“One other request. The men have been subsisting on half-rations of rice and salt pork,” Stiger said, resuming his trek with Eli toward the dilapidated barn. Salt pork was a staple for the legions in the field. “They have not had fresh meat in months, and besides … you know how much I hate salt pork.”
“Perhaps I can find a nice solid buck,” Eli suggested with a smile, showing off his small, needle-like teeth, characteristic of his race. Elves rarely showed their teeth to humans. To humans, the teeth of the High Born looked more like they belonged in the mouth of a predator. Stiger had been around elves long enough that such smiles no longer bothered him.
“I crossed several game trails,” the elf continued. “Surprisingly, the area around the main encampment is rich with game. One would think the legions would have sent out foragers to supplement standard rations. Perhaps this is an indication of fear?”
“Perhaps … though let’s take advantage of our good fortune. A hot meal for breakfast should do the men well,” Stiger said, avoiding the subject, for he knew his friend was likely onto the heart of the matter. If true, it did not bode well for imperial aspirations in the South. Stiger suspected that the rebels had convinced General Kromen that they were a real threat to his army. The general had responded by sealing himself and his legions inside the main encampment behind an imposing series of fortifications, while dispersing the auxiliaries around the countryside. Perhaps the rebels were more competent than was widely believed, or maybe it was just further evidence of General Kromen’s incompetence.
They walked the remainder of the distance through tall, uncut grass in silence. At least it was not mud, Stiger thought. The rain had stopped. Stiger hoped that had been the last of it, though it was possible more would blow through during the night. In a few weeks, the rains would stop altogether. The temperature would cool, and along with it the ground would harden, signaling winter’s arrival. Southern winters were very mild in comparison to those in the North. Yet, unlike in the North, the arrival of winter would mean the beginning of the fighting season. As he and Eli entered the barn, Stiger briefly wondered what would happen when the rebels marched.
The captain studied the interior of the barn. Several lanterns had been hung about, poorly illuminating much of the interior. The horses and mules were secured inside. With all of the animals packed close together, the barn was considerably warmer than outside. It was in terrible shape, with plenty of evidence of having leaked badly during the rains. Patched and repaired, it would prove adequate. Once again, Stiger thought, Eli had chosen well.
Several men were busily tending to the mules. Having removed the animals’ harnesses, they were now in the process of brushing the animals down. The mules and officers’ horses munched happily on hay and oats as the men worked.
Stiger went to Nomad and removed the saddle, setting it on a broken pen railing. Taking out a well-worn brush from a saddlebag, he began the process of carefully brushing down his mount. Many officers chose to use their men as servants, frequently having them carry out their grunt work. Even though he had been raised with servants tending to his every need, for Stiger, having his legionaries do his work just seemed … somehow wrong. These were fighting men, not slaves. Besides, Stiger preferred to get his hands dirty. Grunt work gave him the chance to think, process the day, and prepare for the next. More importantly, he knew it was important to set a good example. He wanted his men to see that their new captain was not above some manual work. If he attended to the smallest details, hopefully his men would do the same.
Eli began working silently and meticulously on his own mount, Wind Runner. The elf’s horse, smaller in stature than Stiger’s, was a rare forest breed, highly prized amongst horse traders for their intelligence and sure-footedness. The two worked away, aware that the men in the barn were watching their every move. It was hardly unexpected.
The men were afraid. They were frightened of what being commanded by a Stiger would mean. They wondered if they were to be ultimately sacrificed for the next generation of Stiger prestige and glory. The captain could read the doubt and fear in their eyes. The reality was much simpler than they imagined. He wasn’t interested in glory or fame. Stiger was simply intent on doing his duty to the empire. With duty came honor. To Ben Stiger, nothing was more important.
He would need to work hard to gain their trust. To that end, the men would first need to once again believe in themselves. That would come after a lot of hard work. Hate and fear him they might; yet in the end they would become his men and he would become their captain.
Four
Stiger had completed his morning toilet. It had included a badly needed shave conducted while seated on a large rock, alongside the stream. He ran a hand across his freshly shaved face with some satisfaction, as he checked his work with a small hand held mirror. Shaving in the field was a near art, especially if done well, which he had. He returned the mirror to his small toiletry bag and then filled his two canteens. He sat back on the rock and took a deep breath. He enjoyed the feeling of the crisp, cool morning air. The pervasive rain and humidity that had plagued the region for the past few days had moved on. Fall was nearly at hand, and this morning one could tell. Though winters in the South were mild compared to the North, there was a sense that the seasons were changing.
Stiger looked up at the sky. The sun was nearly up and would soon begin making her daily climb, warming the land far below. He loved the quiet and tranquility of the early morning; it was why each day he made a point of rising early. The peacefulness would soon be shattered. It would end when the sergeants began waking the company.
The captain stood, turned, and started walking back to the rundown farmhouse, where he had spent the previous night. He held the straps of his canteens and toiletry bag loosely with his right hand, swinging them slightly as he went. Today was his first real opportunity to begin getting the men into shape, and he felt a renewed sense of purpose as he approached the farmhouse. The day ahead promised to be a busy one. It would be hard work; a real challenge.
