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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “How many do you estimate are down in the bowl?” Stiger asked Eli, looking over at his friend.

  “Perhaps six, maybe even seven thousand,” Eli postulated. “It is a considerable portion of their army.”

  “Why don’t they cross?” Lan asked the question that was on Stiger’s mind. “It is almost like they are afraid of the water.”

  “There are monkeys in the forests of my homeland that cannot swim,” Eli said. “If they fall into the water, they are so heavy they sink right to the bottom and drown. Their bones are very thick.”

  “Like those monkeys that live on Tela’vGar Island?” Stiger asked him. “The ones you showed me that time, shortly after we first met. They can’t get off the island.”

  “Yes, those are the ones.”

  “You are suggesting that the orcs, like those monkeys, are too heavy to swim. Is that it?” Stiger looked over at his friend. “That perhaps they are even too afraid to cross the wreckage of the bridge and shallows for fear of being swept into deeper water?”

  “That is a distinct possibility,” Eli admitted, “one I think that is not beyond reason.”

  Stiger looked down into the bowl. The orcs trapped there still seemed intent upon breaking his line, though he did not see how they could do it. Stiger’s position was just too strong. The enemy north of the river did not appear to be too concerned with being cut off. As Stiger watched them continue to throw themselves against his line, he began to wonder if he should let them continue to do so. His line would only be breached when either his men tired or their ranks thinned, and that was unlikely. On the south side of the river, the majority of the orc army stood watching the struggle silently. Would they get up the courage to cross? Stiger expected that if he gave them enough time, they would. He had a feeling the priests would see to it.

  There was another explosion in the bowl as the gnomes fired off a clay jar from their catapult. Stiger looked over at the gleeful little creatures dying with mirth at the destruction they had just wrought on the enemy. They seemed to be having the time of their lives, whooping, hooting, and hollering as they set to work rearming their deadly machine.

  Stiger looked back to the bowl and scratched at his jaw. He then looked beyond the bowl, to the other side of the river. First Cohort had not yet made their appearance. By his calculation, they should have crossed the river and been well on their way marching west toward the enemy.

  “Right,” Stiger said aloud to himself. He turned to Lan as he climbed down from the wagon. “Get me Blake.”

  Stiger did not wait to hear the lieutenant’s response. He jogged over to the catapult as it fired another clay jar, which sailed up into the air before falling out of view on the other side of the rampart. There was an explosion, this one muffled. Stiger could feel the vibration of the explosion through his boots. He searched for Cragg and found him with several other gnomes, doubled over with laughter. Seeing Stiger, Cragg straightened up, pointed toward the catapult, and grinned.

  “Boom!” Those around him exploded into another bout of laughter, as if Cragg had made a terrifically humorous joke.

  “Funny,” Stiger agreed without mirth and knelt down in front of Cragg. In the snow, he sketched out their defensive line, the bowl, river, and the enemy on the other side of the river. Cragg followed with interest. Stiger last pointed at the catapult, which loomed over them, and made a dot in the snow. “Catapult . . . go boom here.”

  “Boom,” Cragg pointed at the catapult, and then at the spot in the snow.

  “Boom, fire over the river,” Stiger said, pointing at his snow map. Then he shook his head. “No boom in bowl. Shoot at the other side of the river where the bridge was. I want to keep the enemy from crossing. Understand?”

  Cragg frowned, his black, beady eyes on the crude map in the snow. Stiger repeated himself once again and Cragg stepped forward, climbed up on the catapult where he could see better, and pointed out across the river.

  “Boom,” Cragg said and then climbed back down, drawing a path in the snow from the spot that represented the catapult over to the other side of river where the bridge had been. He then looked up at Stiger in question.

  “Boom,” Stiger said with a pleased nod. They seemed to understand one another.

  The gnome’s face broke into a smile and he turned to his fellows, unleashing a torrent of words that Stiger did not understand. The gnomes swarmed over the catapult, making adjustments as they rearmed the machine. He watched for a moment before returning to the wagon and climbing back up into the bed. Eli helped him up with a hand.

