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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Stiger found himself abruptly confronted with an orc priest, garbed only in a long black robe, face heavily tattooed, and white-dyed hair limed back with no headdress. The priest snarled its hate at him and punched a dagger forward. Stiger easily deflected the strike with his shield. He stepped forward and jabbed his sword into the robes, where he estimated the orc’s belly to be. The priest issued a groan as Stiger’s sword slid deep.

  The sword flared, and like before, there was an awful sizzling sound. Time seemed to stop. It was as if he had taken a deep breath and was holding it. The world around him was waiting for him to release it. The hilt felt uncomfortably warm in his hand. The priest’s eyes flashed with an unearthly light and a mist poured out of its mouth, as if a last breath were escaping a dying body. Stiger exhaled, and the world around him began moving once again. The sound of the battle crashed home with a suddenness that was jarring.

  In that instant, the priest’s body fell backward off of Stiger’s sword and into the orcs behind him. Horrified, they either looked on Stiger or at the fallen priest. Several squealed like pigs, turned, and pushed by their fellows. They rushed toward the river, disappearing in the crush of bodies.

  A large warrior looking down on the priest roared in rage, turning his eyes on Stiger. The orc wore polished armor that was of better quality than most. A large gold torc was fitted around its neck. Bearing its oversized canines at Stiger, it advanced, hammer coming up into the ready position. Stiger knew without a doubt this had been the orc he had seen across the river. This was the leader of the enemy army.

  “Grats’sag,” the orc spat at Stiger, who leveled his shield in preparation.

  “You want to dance with me?” Stiger yelled back at the creature, crouching down into an individual combat stance. He felt incredibly calm and in control. Gone were the feelings of rage and anger. The sword no longer glowed. “Come on, big boy.”

  Roaring, the orc charged Stiger, swinging the hammer for all it was worth. Stiger raised his shield to deflect the blow. As the hammer struck his shield boss, the force drove the hammer upward. The top of Stiger’s shield splintered, sending a shower of wood slivers into the air. Stiger staggered backward.

  “Grats’sag thags,” the orc spat again and advanced, its eyes upon the human prey before it.

  Still feeling that same sense of calm and control, Stiger leapt forward. The leader swung the hammer, which crashed into Stiger’s shield, completely shattering the remains. Stiger released the shield, even as he stabbed upward with his sword. It punctured the orc’s right forearm, digging down to the bone. He dragged the sword around, completely opening up the arm. The orc roared with pain, bearing its teeth at him. Stiger stepped back and out of reach, offering the creature a huge smile.

  “There’s more where that came from,” Stiger growled.

  The orc looked down at its ruined arm, which it brought up to its mouth, where a long pink tongue snaked out to lick at the green blood, which was escaping in a rush. Stiger took the opportunity to glance around and realized the other orcs were giving the two of them space. Somehow he had become separated from his men. There was a ring of orcs around him and their leader, keeping everyone else back, including Stiger’s men. Behind him, Stiger could hear the legionaries fighting their way to him.

  “Come on, big boy!” Stiger shouted to the orc. “Want some more?”

  Stiger threw himself forward as the orc drew its hammer back and swung. He ducked. The hammer sailed over his helmet with less than an inch to spare. Stiger struck forward, jabbing his sword into the warrior’s groin. The orc grunted and fell backward, dropping the war hammer. Stiger followed it, striking his opponent again, this time in the left thigh, eliciting another grunt. A powerful fist lashed out, hammering him in the chest and knocking him back on his butt. He struggled to catch his breath for a moment and then stood and glanced nervously about him at the ring of orcs. They were staring down with stricken expressions at their leader.

  Bleeding profusely, the orc leader had fallen and was struggling to get to its feet. The wounded leg failed, and it instead rolled onto all fours, with one hand reaching for the dropped hammer. It was time to end this. Stiger approached the orc as it crawled away from him toward the hammer. He drove his sword down into the back of the leader’s exposed neck, giving the blade a vicious twist, feeling bone crunch through the hilt. The creature collapsed into the muddied and bloodied snow, unmoving.

  There was a collective moan from those orcs who had been watching. Stiger looked around nervously, expecting to be rushed, but the fight seemed to have gone out of them. They stood in shock. Several turned and ran toward the river. The fighting behind Stiger abruptly intensified, and then there were legionaries about him, moving by and charging into those stunned orcs who had remained. Stiger’s shoulders sagged in weary relief.

  “That is a right plum big bastard,” Blake commented casually, coming up next to Stiger. The two of them were looking down on the orc Stiger had just killed in personal combat. “For a moment there, I thought we’d lost you, sir.”

  Stiger said nothing.

  “Might I humbly offer the legate some advice?”

  Stiger looked over at the centurion and nodded, having a feeling of what was coming.

  “You set a good example for the boys, sir, but nearly gave me a heart attack. Next time would the legate kindly let the men go first?”

  Glancing down at the dead orc, Stiger knelt down and removed the blood-spattered gold torc from around its neck. He hesitated a moment, examining his trophy. Stiger idly wondered if the torc was contaminated by evil. He certainly felt nothing wrong with it. He would have the paladin look it over later he decided and tucked the trophy into his armor. He then glanced around at the fighting. His legionaries were spread out. The vast majority of orcs were still fighting ferociously, though many were now making for the river crossing where the bridge had been.

