t like them.

  Dog growled. It was deep and menacing. The animal’s hair stood on end.

  Stiger felt an intense dislike for the man, worse than he’d felt when he’d held Valoor’s holy book. It was mixed with a feeling of disgust, almost strong enough to turn his stomach and make him gag.

  Gaze fixed upon Stiger, the man stood. Stiger knew this man was no guard for the general. He was something else.

  “He is General Zoc’s personal priest,” Tacus said, “a devotee of Valoor.”

  The priest must have tried to conceal himself by donning the armor of one of the guard. Stiger felt the cold sensation settle in his stomach. This priest could use Will. He could sense it, the dark, malevolent power roiling within the man. That made him dangerous.

  “Seize that man,” Sabinus said and pointed.

  Swords held at the ready, two of the legionaries guarding the prisoners moved forward. The priest remained perfectly still as they closed in. Then, a knife seemed to materialize into his hand. From where it had come, Stiger did not know, but suspected the prisoners had not been searched as thoroughly as they should have been.

  The priest lunged, taking the first legionary by surprise. Almost inhumanly fast, the knife flashed and ripped open the legionary’s throat. The second legionary thrust with his sword. It was a hasty, ill prepared strike. The priest dodged and brought the dagger around and down, plunging it into the man’s thigh. Screaming in agony, the legionary staggered back and fell to the ground.

  It had all happened in a flash. There was a stunned moment of silence. Sabinus, his officers, the other guards, and prisoners stood there in mute shock. Then, the other prisoners scrambled to their feet and drew back, fear on their faces, not of retribution, but of the priest.

  The priest turned his gaze to Stiger. The eyes were hard and cold.

  “Take him,” Sabinus ordered to the other guards, who had sur
rounded the priest. They started forward, along with Ruga, only Stiger could not let that happen. The priest could use Will.

  “Hold,” Stiger ordered in a hard tone.

  They stopped.

  “Drop the dagger,” Stiger ordered. “I will see that your death is clean and quick.”

  “My master sent me,” the priest said to Stiger in perfect Common.

  “Yeah?” Stiger asked, taking a step forward.

  “Valoor showed me a vision of you, Champion,” the priest said.

  That stopped Stiger. The priest knew he was the High Father’s Champion.

  “I hope he showed you your death, too,” Stiger said, hand upon his sword hilt.

  “My god sent me as a messenger,” the priest said. “In his infinite mercy, he understands that you have been misled by the High Father. Valoor gives you the opportunity to renounce the High Father. Do so and you may live. Refuse him and you will die, as will all who you care about.”

  “Not happening,” Stiger said.

  “You disappoint me,” the priest said.

  “I am happy to disappoint then,” Stiger said.

  Stiger’s eyes went to the man the priest had killed and then the other, who was injured. His anger flared. The priest caught his gaze, reversed his grip on the dagger, and in a flash threw it, not at Stiger but at the injured legionary, who had fallen to the ground.

  The shaft of the dagger embedded itself in the man’s neck. He went rigid, in stunned shock, then fell back to the snow, bleeding out and choking on his own blood. The priest looked up and smiled at Stiger, as if pleased with himself.

  Rage filled Stiger’s heart. Suddenly, without realizing he had done it, his sword was in his hand and he was advancing, with murder in his heart. Ruga was at his side as they closed. The priest casually held up a hand, palm outward, toward the centurion. Stiger saw the tips of the priest’s fingers begin to glow.

  He shoved Ruga roughly aside, just as a spidery web with a reddish brown color shot out toward them. Instinctively, Stiger held up his sword to block the priestly magic, but then at the last moment remembered that Rarokan, the wizard inside the blade, was no more. He should have dodged, only it was too late. The web contacted the blade with an audible crack that assailed the ears painfully.

  The force of the attack staggered Stiger, almost driving him to his knees. He felt his connection within glow brilliantly as the High Father came to his aid. The hilt of the sword grew scaldingly hot in his hands. There was a humming in the air and another loud crack.

  The attack was over, almost as quickly as it had begun. Incredibly, the web was gone. Stiger blinked in astonishment and glanced at his sword. Blue flame licked along the length of the steel blade. He felt the power throb within, but no Rarokan. There was no hint of the wizard’s presence.

  He had survived. His body tingled from head to toe and the snow around him had melted. But he’d lived.

  The priest blinked in astonishment. He had clearly expected the attack to kill Stiger outright. Doubt filled his eyes. That and exhaustion. Stiger figured the priest had expended much of his energy with the attack.

  The rage within his breast returned, igniting a fury. This priest had killed two of his men and was why earlier he’d felt the sense of wrongness in the enemy’s camp. Stiger was sure of it. He took a breath and gripped the sword hilt tightly. The blue fire along the length of the blade grew in intensity.

  He advanced, intent on removing this menace from the world, like he had the minions. In response, the priest raised his hand, the fingertips beginning to once again glow. Stiger braced himself for the coming attack.

  Something shot by him, a blur of gray fur. Dog literally flew through the air. Growling fearsomely, the animal latched onto the priest’s arm, knocking and spinning the man around and causing him to cry out in pain.

  There was a sudden brilliant white flash and the sound of a bell tolling. Momentarily blinded, Stiger closed his eyes. The light faded, and with it, Stiger opened his eyes. Arnold was before him, wielding a large war hammer that seemed to throb with holy light.