  “If I was successful, our little friends here are going to begin hammering the other side of the river across from where the bridge was.”

  Sure enough, with a creaking groan, followed by a deep thunk, a clay jar arced up into the sky. It sailed over the river and landed amongst the densely packed orcs on the south side, some four hundred yards away, landing exactly in the middle of the causeway that had at one time led up to the bridge. The explosion echoed back to them. The reaction on the far bank was profound. The orcs began to back up from the river and spread out. Those who had been wounded by the explosion writhed on the ground, with no one coming to their aid.

  “I want the bolt throwers shooting across the river,” Stiger told Lan. “They are to focus on the other side of the bridge where the gnomes are now firing. I want to discourage the orcs from attempting a crossing.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lan hopped down off of the wagon and spoke to two of his waiting troopers.

  “Sir?” Blake spoke up from behind the wagon. Stiger turned, looking down on the centurion. He gestured for him to climb up.

  “The enemy, though they do not seem to realize it, are trapped in the bowl below us,” Stiger said when the centurion had joined him.

  “Why don’t they cross the river?” Blake was studying the far bank.

  “We think they cannot swim,” Eli told him.

  “They could wade across,” Blake said, pointing toward the ruins of the bridge.

  “Perhaps their fear of the water is too great to attempt that without sufficient motivation?” Eli postulated.

  “Regardless of their reasons,” Stiger said, “all of our artillery will be firing on the far bank, hammering the causeway. With luck, it will deter any consideration for a crossing.”

  “You mean to go over the top,” Blake realized with dawning comprehension.

  “Yes,” Stiger confirmed. “Bring up the 85th to the center of the line. I want an assault formation. After the 85th pushes forward, the entire line will go over the top.”

  Blake glanced at the furious assault on the defensive works before them and then down into the bowl, studying it carefully. Finally, he looked back at Stiger.

  “This is going to be bloody hot work, sir.” Blake looked grave.

  “I expect so,” Stiger agreed. “As long as we keep formation and drive to the river, we should have the advantage. It is downhill, and the orcs fight as individuals, not as a cohesive formation. Our organization will be our strength, and their weakness.”

  “I will bring up the 85th up, sir.” Blake climbed down off the wagon.

  Stiger took out his dispatch pad and, using his charcoal pencil, began to scratch out orders for Vargus and Quintus. He finished each with “confirmation requested.” Sealing the orders, he handed them over to Lan. “See that Vargus and Quintus each get one as soon as possible.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Eli asked Stiger as Lan stepped off to his dispatch riders, who kicked their horses hard, hooves thundering.

  “No,” Stiger said, after a slight hesitation. “But I feel it must be done. First Cohort should be on the other side of the river by now, and well on their way. At some point, we were going to have to go over to the attack anyway.”

  “We can wait until the First engages,” Eli suggested, “continue to whittle away a
t those on our side of the river.”

  “Yes, we could do as you suggest,” Stiger admitted as another explosion ripped across the river, sending clouds of smoke, snow, and dirt into the air. The orcs there had begun to back up even farther. “However, we have these before us. They are trapped, and the enemy on the other side of the river does not seem inclined to send additional aid. Should we delay, they might decide to risk a crossing, denying us the opportunity to destroy those of the enemy before us. If we can take this side of the river, it is unlikely they could take it back from us. Do you disagree?”

  Eli considered Stiger’s words and then shook his head.

  “When the First hits them, we need to be ready to cross at that time, not after,” Stiger continued. “Considering the enemy’s current disposition, I think it might possibly prove detrimental should we have to fight our way through to the river after First Cohort engages. It would be far better, I think, to be in a position to assist them immediately. Don’t you agree?”

  Eli nodded again. “What if the dwarves are late?”

  “Then we are in trouble,” Stiger admitted to Eli as the first files of the 85th began to move around the wagon and up to the line. “I am going forward with the men. I want you to stay here.”

