Stiger felt himself go cold at the emperor’s words. There was no doubt who he meant.
“The High Father showed me the truth…” The emperor coughed again. When he recovered, he managed to stir himself. He gripped Stiger’s hand tightly. “I name you…” The emperor wheezed and struggled to suck in a breath. It seemed to take a tremendous effort. The emperor almost completely sat up, pulling himself closer to Stiger. “I name you, Ben, my successor. I have no heir. I never married. I…name…you.” Then, he collapsed back onto the cot, a pleased smile upon his face. “There, I’ve gone and done it. I’ve cursed you, my friend…cursed you with the headache that is the senate and the empire…but it’s what I was shown. You…are…meant…to be…emperor.”
“What?” Stiger asked in shock, looking over at Restus. Had he heard correctly? Surely not. The paladin leaned forward and felt the emperor’s neck. Stiger realized that the emperor’s hand, which he was still holding, had gone slack.
“Oh, no,” Stiger breathed.
Restus closed the emperor’s eyes.
The paladin pulled a gold imperial talon from a pocket and placed it in the emperor’s hand. He bowed his head in silent prayer, then looked over at Stiger.
“Long live the emperor,” Restus breathed, after a slight hesitation. “Long live Emperor Stiger.”
“No,” Stiger gasped, letting go of the hand and looking toward Treim and Aetius. Behind them stood Ruga.
“Isn’t that some shit,” Ruga said, his eyes on his legate.
Stiger could not help but agree with the sentiment.
Rarokan laughed ominously in his mind.
“Long live Emperor Stiger,” General Treim shouted out into the corridor.
Aetius joined in. “Long live the emperor.”
Stiger could hear the call repeated as it spread outside the crypt.
General Treim and Aetius knelt as Stiger woodenly stood.
“Wait,” Stiger said in growing alarm. It came out as a gasp. He suddenly recalled his conversation with Therik as they’d ridden up to Castle Vrell. Stiger had told the former king about the slave whose job it was to whisper in the victorious general’s ear during the triumphant ride through the capital. Then his thoughts shifted to Taha’Leeth and how he’d changed. He was no longer mortal…but something else… Stiger felt a burst of panic. “This can’t be. I can’t be the emperor, not me…not with my family.”
“It is meant to be,” Treim said. “For better or worse, you are the emperor, and I swear upon my family’s honor, my ancestors, and my life to serve you loyally.”
“I swear as well,” Aetius said, with a smile of pleasure on his face.
“It is fitting,” Eli said.
“What do you mean it is fitting?” Stiger demanded. “This is bullshit. I am not cut out to be emperor.”
“No one will dare lock you up now,” Eli said. “I knew you would always make something of yourself.”
“Very funny,” Stiger said.
“You are the emperor, sir.” Ruga saluted and then knelt. “I am honored to follow you.”
“We don’t kneel to our emperors,” Stiger snapped, becoming irritated.
“No, sir,” Ruga replied, “but you are doubly blessed, being the High Father’s Champion and all.”
“I will agree with that,” Restus said. “He is gods blessed.”
“Good gods,” Stiger breathed in shock. “I never wanted this.”
“No, sir,” Ruga said, “that’s why Eli’s right. It’s fitting that you should not want to be emperor. It’s why me, my boys and the legion will follow you to the Seven Levels and back, sir.”
Stiger glanced back on the corpse of his childhood friend and suddenly felt the need for fresh air. He had to clear his head and think, even if just for a moment. He brushed past everyone, left the room. He pushed by a visibly astonished Handi and the two praetorians, who had been standing in the way. Stiger made his way back up to the surface. The rest of his escort was out there, waiting, but so too were hundreds of civilians and legionaries. Word had spread about his arrival and defeat of the enemy army. Then had come word from the catacombs of the new emperor. Stiger stumbled to a stop, astonished to see so many gathered before the temple, filling the square.
“Long live the emperor,” someone shouted, and then it was taken up as a chant by all. “Long live the emperor. Long live Emperor Stiger.”
