“You doubt your own capability?” the emperor asked, gently mocking him.
“I had not expected such an honor,” Treim admitted, struggling to gather his thoughts. He had no doubts when it came to his ability as a general and leader of men.
“I expect you shall deliver great honor to your family, empire, and emperor,” Harananos said quietly.
“I will endeavor to do so,” Treim said, feeling even more tired than before, resigned to his new office and the responsibility that came with it, for in his hands now rested the fate of the empire. There would be no immediate rest for him. The High Command would wish much of his attention. With the bulk of the enemy army only thirty miles away, Treim would have to become rapidly familiar with the forces under his command. He suspected that the Cyphan would not allow the empire to continue to concentrate her legions unimpeded.
“Excellent.” The emperor turned to the assembled officers. “Leave us. You may congratulate General Treim later. I wish to speak with my general in private.”
The command was unexpected, and a number of general officers hesitated before respectfully offering bows and exiting the tent. The emperor waited patiently for the thirty or so officers to file quietly out. Treim wondered what was so important that the emperor wished to speak with him in private. Surely such a talk could have waited ‘til later in the evening, when the business of the day was done.
“Tenya’Far,” the emperor called. “Not you. Stay, if you will.”
Treim turned. He had not realized that an elf was present. Tenya’Far had been standing off to the side of the tent, almost in the corner. The general’s eyes narrowed. What was an elf doing attending the emperor?
“You too . . . leave us,” the emperor commanded to the two praetorians after everyone else had exited the tent. They looked about to argue, but then bowed respectfully and left.
Treim noticed that Harananos had remained. The secretary had not moved.
The elf, with the appearance of a youth of no more than twenty years, approached and stood next to Treim. Despite his youthful appearance, Treim felt a sense of great age in the elf. The general looked over at him and felt uncomfortable in Tenya’Far’s presence. The elves had long abandoned the empire, but were still nominally considered an ally, even if they had turned their backs on their former human friends. Where things stood now, the elves left the empire alone and the empire refrained from bothering them. The only other elf Treim had ever come across in service to the empire was the one that Ben Stiger dragged around with him. He tried to remember the name of Stiger’s pet elf, but could not. The general’s thoughts darkened as he thought on the officer who had once served him with distinction. Treim regretted having sent him south. In the disaster that had befallen the southern legions, Ben Stiger had been lost along with many other fine men.
“We have received word from a garrison to the far south,” Harananos explained once the tent had emptied.
“I did not think we had any forces left behind the lines,” Treim said.
“We did not either,” Harananos admitted. “It came as quite a surprise. A messenger won his way through to report that the garrison of Vrell has managed to hold out.”
“Vrell?” Treim asked. He had never heard of the place.
“It is a large isolated valley, guarded by Castle Vrell. I understand it to be an extremely well-fortified position, a real tough nut to crack,” the emperor said, speaking up. “General, you will be gratified to know that Ben, our mutual friend, now commands the garrison. He has over a thousand men and has stated his intention to hold at all costs.”
“Stiger!” Treim exclaimed. He grinned broadly. “The Cyphan will never take that castle from him, unless they are willing to pay for it in rivers of blood. Ben Stiger is a very determined officer.”
“I think we both know how determined he can be,” the emperor said, suddenly looking tired. Treim well knew of the young Stiger’s childhood friendship with the emperor. It was probably the only reason the entire family had not been executed. Thoughts of Ben’s father, Marcus Stiger, brought a wave of regret. The elder Stiger was one of the most skilled generals the empire had ever put in command of a field army. It was a shame that Marcus Stiger would never again be permitted to serve. He was essentially a prisoner on his own estate outside of Mal’Zeel, permitted to live only by the emperor’s grace.
“Well,” Harananos said, “there is a complication. The young Stiger found the eagle of the Thirteenth.”
“The Thirteenth?” Treim said. “The Vanished? He found the lost eagle?”
“Yes, he did,” the emperor said, “and that is the problem.”
