“We will take the entire century out,” Stiger told the two officers. “I believe Brogan’s camp to be under attack. We will venture out to his aid.”
“And leave the camp undefended?” Sabinus asked, clearly shocked by the idea. “Are you certain, sir?”
“The only thing of value, other than the supplies we brought with us, is ourselves,” Stiger told them. “We built this camp to protect ourselves and we don’t have any camp followers to watch over. So there is no good reason to leave a guard. Besides, I don’t think whoever is out there is here for our salted pork. Do either of you disagree with me on this?”
Sabinus shook his head.
Stiger looked between the two centurions. Pixus shook his head as well.
“All right, this is what I am thinking,” Stiger said. “We don’t know how many of the enemy are out there or even who the enemy is. This camp is our fallback position. It is defensible and, if need be, we can hold it through the night. We take the entire century and march in good order to the dwarven camp. If they are under attack, we render what aid we can to the dwarves, then assess the situation. I would appreciate your thoughts, gentlemen.”
“It’s got to be orcs, sir,” Pixus said.
“I think so, too,” Stiger said.
“What if there are too many of the enemy?” Pixus asked.
“We turn around and come back here posthaste,” Stiger said. “I do not think that’ll be the case. If there were an overwhelming body of the enemy nearby, Brogan’s pioneers would have spotted it. No, this assault force must be relatively small, perhaps a few hundred at best. Questions?”
“Your plan is good enough for me, sir,” Sabinus said.
“No questions from me, sir,” Pixus said.
“Very good, then,” Stiger said. He looked back at Pixus’s century formed up inside the fort. Each man held a javelin and his shield. Helmets were on. In the firelight they looked grim, and ready for action.
The enemy is near, Rarokan said softly, and Stiger chilled. Feed me. Together we grow stronger.
It was orcs. He was now sure of it.
Stiger felt his anger at Therik’s betrayal grow. He sensed that the sword was feeding his anger and he allowed it to build, intensify. If the opportunity came to kill Therik, he would. His hand reached down to the hilt and he felt not the normal tingle. A surge of energy flowed into his being. The darkness lightened just a bit.
Use my strength, Rarokan hissed. Use it to make you powerful.
“We take everyone,” Stiger said. “We leave no one behind. Have your century fall in outside the fort and send a runner, if you would. I’d like Mectillius and the water party found and given a heads-up.”
“Yes, sir,” Pixus said and moved off, shouting orders to his men.
“This may be a very bad idea,” Sabinus said, so that only the two of them heard.
“Yes, I know,” Stiger said. “Leaving the safety of our fort is not ideal, especially in the darkness. However, we have no idea where we actually are.” Stiger paused a moment, scanning the darkened trees around them. “The dwarves are the only way to get back to Vrell. We must go and help them. If you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”
“No, sir, I don’t.” Sabinus shifted his feet uncomfortably, glanced down at the ground and then back up at Stiger. “Yours is as sound a plan as any.”
“I assume,” Father Thomas said, joining them, “you intend to go to the assistance of the dwarves?”
“I do,” Stiger said, and paused. He stepped nearer the paladin and lowered his voice. “You sense orcs too, don’t you?”
Father Thomas cast Stiger a wary look and gave a nod.
Fifth Century was already in motion, the men double-timing it through the gate and over the bridge, spilling out before the camp. They rapidly fell into a line of battle, facing the sounds of fighting.
The paladin drew his saber. “Shall we go see what good can be done?”
“Agreed,” Stiger said and drew his own sword.
Chapter Nineteen
Formed up into a double line around twenty yards long, Fifth Century pushed forward through the brush, trees, and ruins of the city. The organization of the line was sorely tested. Forced to repeatedly break ranks, the men stepped over rubble and around bushes and trees. They even climbed walls and debris piles when they had to. In the darkness, lit only by a moon that kept disappearing behind the clouds, more than a few lost their footing and had to be hauled back to their feet by comrades or, worse, by their officers. There were curses and muttered oaths all around.
