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

by Marc Edelheit

  Feeling keenly disappointed, Stiger wished they had known more. Stiger rubbed his jaw.

  “Heck,” Salt said, sounding frustrated himself, “even the prisoners from the supply trains Braddock’s boys captured knew nothing of what was going on to the north. It’s as if there is no real communication between the forces that went after General Kromen’s army and those that remained behind in rebel-held lands to the south.”

  “Yes,” Stiger said, “I agree. It is very strange.”

  “That’s basically it, sir.” Salt set the tablet down and picked up another, which he handed to Stiger. He pointed to a figure at the bottom. “On the bright side, we’ve also secured large amounts of coin and other valuables.”

  “That is a lot of money,” Stiger said as he studied the tablet, surprised the enemy had brought so much with them. “It’s virtually a king’s ransom. We could bribe more than one senator with that much money.”

  Salt laughed. “Do you think we might need to?”

  “Who knows? Well, at least the men will be pleased when their portion is allotted to their pensions and pay at the next disbursement.”

  “They should be, sir,” Salt said and then hesitated. “At twenty-percent share, it also makes the senior officers rich men, sir.”

  Stiger had not thought of that. His portion, as legate, would be a considerable fortune. For so long, he had been forced to watch his money like a hawk, spending to the point of frugality and only when necessary.

  “Unless the share has been reduced in this time period?” Salt asked. “Has it?”

  “No,” Stiger said, “it hasn’t. The senior officers are entitled to a twenty-percent cut of any plunder. You, me, and Ikely are rich men. Severus too.”

  “That makes me very happy, sir,” Salt said. “And my father said I’d never amount to much.”

  “Now we just need to save the empire,” Therik said, “so you can spend it.”

  Salt gave a grunt. “The truth is I’m not sure what I’d do with so much coin.”

  “I am sure you will find something to do with it,” Stiger said, then recalled the note he’d received from Braddock the night before. “What of the prisoners?”

  “Ikely has put two thousand of the bastards to work hauling the loot back to Old City, where it will be stored,” Salt said. “Another thousand have been employed with supply, general labor and such. As discussed, the rest are being marched back to the dwarven nations, where they will be broken up, put to work and guarded by Braddock’s militia.”

  “Braddock is still not happy about that,” Stiger said. “I received a stern note last night on the subject.”

  “I would assume he wants them all put to death?” Salt said.

  “Your assumption is correct.” Stiger rubbed the back of his neck. He looked around and spotted his chief clerk. The clerk was waiting patiently for Stiger to finish with Salt. It was a sign there was a lot to be done.

  “Nepturus,” Stiger said, “you can bring over the dispatches.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nepturus hurried over and set a stack of dispatches down on the table before Stiger. “Nothing terribly important, but you will want to see them regardless. I have already taken the liberty of responding to most. My replies are attached to each dispatch. Should you wish changes, sir, please let me know.”

  “What would I do without you?” Stiger asked the clerk as he picked up the first of the dispatches. There were twelve of them. Though at times a little cantankerous, Nepturus had become part of his headquarters family and over the last few years had proven invaluable to the legion’s operation. The man was incredibly efficient, almost in a scary way. He was also a rock, in that he would not allow the legion’s centurions to bully him.

  “Most probably promote one of the others to this thankless job, sir,” the clerk said and then returned to his table.

  “I probably would,” Stiger called after him.

  “I know, sir,” Nepturus said.

  “Sir,” Salt said, clearly sensing Stiger wanted to get to work, “will there be anything else? I would like to get back to overseeing the construction of the encampment.”

  “Nothing pressing,” Stiger said. “How much time do you need?”

  “Before the legion can settle in for the night?” Salt considered his answer for a long moment. “At least three, maybe four hours, sir. I’d like to clean up too and wash off all this dust.”

  “Right then,” Stiger said. “I will see you for dinner. We will talk additional business then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Salt said. He gave Stiger a salute, then eyed the orc for a prolonged moment. “Therik, would you join me for a tour of the defensive works? I am sure the legate has a great deal of work that needs attending to.”

  “I would,” Therik said, with an unhappy glance around the administrative tent. His eyes settled on the dispatches, then Stiger. “I will leave you to your work. Enjoy.”

  Stiger nodded absently as he began reading the first of the dispatches. When he looked up, several moments later, both Salt and Therik were gone. Dog had disappeared too.

  Stiger set the dispatch down on the table, untied the straps to his helmet, and then lifted the heavy thing off his head. He set the helmet down with a solid-sounding thunk. He rubbed the back of his neck, which was stiff and sore. He scooped up the dispatches and started for his office. Looking in, he saw only his desk had been set up.

  “Nepturus, do you have a stool so I can sit?”

  “I will find one for you, sir,” Nepturus said.

  “That would be just grand,” Stiger said as he made his way to his desk, for his legs and feet ached something fierce. He opened the next dispatch and began reading, then called back out, “Some wine to wash the dust from my mouth would be good too.”

  TWELVE

  Stiger lay down on his cot, resisting the temptation to groan. Two thick blankets had been neatly folded at the end by Venthus. He rested his legs upon them. That felt good, more than good. It was great.

