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

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  Time seemed to stop as a feeling of ice cold exploded through him. The cold surged forth from where the paladin’s vice-like grip held his arm. It was met with fire and fury. Stiger cried out in agony, his vision going white as the paladin’s power hammered into him. Father Thomas met Rarokan in a shocking confrontation of will and power. The battlefield was his mind. There was a titanic struggle going on within him, for possession of his soul.

  The High Father struck at the wizard, who pushed back with all that he had. The wizard’s attention was wholly focused on the paladin and fighting off the High Father’s power. For the first time, all barriers between Stiger and Rarokan were down.

  Stiger had not even realized there had been barriers. He could freely read the wizard’s mind. It was like an open scroll. There were no partitions, no hindrances. Nothing stood in his way. All of Rarokan’s secrets and knowledge were laid out as plain as could be.

  Stiger saw his hand of its own accord reach for the paladin’s throat. It seemed to move in an excruciatingly slow manner.

  The wizard had lied to him. He saw that immediately. There had been no bond that needed to be completed. They had already been bonded from the moment Stiger had drawn the sword. Rarokan had also not needed more power. That had just been an excuse to accumulate more. He had been saving it, storing most of it away for more than two thousand years. The sword was not only a prison but also a storehouse, and Rarokan’s store of power was vast. But why? Stiger searched deeper, looking for the reason.

  Moving just as slowly, the paladin raised his own hand and managed grip Stiger’s forearm. Fingers outstretched, Stiger’s hand was stopped just inches from the paladin’s throat. The open hand quivered with the effort as Rarokan attempted to break free of the paladin’s grip.

  Then Stiger saw and understood. Rarokan had hoarded his power for just this moment, this very encounter with the paladin. He had planned and anticipated this confrontation from the very beginning, long before the gods had confined him to his prison. His objective had always been to steal Stiger’s body and subjugate his mind.

  It was all a bid to escape from his prison. Rarokan planned for Stiger to take his place, imprisoned for an undying eternity within the sword the gods had forged. He saw that and more, so much more . . . He wanted to know it all, but he sensed there wasn’t time.

  Looking through Rarokan’s mind, Stiger understood the source of the wizard’s immense power. It derived not only from the life force of the fallen. The wizard had also been gathering souls for their divine spark. He saw from Rarokan’s memories that, upon death, this spark was supposed to return to the gods.

  Rarokan had been instead keeping that for his own use, in turn spending the spark to generate power, something the wizard well knew was strictly prohibited by the gods. Every time the sword took a life, Rarokan not only became stronger and more powerful, but also more divine.

  The horror of it shocked Stiger to his core. Those souls Rarokan took could never cross over the great river. They would never know rest, only pain and unending agony until the last remnant of their soul power was spent, their spark extinguished.

  Then nothing.

  Rarokan had twisted and resisted the purpose the gods had bound him with. By confining the wizard in the sword, the gods had inadvertently threatened their own existence, for Rarokan had gone mad and become terribly evil. Worse, the wizard had an unbridled ambition.

  The pain of the struggle between paladin and wizard continued to lash at Stiger as he delved deeper into Rarokan’s mind.

  Stiger saw all of this in an instant. He understood why the wizard had selected Stiger’s line, going back more than two thousand years. He saw it and was stunned by the knowledge. Stiger’s own life force held a measure of the divine spark which most souls lacked. When combined with that tiny spark in his soul, it made Stiger almost unique. It gave him the ability to use will, a rarity amongst all peoples and races. It also made Stiger of interest to the gods, for through him and others like him, the gods could directly intervene in the affairs of mortals.

  Stiger was astounded by what he had just learned. Rarokan, Father Thomas, Ogg, the minion—they all had the spark in their life force, each with their own unique abilities and skill to channel and manipulate will.

