The Tiger's Fate (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 3)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  The party passed through the dwarven camp and on into the legionary encampment, which had been set up just beyond. It was a traditionally fortified marching camp, complete with gate, walls, towers, and a defensive trench. The road cut right through the encampment, and the party soon found themselves riding into the camp proper. Sabinus had turned out all three cohorts, who were lined up in neat ranks, silently standing to attention. To Stiger’s critical eye, they looked damn fine.

  Sabinus stood near the middle along the road with several other officers. Standing before First Cohort, he saluted smartly as Stiger and Braddock rode up. These were men of the Thirteenth Legion, the Vanished. They stood in ranks, armor and kit perfectly maintained, unit standards fluttering in the breeze. Stiger was their commander, their legate.

  Second and Third Cohorts had been raised and maintained in secret by the residents of the valley, but First Cohort was another matter. Stiger still had difficulty believing all that had been revealed to him. However, he had come to accept that these men had been magically preserved and held in stasis for hundreds of years. They were volunteers, from the entire Thirteenth, who had willingly gone into magical stasis for a time in the distant future when they would be desperately needed. Now was that time.

  The remainder of the legion, Stiger had learned, had settled in the valley and intermarried with the locals. The people of the valley had since taken great pains to secretly maintain the two cohorts. For more than three centuries, they had kept the valley safe from external threats. In secret, the residents of the valley honored the Compact, even as the empire had long forgotten its commitments.

  First Cohort was an over-strength unit, more than double the size of a normal 480-man cohort. These were veterans from Delvaris’s legion. Men who had fought under the general himself. Unlike the modern legions, which were organized into files, those in Delvaris’s day were organized into centuries, which were eighty-man units capable of independent action and commanded by a centurion.

  Stiger had met a number of the officers from the First and reviewed several of the cohort’s centuries. Every man from the First spoke an older, slightly accented version of common. They also spoke the old tongue as if born to it, which Stiger figured they had been. Stiger shook his head slightly, still having some difficulty coming to accept that a dwarven wizard had preserved them in “stasis,” as Garrack had called it, for so long a period of time. It was incredible.

  Stiger returned Sabinus’s salute with a nod and pulled Nomad up short. Braddock continued on, allowing Stiger some privacy with his subordinate. Sabinus stepped forward.

  “Do you wish to inspect the men?” the primus pilus of the First asked.

  Stiger glanced first at Sabinus, who had asked the question, then around as he briefly considered the offer. After a moment, he shook his head, declining. “We have a long road ahead of us this day.”

  “Any final orders then, sir?” Sabinus asked.

  Stiger felt somewhat uncomfortable in the man’s presence. He had initially thought the veteran centurion was measuring the new legate against Stiger’s ancestor, perhaps even challenging his ability as a capable military leader. However, after prolonged contact over the last few days, Stiger had begun to suspect there was something more to it than that.

  “Nothing more than what was discussed last evening.” Nomad took a couple of nervous steps, which Stiger countered by taking the reins sharply in hand.

  “As ordered, I will support Lieutenant Ikely,” Sabinus affirmed, clearly attempting to set the legate’s mind at ease. He stepped back and offered another smart salute. “Until you return then, sir.”

  Stiger returned the centurion’s salute.

  “The men look fine,” Stiger called loudly to Sabinus, so that many of those nearest would hear. He nudged Nomad forward into a slow walk. “Are they ready to fight?”

  In answer, a roar rose up from the ranks as the legionaries cheered, just as the dwarves had. Stiger punched his fist up into the air. The men shouted louder. Stiger was satisfied. If they fought half as well as they looked, he would be even more pleased.

  He increased Nomad’s pace to a trot and in a few moments had caught up with the thane. Amidst the cheering, a chant began to form. It took a moment for it to catch and then all of the legionaries were shouting madly away.

  “DELVARIS . . . DELVARIS!”

