“No,” Braddock answered.
“Then it is still out there.”
“We will have to find it,” Braddock agreed. “It will likely have to be rooted out of a cave when we send forth the punitive expedition. It is a good thing you have the paladin and Rarokan.”
Braddock saw Stiger glance down at his sheathed sword. If he was not mistaken, the thane recognized unease. There was always a cost to wielding such a powerful artifact. Braddock wondered if Stiger had realized that yet.
“Is that gnome work?” Braddock asked, intentionally changing the subject, and gesturing toward the ruined bridge.
“Yes,” Stiger replied. “They fired clay jars from a catapult. It was impressive magic.”
“Hardly,” Braddock said with a wave. “They used blasting powder, very dangerous stuff. We use it to break tough rock in our mines. It is made from the droppings of bats and other things.”
“I would be interested in this blasting powder,” Stiger said, looking over at him. “Its effect on the battlefield could be profound.”
“It is very unstable,” Braddock warned. “Gnomes have no common sense. It is a wonder they did not kill themselves or others while launching it from a catapult. I would recommend against it.”
“Still,” Stiger persisted, “I believe that it should be studied further.”
“Very well.” Braddock heaved a heavy sigh. “I will have the gnomes explain how to make it and properly care for it. Will that do?”
“Do any of them speak common better than Cragg?”
“Cragg?” Braddock asked with mild surprise. He reminded himself to speak with the mean little bastard. Cragg had no business revealing dwarven secrets to the humans. If Braddock had his way, the humans would never learn the secret behind blasting powder, let alone how to make it. Alliance or not, the secret of blasting powder would remain with his people.
“Yes,” Stiger said. “Though he barely speaks common.”
“I would be surprised if any of the little shits speak common better,” Braddock stated. “Cragg is an anomaly amongst gnomes.”
Braddock noticed Stiger stiffen and his eyes narrow. The legate was looking past him, in the direction of the Braddock’s army. The thane turned and saw a human rider galloping at full speed toward them, horse kicking up clods of snow mixed with dirt in its wake. A horn calling the dwarven army to alert sounded from Braddock’s army encampment. The thane glanced at Garrack, wondering what could have happened. Braddock noticed that Stiger shared a look with Eli.
“Sir, I am glad I found you!” the rider said to Stiger, pulling his horse up sharply and offering a salute. The horse was all but blown. Foam dripped from its mouth as it breathed heavily. “The orcs . . . they have another army, and it’s coming here, sir.”
“How large?” Stiger demanded, taking a half step forward. “How far out are they?”
“Four hours at least, and they number twice as many as what we just faced. Lieutenant Cannol is shadowing them now, sir.”
“Damn,” Stiger said, slapping a palm against his thigh.
“What we fought must have been the vanguard,” Eli commented ironically. “They must not have expected us to wipe it out so quickly.”
“You mean they hoped to draw us into battle and fix us in place?” Braddock asked, having some difficulty believing that the orcs had stayed their hand and held back a second, larger army. It was almost unbelievable.
“Perhaps they just planned on whittling us down,” Eli suggested, “and then hitting us with overwhelming force.”
“I think it is clear we cannot remain here,” Stiger said. “With the sun setting soon, I am not terribly keen on a fight in the dark.”
“What if we pulled back and held our fortified line?” Eli suggested. “They may not wish to cross the river like the others.”
“Orcs fear water, but they will cross,” Braddock said firmly.
“How can you be sure?” Stiger asked. “After the bridge was destroyed, they showed no interest in crossing the river.”
“Perhaps leaders were on your side of river?” Garrack suggested. “No one left to push them across?”
“I believe I killed their leader,” Stiger said with a slow nod. “It could be as you say.”
“If they are bringing such large numbers,” Braddock said, “they will most assuredly cross. Their priests will see to that.”
“Then it is safe to assume that they would eventually cross at other points as well,” Stiger said. “With such numbers, and crossings at other points, our fortified position would not long remain tenable, and we may find ourselves involved in a fighting retreat.”
“Why come for it now?” Garrack asked. “Is not time yet. Gate cannot be opened.”
“What if they are sending a like-sized force beneath our feet?” Stiger asked with concern.
“Then we will have warning of that,” Braddock assured him. “The tunnels and mines are old and dangerous. It would be madness to move a large force like that underground. That is why they come aboveground. Besides, Hrove is holding Grata’Jalor with over two thousand warriors, and the only way into the citadel is across the drawbridge. There are no tunnels or mines into it.”
“Suppose they did send a force through the mines,” Stiger pressed. “Would we get warning with sufficient time to pull back to Grata’Jalor?”
“Not unless we moved closer,” Braddock said, not liking the possibility of giving up such a defensive position across the river. “We would have to fall back upon the mountain itself.”
“Could we hold from Grata’Jalor?” Stiger asked.
“Though we have some months’ worth, our food supply would run out long before they could break in,” Braddock answered with a frown, thinking on the logistics. “We have to resolve this now. A prolonged siege would prove problematic.”
“The ground before the entrance to the mountain is good ground. Even though we would be unable to dig in, we could make a stand there,” Stiger suggested.
