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

by Marc Edelheit

  Stiger nudged Nomad forward a few steps to the crest of the hill and brought his horse to a stop. He found himself looking on the melee of battle. Down the other side of the hill was the carriage and cavalry troop that had passed them by earlier. They were under attack by a large force of cavalry, perhaps three hundred yards distant.

  The cavalry wore the blue cloaks of the Rivan.

  A good number of the defenders were down or had been unhorsed. The sounds of the fighting reached him clearly, and Stiger was surprised he had not heard it as he rode up.

  “Looks to be around forty of the Rivan bastards,” Varus grunted. Stiger did a quick count himself and found that the corporal was correct. Though in the chaos of the fight there appeared to be more. “They are pressing our boys hard, sir.”

  Stiger nodded in agreement, but was not really sure what he could do. His tutors had taught him infantry never attacked cavalry. It simply did not happen.

  “Sir,” Varus said, an urgent tone in his voice. “We need to help our boys.”

  “Right,” Stiger said, the corporal’s words jolting him into action. This was his chance to secure some of the glory he so craved and deserved. “Send word for the other file to come up at the double. We will take this file down and attack the enemy. As soon as the other file is up, they are to follow and engage. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Varus turned and spoke to a legionary who set his shield and spear down. The man immediately sprinted away toward the rear of the train.

  Stiger glanced over his assault line, still hidden behind the crest of the hill. Twenty men organized into four ranks of five looked fairly insignificant. He then looked back down at the fight. He idly wondered if the disagreeable lieutenant he had encountered earlier was still alive.

  “Corporal,” Stiger said with sudden inspiration. “I want two ranks. That’s all. Quickly now.”

  Varus reorganized the men into two ranks, which made the assault line look larger and—Stiger hoped—more intimidating. Once it was done, he unfastened his helmet from a tie on the saddle and put it on. Stiger secured the strap tightly and drew his sword. He looked back on his men. Each held a short spear and shield with grim expressions on their faces. He glanced back down at the fight. The enemy cavalry, engaged with the carriage’s escort, were distracted. It wasn’t like he was assaulting an organized and prepared formation. Stiger’s appearance would hopefully surprise the enemy. The spears would serve well, Stiger hoped. If the opportunity came for a toss, where there was no risk of hitting friendly forces, he would take it.

  “Sir,” Varus drew his attention. “Would you care for one of the teamsters to hold your horse?”

  Stiger studied the corporal for a moment. It was a gentle and subtle rebuke, which surprised him. Varus was right, he decided. He was an infantry officer, and in battle his place was afoot with his men. Stiger dismounted and beckoned for a man to take his horse. The man quickly led Nomad over to the nearest teamster and handed the reins up.

  “Very good.” Stiger used his free hand to check the tightness of the strap on his helmet. “Advance.”

  The line started forward and within five steps reached the crest. Then they were over it and on their way down the other side at a steady, measured pace.

  “Seven Levels,” one of the men breathed, seeing the action below for the first time.

  “Quiet in the ranks,” Varus barked. “Another word and I will personally make sure you will be up to your elbows in shit, mucking out the latrines after we make it back to camp tonight.”

  There were no more comments after that.

  Stiger, studying the fight as they closed, estimated that about half of the friendly cavalry were down. Several had been unhorsed and fought afoot. Screams and the clash of sword on sword filled the air. Bodies littered the ground. Wounded crawled from the fight, while others writhed or thrashed about in agony. Horsemen wheeled around, trading blows. Horses whinnied and screamed.

  Stiger saw the horses that had been pulling the carriage had both been cut down. An injured horse broke from the press and thundered away past Stiger and his men, a badly wounded Rivan cavalry trooper clinging desperately to its neck.

  Stiger’s nerves increased the closer they got.

  This was his first fight.

  He hands were sweaty on the hilt of his sword. His mouth was dry. Stiger suddenly found he was unprepared for the fight ahead. He offered a quick, silent prayer to the High Father, asking that the great god grant him glory this day. Stiger also prayed for strength. He begged that he not turn coward, for he really felt like doing nothing other than running.

  What Stiger took to be an enemy officer abruptly pointed in their direction and shouted a number of orders. They had finally been seen. The enemy cavalry pressed their attack, clearly intent upon cutting the defenders down before Stiger and his men could intervene.

  “At the double,” Stiger shouted, understanding that he had to do something. It also occurred to him that as long as the enemy were focused on the carriage and its escort, the horsemen would not pose a threat to him and his men. The sooner they closed and joined the fight the better. “March!”

  The pace increased, and the distance closed rapidly, armor jangling and chinking as the assault line closed on the enemy.