“I do not see how.” Treim was confused. “It is just an eagle. All he has to do is hang onto it until we can fight our way south. If this castle is so well fortified, there should be little problem with him holding out.”
“It is a bit more complicated than that,” Harananos said. “This here is Eli’Far’s father.”
“That’s the elf who follows Stiger around, right?” Treim asked, glancing over at Tenya’Far.
“My son,” the elf admitted, speaking for the first time. There was no hint of emotion in his expression and tone. As with any elf he had ever met, Treim found Tenya’Far inscrutable.
“We need to send Stiger aid,” Harananos said. “Should Vrell fall, the empire is doomed.”
“That is why,” Tenya’Far stated, “I am taking a force of elven fighters to relieve Legate Stiger.”
“What? I don’t understand,” Treim said, his mind racing. He could not see how a remote, isolated valley could hold the key to the empire’s survival. “Elven fighters? Legate? We have not used that title in centuries. We call them generals now.”
“General Treim,” the emperor said, leaning forward from his golden throne, “as commander of my armies, it is time you were told of the Compact.”
“The Compact?”
“Yes,” Harananos said, “an alliance made over two thousand years ago.”
The general glanced over at Harananos. He had a bad feeling about what was to come.
One
Stiger took the reins of his horse from the legionary who had led the animal out from the castle stables. Nomad nuzzled Stiger playfully, nudging him in the shoulder. He patted the horse’s neck. A final parting gift from father to son, Nomad had served him well. He was a good horse and one of the few things Stiger was grateful to his father for.
“We have quite a ride ahead of us, old boy,” Stiger said as a bitterly cold wind whipped through the castle courtyard, rustling his thick blue cloak. A flurry of freshly fallen snow was sent swirling into the air by the gust. “It will be a bit of a cold ride, but nothing we’ve not seen before.”
The castle courtyard was bustling with activity as riders readied themselves. Though it was an hour after dawn, the courtyard was still heavily shadowed, thanks in part to the massive walls of the castle. A few feet away, Thane Braddock, along with his aide Garrack, checked their mounts. The dwarves, though short and squat, were wider than a man had a right to be. Stiger had learned that they were incredibly strong. The thane’s personal guard had already mounted up and were waiting. Each one of Braddock’s guard looked hard as a nail and ready to act at a moment’s notice. They were also heavily armed and armored, more so than a legionary.
Like their thane, they wore capes and horse-haired helms that were dyed a deep, rich purple. Stiger had learned the color purple, much like that of his emperor, was reserved for the thane himself and those of his clan. Naggock, the captain of Braddock’s guard, sat astride his pony, watching closely whomever came near his charge. With black hair tied back in a ponytail and a cold disposition, Naggock was smaller than most of his kind. There was an air of confidence and competence about him.
The dwarves were mounted on stout mountain ponies that they had brought with them. Manes braided much like their rider
s’ beards, the ponies bulged with muscles. Stiger had never seen their like. Though smaller than the average horse, these animals were impressively powerful. They would have to be, Stiger thought, to handle the weight of a dwarf and his armor. Dwarves, though smaller in stature than a full-grown man, were much heavier.
“We breed them to be strong,” Braddock had told Stiger proudly upon his arrival at the castle. “Most find use as draft animals, but these have been raised for war.”
Looking for some attention, Nomad nuzzled Stiger again, drawing him back to the present. He scratched the horse’s neck. Next to Eli, the horse was one of the few constants in his life.
“Okay, boy,” Stiger chuckled at Nomad’s enthusiasm. He dug into a saddlebag where the feed was stored and pulled out a handful of oats, which he fed to the greedy horse. “Easy now.”
Stiger found most dwarves difficult to tell apart. They were just too similar in appearance. Their thick beards that grew up to their cheeks obscured facial features that would have made them much more readily identifiable. He was sure they could easily tell one another apart, but he had a difficult time doing so. On the other hand, it was a simpler matter to separate the clans. Each one could be identified by a specific color or pattern scheme on their cloaks and tunics that was unique to the clan. Simply put, dwarves stood apart from other dwarves in dress and took enormous pride in their clans, which Stiger had learned were more like an extended family.