  Stiger frowned. A chill sped down his back that was not borne of the cold morning air. Did they view him as Delvaris reborn?

  “It is not just my people . . . ” Braddock glanced sympathetically over at Stiger and shrugged.

  Stiger said nothing further as he and Braddock rode out of the fortified encampment and found another camp beyond. Stiger glanced around in amazement at the camp followers. Women and children eagerly lined the road, cheering just as loudly as the men they had followed. Not all were human. Many were dwarven or gnomish.

  “And so,” Braddock commented with a smile as they left the camps behind and looked at the open road lying before them, “our journey finally begins.”

  Two

  Stiger dismounted, feet crunching in the snow, much of which had been shoveled off the street and piled up against the buildings. At least an inch from the previous evening’s snowfall remained. Stiger glanced around the village of Bridgetown, which consisted of ten small, one-story dwellings, a centrally located tavern, and a handful of barns with snow-covered grass thatch roofs that were well maintained. A number of houses had small pasture pens attached and caged hen houses out back. Stiger found the little community appealing in a quiet sort of way.

  Braddock and Garrack slid off their ponies. Stiger took a moment to stretch out his back and then looped Nomad’s reins around the hitching post before the tavern, which Vargus had recommended as a good place to stop for a short lunch and drink. Braddock handed his reins off to one of his personal guards and gazed around with his hands upon his hips, nodding as he did so.

  The residents of the small village cheered madly at their arrival. Judging by the number of horses tied up, people from some of the surrounding villages and towns had traveled to see them. Word had clearly spread about their journey to the abandoned city under Thane’s Mountain, known to the dwarves as Old City. Braddock seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, though the display of public adoration left Stiger feeling awkward. Motivating soldiers was one thing; civilians were another and, as such, reserved for politicians.

  The tavern keeper, holding aside the door, bowed low as Braddock stumped by and inside. The thane’s personal guard had already searched the humble establishment and had positioned themselves at strategic locations around the tavern. Garrack followed his thane inside, but not before saying something to Naggock, who stood outside by the door.

  Stiger pulled his pipe and a small pouch with some tobacco from one of his saddlebags. He tucked both in his cloak pocket and then looked around. He found Lan a few feet away. The lieutenant had dismounted and secured his horse to a post. Marcus was doing the same for his horse next to the lieutenant. Stiger called Lan over to him.

  “Lieutenant, make sure the men eat their rations. They are not to go exploring the town.”

  “You think these people are hostile towards us, sir?” Lan asked, glancing around at the cheering mob. “They certainly don’t appear threatening.”

  “I do not wish to take the chance that someone is nursing a grievance,” Stiger replied, glancing around for Vargus. The column stretched out and around the side of the tavern. He could not see the centurion and wondered where he was. The streets were narrow, made more so by the people crowding around. Stiger could not see Eli either. “Keep the men close together and under control. No games of chance, fraternizing, or drinking. Find Vargus and send him to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lan replied with a salute. “I will see to it.”

  Eli rounded a corner, weaving his way slowly between horses and people.
He rode up to Stiger and dismounted smoothly. The elf grinned with a closed-mouth smile as he tied Wind Runner up to the hitching post.

  “No doubt you find all this terribly amusing,” Stiger said.

  “I find it refreshing.”

  “How so?” Stiger crossed his arms suspiciously.

  “They are not trying to kill us,” Eli said. “It wasn’t too long ago that any civilian we ran into in the north would attempt to kill us given the chance. Yes, I would say this is a definite improvement.”

  Declining to take the bait, Stiger gave Eli a flat look before rolling his eyes and turning away. He made his way into the tavern, nodding to Naggock as he passed by. The dwarf shot him a look that could curdle old milk, but did nothing to bar his way.

  Stiger found Braddock and Garrack inside, both seated with jugs before them. Eli followed. They cleaned their boots on the scraper by the door and hung their cloaks on pegs. Stiger removed his riding gloves, tucked them beneath his armor, and surveyed the interior.