  He’d just finished the end-of-day business and had retired for a brief respite of quiet. The sun had set. His tent was lit by a single lantern, which hung from the central support pole. A brazier smoked in the corner, providing more smoke than heat. The smoke swirled about the ceiling of the tent and around the lantern.

  Dog was curled up next to the cot. His legs twitched, and he gave a growl as he was caught up in a dream. Stiger idly wondered what animal he was chasing.

  Outside the tent, he could hear the usual noises of the legion, men calling to one another, the harsh bark of laughter, coughing, the chink of armor, the sound of a hammer. It was something that he had long become accustomed to. Only in the middle of the night would most of the noise cease. Still, there would be the occasional order snapped from an officer, or challenge given by a sentry. Legionary camps were by nature never completely quiet. It was just how it was and Stiger would not have it any other way. The legion was his true home.

  From his cot, Stiger gazed up at the top of his tent, studying the canvas. It was superbly made, using only the finest of materials. Venthus had told him Delvaris had purchased the tent in Mal’Zeel, before the legion had marched south. He had acquired it from a tentmaker named Teltanic. Teltanic, like everyone else left behind in that time, was now long dead. Stiger wondered if his family was still in the business of tent making. It was an interesting thought. If he ever made it back to the capital and needed a new tent, it might bear looking into.

  Dog stirred slightly and opened an eye. Seeing nothing interesting was going on, he yawned powerfully, then rolled onto his side and promptly went back to sleep.

  Stiger rubbed at tired eyes. The legion would wake early, and the march would once again resume. It had been almost three weeks since the battle. They were averaging ten to twelve miles a day. Stiger had done better with his old company, but this was an entire army. He was pleased with their progress, for there were always delays of some kind, especially when confined to a single road that was quite narrow.<
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  There was also the fact that the legion stopped each afternoon and built a fortified encampment. That took time away from the miles marched. With so much at stake, Stiger was unwilling to sacrifice safety for speed. While at its most vulnerable, defensive works ensured the legion’s safety at night. The proof of that was the enemy army he’d so handily crushed before Vrell.

  In a few days, they would come to the forest’s boundary and join up with Braddock’s army. Stiger had no idea where fate would take them, other than a likely march north toward the empire in pursuit of the enemy.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Venthus said from the entrance flap. He held a mug. “I have some heated wine. Would you care for some?”

  Stiger propped himself up on his elbows and then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot to the rug. “I would.”

  Venthus stepped up. The contents steamed in the cold air. Stiger took the mug and felt its welcome warmth through his fingers. He sat there for a moment, enjoying the warming sensation.

  “I have a jar simmering over a low fire, master,” Venthus said. “Should you require more, just call.”

  Venthus’s tent was pitched next to Stiger’s. The slave turned to go.

  “Venthus?”

  “Sir?”

  “How are you holding up?” Stiger asked, for the march had been a difficult one and Venthus was older. Delvaris had asked Stiger to look after Venthus, and he intended to. Only there were complications in doing so, for the man was no ordinary slave.

  “Well enough,” Venthus said. “I believe you have more pressing matters to concern yourself with than me, master.”

  “That would be an incorrect assumption,” Stiger said. “How are you really holding up?”

  Venthus was silent for a long moment, his gray eyes studying Stiger.

  “Like everyone else,” Venthus said with a sort of sigh, “I am sore and tired. I fear I’m getting too old for campaigning. This”—the slave paused and glanced about the tent—“will likely be my last campaign.”

  “Then,” Stiger said, “we have something in common.”

  “We’ve always had something in common, master.” Venthus’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “We both know that, now, don’t we?”

  Stiger took a sip of the heated wine and savored it as the warmth traveled down to his belly. Stiger knew Venthus’s secret, and yet there was much he did not understand. Many simply overlooked him and considered the legate’s slave, like so many others, simply irrelevant. That was a mistake. Calling Venthus dangerous was something of an understatement.

  “And what is that exactly?” Stiger asked.

  Venthus did not immediately reply. He took a step closer to Stiger and brought his hands together before him, interlacing his fingers.

  “Why, a devotion to duty,” Venthus answered in a near whisper, “and service to our respective gods. That is what we have in common, master.”

  The last word, master, had been said almost sarcastically. Stiger had thought he’d come to understand Venthus, but now…in this moment, he wasn’t quite so sure.

  “Is that all?” Stiger asked.

  “Of course not,” Venthus said, in the same hushed tone. “We both will do whatever we deem necessary, no matter how distasteful, to achieve our goals. That is what we have in common. Do you disagree?”

  Stiger sucked in a breath. There was a lot of truth in what Venthus said.

  “No,” Stiger said after a brief hesitation. “I do not disagree.”

  “Then we agree,” Venthus said, “and we understand one another.”

  “Yes, I believe we do,” Stiger said.

  A silence settled between them. Stiger chose to break it.

  “Make sure you take some time for yourself,” Stiger said. “If that entails turning in early, do so. The legion marches again in the morning.”

  “As you wish, master. I believe I will take advantage of your kind offer.”

  Venthus bowed respectfully and turned away.

  “Venthus?”

