The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4)

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  A large orc stepped forward into the gap between the legionary line and the enemy. He looked upon the fallen orc for several heartbeats. Stiger noticed all eyes were upon this newcomer, who began to give a short address that seemed quite impassioned. There were roars and shouts of approval. The large orc turned, screamed a battle cry, and charged forward. The entire mass followed and the fight was back on.

  Brogan and Theo stood just off to Stiger’s left, watching the action. Both looked on with grim expressions. Stiger could well understand their concern, for in his mind he could see what was bound to happen, almost as if it already had occurred.

  The intense pressure on his front line would eventually tell. The men would tire, and when that happened, the rate of casualties would increase. The formation’s depth would thin next, going from three ranks to two. Then it would become perilous as the legionaries became exhausted and eventually blown. To give his men a badly needed break, he would be forced to throw Brogan’s unarmored dwarves into line. Having only a shield for protection, they wouldn’t last very long. Then the legionaries would be back, holding the line. At that point, it would only be a matter of time before the formation cracked.

  There was a solid tap on his shoulder. He glanced over. It was Sabinus.

  “I checked as you asked,” Sabinus said, shouting into Stiger’s ear just to be heard. He gestured behind them with a hand and pointed. “Back that way sixty yards is a cross tunnel, just as Brogan said.”

  Stiger had sent the centurion back to check. He wanted someone he could rely upon to give him an accurate idea of what the intersection of tunnels looked like.

  “A cross tunnel?”

  “Two roads coming together, at right angles,” Sabinus said, making a cross with both hands. “Just like the others we passed getting to Garand Kos, only this junction is one of the larger ones.”

  “How wide exactly?” Stiger did not like the sound of that.

  “A little over three times the width of this road here,” Sabinus shouted back to him. “Negotiating our way through the junction is going to be tricky.”

  That was not what Stiger wanted to hear. With just the narrow confines of the road to deal with, the front rank was able to create and maintain a continuous line from one side of the tunnel to the other. When they hit this junction, they would not be able to easily do that without decreasing the depth of the formation to a dangerous level. Worse, Stiger would have to commit his dwarven reserves to extend the line, and that might not help either. Their flanks would still likely hang open. The enemy, with their superior numbers, might be able to get around them or—what Stiger considered a more likely possibility—crack a portion of the line that had become weak.

  Stiger ran over the problem, looking for a solution. The current pace was measured and steady. Fighting withdrawals were tricky. Pulling back at a faster pace was not an option either, for that was a recipe for disaster, inviting the breakup of the organizational structure of the line. Whatever he did, passing through the junction would be dangerous. If not handled correctly, it could very well mean the breaking of the century.

  Two legionaries in the front rank went down, and a third soon followed. The enemy, sensing both weakness and an opportunity, shoved forward hard, pressing against the shield wall and trying to widen the gap they had just created in the line. At the same time, the legionaries in the second rank stepped over their fallen comrades and attempted to put their shields forward into the hole. One of these men was brutally cut down in the attempt. He fell back and knocked another legionary behind him down.

  Then Pixus was there, throwing himself forward and into the enemy. Shield held to the front, he shoved his way into the center of the gap. An orc barred his path. The centurion hammered his shield into the creature’s face, knocking it off balance, before punching his sword into the orc’s side. The creature screamed as Pixus gave the sword a savage twist before jerking his arm back. The injured creature was swallowed up in the press.

  He continued his forward progress into the breach, bashing with his shield and slamming it into the face of a human who had taken the orc’s place. The blow knocked him bodily back. The centurion stabbed outward again, this time at another orc, catching him in the stomach. The orc staggered backwards but had nowhere to go. His fellows, eager to keep the legionaries from plugging the hole, pushed him forward into the sword of another legionary to Pixus’s right.