Pixus and Sabinus called out orders, continually shouting at the men to maintain ranks as best as possible. They coaxed, cajoled, and threatened—whatever it took to keep the line together.
“Barus,” Pixus hollered, “you had best get that sorry thing you call an ass back in line, before I kick it there.”
“You men,” Sabinus shouted a moment later. “Come on, dress yourselves smartly or I will see you on a charge.”
“Julius,” Pixus shouted at a man who had fallen to his hands and knees, having become tripped up in the brush. He had even dropped his shield, an unforgiveable sin. The centurion’s tone reeked of a weary exasperation. “I swear, it’s not that hard. Use the tools the gods gave you, man. They would be your feet. How about staying on them for a change?”
“Sorry about that, sir,” came the reply as Julius scrambled back to his feet.
“You’ll be sorry when we get back to camp,” Pixus called back. “Latrine duty for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Julius said, sounding not only embarrassed but dejected.
Marching just ahead of the century, Stiger understood there was no helping it. When he had given the order to advance, the disorder was nothing more than he had expected. His sense of uniformity and perfection were offended nonetheless. He gritted his teeth and allowed the two centurions to handle the integrity of the line while working hard not to interfere more than he had to.
Dog paced along at his side and weaved his way unerringly through the brush. Sometimes Dog came so close that he brushed Stiger’s side.
“You stay with me throughout this,” Stiger said to the dog, glancing downward, concerned with what was ahead. A battle was no place for a dog, even if he had been sent by a god. “You got that? Don’t you go wandering off or get distracted. You hear me?”
Dog ignored him.
The fighting ahead grew louder and more chaotic with each and every step. The legionary encampment had been barely two hundred yards from where the dwarves had set up their camp. Yet in the darkness and through the brush and trees, it seemed to take forever to close the distance. The prospect of the coming fight made time seem to stretch longer.
Stiger felt the need to hurry, but understood from experience that hastening the formation’s pace, especially at night, would be a mistake. On the battlefield there was strength through organization. The more organized and disciplined a force, the better the chance to accomplish objectives, whatever they were. So he restrained the urge to move the century into a faster pace, instead settling for a steady, solid advance.
The sword, however, seemed overly eager for battle, its hunger building with every passing heartbeat. Stiger could feel the mounting pressure in his chest, almost as if it were a palpable pain. The sword’s urge was rapidly becoming a compulsion for him. It had also begun speaking to him again.
Wield me!
No, Stiger thought back at it.
Take me into battle. Sate me!
The mental pressure by the sword increased dramatically. Stiger felt his resolve weakening.
No, Stiger growled back to it in his mind, forcing every ounce of willpower into mentally pushing back. Stop it. I need to command so we can get through whatever is waiting for us. Stop it!
The hunger immediately slackened, but it was still there, hovering in the background, as was a sullen, hateful rage directed at the enemy.
I can wait.
Taking a deep breath of
relief, Stiger offered up a quick prayer to the High Father, asking for help to withstand the sword’s will. He commended his soul into the High Father’s keeping.
“Spare as many of these fine men as possible,” Stiger added in a whisper. “High Father, help me guide Fifth Century through what is to come.”
Prayer complete, Stiger focused on what was ahead just through the brush. The harsh clatter of weapons, oaths, animal-like roars, and cries of agony, rage, and fear were all too plain. Then, Stiger pushed through a large bush and saw the dwarven camp. He almost missed the step.
Without any defenses, the camp was thoroughly overrun. Amidst dozens of campfires and tents, the scene before Stiger was one of chaos. Orcs were everywhere, both before and among the rows of neatly ordered white tents. Several of the tents had collapsed, and a couple were even on fire. The fighting had spread beyond the confines of the camp, disappearing into the darkness. As the moon slipped back behind a cloud, Stiger found it hard to tell, but he estimated there to be as many as four hundred orcs, maybe even five hundred.