“Oh, shit,” Stiger said to himself. “I am truly and thoroughly screwed.”
The End
Interested in how Stiger began his military career? Read on.
For those who have not yet discovered the Tales of the Seventh series and how it all began with Stiger and Eli…I have included this two-chapter preview of Stiger, Tales of the Seventh: Part One.
Enjoy,
Marc
STIGER
Part One
Tales of the Seventh
ONE
“Ah, yes…the young Lieutenant Stiger. How can I help you?”
“Captain Bruta.” Stiger offered a salute.
Bruta ignored the salute, turning back to his drink and companion. Corporal Varus, who had been following Stiger, stopped a few steps behind him. Stiger sensed the corporal was bored and longed to be somewhere else—really anywhere else—than with him, a junior lieutenant. Seven Levels, Stiger thought, I want to be anywhere but here at this supply depot.
Bruta looked up from the roughly cut wooden table he sat at with another officer and simply gazed at Stiger, an irritated expression on his pock-marked face. Both officers before Stiger were wearing their service tunics, which did not carry rank insignias or the trappings of office. The two had been sharing a drink. The other officer scowled at Stiger’s presence before taking another pull from his cup.
A merchant had set up shop inside the rapidly growing supply depot, which sprawled around them. The merchant had clearly just arrived. He had yet to pitch his canopy to provide some shade from the early summer sun, but had managed to set out several rough tables and a few rickety-looking stools, at which several patrons were enjoying cheap, watered-down wine or ale.
Two slaves were busy digging holes for what Stiger presumed would be the canopy’s support posts. The rolled-up canopy lay next to the merchant’s heavy wagon loaded with wooden casks, amphorae, and crates. A third slave was slowly unloading the wagon.
Behind Bruta and his drinking companion, Stiger could see several auxiliaries on sentry duty slowly walking the walls, on the lookout for any approaching trouble—particularly the Rivan, with whom the empire was currently at war. Inside the depot, several crude wooden buildings, including a headquarters and barracks, had been raised, with a number of other structures in partial states of construction. The growing, fortified compound gave the impression the empire expected to be here for a long time to come.
Bruta said nothing for several uncomfortable and embarrassing seconds.
“I have been waiting much of the day,” Stiger said. “I need…”
“Bruta, tell this pup to go on his way,” the other officer said in a bored tone. He then looked up directly at Stiger. “Let us men drink in peace, boy.”
Stiger bristled at this, but held his tongue. Not only were both officers senior to him, they were also much older. He had no idea who Bruta’s companion was, but the man’s age and manner alone told Stiger he was at least a captain. Stiger assumed that he was the prefect commanding the auxiliary cohort that had been stationed at this depot. There was no other reason for a senior officer other than Bruta to be here.
Stiger was still relatively new to serving with the Eagles, and he was unsure of himself. He had only recently arrived to take up his first military appointment as an infantry lieutenant serving in the Third Legion, Seventh Company. Stiger had discovered, to his disappointment, the legion’s officer corps had been anything but welcoming. In fact, his fellow officers had been outright discourteous to the point of rudeness.
“Lieutenant,” Bruta said, looking up with a scowl, “
can’t you see I am having a peaceful drink here with my friend, the prefect?”
“Yes, sir,” Stiger conceded. “I can.”
“Then why are you still bothering me?”
“I have orders from Captain Cethegus,” Stiger said stiffly, “my commanding officer.”
“Cethegus.” Bruta barked out a laugh. “That fool deserves you, Stiger, you know that, don’t you? An incompetent fool saddled with a traitor’s son. Somehow, I find that fitting.”
“Sir,” Stiger said, struggling to contain his mounting anger. The accusation, however true, burned. Stiger glanced over at Varus, ashamed the corporal had heard the outright insult. Varus glanced quickly away. Perhaps Stiger should have left him with the rest of the escort like he had with Corporal Durus. He looked back to Bruta. “All I want is for my wagons to be loaded with the requisitioned supplies and then to be on my way.”