  Pixus’s efforts allowed the legionaries from the second rank to join their centurion, taking up positions on either shoulder. They brought their shields up to lock with his and for the moment the wall of protection had been restored. Orcs lashed out at the shields, battering away with swords and hammers. Stiger saw splinters fly from Pixus’s shield as a battle axe tore into it. Heedless, Pixus fought on, scraping his shield aside, striking outward, and sticking an enemy.

  The centurion glanced backwards, clearly intending to tell the man behind him to take his place. At that moment, two orcs reached forward and together gripped the top of the centurion’s shield, pulling it downward. Another, seeing an opportunity, stabbed at Pixus with a spear. Pixus was caught off balance by the sudden assault. The tip of the spear slipped in around Pixus’s collarbone and disappeared under centurion’s shoulder armor.

  Stiger watched in horror as Pixus dropped his shield and reeled backwards. The orc violently yanked the spear back and out, flinging blood up through the air. Pixus tottered in shock. The orc jabbed once again, this time striking the stricken centurion in the thigh, the weapon passing clean through, the spear point emerging just above the back of the knee.

  The blow seemed to snap the centurion out of his shock.

  Screaming in rage and pain, Pixus leaned forward and punched his sword into the orc’s exposed neck. The sword slid in deep. The creature let go of the spear, which was still stuck through Pixus’s leg, and fell forward to the ground.

  Badly wounded and clearly in agony, the centurion stumbled backwards before falling to his good knee. Men from the second and third ranks rushed forward, one taking Pixus’s place on the restored line while others helped to pull their officer to safety.

  With the spear still embedded in his leg, Pixus was dragged well clear of the line. He was laid down on the dusty and grimy stone road. Sabinus reached Pixus before Stiger.

  “Quickly, a bandage,” Sabinus shouted to one of the men who had dragged Pixus clear. He knelt next to the injured officer. Blood flowed not only from the leg but out from under the centurion’s tunic. The gray tunic was stained an ugly dark red. Sabinus pulled the tunic down, located the wound, and put his hand on the hole, attempting to staunch the flow of blood.

  “Get it out,” Pixus said weakly, blood frothing around his mouth. He attempted to reach for his leg. “Gods, it hurts.”

  “Lie still,” Sabinus said. “We’ve got it.”

  One of the men pulled a bandage from a pack secured to his side and knelt down by the injured leg. Another prepared to pull the spear out. Blood pooled around the centurion’s leg.

  “What are you waiting for?” Shaking slightly, Pixus looked back up at his man. “Get it over with.”

  Sabinus gave a nod to the man, who slowly began to draw the spear out. Pixus gritted his teeth as it came free. Once the spear was removed, blood flowed thick and heavy out of the wound. The man with the bandage went to work, wrapping it around the leg tightly. As the man was finishing tying it off, Pixus arched his back. He cried out once and then went still. His eyes fluttered for a moment before rolling back.

  Sabinus checked for a pulse. After several heartbeats, his shoulders slumped. He looked up at Stiger and the men, shaking his head.

  Though he had known Pixus but a short time, Stiger felt terrible at the centurion’s loss. He glanced around at the legionaries who had dragged their centurion to safety. All four were older men, clearly long-service veterans. They had long since been hardened to the horrors of war, and yet there were tears in their eyes. This surprised Stiger not at all,
for Pixus had been a leader of men, the embodiment of the example of the glue that made the Mal’Zeelan legions so tough and formidable. It pained Stiger to see such a good officer brought down, but he knew now was not the time to grieve.

  The fight behind them continued unabated. Stiger noticed that men from the second and third ranks had craned their necks around to see what happened. There were concerned looks on more than a few, and that worried him terribly. Morale was a tenuous thing. Losing a loved leader could easily sap the will to fight.

  “Sabinus,” Stiger hollered over the noise of the fighting. The senior centurion seemed not to have heard him. Sabinus leaned forward and closed the other centurion’s sightless eyes. Stiger reached down and hauled Sabinus to his feet. The centurion shook him off. Their eyes met and Stiger read the naked anger directed at him for interfering with his personal grief. Stiger did not care.

