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

by Marc Edelheit

  Stiger had heard it all by this point, from Ruga and various others over the years. He held out the reins to Ruga. “You can borrow my mount if you’d like.” He’d made similar offers before. Not once had the wily centurion taken him up on the offer.

  Ruga shook his head in a vehement fashion. “It wouldn’t be proper for me to take your horse, now, would it, sir?”

  “I think, as legate of the legion, I’m the one who decides what’s proper and what’s not,” Stiger said and then turned it around on the centurion. “Don’t you agree?”

  “It’s not that I disagree with you, sir,” Ruga said. “You are the legate and of course you decide what is proper. You see, were I to ride, it might give me airs of importance, sir. And me, just a lowly centurion.” Ruga made a show of glancing back at his men. His look became sheepish. “And then there is the men, sir.”

  “What of them?”

  “What would they think of me riding, sir?” Ruga sounded scandalized.

  Stiger had to laugh at that one, for it was terribly well contrived. Ruga was a tough old centurion, with a fine sense of humor. It was something Stiger could well appreciate, especially on a long march. Banter and humor helped to pass the time, along with the monotonous miles that seemed to crawl painfully by.

  Not for the first time did Ruga remind him of Sergeant Tiro. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen the man to command his guard. There was something about Ruga that Stiger liked.

  “Well,” Ruga said, glancing up at the sky, “at least the rain’s held off.”

  “And the snow,” Stiger added.

  “Don’t remind me, sir,” Ruga said.

  It had snowed on them a week back. The storm had not been terribly bad. But the snow had accumulated, dropping several inches, which made the march more difficult. The roadbed had been quickly churned up into a soupy mixture of half-frozen mud that made every step a miserable and trying experience.

  “Aye, sir,” Ruga said. “Now we just need to rid ourselves of this cold.”

  Stiger couldn’t help but agree. The temperature was cold, hovering just above freezing.

  “At least the march for the day is almost over.” It was Stiger’s turn to glance up at the sky. In four hours’ time, it would be dark. He looked around at Ruga’s men. They appeared worn and tired. The legion as a whole needed rest, perhaps a day or more to recover. Stiger just did not know if he could spare a day, for who knew what was waiting at the end of the road for Braddock.

  His gaze shifted to the area they were marching through. The desperate fighting retreat along this road had been like a bad nightmare. A mile back, they’d passed a spot where he’d led his men in an ambush against the enemy. Though he’d been victorious and had mauled an enemy company, Stiger had lost more than a few in that fight. He let out an unhappy breath at the memories of that desperate time. It was as if a dark cloud had scudded its way across the sun, dampening his spirits. Even when one did everything right, good men still managed to die.

  Ruga seemed to sense his mood change and grew silent. The road ahead snaked around a bend. As they followed the tail end of the Fifth around the bend, a dispatch rider was coming the other way, walking his horse. He saluted as he made his way past. Stiger returned the salute and then they were by, still following the turn in the road.

  As the road straightened out again, they found Therik waiting by the roadside. The orc was sitting on a tree trunk that had been dragged off to the side. He was playing with a dagger, repeatedly tossing it up into the air and catching it by the hilt.

  Therik spotted them and pulled himself to his feet. He reached down and grabbed his pack from where it had been sitting and slung it over a shoulder. Exchanging a nod with Ruga, the orc fell in with Stiger.

  “He’s gone moody again,” Therik said to Ruga, “hasn’t he?”

  Stiger glanced over at the centurion and raised an eyebrow, wondering how the wily old bastard would respond. Ruga did not miss the look.

  “I’m too smart to fall for that one,” Ruga said.

  Stiger felt a mild stab of amusement. It served to lighten his mood a tad.

  “You worry too much.” Therik sheathed his dagger and pointed a finger at Stiger. “That is your problem, too much worry.”

  “Someone has to worry,” Stiger said.

  “I think I meant brood,” Therik said and looked over at Ruga in question. “Brood is the right word?”

  “I may be a dumb grunt,” Ruga said, “but I am not that dumb.”

  “You mean to tell me,” Stiger said to Therik, “in all those years you were king, you never once worried about anything? Brooded on something?”

