Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Lieutenant,” Stiger said loudly, looking over at Ikely. At some point, the lieutenant, sensing the danger had passed, had sheathed his short sword. He looked much relieved.

  “Yes sir?” Ikely answered just as loudly.

  “Every man is to go to the stream and have a proper toilet.” A groan went up at this statement, and the men shifted uncomfortably. A few conversations broke out amongst them. A proper toilet meant bathing, laundering tunics, and shaving. Many of the men were sporting beards.

  “Kits are to be washed, maintained and cleaned,” Stiger continued. This was followed by another collective groan.

  “Yes sir,” Lieutenant Ikely responded.

  “Lieutenant, see that the bucks are roasted immediately. Each man will stand for inspection. Once he has passed, he can feast and have his fill.”

  Another hearty cheer went up, followed by a near mad dash for the stream or back to the tents to gather up kits. So eager were they for a good meal, the men did not even wait for orders from the good lieutenant. In moments, only Stiger remained with the sergeants, his lieutenants and Bennet.

  “I am sorry for what I done, sir,” Bennet said, returning the captain’s gaze. He was trembling violently.

  “It was just a demonstration,” Stiger reinforced firmly, edging closer to the man. The captain was impressed the man had the courage to look him in the eyes. Perhaps saving Bennet had not been such a bad thing. “I expect to hear no more of it. Understood?”

  “Yes sir,” Bennet answered with a nod.

  “Go get yourself cleaned up and fed,” Stiger ordered, gesturing in the direction of the stream.

  “Yes sir,” Bennet said, and dashed off after the rest.

  “Letting that man off could be dangerous, sir,” Ranl said after Bennet was out of earshot. “Examples need to be made, or it encourages similar acts.”

  “Agreed,” Stiger said, “but then again, making an example of him may have been just as dangerous.”

  “Aye,” Blake admitted with a deep sigh. “It could have been at that, sir.”

  “Let us hope this is the end of such ugly business,” Stiger said carefully, bending down to pick up both of his canteens and his toiletry bag. Holding them by the straps, he slung them over his right shoulder. “Hell of a way to begin a morning,” he breathed to himself with a wry smile, which his scar dutifully turned to a sneer. He brushed past the sergeants, continuing on his way into the farmhouse.

  Eli joined him. Stiger knew from past experience he was about to receive a lecture on carelessness. Like the recent attempt on his life, the captain was confident, the lecture likely would not be his last.

  Five

  “They will require a great deal of my attention,” Eli reported of the scouts he had been asked to evaluate. Both he and Stiger were seated on a fallen snag, which had conveniently dropped directly in front of the farmhouse sometime in the last few years. The captain held his mess bowl in one hand and with the other he used a knife to eat. He chewed slowly as he listened to Eli wrap up his report of the previous evening’s activities with the scouts.

  “I can readily admit they are eager,” the elf continued. “It is a rare opportunity, as you are well aware.”

  Stiger swallowed and suppressed a smirk of amusement by taking a sip of water from his canteen. Eli was matter-of-fact, without even a hint of intentional superiority. He simply believed what he was saying.

  Elves acted as though humans should feel very privileged to converse, let alone learn from them. Stiger supposed that had he had a thousand or more years behind him, with an unknowable number ahead, he might feel the same way.

  The captain shifted uncomfortably at the thought of his friend’s incredible age. Eli was still young for an elf, having been born, at his own admission, just over a thousand years ago. Stiger’s mere thirty years made him a child by comparison … a blink of an eye for Eli.

  Only the youth of the elven nations ever ventured out into the wider world to mix with the other races. The elders, secluded deep in the elven realms, considered wanderlust the impetuous curse of the youthful. It was unheard of for adult elves to venture forth. Stiger had only known one other elf to venture into the outside world, and he was the appointed ambassador to the empire. Even the ambassador was a youth.

  Stiger swept his gaze around the campsite. Arranged a bit haphazardly from the hasty setup the night before, the overgrown field was crowded with five-man tents. Bushes and small trees sprouted up between the tents. It looked very untidy to Stiger’s critical eye.