  “I will,” Eli said unhappily. He was not wearing armor like Stiger and clearly understood his friend’s intention.

  “Find Taha’Leeth, Aver’Mons, and Marcus. If this is successful, I will likely have work for you later.”

  Stiger jumped down from the wagon. As he did so, the men from the 85th, Stiger’s Tigers, cheered their commander. He felt nostalgic at seeing their faces. These were his boys. He had trained them, and they were good. Stiger knew he could rely upon them. He was going to send them into the meat grinder, and the least he could do was join them. He knew he should stay back, but the 85th was going to be the point of his spear. There were times when examples had to be set, and Stiger knew without a doubt this was one.

  He went looking for Tilanus, who was manning the line with his men, fighting furiously against the orcs. Behind him, the corporals of the 85th were beginning to arrange the men into ranks for the assault.

  Stiger stepped around to a pile of shields that had been stacked behind the line and out of the way. These were from the injured or dead, who no longer had a use for them. There were far more than Stiger would have liked to see. He bent down and grabbed a shield for his own use. An expert on such things, Stiger decided the shield was made well and had been maintained with care. It would prove suitable.

  “The 85th will be going over the top,” Stiger informed Tilanus, who was eyeing Stiger’s company as it moved into an assault formation. Tilanus’s eyes flicked to the shield in Stiger’s hand. This close to the line, the noise generated by the fighting was deafening, and Stiger was forced to shout to be heard. “When I give the order to advance, pull your men aside. Once we are over, form them up and follow us at a distance of ten yards. Do not let any orcs get between our two formations. We are going to drive right down to the river to where the bridge used to be.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tilanus said, looking a little uncomfortable with the idea of what Stiger was proposing.

  “Make sure you follow rapidly. Do not allow too much of a gap to form.”

  “I will be right behind the 85th, sir.”

  “Good man,” Stiger said, clapping the older centurion on the shoulder good-naturedly.

  A rider galloped up to Stiger, bent down, and handed over a dispatch. Stiger took it and opened it. Vargus had confirmed his understanding and would be looking for the 85th to go over to the assault. Another rider galloped up a few seconds later.

  “Sir,” the trooper reported, saluting, “Centurion Quintus said to inform you he will go over the top after the 85th.”

  “Very good.”

  It was time. Hefting his shield, Stiger stepped to the front of the 85th. He turned and surveyed his men. The tiger pelt standard was held high and all eyes were upon him. Legionary Beck carried the eagle forward. Blake had placed Beck in the center of the formation. Stiger knew that the men would fight like devils to keep the eagle safe.

  Stiger caught Corporal Durggen’s eye and nodded. All eyes were upon him. He thought about giving a rousing speech, but this close to the line, the noise was deafening and only those nearest would hear him. Instead he pulled forth his sword. The tingle ran rapidly up and down his arm and then was gone. There was no surge of vigor. He held the sword high. Two hundred men drew their swords and gave a mighty roar.

  “Advance!” Stiger roared, turning and pointing with his sword toward the rampart.

  “HAAAH!” the men shouted and started a slow and steady march toward the defenders on the rampart. Stiger allowed the men of the first rank to move by him.

  “HAAAH . . . HAAAH . . . .HAAAH!”

  Tilanus, seeing the 85th move forward, pulled his men back to both sides, temporarily opening a gap in the line along the rampart. The orcs, clearly thinking the legionaries were abandoning the defensive works, surged forward and over the rampart, only to catch sight of the wall of armored men advancing upon them, shields forward and swords held at the ready. The orcs hesitated, unsure what to do, before pressure from behind pushed them forward. A moment later, Stiger’s forward line met the orcs with a loud crash as shields slammed violently into the orcs, who fought back with hammer and sword.