  “Of course I worry,” Therik said. “What fool wouldn’t? As king, you do not worry, you end up dead.”

  “And you’re telling me not to worry?” Stiger asked. “That’s rich, old boy.”

  “No,” Therik said. “I did not say that.”

  “I believe,” Ruga said, in an exceptionally helpful tone, “he’s saying it’s okay to brood, but he thinks you spend too much time doing it, sir. Do I have that right, Therik? He broods too much?”

  “Right,” Therik said. “I could not have said better.”

  “Thank you, Centurion.” Stiger looked over at Ruga, who appeared suddenly to be the soul of innocence. “Thank you for that insightful interpretation of Therik’s intent. I found it just exceptionally helpful.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Ruga said, fairly beaming. “I’m happy to help.”

  “It’s been an entire day,” Stiger said, having grown abruptly tired of the game. “Where have you been?”

  “Hunting.”

  “People or food?” Ruga asked, somewhat warily.

  Stiger did not have to ask. He already knew. After the battle, at least five thousand of the enemy were unaccounted for. The only organized force that had managed to escape had been rapidly hunted down and dealt with. Back in the hills, with winter full on, food, not to mention shelter, would be scarce. Most of those who’d escaped had likely already perished from exposure or were in the process of doing so.

  Still, Therik had taken it upon himself to go looking anyway and had done so almost daily since the legion had marched. Stiger knew, from the reports of the scouts and elves, there had been no sign of any enemy working their way through the forest alongside the road, at least in their general area. The enemy seemed to have fled out into the forest itself.

  “Therik, we’ve come a long way,” Ruga said. “I doubt any of those that escaped managed to make it this far, especially with the legion hogging the only road. It ain’t exactly gonna be easy to travel cross-country through that forest.” Ruga jabbed a thumb at the trees lining the road.

  Therik gave a half shrug of his shoulders and offered a noncommittal grunt.

  “Did you find anything?” Ruga asked, curiously.

  “Just a boar and a moose.” Therik sounded disappointed. “No Cyphan, no rebels.”

  “A pity,” Ruga said.

  “I think so too,” Therik said in agreement. “As you say, a pity.”

  Stiger shook his head. The orc was bored, and when Therik got that way, he tended to cause problems. Stiger was surprised he’d not noticed Therik’s boredom himself. But with the responsibility that was weighing his shoulders down, there had been little time for his friend or, for that matter, anyone else, including Taha’Leeth. Stiger regretted that.

  He eyed the orc for a long moment. Therik wasn’t a half-bad scout. He knew his way about the forest and was a competent hunter. It was now apparent he needed a job, something to keep him busy. Perhaps Salt could arrange for him to go out with a team of scouts.

  It would have to be handled carefully, for if Therik thought he was being given busywork or being manipulated, he’d likely refuse and become irate. The more Stiger thought on it, the more he liked that idea. He would speak to Salt and see that it got done.

  “Moose would sure taste good tonight,” Ruga said, eyeing Therik’s pack suspiciously. “
You didn’t eat the whole thing, did you?” Ruga looked over at Stiger. “I’ve seen him eat, sir. You don’t think he ate it all, do you?”

  “I did not kill the moose.” Therik sounded almost shocked by the suggestion.

  “Why not?” Ruga asked.

  “I had no need to take its life.” Therik patted his pack. “I had food with me. It was a magnificent creature worthy of”—Therik paused, seeming to struggle to find the right word in Common—“enjoyment.”

  “Enjoyment?” Ruga spat on the road. “That’s a pile of mule shit and you know it.”

  Stiger had to struggle to not laugh. After marching with the orc, day after day, Ruga had become comfortable with Therik. He’d lost whatever wariness he’d had. That was, if he’d had any to begin with. Ruga and Therik frequently got into heated debates that at times had almost become full-on arguments. Stiger had only had to intercede twice to keep them from blows. Despite that, he knew each respected the other, possibly almost to the point of friendship.

  “Mule shit?” Therik looked over at the centurion, eyes widening slightly.

  “That’s right, I said mule shit, you big bugger. I bet you didn’t stop once to think of Uncle Ruga?” the centurion asked and then jerked a thumb behind. “Or my boys? Did ya?”