  The men sat scattered across the campsite, in small groups, eating their first freshly-cooked meal in a good long while. Having shaved and cleaned up, they looked a bit more presentable. Still, it was not enough for the captain. He had seen allied auxiliaries who looked more professional than his men looked. Though he hated to admit it, he understood the damage done to his men could not be reversed overnight or by a single meal. It would take time and effort.

  The captain noted there was plenty of lively jawing, along with scattered laughs, among the men. None of it carried the ring of the sullen, resentful or demoralized, which had been evident on the march out. Stiger reckoned that his men viewed any change, no matter how slight, as better than what they had had, even if a feared Stiger was behind it. Then again, upon additional consideration, Stiger conceded that the assassination attempt spoke otherwise for some … perhaps even many.

  His two sergeants were making the rounds, moving from tent to tent and speaking with each group of men. They were making sure each got his fill. Good legionaries needed to be well-fed. Stiger shook his head once again at the thought of how different the South was from the North. What he had seen so far would never have been tolerated by General Treim.

  At the rate his men were devouring the bucks, Stiger seriously questioned whether there would be anything left over other than bones and marrow. The company cook would likely make soup from the remains. Soup might not be such a bad thing, he mused, thinking on the ordeal that was coming.

  Before the day was done, a good number would suffer from cramped bowels and intestinal disorder. He had seen such intestinal distress before, most notably after a long-running siege had been lifted. The men’s stomachs would not be fit to handle the rich fare they were now consuming. He would have likely caused a near riot, had he attempted to limit each man’s portion. Like children, they would just have to discover on their own. Subsequent meals would be carefully rationed, focusing on proper portion size, until they were able to handle more.

  “Plenty of healthy, fat game out there, it would seem,” Stiger said thoughtfully. He took another bite, chewing and enjoying the rich, warm juices of the meat.

  “Deer, wild hogs, hare …” Eli replied with a shrug. He knew his friend did not wish to address the issue of General Kromen’s unfitness for command; however, having seen the conditions in the main encampment, he could not stop himself. “I find it distressing that the legions encamped here should have not picked the surrounding area clean.”

  “I do not wish …” Stiger began hotly, before mentally checking himself. He would not take Eli’s bait, no matter how much he agreed with his friend’s sentiment. He did not appreciate when others spoke ill of their superiors, and had made it a habit to not do so himself.

  “Until we march for Vrell,” Stiger said quietly, after a short hesitation, “I would very much like the scouts and skirmishers out and about each night. Work them hard. We need those men trained up before we march. And the company requires a source of fresh food to build strength and endurance.”

  “The men look awful,” Eli agreed, sweeping a casual look about the campsite. Having made his point and seen his friend’s reaction, he felt no need to add anything further, though he felt the matter was far from concluded. The captain was from an influential house that could get the attention of the emperor. “I feel confident that I will be able to conduct effective training, while at the same time providing fresh fare for the company. May I recr
uit additional hunters and potential scouts?”

  “How many more do you feel you might require?” Stiger asked, grateful Eli had let the subject of General Kromen’s incompetence drop.

  “Another four or five,” Eli answered without hesitation. “I think that will be sufficient for my purposes.”

  “They are yours,” Stiger said. “When we march, I believe we will be relying more heavily than usual on your scouts as our eyes and ears.”

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Ikely said, joining them with a pleased look. “You asked for me?”

  “Have you eaten, Lieutenant?” Stiger asked, looking up briefly before popping another bite into his mouth. Ikely seemed to be one of those officers who saw to the men’s needs first before his own. Amongst the legions, such a quality was rare in an officer. Stiger respected this. He saw a bit of himself in the lieutenant. With the men gorging themselves the way they were, there would be little left. He wanted to make sure the lieutenant had his fill, too.

  “Yes sir,” the lieutenant answered with a pleasant smile and nod of thanks in Eli’s direction. “I have, sir. I must admit it was the best meal I have had in several weeks.”