  The pain of the battle raging in his mind lashed at Stiger in ever increasing waves, from his toenails right up to his hair. Everything seemed to be on fire. The pain was so intense, he could not draw breath to even scream anymore. It felt as if his soul were being ripped apart, as each power sought dominion over the other. Wizard will against a god’s.

  The pain intensified. He was frozen in place, screaming silently.

  The wizard had planned for the fight against the paladin, but had he factored in Stiger? From Rarokan’s mind, Stiger understood he now had the ability to channel will. But how? Could he, too, fight back, resist?

  Pain lashed him again. Stiger desperately wanted them both out of his mind and pushed back at Rarokan. He shoved as hard as he could. Against such a titanic will, it was a puny effort, but the attempt seemed to surprise the wizard. Stiger pushed harder, more forcefully. The wizard divided his attention, splitting it between Father Thomas and Stiger. Rarokan shoved violently back.

  Despite the pain, agony, and the effort it took, Sarai suddenly seemed to be with him. Her love rekindled the fire in his heart that had gone out. It was like a warm blanket on a cold night, soothing his shredded soul.

  Had she reached forth from the grave to touch his mind, to once again be with him? It scarcely seemed possible. He could feel her love for the High Father, and instantly recalled Father Thomas’s words. Stiger needed to pray, to ask for divine help if he was to have any chance. Would the High Father lend him will?

  The pain lashed at him again as Rarokan shoved him harder, pushing him back down into the oblivion of the prison. Stiger felt himself losing the struggle. Father Thomas was also flagging. Stiger could feel it as the paladin’s power began to wane. Rarokan could not win, for the world did not need another god of evil purpose, a god more powerful than Castor or perhaps even the High Father.

  Help me, High Father, Stiger begged and pushed again at Rarokan. This time, the effort was stronger, almost as if the god were answering and lending him strength. Stiger felt the wizard give a little. The paladin gained ground, too.

  No! Rarokan shouted in Stiger’s mind. You will not dislodge me. You cannot!

  Stiger pushed again, screaming silently as he did so. Father Thomas pushed as well. Rarokan gave even more. The struggle seemed to go on and on. Stiger steeled himself and pushed for all he was worth, throwing everything he had into it. This, he knew, would be his final effort, for he would not have the strength for another push.

  There was what sounded like an audible crack.

  Rarokan’s resistance abruptly crumbled away. Stiger reeled on his feet and collapsed painfully to his knees, sucking in great gulps of fresh air now that he was free to once again breathe.

  He was free!

  The wizard was where he belonged, confined to the sword and in his prison. Stiger sensed that it was so. Rarokan was, once again, locked away and likely licking his wounds.

  As quickly as the agony had begun, it was replaced with a cooling and calming sensation that flowed throughout his body. The paladin held his arm in a vice grip, so tight it hurt. A sense of serenity and peacefulness with the world settled in his soul. Stiger’s rage melted away. He felt the crushing weight of his grief start to lift off his chest. He did not want to let go.

  He blinked, tears rolling down his cheeks. Stiger found Father Thomas kneeling before him and looking into his eyes.

  “I’ve never loved like this before,” Stiger said, in a bare whisper.

  “I know,” Father Thomas said. “It was a cruel thing, Sarai’s death. It should never have happened, but our enemy will come at you in any manner that it can.”

  Stiger gave a weary nod.

  “We suffer,” the paladin said, “so ot
hers will not have to. That is the service we are called to do.”

  “I felt her call out to me from beyond the river.” Stiger wiped at his eyes. “She was with me.”

  “That has been known to occasionally happen. She is in the High Father’s keeping and care,” the paladin finally said. He closed his eyes for a long moment. “I sense . . . she waits for you.”

  “Will I see her again?”

  “The holy books teach that in death we are reunited with our loved ones and ancestors,” Father Thomas said. “I pray the same will happen to you, but only when it is the proper time.”

  Stiger took a breath that shuddered. The anger and rage were gone, completely. His grief was still there, but it had lessened somewhat and was more bearable.