“Yes.” Braddock considered, and then nodded in acceptance. “That would be a good place to hold. Between us, it would be difficult for them to break our lines. If it goes badly, we can pull back into the mountain and bleed them with every step, then counterpunch when the time is right.”
Stiger took out a dispatch pad and began writing furiously. Braddock watched for a moment and then turned to one of his bodyguards.
“The army is to march for the mountain,” Braddock said in dwarven. “Those are my orders.”
“Yes, my thane.” The dwarf bowed and then started at a run for the army.
“Can we hold them there?” Garrack asked in the Dvergran language.
Braddock took a deep breath and slowly let it out, considering his reply. “We have to.”
“Perhaps one of the dragons will consent to help us,” Garrack suggested hopefully.
“And leave the Gate unguarded?” Braddock scoffed, astonished at the suggestion. “I should think not.”
“It does little harm to ask Menos,” Garrack pressed. “He might intercede on our behalf.”
Braddock studied his childhood friend for a moment. “You are correct. Go and ask the First One. Perhaps some good will come of it.”
Garrack nodded his acceptance and started back for the dwarven army encampment, where their ponies were kept. Braddock watched him go for a moment and wished his friend success. He knew that Menos was unlikely to help in any meaningful way, at least until the Gate itself was directly threatened.
“Take this to Lieutenant Ikely,” Stiger said, handing a dispatch to the rider. “It informs him what has occurred and orders him to hold the castle at all costs. Don’t kill your horse getting there. Travel along the river until you hit the slopes of the mountains and then carefully work your way back and around to the castle.”
“Yes, sir.” The trooper
saluted.
“Good luck, son.”
“Thank you, sir,” the trooper said and led his nearly blown horse away toward the river.
“It appears our job here is unfinished,” Eli said with a sudden grin. “Perhaps when we are done here, I will finally see this peace you have mentioned. You know, the kind when the legions are done? Is it called legion peace?”
Stiger rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
Braddock looked between the two of them. Human and elf, they seemed an unlikely pair to form a friendship. The thane idly wondered if he would ever call Stiger a friend, and then immediately dismissed the idea. He was thane of the dwarves. He had no friends.
A dwarven horn sounded out, and all three turned. Braddock’s eyes found Stiger’s. He knew without a doubt, and could see the same in the legate’s eyes, that the coming fight would test them both.
Stiger sat on a rough-cut log before his campfire, wearily gazing into its depths. The flames crackled and popped, sending a spray of sparks up into the night air. He took a pull on his pipe and looked over at Quintus. The centurion sat across from him and appeared as weary and spent as Stiger felt. Around them, thousands of campfires lit up the night, with dwarves, gnomes, and humans alike huddling close for warmth. Exhausted, most had turned in for the night, sleeping on their arms and getting what rest they could under the dark shadow of Thane’s Mountain.
Quintus leaned forward to warm his hands against the bitter cold. Stiger blew out a slow stream of smoke, regarded his centurion, and then took another pull on his pipe. In battle, the man had proven himself a capable and steady leader of men. Stiger was well-pleased to have him as one of his officers. Quintus was a man he could rely upon.
“This waiting is the most difficult part,” Quintus said. The centurion looked up from the flames and met Stiger’s gaze. “Isn’t it?”
“It always is,” Stiger agreed. “Especially made more so when there is nothing to do.”
Quintus did not reply. Stiger could only imagine the man’s thoughts. Today was the first time the centurion had lost men under his command, and Stiger knew there was precious little he could say. He thought about giving what comfort he could, but then changed his mind. Like Stiger himself, Quintus was a practical man. Stiger rather suspected the centurion understood that in war men were bound to die, no matter how well you planned or led them. Practical or not, Stiger had always found the deaths of men under his command a difficult burden to shoulder. He could almost read the self-doubt and recrimination in Quintus’s eyes, the self-blame and guilt at having survived when others had not.
“We should count ourselves lucky,” Stiger said, instead settling on diverting the man’s thoughts a little.
“How is that, sir?” Quintus looked up, running a tired hand through his short-cropped hair, which was starting to gray around the temples.
“The men needed rest,” Stiger said, exhaling smoke as he spoke, “and the enemy has given us sufficient time to make that happen.”
Quintus rubbed his chin, considering Stiger’s words. “By not crossing the river, they are unwittingly giving us time to recover.”
“Yes,” Stiger nodded slowly. “A wise commander takes whatever the enemy gives and, when possible, turns it to his advantage.”
Taking another slow pull, Stiger spared his pipe a sour look. The tobacco had a bitter taste to it. He wished he still had the good smooth eastern tobacco that he had brought with him when he had come south. Unfortunately, he had long since smoked that fine stuff away. Instead, Stiger had to content himself with the poor quality stuff that had been liberated from the Cyphan after one of his many ambushes in the Sentinel Forest.
“Yes, sir,” Quintus said, and glanced around. “I am sure you are right.”
Stiger followed the man’s gaze to the nearest campfire, where men from a century of the Second slept, huddled under blankets. There were no tents, but the gnomes had delivered extra blankets from a supply that Braddock’s dwarves had brought with them. Every layer helped. By the centurion’s look, Stiger could tell that Quintus cared deeply for his men, who were undoubtedly shivering under their blankets.