  “I am pleased to hear that,” Stiger said, taking another bite of meat. “Give the men an hour to rest and digest. Then set them to work on making a proper home.”

  “Proper home, sir?” the lieutenant asked, glancing around at the overgrown field. He was surprised that the captain was thinking of settling down in this rough spot. On the march, they had passed several other fields that were not so badly overgrown.

  “You have been instructed in how to construct a proper legionary marching encampment, correct?” The captain knew what the lieutenant was thinking, but he pretended otherwise. Not only would he be working on the men, he would also be training Ikely to be a first-rate executive officer.

  “Yes, sir,” Ikely replied, coloring slightly. “I have.”

  “Excellent, then that is what we shall construct,” Stiger stated matter-of-factly, as though he did not care whether the field was badly overgrown or not. He swallowed as if to emphasize his point, then took a sip of water from his canteen. “I don’t see why we can’t call this lovely spot home for a while.”

  Ikely appeared ready to protest, but refrained from doing so. He had no desire to get on the bad side of his new commanding officer. The Stigers were a powerful house, while his own was not. Should they become friends, his house might benefit. Should they become adversaries … well, he preferred not to think about that.

  “I expect we shall be here for some time.”

  “Ah … yes, sir,” Ikely said.

  “The men need time to recover, train and condition,” Stiger continued. “This appears to be the perfect spot. Think of it as our new home.”

  “Home, sir, with a few, um … entrenchments?” Ikely asked, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. It became clear that the captain meant to recapture that hard work ethic that was so much a part of the legionary’s life and legend.

  Clearing the campsite would be exceptionally hard work, and hard work was what the legions excelled at. Life was far from comfortable or leisurely for the common legionary. Next to near constant training, exercises and drills, a legionary could expect to build camps and buildings, as well as construct fortifications and roads. It was also not unknown for the legions to lend a strong arm during harvest time, should the commanding officer require it.

  “Eli here has seen rebels about,” Stiger added casually. “I do believe that entrenchments and a proper sentry system might just make us all feel a little more secure at night. Don’t you agree?”

  “Rebels?” the lieutenant asked, a look of astonishment crossing his face. He glanced around at the scrub forest, beyond the overgrown, tent-studded field. His hand involuntarily reached down to the pommel of his short sword. Stiger concealed a smile by taking another bite. In the forests of Abath, he had had some of the same feelings that his lieutenant was just now having. It was the distinctly uncomfortable sensation of being watched. “So close to the main encampment? Are you sure?”

  “Their purpose is observation,” Eli explained quietly, in an unnervingly ominous tone. Stiger supposed Eli was having a bit of fun with the lieutenant, though he knew that the Elf was also deadly serious. “One even took the trouble to pay us a visit last night.”

  “I would have thought the patrols would have kept the scum away,” Ikely said, turning to look directly at Eli.

  “There are patrols and then there are patrols,” Eli said before offering a close-mouthed elfish smile, the kind he used when consciously trying not to unsettle humans. Stiger shook his head slightly at his friend’s sense of humor, and shot the elf an irritated look. Had an enraged bear been present, Stiger was sure, Eli would have poked it, just to get a reaction. Elven humor was odd, though it usually included some hint of a deeper meaning. Eli undoubtedly thought he was being fiendishly clever by taking another jab at General Kromen.

  “Back to setting up a proper camp,” Stiger growled, changing the subject once again, before Ikely could respond to Eli’s jab. “Please ensure that the latrines are dug toward the downstream side of camp. I do not wish to be drinking someone else’s piss. Washing and laundry are to be performed downstream as well.”

  “Yes sir.” Lieutenant Ikely nodded.

  “Also, have the men gather plenty of firewood,” Stiger continued, gesturing with his mess knife toward the rows of tents. “I want every tent to have a fire each evening, no exceptions. Understood?”

  “Yes sir,” the lieutenant responded eagerly. “I will see to it.”

  “Lieutenant,” Eli spoke up. “I would very much like to know if we have anyone who is a competent hunter. Can you spread the word and kindly ask them to speak with me, if they are so inclined?”