Amongst themselves, dwarves were also very competitive. So much so that Stiger and his legionaries had been introduced to a dwarven sport called noseball. Braddock had explained that the friendly sport was a way for his people to let off steam. Stiger and his legionaries had been treated to an exhibition game, though from what Stiger could see, there had been nothing even remotely friendly about the match. The game had been exceptionally violent, as each side worked to possess the ball, an inflated goat’s stomach. The object of the game was to advance the ball down the field toward the other team’s goal line. The only rules were that you could not throw a punch, kick, pull a weapon, or use your hands. Everything else was fair game, including body-slams, head-butts, and even the use of one’s teeth. Stiger suspected the reason the game was called noseball was on account of the many broken noses.
Unfortunately, the game was catching on amongst his legionaries. Stiger was considering banning the sport, as it was beginning to send a steady stream of injured players to the hospital ward, which affected his strength totals.
Stiger pulled out another handful of oats, fed it to his ever-hungry friend, and then checked the saddle straps to ensure that they were tight and secure. He was far from surprised to discover that they were loose. He tightened them. From painful experience, he knew that Nomad had the regrettable tendency to take a deep breath and hold it while being saddled. When the horse finally exhaled, the result was predictable: loose saddle straps. Stiger had learned to wait for a time and then readjust the straps.
Lan and his cavalry troop would act as Stiger’s personal escort. They were busily readying themselves and their horses, tightening straps, securing saddlebags, checking shoes, and a number of other tasks. No longer would he enjoy the freedom of unescorted travel. Lieutenant Ikely and Centurion Sabinus had steadfastly insisted upon this precaution. No matter how much Stiger disliked the idea, he had not even bothered to complain. There was no point. His men needed him and that was that.
Stiger paused in tightening the strap on his saddle bag, securing the oats. Despite what Atticus’s letter claimed, Stiger was unsure just what would happen when he was able to reestablish communication with the empire. Would the emperor accept what he had done? Would the alliance with the dwarves be repudiated? He finished securing the saddle strap and then patted Nomad’s neck.
“You are a good horse. When we return, I will find an apple for you.”
Eli led his horse out of the stables, followed by Marcus and Taha’Leeth, the stunningly beautiful elven princess from the small band who had recently joined them after rebelling against the Cyphan Confederacy. Stiger saw another elf, likely Taha’Leeth’s escort, also emerge. He was still troubled by the glamour Taha’Leeth had tried to pull on him and knew for damn sure he could not yet afford to trust her. Until she proved herself worthy, he would be watching. Trust had to be earned.
A hearty laugh echoed across the courtyard and Stiger’s attention was drawn to Father Thomas, who was already mounted and talking casually with Centurion Vargus. Next to the paladin on a dappled mare was Sergeant Arnold, who no longer walked with a severe limp. Father Thomas had healed the grizzled sergeant of his crippling injury.
The two had since become inseparable. The formerly irreverent troublemaker from the supply branch could regularly be seen with his nose buried in the High Father’s holy book or openly discussing theology with the paladin. Arnold had actually turned polite and respectful. Incredibly, he no longer swore. Not only did Arnold now present like a model legionary, shaved and well-groomed along with a flawlessly maintained kit, the sergeant had even become helpful. He voluntarily tended to the wounded in the hospital ward or stepped up to lead supply runs down into the valley, helping to return the food stores confiscated by the late Captain Aveeno. The man’s transformation was remarkable. Stiger was worried that the transformation was too quick to last.
“I would very much like to work with Arnold and help him to study the good word,” Father Thomas had said a few days back. “He has much to learn, and I have much to teach.”
“Are you sure about this, Father?” Stiger had countered. “Arnold does not strike me as the most reliable man.”