  “The men need a leader,” Stiger hollered into Sabinus’s ear and pointed back toward the line. “These men know you. Take a command of Fifth Century. Now, before it’s too late.”

  Sabinus glanced around and took in the worried looks. Comprehension dawned. Already the third rank had lost much of its cohesion as men had begun backing away or breaking ranks for a closer look at Pixus. Sabinus apparently grasped the peril, for he gave Stiger a nod and then waded forward toward the line, hollering and gesturing at the men to face front. One man hadn’t turned quick enough for the centurion’s taste. Sabinus grabbed him roughly, shouted something in his ear, and then forced him around so that he faced front to help support the battle line.

  Sabinus cuffed another legionary, who glanced back at Pixus. Sabinus shouted something at him before kicking at the leg of a third man to get his attention as well. Very rapidly, the men became thoroughly aware of the enraged centurion in their midst. They quickly returned their focus to their duty, and with that the dangerous moment passed.

  Stiger turned back to Pixus. The four men who had dragged their centurion back had remained, standing there gazing down in shock at a man who had been an integral part of their daily lives. The line was still moving backward one half-step at a time. In a matter of moments, it would overtake them.

  “Move the centurion to the side and out of the way,” Stiger hollered to them. He pointed at Pixus and then the wall in case they could not make out his words. “Then get back to the line.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the men said.

  Grabbing Pixus by the shoulders, they dragged him gently over to the side of the tunnel and left him there, propped up against the wall. It wasn’t a proper place to leave him, but it was better than just lying sprawled in the road. Pixus had been a soldier and had died a warrior’s death. There wasn’t even time to say a proper prayer over his corpse, and for that Stiger was profoundly sorry. This certainly wasn’t what the man deserved.

  “In war,” Stiger said to himself, shaking his head, “deserves have nothing to do with nothing.”

  Stiger returned his attention to the line, studying the action. Sabinus had things well in hand. He led the century calmly and coolly. There was a confidence in his actions that bespoke of years of experience. He was a rock, just as Pixus had been. In short, he was a legionary officer through and through.

  Yet the men were clearly tiring. It was only a matter of time before the century started taking casualties at a higher rate. With no relief in sight, Stiger understood this was possibly the beginning of the end. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, especially with the junction coming up. Though the enemy was numerous, they had to be tiring as well. At least he hoped so. Stiger spared one last glance at Pixus before the line passed him by and his corpse was lost from sight. Then he turned back to the action.

  “One challenge at a time,” he said to himself. “Deal with one problem at a time. First, the junction.”

  “Sir? Was that Pixus?” a voice shouted in his ear.

  Stiger turned to find Mectillius.

  “It was,” Stiger said, and read the instant grief in the other’s eyes. He leaned forward and shouted. “Now is not the time. We must be strong for the men. Do you understand me?”

  “I do, sir.” Mectillius straightened, a hard look in his eye.

  “Good,” Stiger said, and was pleased with what he saw in the other man. “I am promoting you to centurion.”

  “Me, sir?” Mectillius seemed taken aback.

  “The Fifth is now yours,” Stiger said.

  “I don’t want it this way, sir,” Mectillius said, and Stiger read the sincerity in the optio’s expression.

  “I am sure Pixus didn’t want to go the way he did either,” Stiger said. “Nevertheless, you are now in command of Fifth Century. Do your former boss proud, by taking up his burden and looking after your men as he would.”

  “I will and thank you, sir.”

  “Go and help Sabinus,” Stiger said.

  “What about the wounded?” Mectillius gestured back at a group of five recently injured men right behind the formation. Some had major wounds. There were dwarves with them, helping to dress injuries.

  “Get those who can still hold a sword and shield back into the line,” Stiger said.

  “And the others?” There was a look of concern in Mectillius’s eyes.