The firelight from dozens of campfires gave the fight a strange and eerie look, even ominous. Just past the first of the campfires, shadowed lumps littered the ground. Stiger knew them to be bodies.
The orcs had apparently charged into the camp, then the fighting had moved its way deeper inside and amongst the many tents. It pained Stiger to see so many fallen dwarves. It was clear, Taithun’s boys had been caught thoroughly by surprise. And yet, even so, there were a surprising number of orc bodies scattered haphazardly amongst those of the dwarves.
The dwarves fought in small groups and clusters, cut off from each other. There was no unified cohesion to the defense. It was desperate and ugly, and there appeared precious few of Brogan’s escort left. Despite that, they were still giving the orcs a hard time of it.
Most of those dwarves still alive and on their feet fought in their tunics, holding only swords and shields. Very few wore their armor. Here or there, a handful had managed to don helmets. One dwarf was even completely naked, but for the long red beard that stretched down to his navel.
Stiger tore his gaze away from the fight and studied the space between the camp and Fifth Century. It was fairly open ground, with long grass and a few isolated trees. He recognized it as perfect for small formation fighting and was grateful for that. It would do nicely. Stiger came to a stop to allow the line to catch up with him.
“Not good,” Father Thomas said to his side.
“You can say that again, Father,” Pixus said, coming up.
Father Thomas’s eyes roved the fighting to their front. “I am afraid we are in serious trouble here.”
Stiger glanced over at the two and found he could not disagree with the paladin’s statement. He looked for Sabinus and saw him over with the men on the right side of the formation. The terrain on that side had been rougher, more broken up. In the darkness, the senior centurion had taken it upon himself to make certain the men stayed in line and none became separated.
“Halt,” Stiger called loudly. The fighting was only twenty yards to their front. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Sabinus, on me!”
Sabinus hustled over.
Stiger knew he did not have much time. Shortly his formation would be spotted by the enemy. If he was to have any success, he had to strike before the orcs became aware of his presence and could react to it. He turned to the two officers, pointing ahead of them at the fight.
“We are going to push into the dwarven camp to try to determine if Brogan still lives. If he does, once we have the thane, we will pull back to our encampment.”
“And if he’s already dead, sir?” Sabinus asked. “What then?”
“In that case, we will save as many as we can,” Stiger said, with a heavy breath. “So, make sure the men allow the dwarves through the line. Understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” both officers said, in near unison.
“Pixus,” Stiger said, “take the left flank. Sabinus, I want you on the right. As we push forward, we are bound to push the enemy out to either end of the line. Make sure none of the bastards get in around and behind us. I don’t want to have to worry much about our flanks.”
Both centurions nodded.
“Very good,” Stiger said. “Take your positions.”
“Yes, sir.” Pixus moved off.
Sabinus gave another nod and stepped off, too.
“Any orders for me?” Father Thomas asked, a grim smile spreading across his face. It was plain to Stiger that the paladin had made a poor attempt to lighten the mood.
“If I were bold enough to give you orders,” Stiger said wryly, “I am not certain you’d listen to me.”
“There is a lot of truth in that.” Father Thomas chuckled.
“In that case, do your own thing, Father,” Stiger said with a sidelong glance over at the paladin.
“Oh.” Father Thomas flexed the grip on his saber. “I plan to.”
Stiger turned, first one way and then the other, looking, studying his line. Drawn up under the moonlight and lit by the yellowed light of the nearest fires, the men of Fifth Century looked good, solid. Stiger waited until both officers were in position on either end of the line.
It was time.
“Draw swords,” Stiger called. Rarokan was already in hand. The sword didn’t glow, but he felt its keen interest in what was about to occur. The hunger throbbed in the background, eager for battle. But at the same time, the feeling was muted. Stiger thought he detected a sullenness mixed with a bit of resignation. There was an understanding present, the keen mind of the wizard recognizing Stiger’s need to lead, not fight directly. For the moment, it seemed willing to allow him to command.