  “Rarokan?” Stiger said.

  “The wizard sought to dominate your soul with the power of others, which I sense you now understand,” Father Thomas said and stood. He helped Stiger to his feet. “Rarokan wields terrible power. You must take care.” The paladin paused and gave Stiger a slight smile. “You know, this is the second time I stopped an assault on your soul. In truth, the High Father beat him back. I was his conduit. The next time will be up to you.”

  “How do I do that?” Stiger asked. “How do I keep him from taking over my mind? He is a wizard with powers and abilities I know little about.”

  “It is true, the war with him is far from over. After this battle, Rarokan’s energy store is much depleted, though I daresay he has reserves left.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” Stiger said. “In fact, it is downright discouraging.”

  “I felt you struggle and fight,” Father Thomas said and touched Stiger’s chest armor with the palm of his hand. “You called upon our god and he granted you will. It was enough to force Rarokan back and into his prison. You only need to strengthen and focus your abilities, for the High Father has blessed you greatly. Do so, and you will be the master and he your servant, as it was always intended to be.”

  “But how?” Stiger asked.

  “If you wish,” Father Thomas said, “it would be my honor to teach you, to school you in the use of your mind.”

  Stiger thought about that. In a way, he felt like he had fallen overboard in a rough sea. On the verge of drowning, someone had tossed him a line and he was vainly reaching for it. Stiger gave a nod. There was no other option. He needed to learn, for he would not permit Rarokan to dominate him again. He could not allow that to happen.

  A tongue licked his hand. Startled, Stiger looked down and saw Dog, tail wagging hard. He patted the animal’s head affectionately. The tail wagged even more vigorously and he earned another lick. Stiger read happiness and relief in the animal’s eyes.

  “I can be a difficult student,” Stiger said, glancing back up at Father Thomas. “But if you are willing to teach, I will learn.”

  “That is good, my son, for I’ve learned you never do anything the easy way, do you?”

  Stiger shook his head, amused. He glanced around, remembering his escort. What were they thinking? What had they seen? His eyes widened.

  Everything around them was frozen in mid-motion, as if locked in invisible ice. No one moved. The fire on the nearest building was unmoving, hot glowing sparks suspended in midair. Time had truly stopped.

  “Oh, that.” Father Thomas noticed his gaze and casually snapped his fingers. Time began moving again, as if it had never been arrested. “I merely took us out of phase. It is simple enough trick. It allowed me to do what needed doing without creating undue alarm.”

  “What?” Stiger asked. “You did what?”

  “It is nothing,” the paladin said. “Trouble yourself not on it. Just be thankful you are free and better armed for what will come again.”

  Stiger gave a nod and expelled a long breath. He rubbed the back of his neck, which had begun to ache. His joints abruptly felt incredibly stiff, as if he’d spent a cold night on the ground. Stiger cracked his neck in an attempt to work out the ache. He opened and closed both palms, then cracked his knuckles. It helped a little.

  “Is it always like this?” Stiger asked, glancing over at the paladin.

  “Sometimes the toll is much worse,” Father Thomas said with a sympathetic look in his eye. “It all depends on what type of will that was required and used.”

  “There are different types of will?”

  Father Thomas gave a slow nod.

  Stiger was about to ask another question when a legionary exited the ruined temple with a purpose. The legionary spotted them and made his way carefully down the steps before jogging over. He hastily saluted.

  “Sir,” he said. “Centurion Sabinus requires your presence in the temple. When the roof came down, it opened a hidden room. He begs you come straight away.”

  “What did he find?” Stiger asked.

  “I don’t know, sir,” the legionary said. “Only he and Centurion Prestus entered the room. I was ordered to fetch you, quick-like.”

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of entering a dark temple,” Stiger said to Father Thomas. “We already know Castor means me ill.”