  “I do believe there are a few men who might take you up on that,” the lieutenant said with another nod. “I will direct them to you.”

  “Very good,” Stiger said, spearing another piece of meat with his knife. He popped it into his mouth. He paused mid-chew, speaking with the side of his mouth. “Inform the sergeants of my orders.”

  “I will, sir.” Ikely nodded and left.

  Stiger continued to chew as he watched the lieutenant hurry away. After a moment or two, he returned to studying his men. They had a long way to go in becoming proper legionaries. Placing his mess bowl down, he took a deep breath of fresh air through his nose and slowly let it out. If he had to drag them, kicking and screaming, all that long way … he would do it.

  ***

  Grunting with effort, men toiled under the sun. The cool, crisp morning air had come and gone. It had become hot and humid as the sun climbed into the sky. Shouted orders could be heard across the camp such as, “Lift!” or “Heave!”

  The perimeter had been carefully walked off. Stiger, Ikely and the sergeants had marked it for the work parties. The bushes and overgrowth had been uprooted, removed and burned in a large pile outside the camp’s perimeter. Once cleared, the tents were moved closer together and bettered ordered, which would increase the usable space inside the camp after the walls went up.

  Axes were employed to fell both large and small trees inside and outside the perimeter. The smaller trees were cut and shaped into support columns. These were buried vertically in the ground in pairs, standing about eight feet tall. The pairs were spaced just far enough apart that the much larger trunks could fit horizontally between them, one on top of another, creating a wall that, when finished, would reach a height of seven feet. It was hard, backbreaking work that had men straining with the effort.

  Believing it was best to set an example, Stiger lent a hand. This act shocked the men. Officers were almost exclusively drawn from the nobility. Manual labor was beneath them. Officers never got their hands dirty, and that was a fact. Yet their captain was laboring alongside them like a common legionary. The sergeants said nothing as they continued to supervise and also lend a hand when and where it was needed
. It was not their place to question an officer.

  “’Tis not right,” Legionary Palla said under his breath to another as he dug a hole with a shovel.

  “The captain decides what is right and what is not,” Sergeant Blake, having overheard, spoke in a low, menacing tone loud enough for those nearby to hear. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Palla responded after a moment, eyes downcast.

  “If the captain wants to bend his back and dirty his hands,” Blake continued. “That is his business, not yours. Besides, it’s one more pair of hands.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Palla breathed to himself.

  “What was that, you pile of horse shit?” Sergeant Blake asked, taking a step closer to the legionary.

  “Nothing, sergeant,” Palla answered as he continued to dig, head bent over his work.

  “That is what I thought.” Blake turned and walked off to the next group. He shared a brief look with Ranl, who was supervising a detail a few feet away. Ranl shook his head slightly, his eyes flicking briefly toward the captain, who was helping to lay logs for the walls. Blake rolled his eyes and continued on.

  Lieutenant Ikely had been just as appalled as the men. He felt the captain’s behavior was very unseemly. Yet at the same time, he felt compelled to join in and follow Captain Stiger’s example. How could he stand by while his commanding officer got down in the dirt with the men? He joined a detail that was hauling logs, for the first time in his life, stooping so low as to perform common manual labor. It was hard and difficult work, earning him scrapes and bruises from the rough bark. It was a blow to his dignity, and he resented it bitterly. He was an officer, an educated gentleman from a noble family. This was not the sort of work he was meant to do! Such labor was reserved for the lowborn, who had no hope of rising above their station. Silently he cursed his captain, but continued to toil alongside the men.

  As the heat of the day increased, tunics were discarded. Stiger, after some careful deliberation, also removed his own tunic, revealing a hard, lean muscular torso. A long stripe of a scar, the work of a sword, ran down his upper left chest. The scar drew a raised eyebrow or two. However, it was the captain’s back, when he turned to pick up a mallet, that drew a startled gasp from the two men working with him. They stared at their captain in horror, eyes wide. Others nearby noticed, and the reaction quickly spread.