“Ready shields,” Stiger called as loud as he could. His voice cracked a little. It had been a long time since he had shouted this much. The shields came up.
Once again, he looked first left and then right. Night actions were always the most difficult. It was easy to become confused and turned around. Accidents under such circumstances were common. Stiger once had even seen friendly units fight each other. It was why most commanders avoided night actions whenever possible, and why Stiger checked and then double-checked everything again before giving the order to proceed.
Stiger took a deep breath. There was no turning back now. He was committed.
“Advance!” Stiger shouted.
The line moved forward, stepping off, and Stiger allowed it to flow around and past him. His job was to lead, not fight in the line with the men. He was taking Fifth Century into a dangerous position where they could become completely surrounded. He had to remain focused. In the darkness, even with the sword brightening his vision, the fighting was confused. It was messy, disorganized, and ugly. Dog started growling.
Stiger shifted his gaze and ran his eyes along his line of men, their backs to him now. He got the sense that they were nervous about the impending action, unsure even. It was just a feeling, but having repeatedly led men in battle, it something he had learned to notice and pay attention to.
“They can be killed like any other living thing,” Stiger hollered as loud as he could to the men in an attempt to reassure them. He rapidly began pacing behind the line as it continued to steadily advance toward contact. “When you come upon an orc,” Stiger shouted, “stick it good, really good. They may look big and nasty, but they die just the same.” Stiger paused, took a deep breath, and shouted the next as loud as he could. “We’re gonna give these animals an introduction to the legion. We’re gonna show them why our enemies fear us. They’re going to learn why the legionary is the biggest and meanest bastard walking the land. We’re gonna show them our shield wall and the tips of our swords! Can you hear me, you bastards?”
The men gave a tremendous shout, and for a moment, just a moment, it drowned out the sound of the fighting across the dwarven camp. The combatants, both friend and foe, looked around in surprise. The dwarves gave up an impassioned shout of elation at the sight of t
he advancing legion line.
The orcs, stunned at the appearance of Stiger’s formation, at first appeared to hesitate. It cost them dearly, as the dwarves tore into them with a renewed and desperate fury. The hesitation lasted only for a moment. The orcs, greatly outnumbering their enemy, turned back to the task at hand, slaughtering the disorganized and unarmored dwarves. It was as if they had collectively decided to ignore the threat of Fifth Century bearing down on them.
Stiger watched it all dispassionately. Any anxiety he had felt moments before was gone, vanished. In its place was a cool resolve. He was focused on the task at hand—and that was killing. The distance closed from ten yards to five, and then the shield wall slammed into the first of the orcs. Shields bashed violently forward at the enemy. Swords jabbed or punched outward. Stiger saw the first orc fall, and then another. The advance continued over their bodies.
An orc came running out of the darkness, leaping over a campfire. He hurled himself bodily into the line. The legionary receiving him saw the charge coming, braced himself for it, and smashed back with his shield at the very moment the orc reached the line. There was a deep, hollow thump and Stiger saw the legionary’s shield flex slightly with the impact, then spring back. It was as if the orc had run headlong into a stone wall. The orc went down hard. He did not rise, and a moment later the line advanced over him.
To his left, the shield wall parted and admitted a dwarf who was bleeding from half a dozen cuts. Exhausted, chest heaving mightily, the dwarf fell to the ground and dropped his blood-coated sword. Stiger met the eyes of the injured warrior. The dwarf held out a hand imploringly, silently asking for help. Stiger shook his head slightly and turned his attention back to the fight as he stepped past. He had to stay focused on the fight.
The line parted again, and more dwarves were passed through. These were uninjured, but just as spent.
“Help your wounded,” Stiger called to one of them and pointed at the injured dwarf lying helplessly on the ground some five yards behind. One of the dwarves gave a nod of understanding and moved over to render what assistance he could.
The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4) Page 32