  “We need to reform the men,” Stiger told Blake. “This isn’t over. We need lines.”

  “Durggen, Beni, get those men organized into a line,” Blake thundered as he grabbed a legionary and physically propelled him in the direction he wanted. “Come on, son, fall in.”

  “Fall in!” Stiger shouted. “Fall in! Reform!”

  In short order, between the corporals, Blake, and Stiger, they were able to reform the men into several ranks. Space had formed around the 85th. Those orcs nearest had fallen back several paces. Stiger looked around the bowl and saw both Vargus’s and Quintus’s cohorts were out over the rampart, fighting their way down the slope toward the river. Tilanus’s men were just now moving out of the trench and down the hill toward the 85th.

  “We push forward all the way to the river,” Stiger shouted at the men. “We carve a path of death to the river!”

  The men roared in reply.

  “Lock shields!” Stiger called. With a resounding thunk, the shields snapped together. “Advance.”

  The men moved forward toward the orcs with a determined step. A number of orcs who had been warily watching as the legionaries reformed threw themselves at the line. Swords jabbed out, taking them down. The advance continued, and then the entire line was back in contact. Stiger, with Blake at his side, followed behind the lines. Tilanus’s men had formed up and were now also advancing. They were only thirty yards back and moving rapidly to close the gap. There were no live orcs between the two legionary formations.

  “Keep that line steady,” Blake shouted at the men. “Remember your training. Use your shield properly now.”

  “Legionary Teg,” Stiger called. “Good sword work. Remember, boys, real killers like Teg jab and stab.”

  The line slogged forward. The orcs came at them as individuals and in small groups. Stiger suspected that orcs placed a great deal of emphasis on personal glory and prowess on the battlefield. Today it was costing them dearly, though it was not entirely one-sided. His legionaries
were falling with alarming regularity. There were just too many orcs who were ready to throw themselves mindlessly at the human legionaries.

  The fighting was hot and heavy as the 85th carved a path through the orcs. Several times, Stiger was tempted to help those in the front rank, but he restrained himself. He had already set the example. It was no longer his job to fight in the ranks. Blake had reminded him of that. His place was to lead.

  Blake pulled out a whistle and blew on it hard, two strong blasts, indicating that the first rank fall back and the second rank step forward. It was smartly done, and the orcs to their front found themselves facing fresh men.

  “Keep going, boys,” Blake encouraged. “No one stops Stiger’s Tigers, not today nor any day!”

  Stiger glanced back to see Tilanus and his militia covering as the company continued to advance ahead of them. He estimated that the centurion still had around four hundred men, which was good. The militia would be needed once they reached the river.

  It seemed to take forever, and then suddenly the river was before them. Orcs were fleeing to either side. Blake called for the company to halt on the riverbank. Breathing heavily, the men caught their breath and rested their heavy shields on the ground.

  The ruined bridge was to their right by around thirty yards. It was time to take the causeway and secure their side of the crossing.

  “Reform to march on the remains of the bridge,” Stiger ordered Blake, pointing with his sword at the causeway. It took a few minutes. Blake repositioned the company, aligning it along the riverbank. Stiger restrained himself from intervening. He knew it would not speed things up. Besides, it was Blake’s responsibility now, and Stiger would not undermine the man.

  “Advance.”

  At least a hundred of the enemy were clustered around the causeway to the ruined bridge. For a moment, it looked like they would flee across the shallows where the bridge had been, and as Stiger watched, several orcs did just that, splashing into the water. A few more joined those working their way across the river, but that was where it ended. The remainder looked torn with indecision, jabbering and gesticulating amongst themselves, almost seeming more afraid of crossing the water than the approaching legionary formation. Incredibly, the vast majority of them stood their ground and roared their hatred rather than flee to safety just a few yards away.

  The line continued a steady advance. The two sides came together with a crash. The fight was brutal and over in a handful of minutes. Stiger called for a halt once his formation was sitting along the causeway and ramp that had once led to the bridge. The bridge itself was a twisted ruin of torn boards, bodies, and rushing water, which Stiger judged to be thoroughly crossable. Those few orcs who had fled across had just proved it.

  It was time to take stock. First he studied the situation in the bowl. Both cohorts were making good progress toward the river, though there were still a lot of orcs in front of them. The orcs were looking more and more desperate, especially with Stiger sitting on their only way across the river. Many were trying to work their way around the two cohorts, to climb the slopes and escape through the now unguarded rampart. For every one that managed to escape, five looked to be cut down. It was very efficient and violent. The legions were nothing if not proficient at their craft.

  Stiger studied the opposite riverbank. There were a lot of orcs there, perhaps fifty yards away from the river’s edge, staring silently at the slaughter. He idly wondered where First Cohort and the dwarves were. He saw no evidence of either. Once the valley was cleaned up, the real fight awaited him across the river. That would be the challenge for the day.

  “Tilanus,” Stiger called the centurion over.