  Therik grunted at that and looked over at Stiger. “What is this word, uncle?”

  Stiger knew that Therik had gotten Ruga’s meaning. Then suspicion stole over him. It wasn’t like Therik to pass up a good meal in favor of army food. “This moose of yours was big?”

  Therik held out his arms wide. “Very. Why?”

  Stiger snapped his fingers. “You didn’t want to have to haul it back, did you? Too much effort, eh?”

  Therik was silent for a long moment as he regarded Stiger. The orc’s eyes narrowed.

  “Now that is one big pile of mule shit.” Ruga blew out a disgusted breath. “Isn’t it?”

  “It was a long way from the road,” Therik admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “A very long way. I would have had to leave much of the meat for scavengers. So, I let it go. I settled for a hare.”

  “A hare? A hare? Next time you go hunting, you green bastard,” Ruga said, “take some of my boys with you. They’ll help you haul whatever you take down.” The centurion patted his yoke, just below where his haversack hung. “The army’s rations are already getting old and you bloody well passed up on a moose. Those things are damn good eating.”

  Therik looked back on Ruga’s men. “Can they hunt?”

  “Of course they can bloody well hunt,” Ruga said, “and carry too.”

  “They probably won’t be able to keep up, but…next time I will take a few with me,” Therik conceded after a long moment’s thought. “The food you legionaries eat is awful. Fresh meat is worth me having to put up with your men.”

  That seemed to satisfy Ruga. “They will keep up and I agree that the food the legion provides is plain awful.”

  “We would not feed that salt pork you eat to our dogs,” Therik said.

  “Tell me about it,” Stiger said.

  “Sir,” Ruga said, turning his attention to Stiger, “since you are the legate and all, may I make a humble request?”

  Stiger looked over at the centurion. He gave a nod for him to continue, half expecting what was coming.

  “Since you decide what is proper and all,” Ruga said, “perhaps you can get us some better rations? Salt beef, instead of pork, would be more than welcome…even fish is preferable.”

  “Right,” Stiger said. “I am gonna make sure all you get issued is salt pork, and only the stuff from the bottom of the barrel too.”

  “Now that’s just unkind, sir,” Ruga said, “very unkind to old Uncle Ruga.”

  “Whoever said the army was fair?” Stiger said.

  “You have me there, sir,” Ruga said. “You have me there.”

  Another thirty minutes of marching saw them arriving at the spot the engineers had selected for the legion’s nightly encampment. Several cohorts had already arrived before them. The campsite bordered the right side of the road. Stiger remembered the spot, for the road crossed a good-sized stream just ahead. It was likely why his engineers had chosen this spot for the legion’s camp, for the fresh water.

  The forest along the right side of the road had been significantly cut back. Hundreds of axes could be heard cracking away in the trees to either side. A few yards from the road, a wide trench was being dug.

  By Stiger’s calculation, based upon how much work had already been accomplished, he figured the lead cohort had arrived perhaps four hours earlier. In that short time, they had achieved a lot.

  With thousands of men hard at work, the legion’s nightly encampment was shaping up nicely. There were entire cohorts toiling away at digging the trench that, when complete, would extend completely around the encampment, while others built up a berm from the dirt that was being freshly excavated. Teams of men were hauling logs and stacking them inside the camp. These would be emplaced as a barricade atop the berm. Once the trench, wall, and barricade were complete, only then would the cohort’s tents be raised and the latrines dug.

  As standard practice, an advance team from headquarters had traveled with the lead cohort. Salt had marched with them, so Stiger had known things were well in hand. That was the value in having competent subordinates and letting them do their thing. The evidence of that was before him, plain as could be.

  Ahead, Fifth Cohort was called to a halt. The men lowered their yokes and set them down on the ground. Stiger could almost sense their relief that the day’s march was done, even though hours of backbreaking work lay ahead. This would be followed up by cleaning their kit free of dust and grime from the road.