Bruta took a pull from his drink. He sucked in a deep breath that turned into a heavy sigh. For a moment the supply officer said nothing and then turned his gaze slowly back up to Stiger.
“You and every other company from the Third wants something from me,” Bruta said heavily. A fly buzzed around his drink. The captain shooed it away with a hand.
“My supply train is the only one present,” Stiger said, becoming exasperated. He gestured with a helpless feeling over to the neatly organized stacks and piles of supplies just a few yards off. A number of slaves lounged about, doing no work under the hot midday sun. “Your slaves are doing nothing.”
“Even slaves occasionally need rest,” Bruta said with a barely concealed chuckle and smirk directed at the prefect.
“They are slaves,” Stiger said, the helpless feeling growing more acute. He knew damn well the supply officer was toying with him, intentionally dragging his feet. It had been the same act each time Stiger had come to fetch supplies for his company.
“That is an exceptionally keen observation,” Bruta’s companion said sarcastically.
“I am expected back this evening,” Stiger said, trying another approach. “If we do not get the wagons loaded soon, I will be unable to follow my orders.”
“That’s your problem.” Bruta laughed openly, sparing Stiger a broad smile with a number of broken teeth. The man’s nose had been shattered many times and was mashed off to the side slightly. Combined with the pox scars, Captain Bruta was one devastatingly ugly man. “My slaves need the rest.”
“Then we shall load the wagon ourselves,” Stiger said. “That way your slaves can get the rest they so well deserve.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” Bruta barked. “I won’t have your thieving men go near my supplies. No telling what they would take. No, Lieutenant, your men touch nothing.”
Stiger was silent a moment as he considered the situation. Being treated abominably due to his name was something to which he had become accustomed in recent years. Stiger had no friends or patrons in Third Legion. As such, he worked himself harder than anyone else, determined to let his actions speak for him. In essence, Stiger was struggling forward to make a name for himself, apart from the disgrace his father had inflicted upon the family.
Until this moment, Stiger had bit his tongue and taken whatever abuse had been thrown his way. Disgraced or not, his family was still powerful. Somehow they had managed to hold on to their senatorial seat, one of only a hundred. The man before him, an officer from a relatively minor house, was intentionally disrespecting him. It was an affront not only to his, but also his family’s, honor. What little there was left.
Stiger knew he would be justified in challenging Bruta to a duel. However, he also understood such a challenge was impossible. General Secra, commander of the Third Legion, had prohibited all such contests of honor. It had been made clear that any officer issuing a challenge or participating in a duel would be harshly punished. Unfortunately, General Secra had recently sickened and died. Yet, even in death, the order stood, and Stiger was bound to obey.
The legion was waiting on its new temporary commander, General Treim, who was due to arrive any day. The emperor would eventually get around to selecting a permanent commander for the Third, who would in turn be approved by the senate. That would take months. With luck, General Treim would put such useless officers as Captain Bruta in their place. Until then, Stiger was completely helpless and at the mercy of this lazy, incompetent officer.
Prior to Stiger’s arrival to take up his appointed posting, the Third had driven a small Rivan army from the frontier back into enemy territory. It had fought several pitched battles along the way. With the death of its general, the Third had been ordered to wait for a replacement. That had been two months ago. Accordingly, the legion had stopped its pursuit and now stood idle. Supply depots like this one had been erected all the way back to the frontier, with the intention of keeping the legion and a number of newly made garrisons supplied.
“Well then.” Stiger let out an explosive breath and shifted his stance slightly. “When do you expect your slaves to be sufficiently rested and able to return to work?”
“That’s hard to say.” Bruta furrowed his brow in an exaggerated appearance of consideration. Bruta’s drinking companion chuckled. “Perhaps in a day or two.”
Stiger was silent as he thought things through. He was tired of feeling helpless. There was simply nothing he could do to influence the situation to his advantage…or was there? Stiger’s eyes narrowed slightly. Bruta was a bully, inflicting petty cruelty on someone he thought was in an inferior position. Though the supply captain was higher in rank, Stiger could easily turn the tables on him. Bruta could be put in an inferior position. Stiger almost smiled but resisted the temptation. He would play Bruta’s game, but change the terms.