“All men have their faults,” Father Thomas had replied. “Everyone is sinful, but none are beyond redemption.”
With more than a few reservations, Stiger had granted the request to detach Arnold from duty, allowing the man to spend additional time with the paladin.
Stiger patted his horse again as Nomad sniffed at the pocket in his cloak, apparently with hopes of finding a hidden treat, perhaps a coveted apple or pear.
“Sorry, old boy,” Stiger said with mock sadness. “No more treats today.”
Vargus, who was in command of Second Cohort, chuckled in reply to something the paladin said. The centurion was one of the elected members of the Valley Council. The two of them seemed to be getting on grandly, Stiger thought sourly.
Stiger had ordered Vargus to ride with them down into the valley, where his presence hopefully would smooth over any lingering hard feelings. At the very least, Vargus would be able to act as an intermediary. Only a few weeks had passed since Captain Aveeno’s reign of terror had come to an end. Aveeno had been corrupted by the dark god Castor, bringing suffering to the people of Vrell through the hands of the garrison. It had led to hard feelings on both sides, as the people of the valley had become hostile. There had even been a few attacks on the legionaries of Aveeno’s garrison.
Since Stiger had liberated the valley and restored the Compact, apparently the attitude toward the garrison had completely changed. No matter what Vargus and the other valley officers said now about the feeling of the people of the valley, Stiger was concerned about how he and his men would be received. In Stiger’s experience, someone always tended to harbor a grudge. It was better to be safe than sorry, and so Vargus was coming along.
All in all, Stiger reflected taking in the bustling activity in the courtyard, it would be good to get away for a few days, though even the thought of making the trip made him uncomfortable. The Cyphan and their army were encamped just outside the gates. Though the pass was choked with snow and any direct assault seemed unlikely, he was still concerned about something happening during his absence.
“Good morning, sir. Are you excited about getting away for a few days? It should be quite something seeing Thane’s Mountain and an abandoned dwarven city.”
Stiger turned to find Lieutenant Ikely. Over the last few weeks, his exe
cutive officer had shown his mettle in battle and more than proved himself in Stiger’s estimation. Ikely had grown from an inexperienced officer to a respected leader of men and, Stiger reflected, a friend.
“Lieutenant,” Stiger greeted, rubbing the back of his neck. He had slept poorly and his neck was sore. Funny how he could sleep like a baby in the field, but not in a bed.
“We will be here when you return, sir,” Ikely said, clamping his lips together to keep from grinning at his commanding officer, clearly knowing full well that Stiger was discomforted by leaving the defense of the castle in another’s hands.
“I know you will,” Stiger replied gruffly and with much practiced ease pulled himself up onto Nomad. He shifted position to get comfortable, the hard saddle leather creaking in the cold morning air. Nomad took a couple of eager sidesteps before Stiger took firm hold of the reins and brought the animal under control.
Stiger glanced around the courtyard and up at the walls, where the sentries walked their rounds, ever watchful of the enemy. Though it felt longer, it had been almost three weeks since Stiger and his men had fought their way back to the safety of the castle. Stiger’s campaign against the Cyphan had been hard and costly, but it had bought enough time for the first heavy snows to arrive and block the pass. The deep mountain snows made it nearly impossible for the enemy to even contemplate assaulting the walls of Castle Vrell.
It bothered Stiger that he had been forced to fall back before the enemy. Sure, he had been outnumbered, but it still irritated him just the same. He’d had no choice. He could have either delayed the Cyphan for a time and fallen back, or fought and been destroyed.
Now that the bulk of Braddock’s army had joined him and was encamped on the valley side of the castle, Stiger was eager to make the Cyphan pay. Braddock, thane of the dwarves, had brought nearly fifteen thousand dwarven warriors. Between the legionaries and the dwarves, there was no doubt in Stiger’s mind that together they could defeat the army camped before the castle. Unfortunately, that would have to wait ‘til spring, when the snows melted.
The Tiger's Fate (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 3) Page 2