  Centurion Nantus called his officers to him. As the officers hustled toward their senior centurion, Stiger and his escorts moved around the side of the cohort. Dog caught back up and then immediately broke off. The animal moved along the line of tired and dusty legionaries, of which more than a few gave the animal a friendly pat upon the head or a scratch behind the ears. One even offered Dog a treat of bacon, which was quickly devoured.

  Stiger and his escort continued by the Fifth. As they passed Nantus, the gathered officers turned, facing Stiger. They came to attention, with the senior centurion saluting. Stiger returned Nantus’s salute.

  “Carry on, Centurion,” Stiger said.

  “Yes, sir,” Nantus replied.

  Stiger looked around.

  “Dog,” Stiger called, “come.”

  The animal broke away and sprinted over to his side.

  Stiger made his way across the rough planked bridge over the trench and into the encampment. With Ruga and his men following, he weaved his way through the work parties toward where headquarters was located.

  Each afternoon, the encampment was constructed exactly in the same way. The chaos and frenetic pace of the work posed no problem. Stiger knew the way and he found his headquarters compound with ease.

  Three of the six tents had already been raised. He did not see his own personal tent, but the one used as his office was up. As usual, it had been pitched adjacent to the administrative tent, where his clerks would have easy access to him and he to them.

  Two wagons were parked beside the administrative tent. The wagons were in the process of being unloaded by a file of men. Under the tent, of which the sides had been left rolled up, were several tables and his clerks, already hard at work. A guard had been posted around the compound.

  “Century,” Ruga called, “halt. Stand easy.”

  One of the guards broke away from the others and stepped forward to take Nomad as Ruga’s men began setting their yokes on the ground. Stiger imagined the men were relieved the day’s march had come to an end. He knew he was.

  “May I take your horse, sir?” the legionary asked Stiger.

  “See that he gets brushed down, fed, and watered,” Stiger said as he handed the reins over.

  “I will, sir,” the legionary
said and began leading the animal away toward a picket line, where several other horses were tethered.

  “Sir,” Ruga said, “with your permission, I will relieve the current guard. It looks like Aguus’s century again. I’d like to post half my men on guard duty and have the rest help get the headquarters compound squared away.”

  “Very well,” Stiger said and then hesitated. When most of the rest of the legion turned in for the night, a quarter of Ruga’s century would remain on duty. They would be guarding Stiger and headquarters. “It was a long day’s march. Might as well see that your century’s tents are raised while you are at it and there’s still light.”

  “I will, sir,” Ruga said.

  “Those standing duty tonight,” Stiger said, “can get a few hours of sleep.”

  “Very well, sir.” Ruga offered a crisp salute.

  Stiger returned the salute, and with that, Ruga left him to attend to his men. Stiger glanced around at the camp being constructed. He gave a satisfied nod, then turned to Therik.

  “Care to join me?” Stiger asked his friend.

  “Why not?” Therik said, in a bored tone. “There’s not much else to do.”

  Stiger turned away, thinking Therik definitely needed a job. Dog brushed by them as they entered the tent and rushed up to Nepturus’s table. The clerk had been writing on a wax tablet with a stylus. He’d been absorbed in his work and looked up, surprised as Dog began licking at his face. He pushed the animal back and stood, laughing.

  “Sorry, the treats are still in the wagon,” Nepturus said, scratching behind Dog’s ears with both hands. “You will just have to wait.”

  Dog gave a low whine.

  The clerk abruptly looked up and around as realization sank home. He spotted Stiger.

  “Sir,” Nepturus said, coming to a position of attention. The rest of those in the tent continued working. Stiger had long-since excused his staff from having to rise and come to attention every time he entered headquarters. There was just too much work to be done to have it routinely interrupted. “Welcome to headquarters.”

  “Nepturus,” Stiger greeted, feeling weary from the march. All he wanted to do was sit down, have a mug of mulled wine, and rest. Then bathe to get all the dust and grime off. Yet he well knew work waited. Likely, people already wanted to see him. As the camp neared completion, a line would undoubtedly form. Each issue they brought would take time to deal with. Then there were reports and dispatches that would require his personal attention. No, there would be no resting for him, at least not until late into the night. Such were the burdens of command, and Stiger could not pass that responsibility onto another. Even if he could, he was unwilling to do so.