  “Slow march!” Stiger called when they were fewer than ten paces from the enemy. “Close up.”

  The legionaries came back together in a solid line.

  “Ready shields,” Varus snapped. The shields thunked together.

  Several of the enemy wheeled about and attempted to close on Stiger’s legionaries. All they found was an impenetrable shield wall that bristled with short spears. The horses shied back, fighting against their riders’ commands. A legionary lunged forward and jabbed out, found flesh. The horse screamed in agony. It reared up, dumping its blue-cloaked rider before the line of legionaries, then turned and ran madly in the other direction. The man died under a number of spear strikes.

  Another horse was jabbed by multiple spears and went down, crushing the rider. Stiger stood off to the side of his line, slightly behind his men, as they coolly moved forward and into the fight. He was impressed by their calm and discipline, though he knew he should not be. They were mostly all hardened veterans with years of service behind them.

  Stiger realized with an abrupt shock that he had left his shield back with the supply wagons. He cursed his stupidity as one of the enemy, seeing an officer off to the side of the legionary line, wheeled his horse about and drove forward, cavalry sword leveled for the kill.

  Stiger crouched and made ready to spring aside, when one of his men at the end of the line casually stepped forward and drove his spear into the beast’s chest. The force of the horse’s momentum ripped the short spear from the legionary’s hand as the horse collapsed to the earth, spilling the rider into the dirt. The legionary calmly drew his short sword and jabbed downward, killing the trooper before the man could even struggle to his feet. The legionary glanced over at Stiger and grinned before turning back to the action.

  A strange-sounding horn blasted three short notes, then repeated again. The enemy cavalry immediately broke off the fight, pulling their horses around. They galloped away, making for a stand of trees some twenty yards to the left.

  “Spears,” Varus called to the men before Stiger could even think to give the order. “Release at will.”

  With grunts of effort, Stiger’s men threw their spears. It was a ragged toss, but five of the deadly missiles found their mark, striking down horse and man alike. Stiger saw another wave of spears come down amidst the enemy a few heartbeats later. This toss had come from his second file, led by Corporal Durus, who had been at the rear of the supply train. They had just started down the hill.

  Four more of the cavalry were struck down. One enemy trooper, whose horse was down, kicking about in the dirt on its side, stood and began dashing for the safety of the trees on foot. Another stood with an injured leg and began to limp painfully away
.

  “Send five men to dispatch the survivors,” Stiger ordered Varus, gesturing with his sword at the horsemen who had been downed by the spear toss. An injured horse screamed and thrashed in the dirt. The animal’s back legs no longer worked. “Also, kindly put the wounded beasts out of their misery.”

  “Yes, sir,” Varus said.

  Stiger watched the rest of the enemy cavalry make it into the trees and disappear. A few moments later they could be seen riding up a small hill beyond the trees and disappearing again over the top.

  Stiger glanced around. None of his men appeared to have been injured or killed. He turned back to the carriage—a pile of bodies forming a ring around it. It was a right mess. Several of the cavalry escorts had dismounted and were moving amongst the bodies, putting any of the enemy they discovered alive out of their misery. A few were even searching the bodies for loot. A number of rider-less horses milled uncertainly about.

  “You men,” Stiger called to his men who were looking about at the carnage. “Gather up those horses.”

  At least the enemy’s mounts were prizes of war. The legion would pay good money for them. The men would get a small portion, and so would Stiger. He received an allowance from his father, but that was barely enough to make ends meet. A little prize money would be more than welcome.

  “You are not as slow as I had initially thought.”

  Stiger turned and saw the cavalry lieutenant he had met earlier approaching on foot. The lieutenant’s armor and face were spattered with dried blood, but he looked unhurt. He flashed a good-natured grin at Stiger and offered his hand.

  “Lieutenant Aquila Carbo at your service, sir.”

  Stiger took his hand and returned the grin. It was the first real respect he had been shown by a fellow officer since he had come north. The Carbos had once been allies of his house, but after his father’s fall from grace, nothing was certain.

  “Lieutenant Ben Stiger.”

  “Stiger you say?” Carbo asked, with raised eyebrows. “I was not aware there were any Stigers still serving.” The lieutenant paused for a moment. “Lucky for me there are.”

  “Lucky,” Stiger repeated quietly. He noticed that his hand had started to shake slightly. He placed it upon his sword hilt to keep the trembling from showing.

  “I would like to apologize for my deplorable behavior earlier,” Carbo said formally. “I trust you will forgive me?”

  “Lieutenant Carbo,” a firm voice called from behind, saving Stiger from having to respond. “Whom do we have to thank for our timely rescue?”

