“Captain Aleric,” Sarai said in greeting as she emerged from the house. They all turned to look at her. “Will you be having breakfast with us this morning? Ben gathered fresh eggs.”
“Sarai,” Aleric switched to common. “I bid you good morning, but am afraid I must decline. I will be drilling my warriors shortly.”
Sarai’s eyes slid over to Theo. “I hope you can excuse Theogdin. He is a pleasure to have around.”
“I can,” Aleric said stiffly, though his manner seemed to say he wished otherwise. “Theogdin is free to join you.”
Theo caught Stiger’s eye and winked. He had been escaping from drill a lot lately, using Stiger as an excuse. In truth, Stiger enjoyed Theo’s company, though he would have happily traded the dwarf for his friend Eli.
“And you, Theogdin, will you be kind enough to join us?”
“Gladly,” Theo said with a broad smile and then looked over at Stiger and switched back to dwarven. “If she can say my given name easily enough, why can’t you?”
“You will always be Theo to me,” Stiger said back to the dwarf. “Always.”
Chapter Four
Stiger’s eyes snapped open. For as long as he could recall, he had been a light sleeper. He was lying on his back. The room was nearly pitch black. The small clay brazier in the corner had long since run out of fuel and no longer shed even a modicum of light. Next to him and under the covers of a thick wool blanket lay Sarai. An arm thrown around him, she was snuggled close, her head resting upon his naked chest. Under the blanket, the heat from her body was agreeable. Sarai’s breathing was steady, relaxed.
Something had woken him. He was sure of it. Not moving a muscle, he simply listened. With the dwarven company guarding and watching the farm, he seriously doubted there was an actual threat about. The dwarves took their duty seriously. Still, Stiger had long since learned that it was better to be careful. He waited and continued to listen.
After several moments, he heard the jingle of armor, followed by a muffled voice speaking in the harsh tongue of the dwarves. Stiger could not make out what was said. This was almost immediately followed by heavy footsteps that became fainter with every step.
Stiger mentally relaxed. It was only the changing of the guard, something that regularly happened right before dawn. The dwarves were nothing if not predictable and reliable. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly.
Sarai stirred slightly. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She gave off a soft half moan and snuggled in. Stiger closed his eyes. He could feel her chest rise and fall, the warmth of her skin radiating against his, the touch intoxicating. He had become content, happy even, and desirous of it not coming to an end. After all of these years, he had finally found happiness . . . as a prisoner.
Stiger closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip back into sleep. He woke sometime later to find the room had brightened a tad as dawn approached. Animal pelts had been hung over the closed shutters to help keep in the heat. Despite that, light had begun to leak in.
Stiger could now make out the bedroom he shared with Sarai. It was small, meager like the rest of the two-room house, nothing at all compared to the luxury with which he had been raised, back in Mal’Zeel. His boyhood home had been a near palace. Sarai’s home was a hovel by comparison. Stiger found it simple, and charming. As his eyes roved around the dim bedroom, he wondered how much that feeling had to do with her.
There were two windows and four large trunks that had been pushed up against the walls. These contained Sarai’s clothing, a few of her treasured possessions, and the belongings of her late husband. Besides the bed and a bucket as a chamber pot, a small, rickety three-legged stool was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
After a time, Stiger forced himself to pull away. He slipped from under the covers and out of bed. The cold air was a shock and it snapped him fully awake.
Sarai mumbled something incoherent, rolled over, and pulled the blanket closer. The door had been left open to the kitchen. The stones of the fireplace undoubtedly still radiated some heat, but it was no longer sufficient to reach into the bedroom and combat the cold.
Stiger grabbed a tunic from where he had tossed it on the stool the night before. He slipped it on, the wool doing little against the chill of the room. He gave an involuntary shiver. Sarai had laundered the tunic the day before and it still smelled clean, though mercifully it was no longer damp. Like the rest of the clothing he had been wearing, it had belonged to her late husband. Despite being cut from poor material, the garment had been well made. Stiger glanced over at the bed and the sleeping woman. When he had been brought here as a guest, some sixteen weeks before, he had felt like an intruder. Now, things were very different.
“I shall happily spend the rest of my life with you,” Stiger whispered to himself as he regarded her, before turning away and stepping carefully across the floorboards, lest they creak overmuch.
The kitchen was slightly larger than the bedroom. Though it was humble, it had a charming manner that spoke of Sarai’s complex personality. A large wooden table dominated the center of the room. It served not only for food preparation, but also dining. Shelving along one wall held battered pots, pans, and mismatched plates. One shelf had a row of carefully organized jars and cooking implements. Dried summer herbs and onions had been hung from the ceiling in numerous places. A cask filled with flour rested against a wall. The room was neat and tidy. Everything had a place.
Along the back wall was a large fireplace, with a number of hooks and iron chains for cooking. Next to it was a small oven for baking bread, a luxury for such a modest home. It meant that, more often than not, they had fresh bread.
The floorboards were spotlessly clean, as was the rest of the kitchen. Sarai preferred cleanliness and order, something the legionary in Stiger could well appreciate. Had Stiger performed a formal inspection, he would be hard-pressed to find dust.