He reached the back edge of the dilapidated farmhouse, running through in his mind what he needed to accomplish before starting work with the men. His sword needed oiling and his armor, which he had left next to his bedroll, needed some work as well. He also needed to put some time into his saddle for—
The attack came without warning as he rounded the corner of the farmhouse. Stiger sensed sudden movement to his left. Reflexes took over, honed by years of training, and he instinctively dodged to the right before he fully understood what was happening. A knife flashed past, aimed at his neck, glinting slightly with the morning light. It missed, the point lightly scraping across the skin of his neck.
The captain’s left hand snapped out, striking the assassin with a hard blow to the side of the head. This elicited a startled cry a moment before the two crashed together violently. The canteens and toiletry bag went flying as Stiger fought to remain on his feet. The assassin’s momentum and weight carried him further to the right, threatening to take him to the ground.
The assassin managed to gain a powerful grip on Stiger’s shoulder. Subconsciously, the captain understood the knife was being wielded poorly, as the assassin brought it around for another strike. Stiger hastily hooked one of his legs around the back of one of the assassin’s. As he did so, he threw all of his weight suddenly backward and to the right, using the assassin’s momentum against him, tripping him, while at the same time managing to twist away and out of the grip. In the blink of an eye, and nearly as quickly as the attack had begun, the captain was free and on his feet.
Stiger spun around, booted foot snapping out toward the assassin’s knife hand. The man was stumbling back to his feet. The kick connected violently, almost powerful enough to shatter bones. The assassin shrieked in pain as the knife went flying, landing a few feet away in the dirt. The man stepped backwards, cradling his hand to his chest.
Without letting up, Stiger delivered another kick, which landed in the a
ssassin’s side. The blow stole the assassin’s wind and he dropped to his knees. The captain delivered another kick, knocking the man to the ground, where he landed heavily.
Stiger mentally cursed himself for having let down his guard. This was not the first time an assassin had made an attempt on his life. The assassin rolled away and was struggling to get to his feet.
“My turn,” Stiger growled, drawing his own dagger from his boot. He advanced on the assassin, intent on murdering him.
Then he blinked in shock, almost missing a step. The assassin was one of his legionaries! He had expected the possibility that at some point one of his men might make an attempt on his life, but he had not expected it so soon. He had not even been in command for a full day!
The would-be assassin froze. His eyes were drawn to the knife and then the captain’s face. Their eyes locked, one set filled with newfound fear and the other with a murderous rage. Blood boiling, the captain took a halting step forward, and then another, more determined one. This man must die!
Sargent Ranl abruptly appeared, taking in the scene in a glance and deducing what had occurred. He stepped between the captain and the assassin, hauling the man roughly to his feet. Stiger hesitated again. Within seconds, drawn by the commotion, a crowd of men gathered. Lieutenant Ikely arrived with short sword in hand, pushing through the press and looking nervously at the men.
“Are you all right, sir?” the lieutenant asked, concern on his youthful face. The lieutenant also placed himself between the would-be assassin and his captain, not liking the look on the captain’s face.
“Bennet,” Sergeant Blake thundered in a voice only a sergeant could deliver, shoving men aside as he made his way through the crowd. He retrieved the man’s knife from where it had landed in the dirt. “A bad business, this. What in the seven levels were you thinking, man?”
Stiger was breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping through him. He was furious. He had initially suspected the attack was political in nature, an attempt to strike a blow at his house … but one of his own men? With great effort, he forced himself to calm down. Experience had shown him that in stressful situations, it was best to think clearly.
Sheathing his dagger, the captain glanced at the faces of the men crowded around. Assaulting an officer was a capital offense, with an immediate sentence of death. The concern written across many of the faces present was plain. Stiger concluded that the would-be assassin was a respected man amongst the rank and file. Otherwise he would not have warranted such concern.
Stiger turned back to Bennet, held securely by sergeant Ranl. Bennet was big, strong and tall; in short, a near mountain of a man, just how the legions preferred their legionaries. His face was deathly pale. He knew his own personal doom was at hand.
Stiger’s eyes narrowed as he studied the wretch. He wanted nothing more than to string this skulking shitbag up by his entrails and let him die a slow death. The man had meant to take Stiger’s life and to the captain, there was nothing more personal than that. Stiger’s rage toward Bennet blazed hot and he almost took a step toward the man, ready to just end it now. Once again, and this time with great effort, the captain forced himself to calm down. As reason returned, he realized there might be an opportunity to turn this to his advantage.
The captain took a deep breath, bringing on the forced and studied calm that he had learned to project during battle. Sparing another look at the concerned faces of his men gathered around, he became convinced that there was indeed an opportunity to manipulate the situation to his gain.
“Are you all right, sir?” Lieutenant Ikely asked once again, voice firm and hard. The lieutenant was not looking at Stiger, but at the men around them. His sword was still out. “Sir?”