  Carbo and Stiger turned. Another legionary officer, this one wearing the rich blue cloak of command, was striding confidently toward them. He also was splattered with blood and clearly had been involved in the fighting. Stiger stiffened to attention and offered a salute to the general.

  “Enough of that, son,” the senior officer said with a raised hand. “Today, I owe you my life, and for that I am grateful.” The general paused and briefly surveyed the death around him. “Though, I would hazard we have a spy who tipped the enemy off…a nasty business, this. He will have to be found.”

  “General Treim,” Carbo said. “May I introduce Lieutenant Ben Stiger.”

  “Stiger, eh?” the general asked, and Stiger realized that he was speaking with the new temporary commander of Third Legion.

  “Yes, sir,” Stiger said.

  “You did well,” General Treim said. “Are you in my legion?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stiger said. “Seventh Company.”

  “Excellent,” Treim said. “I like men who can fight and are not afraid to pitch in. Carbo…how many men do you have left who can ride?”

  Carbo glanced around and quickly counted. “Around eight, sir.”

  “Well, enough of this damned carriage,” Treim said. “Get me a horse. We are only seven or eight miles from the encampment. We shall ride the rest of the way.” The general paused and frowned. “The fact that the enemy moves so freely near our own encampment makes me wonder what our cavalry is doing.”

  “Yes, sir,” Carbo said, and then hesitated. “What of Livia?”

  “My daughter?” Treim turned back to the carriage, and then to Stiger. “Bring my carriage and my daughter to the encampment, son.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stiger replied. “She will be safe with me, sir.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Make sure you don’t forget the carriage too. It was rather expensive and my daughter is fond of traveling in it.”

  “Sir.” Stiger gestured toward the hill where the enemy had disappeared. “Are you certain about riding off? What if that bunch comes after you?”

  “I rather doubt they will try,” Treim said with a heavy breath. “After this, they have to know we will send out a force after them. Besides, we will ride hard for the encampment. They will not expect it. Yes, I think we shall be quite safe.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stiger responded neutrally, not so sure he felt as confident. But it was not his place to question the decisions of his general.

  Stiger watched as a cavalry trooper approached the coach and helped General Treim’s daughter out. She wore a pale blue dress. Stiger was struck by her beauty and figured she was near his age in years. Livia had long blonde hair weaved into a single braid hanging down her back to her waist. Her green eyes looked on with distaste at the death and injury that had been wrought around the carriage.

  “My dear,” General Treim said. “See, I told you everything would be fine.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said with a voice that was clear and fresh, though fluttered with an understandable nervous tremor. Stiger, in that moment, thought her very brave.

  “This is Lieutenant Stiger,” Treim introduced. “My daughter, Livia Domana.”

  “I am pleased to meet you,” Stiger said, offering the girl a small bow. She did not share the same last name as Treim, which meant he had adopted her.

  “Stiger?” She cast an interested look in his direction. “Stigers still serve the empire?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Stiger said, stiffly. “The emperor gave me his blessing personally.”

  “Lieutenant Stiger will see you safely to the encampment,” Treim said. “I will ride ahead with Carbo. There is business I must attend to.”

  “But, Father,” she said with an alarmed look. Stiger saw General Treim’s face harden. She must have also seen it as well, for after a moment’s hesitation, she bowed her head in acceptance, but not before glancing back at Stiger. Stiger realized that she desperately did not want her father to leave. Yet she would not embarrass him with a public protest either. She would endure as asked.

  There was strength in this girl, he thought.

  “You have my word of honor,” Stiger said to reassure her, “that I will see you safely to the legionary encampment.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, turning her beautiful green eyes upon him. “That will be a comfort.”

  Carbo led a horse over to Treim, who mounted with a smooth, practiced manner. He looked down upon Stiger and hesitated a moment.

  “Mount up,” Carbo called to those of his men who still could.

  “Lieutenant,” Treim said with a quick glance at his daughter and then around at the remains of the fight, which had centered around the carriage. “Make sure the wounded are cared for and brought back to the encampment. Also, bring back the dead.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I was friends with your father, you know,” Treim said suddenly, which Stiger had not known. “I also fought against him.”

  Stiger said nothing, feeling he was on dangerous ground.

  “If you are half the officer Marcus Stiger was, then I shall be pleased,” the general continued, his new horse sidestepping nervously. The general tightened his grip on the reins and the horse stilled.

  “Yes, sir,” Stiger said, straightening.

  “I shall be watching you, Stiger.”

  With that, the general kicked his horse forward into a trot and left Stiger wit
h his daughter, and the aftermath of the fight, to deal with.

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