He cracked one of the shutters a fraction to allow in a bar of dim light. He did not wish to welcome in the cold more than he had to. With sufficient light, he moved around the table to the fireplace. The pieces of wood he had laid on the previous evening had burned up and turned to ash. As expected, the stones still gave off some heat. Stiger held his hands out to warm them before rubbing them together.
From the small pile of wood next to the fireplace, he laid on several pieces, carefully stacking them to produce the best effect for a fire. He prided himself on his ability to set a good fire and almost regarded it as a form of art.
“If you are going to do something,” Stiger said to himself, “might as well do it right.”
From a bucket, he took a bundle of dried kindling and shoved it into the thick pile of ash under the pieces of wood he had stacked. He followed this up with another bundle. Using a poker, Stiger moved the ash around and exposed the hot embers, which glowed a sullen orange-red. From the same bucket, he pulled out a fistful of dried leaves and, using the poker, pushed them into the embers and underneath the kindling. A few moments later, the leaves caught, flaring brilliantly as they curled in upon themselves. Then the kindling started to burn.
A copper pot full of well-drawn water sat waiting on the table. Using an iron hook set into the stone of the fireplace, careful lest he spill any and spoil his efforts, Stiger hung the pot over the growing fire. By the time Sarai climbed out of bed, it would be close to boiling and ready to make tea and oatmeal, which she had also set out.
Stiger pulled a stool out from underneath the table and sat down on it. The stool creaked alarmingly as it accepted his weight. He faced the fire and settled in to watch, something that had become his routine since arriving here. It cracked and popped as the blaze took hold. He found the flames comforting, not only with the heat they soon began to shed, but also the light. The fire slowly brightened the kitchen as the blaze grew.
Stiger had spent many a lonely evening seated before a campfire, staring into the flames. This, in a way, was no different. Only then he
had always had an urgent purpose waiting for him the next morning. Rarely had he ever truly been worry-free. These days, Stiger found it hard to care for anything other than Sarai and making her happy. Still, he found he was not without regrets and dark thoughts that continued to haunt him through the passage of time.
Stiger rubbed at his eyes, which were a little dry. Nearly sixteen weeks ago, his purpose in life had unexpectedly and inextricably changed. He was no longer the man responsible for leading other men into battle, hoping and praying that he had made the correct decision. He let out a long breath. He had finished with that life and, if he had anything to say about it, he was done with killing, too.
At first his attitude had been different. He had refused to accept his fate. He had resisted, even struggled against it. But in the end, he had come to accept it. He was separated from his time, cut off from the life he had known and felt called to live. He had failed in his duty and was trapped in the past.
Stiger had been sent back in time to put things right. He had been unable to do so. The minion that had proceeded him through the World Gate had managed to kill Delvaris first. With his passing, the future was undoubtedly altered beyond repair. Even if he could return through the Gate, which the dwarven wizard Thoggle insisted was now impossible, things in Stiger’s time were not the same, and would be more favorable to Castor. Stiger let out a long, slow breath. The wizard had called it a paradox. In fact, he had directed that term at Stiger and had stated he could not understand why Stiger even still existed.
According to the wizard, Stiger was now an impossibility. Stiger wondered if the sword had something to do with it. Stiger had never heard of a paradox before Thoggle had mentioned it, and in truth he did not fully understand it. But he understood the damage done, especially after Thoggle had explained things. There was no going back to the life he had known.
He was a man out of his time.
“All things considered,” Stiger said softly to himself as he glanced toward their bedroom, “it could be worse.”
He drummed his fingers on the table as he turned back to the flames. His thoughts darkened, even as the room brightened. Over his long years of service to the empire, so many good men had died under his command that he had long since lost count, or perhaps the real truth was that he had long since ceased trying to count. Varus, Bren, Erbus . . . the list went on. Each death came with a hurt, some more than others. Though he had come to accept loss, the emotional wound it opened never fully managed to heal. It lingered just out of reach and with it came the terrible guilt at having survived when others had not.
Stiger found it odd, ironic even, that every step he had taken since he entered service had led him to this small farm in the Vrell Valley. He had come to terms somewhat with his failure, the first in a great long time for him. If he was honest with himself, there had been little he could have done to change things. He had stepped through the World Gate and emerged on the other side only to discover he had failed. There had been nothing to do other than rage at the injustice and the fickle nature of Fortuna.
Stiger heard Sarai stir in the bedroom, the bed creaking as she climbed out. He listened to her soft footsteps. There were several heartbeats of silence and then he heard her relieving herself in the waste bucket. It was a strong hiss that proved surprisingly long in duration. She let out a contented sigh as she finished. Amused, he laughed.
“You drink more water than anyone I’ve ever known,” Stiger called into the other room. “And I mean anyone, including Eli, and he guzzled the stuff.”
“Water is good for you,” came the reply. She stepped into the kitchen completely naked, her small, firm breasts perky, the nipples erect in the cold air. Stiger felt a stirring as the orange firelight played over her supple body.
“Brooding again, I see.” She checked on the water over the fire before looking back at him. “On what this time?”
“The usual,” Stiger said.