  The slave swung back again, arching an eyebrow.

  “I could arrange for a horse or even a spot on one of the wagons,” Stiger suggested. “That might make it a bit easier on you.”

  “That is very kind of you, master,” Venthus said.

  “You won’t take me up on it, will you?” Stiger asked.

  “No,” Venthus said.

  “Why not?”

  “For my sins,” Venthus said simply.

  “Don’t you think you’ve suffered enough?” Stiger asked. They had had this conversation before.

  “No,” Venthus said. “I atone daily…in my own way, you might say, through service and suffering.”

  Stiger rubbed his jaw as he considered his slave. He felt a wave of sadness and pity wash over him. Venthus sucked in a breath and stiffened, clearly sensing Stiger’s thoughts.

  “If there will be nothing else, master, I shall retire for the evening.”

  “Thank you for the wine,” Stiger said.

  With that Venthus bowed, then retreated from the tent.

  Stiger glanced over at Dog. The animal was staring at the tent flap, from which Venthus had just left. Dog looked over at Stiger and gave a soft whine.

  “I know,” Stiger said to the animal. “It is not an ideal arrangement, but I trust him. You should too.”

  Dog regarded Stiger for several heartbeats, then laid his head back down upon his paws and closed his eyes.

  “Right,” Stiger said and took another sip of his wine before setting it down on the table at the head of his cot. He lay back and resumed staring at the canvas ceiling. No matter how much he desired sleep, it wasn’t time to turn in for the evening. He still had a working dinner with Salt. There was yet business to discuss.

  He also wanted to walk through the camp and spend some time visiting the campfires. It had become part of his nightly routine and something he’d come to value, for it reinforced his connection with the men. It also told him how they were holding up. So far, the legion had responded nicely to the extended march. Morale was high.

  He blew a steaming breath up into the air. There had still been no word from Menos. He was becoming worried about that.

  What was keeping him?

  Had something happened to the dragon? Stiger certainly hoped not, but the silence was troubling. It nagged at him.

  His thoughts shifted to the latest dispatches that had come in from Braddock. Three days earlier, the thane had pushed out from the forest and fought a minor battle on the King’s Highway. According to Braddock, the dwarves had slaughtered at least a brigade of the enemy and broken another. They had even taken prisoners, which had come as a surprise to Stiger, for he’d expected the dwarves to slaughter all of the enemy that fell into their hands.

  Hux had patrols out to the north, south, and east. The cavalry prefect had destroyed a number of smaller enemy detachments and unsuspecting garrisons. He had also seized an astonishing quantity of supplies. That was the welcome news, at least.

  Braddock had sent along some bad news as well. Apparently, the Southern legions had been brought to battle south of Aeda and been soundly defeated. Cavalry scouts had discovered the battle site a few miles off the road. The slaughter was reputed to have been great.

  Stiger had suspected as much, so that did not come as a total surprise. The conditions of those four legions had been dreadful. Had they been asked to put down a small riot, he suspected General Kromen would’ve been unable to do so. Still, the thought of such a defeat bothered him no less. It was a stain upon the empire, one Stiger fully intended to erase.

  In addition to all of that, some of the prisoners taken had reported that the might of the empire had been brought to battle and defeated farther to the north. Worse, they said the emperor had fallen in the fighting.

  Braddock had included his own personal assessment that this was rumor and not established fact. He could not, as yet, corroborate it, for they had not captured an enemy who’d been there when
it had happened. Stiger certainly hoped it was not true, for if the information was correct, he was already too late. That made the absence of Menos even more troubling.

  What was the noctalum doing?

  Stiger blew out a long breath. He felt incredibly tired and weary. The burden of the world rested upon his shoulders and of late it weighed heavily. He yawned, eyes watering with tears.

  “Perhaps just a little nap before dinner,” Stiger said and closed his eyes. He knew, when it was time, Salt would come for him.

  “Perhaps not.”

  Stiger opened his eyes and looked over. Taha’Leeth had pushed the tent flap aside. Her eyes were on him as she entered. He sat up and grinned at the sight of her, his mood instantly lightening. His weariness fled with her arrival.

  “It has been a few days,” Taha’Leeth said in Elven as she set her pack and bow down on the rug.

  “It’s been too long,” Stiger replied in Elven.

  Since the legion had marched, he’d only seen her a few times, and of those, during the march, they had spent four incredible nights together and a couple days in each other’s company. However, for the most part, she’d been out in the field. As the legion moved through the forest, on the Vrell road, the elves, along with the legion’s scouts, were his eyes and ears. They probed the surrounding forest, searching and hunting for threats.

  He had found himself missing her company more with each passing day, his thoughts continually straying to her. Taha’Leeth’s presence had become one of his true pleasures, nearly a dangerous vice.

  Standing before him, she looked incredible to his eyes. Stiger sucked in a breath that shuddered slightly. Taha’Leeth was an exotic creature of stunning beauty and he wanted…needed her in his life.

  Taha’Leeth undid her braid and shook out her fiery red hair. She removed her boots next, flexing her toes upon the rich pattered rug that covered the ground. She bit her lip a moment as she gazed upon him, then her eyes tracked to Dog.