“I guess there is nothing more I can reasonably do,” Stiger said with a quick glance over at Varus, who was studying the ground at his feet and still looking very much like he desired to be anywhere but here. “You have tied my hands.”
“I have, haven’t I?” Bruta laughed openly as he took another gulp from his drink. It was a harsh barking laugh that Stiger found doglike, and it grated on his nerves, as did just about everything to do with this man. Bruta was a mockery of what a legionary officer should be.
At that moment, the merchant came around the corner of his wagon and suddenly provided Stiger a welcome interruption. Stiger beckoned for the man to come nearer.
It was hot. Stiger glanced up at the sun and wiped sweat from his brow with the side of his hand as the merchant made his way over.
“How may I help you, sir?” The merchant smiled. Filled with yellowed and rotten teeth, it was not a pleasant smile. The merchant had been working, and he quickly wiped a hand on his greasy apron. Stiger looked disdainfully on the man, wondering if he had ever heard of such a thing as a bath, or for that matter having his tunic and apron laundered. He stank of stale wine, ale, and sweat—all made worse by the heat of the day.
“What is your finest bottled wine?”
Stiger feared the response. They were in barbarian territory, hundreds of miles from civilization. There was likely nothing good to be had, and he suspected he would be forced to settle for some inferior vintage that was overly acidic. The thought of it almost made him cringe.
“I have several cases of red from Venney,” the merchant said after considering the young officer before him. The merchant had made a quick study of the quality of Stiger’s armor and had likely judged him to be of some means, which was why he had suggested such an expensive vintage. “Just came in on a caravan from Cress a few days ago.”
“Venney?” Stiger asked him, surprised.
“Indeed, sir.”
“How much?” Stiger was pleased that such high quality wine could be had, but also concerned with what he would have to pay.
“For you, young sir…” The merchant thought for a moment. “A half silver talon.”
“That’s robbery,” Stiger scoffed. “I shall pay no more than a quarter.”
“I
could not accept less than a half,” the man countered. “Alas, we are far from civilization, and such a fine vintage is difficult to come by.”
“What is your name?” Stiger scratched at an itch on his arm.
“Trex, noble sir.” The wine merchant bowed in a show of respect.
“Do you know Arrus the wine merchant?” Stiger asked him with a raised eyebrow. He had a feeling the man knew his competition. It was time to test it.
“I do,” Trex said, the smile slipping from his face. It returned a moment later, a little forced. “He is most untrustworthy in his dealings.”
“I have no doubt he is as dishonest as you say,” Stiger said, and the wine merchant’s smile became more genuine at that. “Yet, Arrus has set up shop with the Third’s camp followers.”
“He did?” Trex looked unhappy at such news.
“A few days ago, he sold me a similar vintage that was quite fine for a quarter talon.” Stiger did not mention that the wine he had bought was not from Venney, but a half talon was highway robbery, even this far beyond the frontier. A quarter was high too, but it was to be expected, and Stiger considered it a reasonable price to pay.
The smile disappeared at that. “He did?”
Stiger nodded. “I would much rather do business with someone like you. Arrus is disagreeable, but his prices are better. I am sure you can see the position I am in.”
The merchant looked agonized as he considered the possibility of losing business to a competitor and weighed that against potentially getting a better price from another noble of sufficient means at a later date.
“Very well,” the merchant conceded and bowed his head. “A quarter then.”
Stiger took out his purse and removed a quarter talon from it. He handed it over. “Have the case delivered to my detachment immediately.” He paused and gestured with a hand. “We are on the other side of the depot over that way.”
“I will, sir. Thank you for your patronage.” Trex bowed and turned. He then stopped and looked back. “I hope you will seek me out for future purchases. May I have your name, noble sir?”
The Tiger’s Wrath (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 5) Page 45