Braddock and Stiger had made the decision to have the army sleep outside of the shelter of the mountain. Both he and the thane had been concerned that it might not be possible to get the entire army out in time to deploy and meet the enemy when they finally came up. Their decision, an unpopular one, had translated into a cold night for all involved.
Stiger’s men had at least three days’ rations left, so food was not an immediate concern. Rest, however, was. The army had been exhausted after the battle. The subsequent march to Thane’s Mountain had only added to the deep fatigue. At the time, Stiger had been seriously concerned that the enemy would push right across the river and immediately march upon the mountain. Instead, the orcs had hesitated and stopped at the river before the ruined bridge.
“Once the crossing begins,” Stiger said, “it will take some time for them to move their entire army across and then assemble before marching upon our position.” Stiger paused and glanced up at the moon. Bright and full, it had slipped out from behind a passing cloud. “Assuming they cross tonight, we can expect a battle sometime around midday, perhaps even late afternoon or evening tomorrow for that matter.”
“That long?” Quintus asked, raising his eyebrows.
Stiger reminded himself that Quintus was of the valley cohorts and had not served openly with the legions. The man had never been on a true campaign. He had no idea the effort and time it took to move an entire army. Though the orcs operated differently than a human army, they still had the same difficulties when it came to moving such numbers over any serious obstacle. Stiger nodded in confirmation to the centurion.
“The enemy will find us fresh,” Stiger said firmly. He puffed on his pipe and blew the smoke out slowly. “They will discover us ready for them.”
Sabinus approached the fire, carrying a mug of tea. “Sir,” he greeted. “I just finished settling my men in for the night. May I join you?”
Stiger nodded, and Sabinus took a vacant seat upon a rough-cut log.
Freshly made, the mug steamed in the cold air. Quintus sipped it and sighed softly. “That is good.”
“Sabinus,” Stiger said, “what is the one thing serving in the legions teaches you?”
“That would have to be patience, sir.” Sabinus chuckled, and Stiger nodded.
“Quintus,” Stiger said, directing himself back to the centurion, “you will find that patiently waiting, whether it be for the enemy or for someone else to do their job, is an unofficial requirement of serving in His Emperor’s legions.”
“You know,” Sabinus drawled, “I once waited over three hundred years for someone. I do believe that must have set some kind of record. Don’t you agree, sir?”
Stiger frowned back at the centurion, who burst out with a laugh at the legate’s expression. Quintus managed a chuckle also, and the mood around the fire lightened considerably. Stiger’s expression softened.
“I see that spirits are up,” Eli said, striding into the firelight. He took a moment to warm his hands by the fire before unslinging his bow from his back and settling down on a free log. He looked at the amused expressions on the two centurions’ faces, and then at Stiger with a raised, questioning eyebrow.
“Where have you been?” Stiger asked curiously. He had not seen Eli for several hours, which was nothing unusual. Eli and the other elves had quietly separated from the column as the march to the mountain began. Eli had explained vaguely that he wanted a look around and would rejoin him later. Stiger wondered what his friend had been up to.
“We were down by the river watching the enemy,” Eli said. “I encountered a few dwarven pioneers doing the same. They are skilled, though nowhere close to a ranger’s level of competence.”
Stiger raised his eyebrows at that. He had heard
Braddock speak of his pioneers but had yet to see them in action. Stiger had wondered how good they were. If Eli had been impressed, then they were very good at the business of scouting.
“What are the enemy up to?” Stiger asked.
“They were quite intent on constructing a series of primitive bridges,” Eli told him plainly. “You know, I find it surprising to admit that orcs can be quite industrious, and are possibly more intelligent than they have so far demonstrated.”
“I see.” Stiger took another pull on his pipe as he regarded the elf. There was hidden meaning in Eli’s words. Stiger decided that it was a gentle reminder not to become complacent. The enemy were more than just animals. They were thinking beings, even if they did resemble animals.
“When do you think they will begin their crossing?” Sabinus asked.
“They have already sent across a number of scouts,” Eli said. “The pioneers spent a little bit of time skirmishing with them before pulling back to simply observe from a position of safety. By now, though, I would imagine the enemy should have begun to cross with considerable force.”
Sabinus sat back on his log. He nodded absently to himself as he turned his gaze to the flames. Then he looked back up at Stiger. “I wonder how the cavalry are faring.”
“No way to tell,” Stiger said. The cavalry were just one of his many concerns. He wished Cannol well on his mission.
“I still can’t help but feel,” Quintus said, “that it might have been wiser to have them fall back on the mountain with us. Before this is done, we may wish we had their swords at our side.”
“And have the cavalry fight as dismounted infantry?” Sabinus scoffed with a tone of some disgust before taking another sip of his tea. Like most other infantry officers Stiger had known, Sabinus harbored a deep distrust of the cavalry and their reliability. “I think the legate was quite right to send them off and around behind the enemy.”
“With luck,” Stiger said, steering the conversation to safer ground, “Cannol will have some success harassing the enemy’s communications and cutting any supply.”
The Tiger's Fate (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 3) Page 29