Sarai rolled her eyes and used the poker to prod the fire a little, sending up a spray of sparks into the chimney and out of view. Stiger found himself admiring the view.
She looked back at him again, this time with sad eyes, and shook her head. “You should let it go. You’ve traveled here to me. Your life, your future, is with me. It is as simple as that. There are some things you can change, but this is something you can’t.”
“Though my time as a soldier is done,” Stiger said, “I don’t know if I will ever be able to let it all go, not completely.” He paused, drawing in a deep breath. “Much has happened. On the battlefield, I have left behind too many comrades and friends.” He paused and sucked in another deep breath. “Some I even knowingly sent not just into battle, but to their deaths. It is something that will always be with me.”
“Was it all necessary?”
Stiger was silent several moments as he considered his answer. “At the time, I thought it was. Now, with what has happened . . . I am not so sure.”
“Ben,” she said, with a slight scolding tone, “you can’t blame yourself for things you have no control over.”
Stiger gave her a shrug in reply.
She stepped over to him and looked down into his eyes. A hand reached up to his close-cropped hair and stroked it, her eyes never leaving his. A smile slowly found its way onto her face. Stiger felt his heart quicken. She reached down and took his hand, large in hers, and cupped her breast with his palm. Stiger felt the hard nipple rub against his skin.
“Let me help you forgot your worries and find peace,” she breathed, leaning down. She kissed him hard and long, her tongue boldly exploring.
“You already have,” Stiger said, when they came up for air. “You already have . . . my love.”
The smile returned to her face. Silently, she drew him to his feet and led him into the bedroom.
Stiger slid back out of bed and drew on his tunic. Sarai lay under the wool blanket. Her eyes followed him as he moved about the room, drawing an old leather belt around his tunic to help keep the warmth in. The clasps of the belt were wearing thin and nearing the end of their useful life. It was something else that had belonged to her late husband.
“I thought, perhaps . . .” Stiger paused to look at her. “I might go up to Bowman’s Pond today.”
“Fish would be more than welcome on the dinner table,” Sarai said, stretching underneath the blanket and letting out a near purr of satisfaction. She sat up in bed, the blanket falling to reveal her nakedness as Stiger came over to her. He gave her a passionate kiss and held it for a prolonged moment before straightening.
“With luck, I will bring home more than one,” Stiger said.
“That would be nice,” Sarai said, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Let’s hope your fishing skills have improved. The last time you went, you came back with a fish that could only be called a mere snack, or perhaps even bait.”
“I was proud of that fish,” Stiger said with an indignant grunt. “It is the pond that is lacking.”
“Well then,” she said, “if that is so, better make certain you catch more than one fish this time.”
Stiger went into the kitchen, threw another couple of pieces of wood on the fire. The water had been boiling for a while now. Sarai came out. She had thrown on a gray dress that had seen better days. Using a thick towel to keep from being burned, she grabbed the handle and removed the pot from over the fire, setting it with practiced ease on the flagstones at her feet. Stiger sat on a stool and put his sandals on, lacing them up his calves and tying them tight.
“When you go, take that sword with you,” Sarai said.
Stiger looked over at his sword. Rarokan rested in its scabbard in the corner. The lacquered runes and figures on the hilt were illuminated somewhat by the firelight. Since he had arrived in this time, the sword had not once spoken to him. It had remained sullenly mum, no matter what he said to it. Stiger wondered if it was brooding as well.
“I don’t like it being here,” she said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”
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“It is just a sword,” Stiger said. Despite a warning from Thoggle to limit what he told others of the future, he had made the mistake of telling her about it and how Rarokan spoke to him on occasion. Early on, he had made the decision to conceal nothing from her.
“No,” Sarai said. “It is anything but. It is a magic sword, perhaps evil even.”
Stiger’s eyes swept back to the sword sitting in its scabbard. It was very possible she was right, though he was sure Father Thomas would have warned him against it as an implement of evil were it so.
“I will take it with me,” Stiger conceded.
“Good,” she said. “When will you go?”
Stiger stood. “I think after I finish feeding the animals and breakfast with you.”
“I will pack you a lunch of bread and cheese.”
Stiger gave a satisfied nod. She was a fine woman and had a kind soul. His eyes followed her as she moved about the kitchen. This was not the first time he had been in love, but it was different with Sarai. He would be proud to have her as a wife. They would grow old together and share the remainder of their days. That is, if she would have him, which he knew she would.
“You should bring Theogdin as well,” Sarai said, as he stood. “You need another friend besides that dog.”
“I thought I already had one.” Stiger winked at her.
“I am your lover,” she said seriously. “Theo can be your friend. He is a good one, that dwarf.”
Stiger considered her for a moment, grunted, and stepped out into the cold. The guard was standing just outside the door. The dwarf looked over at Stiger with no hint of emotion on his heavily bearded face. Yet, Stiger had gotten the feeling that most of his guard were deeply suspicious of him. Or perhaps they disliked him, as he had given affront to their thane? He gave the warrior a brief nod, which was curtly returned. No words were exchanged. Another guard stood a few feet away. Stiger ignored him and set off for the barn. He had work to do before he could set out for Bowman’s Pond.
The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4) Page 7