  As the priest grappled with Dog, Arnold slammed the hammer into the priest’s chest. There was another flash and a deep, sickening thud. The snow all around the two exploded up into the air, as if a great wind had kicked it up, to the point where there was a complete whiteout, blinding Stiger and everyone else.

  When the snow settled back to the ground in a slow misty spray, Stiger saw Arnold, his chest heaving, standing above the priest’s body. Dog was there too, sniffing at the corpse as Arnold gazed down on the priest. He held the glowing war hammer lightly in one hand, as if it weighed nothing. The priest had been driven down into the snow. His body smoked, looking shriveled, a cruel mockery of the man.

  There was silence all around. Sabinus and his officers stared at Arnold in astonishment, as did the prisoners. Stiger sheathed his sword, for he sensed the danger had passed. The wrongness was gone, the taint wiped from the world as if it had never been. So too had gone his rage and fury. It left him feeling drained and exhausted.

  He glanced over at Ruga, who was lying in the snow, propped up on his elbows and staring like the others with shocked eyes at Arnold. Stiger held out a hand. After a brief hesitation, Ruga took the proffered hand. Stiger pulled him to his feet.

  “You all right?” Stiger asked the centurion.

  “I ache all over,” Ruga said. “Whatever that priest threw at us would have killed me, had you not shoved me aside.”

  “You can return the favor one day,” Stiger said.

  “Yes, sir,” Ruga said, “and thank you, sir.”

  Stiger surveyed the scene. All eyes were on Arnold. He knew, by nightfall, the entire legion would be treating Arnold differently. Word of what had occurred would spread like wildfire. It had begun in Castle Vrell and had finished on this battlefield. If there had been any doubt, now there was none. Arnold was in service to the High Father.

  “Your elf friend is right,” Therik said, stepping up to the two of them. “It is much more exciting around you. Next battle, I stay with you and wait for something to happen.”

  “Right,” Stiger said, his gaze shifting from the orc to Arnold.

  “He has strong medicine,” Therik said, pointing at Arnold, “like that warrior priest you kept around, Father Thomas.”

  Stiger gave a nod and with that left Therik and Ruga for Arnold.

  “See,” Stiger said. He gestured at the hammer. “I told you the High Father had plans for you.”

  “It seems that way, sir,” Arnold said, gazing down in wonder at the holy weapon he held in his hand. “I called it. The idea sort of popped into my head and it just came.”

  In less than a handful of heartbeats, the weapon in Arnold’s hand lost its glow and faded to nothingness. Arnold opened his hand and looked at it, for he no longer held anything but air. He looked at Stiger, questions written all over his face.

  “Better get used to it,” Stiger said and clapped him on the shoulder, “Paladin Arnold.”

  ELEVEN

  Stiger plodded along, holding Nomad’s reins loosely in one hand as he led the animal forward. His legs were tired, his back ached, and his feet hurt. Heck, there wasn’t one part of his body that did not feel aggrieved to some degree or another. He’d not marched this much in several years, and though he wasn’t carrying a shield or his gear, he felt every mile.

  It had been almost two weeks since the battle before Castle Vrell. After two days of rest, he’d given the order for much of the legion to march. They’d left the hills and mountains, along with the deep snow, far behind and were now in the heart of the Sentinel Forest.

  With each passing day, the temperature had warmed slightly. The road had mostly dried, almost becoming firm. But that did not mean that the roadbed was in good shape. It was torn up, and badly. This was the product of Braddock’s army marching before them. Thousands of feet, hooves from the cavalry, and Braddock’s baggage train had damaged the road long before the leg
ion had reached it. Stiger’s legionaries had only made it worse.

  The road had become pitted, scarred, holed, or badly rutted where wagons had struggled through mud that had since dried. Stiger well knew it might’ve been worse. They could have been fighting their way through mud up to their knees or trudging through snow. He was thankful for that mercy, for despite the deteriorated road, the legion was making good time.

  Ten yards to his front marched Fifth Cohort, who had just finished singing a marching song. It had been a bawdry tune of a lovely girl pining after her lover, a legionary who’d given his life in battle against barbarians assailing the empire. Apparently, as the tune went, no other man could satisfy her like the legionary, and so she pined her days away and pined and pined and pined away until another legionary had come to save the day. It was a catchy tune and one of many that helped keep up morale, as the miles passed slowly by, one after another.

  A cloud of dust had been kicked up into the air by the cohort and the formations farther ahead on the line of march. The dust settled on those behind. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, because the ground was somewhat moist. However, the dust was no less an irritant. It got into the eyes, tickled at the nose, and caused coughing fits.

  Just behind Stiger marched his guard and then, a quarter mile back, was Eighth Cohort. Dog trotted happily along at Stiger’s side, occasionally breaking away to examine something that caught his interest. The animal seemed to be the only one really enjoying himself. Everyone else was more than weary of the march and ready for it to end.

  “I’d have thought you’d want to rest those legs, sir,” Ruga said. The centurion had been speaking with one of his men farther back in the line of march. He fell in at Stiger’s side as Dog stopped by the roadside to investigate an interesting smell.

  Stiger glanced over at Ruga, who was fairly coated in dust. It had become a running joke between the two of them, for Ruga had become accustomed to Stiger sharing the miles afoot with the men.

  “I tell you, sir, if I had a horse, sir, I’d be riding the miles away. A fine day for riding, don’t you think?”