  “That was some fine fighting, sir,” Tilanus exclaimed. “I never thought to see the like.”

  “There is more ahead,” Stiger said. He glanced back around the bowl. He felt pressure to wrap up the fighting here as quickly as possible so that he could prepare his men to cross the river. It was most assuredly going to be a contested crossing.

  “Yes, sir,” Tilanus agreed, eyeing the other side of the river and the remainder of the orc host. The older centurion looked winded but unfazed by the action he had just been through.

  “The 85th will hold the bridge. Take your men and go to the aid of Second Cohort,” Stiger ordered, pointing. “They seem to be having a more difficult time of it than the Third. Cut your way through to them and then together go to help Quintus. Understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  The centurion saluted and Stiger watched him go. He considered for a moment going with him, but the most important spot on the field was where he was now standing. Should the enemy across the river decide to advance, Stiger would have to hold them until the bowl had been cleared and the other two cohorts could assist.

  Stiger wiped his sword clean on his tunic and sheathed it. Once again, he found himself an unhappy spectator.

  Seventeen

  “Half of my men are down,” Vargus informed Stiger, who mentally winced at the news. The centurion was formal in his report, but Stiger could see the anguish in the man’s eyes. Stiger’s other senior officers looked on.

  “And you?” Stiger asked of Quintus. The centurion was nursing a shallow cut to his hand.

  “I’ve lost around a quarter of my men,” he said with a pained look. “Then again, we’ve hurt the orcs much more than I thought possible.”

  Stiger glanced around the body-strewn bowl. Even now, before the bodies had had a chance to cool, the carrion birds had begun to circle. It was a sickening sight, but one he had become all too familiar with.

  It was a good victory, Stiger decided, but the battle was only partially won. Across the river, Sabinus had hit the orc army and was currently locked in an intense fight. The muffled sound of the battle, though they could not see it from their current position, reached them across the water. Stiger had sent someone up to the ridge to get a better view. The man had reported that the First was heavily engaged just beyond a small hill that blocked their view, perhaps a quarter mile away.

  To the intense frustration of the gnomes, the orcs had moved out of range of their catapult. Unable to get the machine over the earthen rampart and trench, they were hauling it back the way they had come. Stiger had managed, however, to move four of his bolt throwers through brute force down to the banks of the river, where their crews were awaiting his orders. There had been no time to move the others.

  “Your cohort will lead the assault across the river,” Stiger informed Quintus.

  It was clear to Stiger Quintus had been expecting as much and nodded in grim understanding. His eyes wandered over to the ruins of the bridge and the orcs waiting beyond. Stiger could well imagine the man’s thoughts at what was about to be required of him. It stood to reason that some incredibly difficult fighting lay ahead.

  “The 85th will follow the Third, and the Second will come after. Tilanus, you will hold this side of the crossing in the event we are compelled to fall back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tilanus said with a grim nod.

  Stiger looked at Quintus, Blake, and Vargus. “Gentlemen, it has been easy going until now. The real fighting is ahead, across that river. We must push through the orcs and link up with Sabinus. With any luck, the dwarves should be moving into position to seal the trap. The enemy will be caught between both of our forces. If we succeed, the orcs should trouble the valley no more, and we will be free to turn our energies to the Cyphan.” Stiger paused a moment, allowing what he had said to sink in. “I know you will do your duty.”

  The officers broke up, trotting to their men. Stiger turned to look once again at the orcs on the other side of the river. They did not seem be concerned about Stiger’s legionaries. Their attention was focused wholly on the fighting that was just out of his view.

  Stiger walked over to the 85th, which was off to the side of the ruined bridge. Blake was organizing the men
, getting them up on their feet and calling them to fall in. Stiger found Eli and Taha’Leeth speaking quietly in elven. He noticed that their bows were slung over their backs, quivers empty.

  “Where are Marcus and Aver’Mons?”

  “They are checking the riverbanks to the east and west,” Eli informed him. “Despite the cavalry watching the crossings, I thought it in our best interests to make sure nothing had been missed.”

  “Good thinking,” Stiger said and turned to watch as Third Cohort marched by, making toward the shallows around the ruined bridge.

  “I dislike river assaults,” Eli said, his eyes on the Third, which had halted before the water and was dressing ranks in preparation for a crossing.

  “We’ve done more than our share,” Stiger said, looking over at his friend. “At least we have some artillery to soften the enemy up.”

  Quintus snapped an order to the artillery crews on both sides of the ruined bridge, and there was an immediate CRACK as all four bolt throwers fired, nearly simultaneously. The deadly missiles tore into the nearest orcs, who were at extreme range just over a hundred yards away. A number went down or crashed into their fellows, propelled forward by the kinetic energy of the missiles. The orcs, whose attention had been on the fighting on their side of the river, turned in shock at the unexpected attack.

  “Advance,” Quintus hollered, and the Third started forward, splashing into the water. They worked their way around obstacles, helping each other as they moved through the twisted and torn remnants of the wooden bridge. It was hard going. The progress was slow, but they were managing.

  “Both of you remain here,” Stiger ordered, at which Eli looked over at him in surprise. “I want you both to check on the refugees in Old City.”