  Stiger, between the first and second rank, saw an opening form in the shield wall and stepped forward to stab at an orc, which had been pushed off-balance by another from behind the creature. Stiger’s sword caught the orc in the neck, ripping it open. The orc fell back and collapsed. The line continued to advance. Stiger stepped over the twitching body, moving up to the rampart. The man to his direct front was cut down by an orc sword that had reached over his shield and stabbed downward. A legionary to the fallen man’s side stabbed the creature in the leg. Stiger immediately stepped into the man’s place and slammed his shield into the orc before jabbing out with his sword, which found the soft tissue of an unprotected forearm. The orc roared in pain and swung its sword wildly with its uninjured arm, even as it staggered to a knee, leg buckling.

  Stiger easily blocked the clumsy strike, which clanged off of his shield boss. In the cold, he felt the blow communicate painfully with his arm but did not let that stop him. His next jab took the creature in the exposed armpit. He felt the sword grate off bone. Badly wounded, the orc fell back but had nowhere to go, as it had backed up to the rampart. The next thrust by the man to Stiger’s right ended it.

  “Over the top!” Stiger shouted at his men. An orc above swung downward at him with a sword. Stiger brought his shield up to block the blow. Splinters flew in a spray from the shield as the sword bounced off of the top. Before the creature could recover, Stiger jabbed upward, striking at an unprotected leg. He felt the sword sink home and slammed forward with his shield, knocking it back and over the other side of the rampart. It fell backward, taking several others with it to the trench below.

  “Over the top!” Stiger scrambled up over the rampart, legionaries on both sides of him doing the same. “Get at them! Come on now!”

  Atop the rampart, an orc in the trench below swung a hammer at Stiger, which he blocked. Before the orc could recover, a legionary jumped down in the trench next to it, hitting it with his shield, knocking the creature aside. Stiger jumped down and hammered his sword down into the orc’s belly. Another sword struck the orc, killing it.

  Almost immediately, Stiger was slammed backward as an orc hit him in the chest with a sword, which bounced painfully off his armor with a piercing screech. Managing to hang onto his sword and shield, Stiger attacked, his sword scraping across the orc’s chest armor. Snarling, it struck him again, this time in the shoulder. Hurting from the stinging blow, Stiger’s rage exploded, and with it his sword began to glow hotly. Stiger’s aches and pains vanished in a flash as
fresh power and vigor flowed into him. His tiredness fled. Everything around him seemed to slow as he struck out toward the enemy. His thrust slid easily through the orc’s chest armor and immediately began to hiss and sizzle as it cut into skin, sinew, and bone beyond. The orc twitched before falling backward, stone dead.

  KILL THEM ALLL!

  With a surge of rage, the sword encouraged him onward. Stiger lashed out at another orc, and the sword once again stabbed through armor. It was like cutting through a fresh loaf of bread. Stiger found his anger and rage mounting as he helped to clear the trench around him, cutting down one orc after another.

  Stiger blinked. Where a moment before orcs had filled the trench, it was now chock full of legionaries. There were no more of the enemy within easy reach. The anger and rage called on him to find more and he turned toward the other side of the trench, even as additional legionaries jumped in behind him. He started to climb out of the trench, intent at finding additional orcs to slay. He abruptly stopped and glanced down at his glowing sword.

  “Stop it!” he growled at the sword and tried to force the rage back. It was a difficult thing to do, but after a moment, it passed and he was able to think rationally again. The glowing blade dimmed somewhat. A few of his men were eying Stiger and the sword warily.

  I want more, the sword hissed.

  Stiger ignored it and glanced around the trench. Several legionaries were looking up at the other side of the trench with hesitation. They knew what awaited them.

  “Out! Get out of the trench! At them, boys!” Stiger yelled at his men. “Get moving. Don’t stop. We must keep advancing.”

  Setting the example, Stiger began climbing out of the shallow trench. As he did so, he glanced to his left and right and was relieved to see his men moving forward with him. They crested the trench and were back in contact with the mass of orcs in the bowl. To Stiger, they appeared to be surprised that the legionaries had come out from behind their defenses. It was likely the reason why no more orcs had piled into the trench. He could almost read the growing doubt in their eyes as the tide of the battle began to flow against them.