  If it became bad enough, Stiger knew he wouldn’t hesitate to order the wounded finished off. Better that than leave them for the enemy. The time for such measures had not come—yet.

  “I will speak to Brogan and have more of his boys pulled from the reserve to move them up the tunnel and beyond the coming junction. Make sure those who can fight get back to the line.”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you.” Mectillius nodded his understanding and stepped toward the wounded as Stiger made his way over to Brogan and Theo.

  “It is not looking good for us,” Brogan said, his eyes fixed upon the action.

  “No,” Stiger said, “but it’s not over yet.”

  “Your legion’s fighting prowess has not been exaggerated,” Brogan said. “I can see why my people formed the Compact with yours so long ago and why your legions are so feared.”

  “Can you pull more of your boys out of the reserve to help with the wounded?” Stiger indicated the men he meant. Now was not the time for a discussion on the Compact or the legions. “The line will shortly overtake them. Can your boys help move them up the road a bit, beyond the junction?”

  The crossroads was only twenty yards away now.

  “We can,” Brogan said and stepped over to the nearest dwarf. He pulled him close and spoke into his ear. The dwarf rounded up a number of his fellows from the reserve, and within moments the seriously injured were either being helped or carried up the road.

  “Thank you,” Stiger said when Brogan returned.

  “How are you going to handle the crossroads?” Brogan asked.

  “Very carefully,” Stiger said, but the truth was he didn’t yet know himself.

  Now that he was near enough to see it fully, he looked the junction over. It was too wide to even attempt to extend his line to cover as much space as possible. Worse, if they moved back rapidly, the organization of the line would most definitely be tested. So intense was the pressure on the shield wall that if the formation broke, he understood only too clearly he might not be able to reconstitute it. With every moment that passed them by, the line edged closer to the junction and crossroads. Stiger was becoming frustrated. Then an idea came to him. He knew what he wanted to do.

  He hurried over to Sabinus and Mectillius. So close to the fighting, the two had their heads together as Sabinus spoke to Mectillius.

  “All right,” Stiger said, getting their attention, “this is what we are going to do. I want you—”

  “What?” Sabinus held a hand up to his ear. The noise was nearly overpowering.

  With a gesture, Stiger drew Sabinus and Mectillius back several paces. He pointed behind, at the junction. “When we come to the crossroads, rotate ranks. Those coming off the line will break off and reform a line on t
he other side of the junction. Mectillius, you go with them and make it happen.” Stiger pointed to where he meant so there could be no doubt. “Now, the fresh rank, along with the second, will push forward and advance, shoving the enemy back as hard as we are able.”

  “Advance?” Sabinus looked at him like he was mad. “You mean to attack? Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes,” Stiger said. “We’re going over to the attack. I am hoping it will shock the enemy enough to force them backwards a bit. You must hit them hard—very hard—for this to work. I intend to create a gap between their line and ours. Once we have some space, we withdraw and reform on the other side of the junction, where we will already have a line in place and anchored by Mectillius.”

  “What if we don’t create the space we need to disengage the line?” Mectillius asked.

  “We will deal with that if and when it happens,” Stiger said. “Do either of you have a better idea?”

  Sabinus shook his head.

  “I don’t, sir,” Mectillius said.

  “It’s settled then,” Stiger said. “Execute it.”

  The senior centurion gave a nod and returned to his line, shouting at the men of the second and third ranks, who passed along his orders from one man to the next. Stiger studied the formation as Sabinus allowed it to continue to back slowly up, nearing the edge of the tunnel junction. The men were holding, but Fifth Century was under tremendous pressure.

  With a little fortune, he was hoping he could temporarily shift the initiative to his side. Stiger tempered his anticipation. Fortuna could be fickle.

  If his plan worked, he understood it would only be a brief respite. Once safely across the junction, the enemy would soon be back on them and the fight would resume. After that, the men would steadily wear down. It would only be a matter of time before the formation as a whole cracked. Then the real slaughter would begin, at the hands of the enemy.