“Lieutenant, I am fine,” Stiger affirmed, loud enough for those gathered to hear. “Bennet here simply asked for a demonstration in my knife fighting technique. I guess you could say things got a little spirited. He is larger than I am and strong as an ox. I am confident Bennet can now attest to the fact that skill and technique will win over brute strength.”
“A demonstration?” Sergeant Blake asked, turning a skeptical look on his captain, clearly not believing a word of it. He fingered the sharp edge of Bennet’s knife. “Are you certain, sir?”
“It looked as if he tried to assassinate you, sir,” Sergeant Ranl stated, still retaining his vice-like grip on Bennet. As big and strong as the legionary was, the sergeant was the stronger man. Bennet was helpless in his grip.
Stiger stepped forward and retrieved Bennet’s knife from Sergeant Blake. He casually flipped it around and offered the weapon hilt first to the would-be assassin.
“Sergeant, had someone tried to assassinate me, I can assure you I would have cut him open like a prize pig who had failed to win at the fair,” Stiger growled for the benefit of the crowd and to discourage any future attempts. For added emphasis, he used the hilt of the dagger to trace a line from Bennet’s navel to his sternum, all the while looking the would-be assassin meaningfully in the eye. The man’s eyes widened in terror as the captain casually retraced the line back down.
Satisfied that he had made his point, Stiger once again offered the knife back to Bennet. Ranl was slow to release the man. Bennet, hands shaking violently, carefully took the knife from his captain. As he did so, he never took his eyes from the captain’s steel-eyed gaze. So deep was the look, it seemed as if the captain could see his very soul.
Having returned the knife, Stiger intentionally turned his back on Bennet and addressed the crowd of legionaries. Nearly the entire company had gathered around, absent those on duty. The looks of concern had changed to expressions of relief. The men never enjoyed seeing one of their own put to death. At the very least, such acts reminded them of their own mortality.
“Hand to hand fighting is a very critical skill to learn,” Stiger stated raising his voice. “I was taught to handle a knife by one particular sergeant, a real mean, dirty son of a bitch. The kind that never fights fair.
“‘Stiger,’ he said to me, ‘when it gets to knives … there is you and him … better him go than you. How him dies matters little, as long as it’s him.’”
A chuckle ran through the crowd. They had heard similar statements from training sergeants and had not expected to hear such from an officer.
“That training has saved my life on more than one occasion,” Stiger said meaningfully, looking from man to man. He paused a moment to let that sink in. They were not stupid. No matter what fiction he had just presented to them, they understood that Bennet had just tried to kill their captain. Bennet, clearly a respected man, had failed. Amongst the legions, strength and fighting prowess were respected above all else. It was becoming apparent their captain was not some pampered fop who had purchased his commission to impress the ladies.
“We,” Stiger gestured at the two sergeants, “are going to teach you how to fight and fight dirty, so that if it comes to knives and fists … the other poor bastard is the one who ends up fodder for the crows.”
Stiger took a quick breath. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins and his hands were shaking ever so slightly. Caught up in the moment, the men did not notice. He saw Eli, who had most likely just returned from hunting and evaluating the scouts, at the back of the crowd. The elf’s youthful face was an unreadable mask, concealing any emotions. Eli simply nodded in greeting, though Stiger thought he could read a slight note of disapproval in his friend’s eyes.
“I moved us out of the main encampment because it is rife with disease,” Stiger continued. “Within a few weeks’ time, had we remained, many of you would have become sick and died. Today … well, today we clean up. We set up a proper camp, a clean camp.”
Stiger casually took a few steps to his left, moving away from Bennet, allowing his words to sink in. Several of the men nodded. He had wanted the men to understand why he had moved them. He also intended to clearly lay out his expectations. If the men knew what he wanted and why he wanted it that
particular way, things would go easier.
“I don’t know about you, but I am sick and tired of salt pork,” Stiger said, gesturing toward Eli at the back of the crowd. The men turned to look. “I sent Lieutenant Eli’Far and the scouts last night on a little hunting expedition. Lieutenant, tell us what you bagged?”
“Two large bucks,” Eli responded, his elven voice ringing clearly on the crisp morning air. It came across somewhat alien to human ears. Many found it uncomfortable and more than a little unnatural. The men did not seem bothered by it. They were hungry, and Stiger could tell the news was more than welcome, even if it came from an elf. In time, they would learn to trust Eli, as he did. Grins broke out, followed by a ragged cheer.
“As I said, today we clean up, set a proper camp and feast. Tomorrow we begin work, and I mean hard work. We have a job to do, and as long as we have a job to do, we stay out of that disease-infested mud pit of an encampment.” Stiger paused a moment. He was not below using the men’s bellies to begin winning their respect. “I will make you a promise. I will turn you into proper legionnaires. I will care for you. I will work to keep you alive, and when possible, well-fed. All I ask in return is that you do your utmost and perform your duty. I expect all of you to honor the empire and fight for your family, for the company.”
“If we get fresh meat,” one legionary called from the back, “I will fight for you, sir!”
A cheer went up at that. Stiger smiled in reply. The scar on his cheek turned the smile into a slight sneer.
Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1) Page 5