  The tavern was a small affair, barely large enough for the five tables that crowded the common room. A small fireplace with a low-burning fire provided some warmth. There was no bar at which locals could sit and be served, only a closed door that presumably led to the kitchen. The door opened slightly and a pair of children peered curiously out, only to be shooed back by a plump middle-aged woman Stiger took to be the proprietor’s wife.

  The jugs the dwarves had been given were usually used for pouring instead of drinking. The thane called on Stiger and Eli to join them. They took a seat across the table from the two dwarves on a single well-worn wooden bench, which scraped along the floor as Stiger pulled it out.

  “A fine place, this,” Braddock commented. “You have no idea how long it has been since I’ve been in a good drinking establishment.”

  “Yes,” Garrack grunted, taking a pull from his drink. “Journey to Vrell was long.”

  “When I was but a youth, my father brought me to this valley,” Braddock commented wistfully and fell silent for a moment, as if he were reliving a fond memory. “Back then, there were not nearly so many humans living here. It has been eye-opening to see the change.”

  The tavern keeper emerged from the kitchen with two plates and a hunk of venison on an old, dull, metal platter. He set them down before Braddock and Garrack and then looked over at Stiger and Eli. He was a large man in his middling years, beginning to go soft around the belly. His nose had the look of having been broken multiple times and was slightly mashed off center to the right. He wore a badly stained and well-used apron over a gray tunic and coarse brown pants, no doubt worn only in cold weather. Stiger noted the man’s arms were scarred and heavily marked. He had the manner and look of a retired veteran.

  “Two jars of ale for the legate and his elven friend,” Braddock ordered. The tavern keeper shuffled back a step when he realized that Eli was not human. Quite accustomed to such reactions, Eli paid him no mind.

  “The legate?” the tavern keeper then whispered, eyes widening as he turned his attention to Stiger. “Then it is really true? You are the legate?”

  “He is,” Braddock boomed heartily, using his dagger to cut off some meat. “Before you sits the descendent of Delvaris.”

  “Sir.” The tavern keeper straightened up into a position of near attention. “Legionary Malik, Second Cohort, retired these past eight years, sir. It is my deepest honor to serve you.”

  Eli shot Stiger an extremely amused smirk, but thankfully said nothing.

  “Thank you, Legionary Malik,” Stiger replied, shifting slightly on the bench. “You have a fine establishment here.”

  “I will bring you ale,” Malik replied, puffing up at the compliment. He headed off, limping slightly into the kitchen and closing the door behind him.

  “Treat you as a god,” Garrack said, taking a heavy pull from his jug of ale and wiping his lips with the back of his forearm. Ale dribbled down into his beard. It did not seem to bother him any.

  “I am but a man,” Stiger replied evenly. “I have no wish to be hailed as a god.”

  “I should think not,” Braddock said thoughtfully. “Such behavior would be unseemly. You are the legate of the Thirteenth and restorer of the Compact. For that you should be hailed.”

  “That may be so,” Stiger growled, not liking the direction the conversation was taking. “But I am still a man.”

  Taking a bite of meat from his knife, Braddock eyed Stiger speculatively for a moment before nodding in agreement. “You are a man, if an uncommon one at that.”

  Malik returned with two smaller glass jars of heated ale, which he set before Stiger and Eli. He looked over at the rapidly dwindling meat, which the dwarves were heartily tearing into. “I will bring you both some meat. We also have some spiced potatoes, dried grapes, and fresh bread. Unfortunately, there is no butter.”

  “That will be acceptable,” Stiger said and then hesitated. “Do you have an apple? I promised my horse one.”

  “I have some jarred fall apples,” Malik replied. “Will that do?”

  “Yes,” Stiger said, somewhat pleased. “Nomad is not a very discriminating eater.”

  The tavern keeper left them, hesitating at the door to eye his four patrons before disappearing into the kitchen. The door banged closed behind him.

  Stiger took a pull of his heated ale. He was parched from the ride and chilled. The warmth was welcome. It was also quite tasty. He noted pleasantly the ale was not the watered down swill you might find in other establishments outside of the valley.

  “Old City is under Thane’s Mountain?” Eli asked, eyeing the dwarves. He had not yet touched his drink. “We have an old map showing a road leading into the mountains. I take it the road leads to the city?”

  “The road no longer exists,” Braddock answered, chewing as he did so and talking out of the side of his mouth. “It used to travel to the mountain. The forest has long since reclaimed it.”

  “This Gate,” Stiger said, eyeing Eli a moment, recalling their earlier conversation back at the castle. “It is the prize, is it not? It is the reason the Compact was formed?”

  “Yes,” Garrack answered, setting down his jug. “Gate is greatest prize of all, though very dangerous.”

  “That is an understatement,” Braddock said.

  “Yes,” Eli confirmed quietly, looking over at his friend.

  “The Dvergr race,” Braddock said, “is not native to this world.”

  “What?” Stiger asked, looking between Braddock and Eli. “What do you mean not native to this world?”

  “Though we now call this world our home,” Braddock continued, “our home world, Thas’Goran, is many Gates’ and worlds’ distant. You see, this world once had two Gates. Sadly, the one my people came through was destroyed. There is no going home for my people . . . ever.”

  “You are saying that there are many other worlds then?” Stiger’s head spun at the thought. Though some faiths taught that there were worlds beyond counting in the heavens, Stiger had never truly believed. Until now, he had found such concepts preposterous. The heavens were beyond the reach of men.

  “Yes,” Braddock affirmed.

  “Then the priests of Bhallen are right?”

  “That is a name I’ve not heard in a great long time,” Braddock said, leaning back. “Bhallen, the lesser god to Antigus?”

  “Who?” Stiger asked, looking over at Eli in question. His friend shrugged.

  “It matters little,” Braddock replied with a negligent wave of his hand. “My people have long memories and honor all friendly gods.”

  “My thane,” Garrack interrupted and spoke for a bit in his own language to Braddock.

  Braddock nodded and replied.

  “He says that humans have short collective memories,” Eli translated for Stiger, reminding him that his friend had learned the language o
f the dwarves. Stiger considered that, should time permit, it might not be a bad idea for him to learn their language as well. When the snows melted and it came time to fight, knowing the dwarven language could prove critical.

  “You speak our language?” Braddock asked of Eli, leaning closer. He received a nod in reply.

  “You have met others of our race?” Braddock pressed with a grave expression.

  “I have not been personally introduced,” Eli replied. “However, I was present, as a child, when emissaries from your people were presented to the Elantric Warden.”

  The two dwarves began speaking excitedly in their own language.

  “Unfortunately,” Eli said to them, clearly following what they were saying, “I do not know where their lands reside. You must understand, it was very long ago, perhaps seven hundred years.”

  “It is still good to hear,” Braddock said. “We have lost contact with the clans that went north. It had always been our hope that they found a home and prospered. When this unpleasantness is over, we will send a delegation to the Warden. Surely she would know where our brothers and sisters reside.”

  “I believe that very possible,” Eli replied.

  Braddock was silent a moment before turning back to Stiger. “Sadly, your people have forgotten much.”

  Stiger could not disagree.

  “Though humans came to this world long ago, your people arrived more recently,” Braddock continued.

  “My people?” Stiger asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Your people . . . not humans of this world already here . . . legion humans came to this world just before World Gate was closed,” Garrack said, struggling with his common. “Helped us hold long enough to close World Gate.”

  “Yes,” Braddock said, getting a faraway look in his eyes. “Your people worked with mine to end the war, at least on this world. Our two peoples fought side by side, holding off the Horde long enough for the Gate to be shut and sealed. Human legionaries stood shoulder-to-shoulder with those of the Bloody Axe. It was a magnificent and heroic stand.”