  “I will be with you, my son,” Father Thomas said, placing a hand on Stiger’s shoulder armor. “I will keep the evil away. Besides, this is your fault.”

  “How so?” Stiger asked, starting forward towards the temple and following the legionary.

  “It was your decision to bring the temple down in the first place,” Father Thomas said, with a smile. “Without that, Centurion Sabinus would never have found this hidden room, now, would he?”

  “Rarokan had a hand in that,” Stiger said.

  “And here I thought you were one for taking responsibility for your own actions,” Father Thomas said with a straight face as they started up the marble steps, carefully moving over the debris. Stiger could hear the amusement in the paladin’s voice and also the tiredness.

  Stiger actually laughed, and it felt good to once again discover amusement. He glanced over at the paladin, wondering what toll the intervention had taken upon the holy warrior. He looked no different than he had. There had been no visible aging.

  Stiger stopped one step from the top and turned to the paladin, debris shifting under his feet. He caught Father Thomas’s arm.

  “Thank you,” Stiger said. “Thank you for fighting for my soul and bringing me back.”

  “You are welcome, my son,” Father Thomas said.

  Stiger turned back to the ruined temple. Smashed to splinters with the collapse of the roof and walls, the heavy wooden door that had stood for untold years had been shorn off its ancient hinges. Ahead, several legionaries were standing on top of a larger pile of rubble that, if Stiger recalled correctly, was roughly where the sacrificial altar had been in the future. They were looking down into a dark hole in the rubble.

  “Shall we go see what they found?”

  Father Thomas gave a nod, and together they started forward.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Stiger followed the stairs down, step after step, into the underground space beneath the temple. Dirt and debris from the temple’s collapse littered the stairs. With the dirt and flakes of loose stone covering the steps, Stiger made sure to watch where he placed his feet.

  Several steps ahead, Father Thomas led the way. Oily smoke from the paladin’s torch trailed into Stiger’s face. Holding his own torch up to see, he slowed his pace a little to avoid the smoke, allowing it to mostly rise over his head.

  Every ten steps, the stairs came to a small landing before descending farther. There were no doors or exits, so they continued on. A glow from below them on the fifth landing indicated they were nearing their destination. Stiger’s foot slipped as the debris gave way. He almost fell but managed to catch himself. Father Thomas stopped, half turning to look back.

  “I’ve had enough of being underground to last a lifetime,” Stiger said unhappily.

  “I don’t want to be here either,” Father Thomas said. “However, I willingly serve the High
Father. I feel the pull to find out what has been found.”

  “Let’s get to it, then,” Stiger said and they continued on their way. He figured they were at least fifty feet down, when they stepped onto the next—and what turned out to be final—landing. Sabinus and another centurion with a hard, heavily scarred face were waiting for them, along with a legionary. The legionary shifted uncomfortably. He drew himself up to attention.

  “Sabinus,” Stiger said as he looked down the darkened hallway ahead, lit only by flickering torchlight. “What have you found?”

  “At first,” Sabinus said and glanced meaningfully at the other centurion, “Prestus and I thought there was an entire complex down here, like the dwarves built under their mountain.” Sabinus turned and pointed. “This hallway leads to only two rooms, sir. Both appear to be small chapels. If there are any other hidden passages or chambers, they are exceptionally well-hidden, for we couldn’t find them. There seems to be no other way in or out.”

  Stiger gave an absent nod. The hallway was rectangular, running around twenty feet before terminating at a wall. It was at least six feet wide. There were two doors halfway down the hallway, one to the left and another to the right. A statue of what Stiger took to be Castor stood at the far end of the hallway. It was small, perhaps four feet high, and seemed to be made out of obsidian. The statue was so black, it gave the appearance of absorbing light. A well-used broom leaned against the wall next to the statue, as did a wooden bucket.

  “Interesting,” Father Thomas said with a glance over at Stiger. “Very interesting, isn’t it?”

  “That is not how I’d describe it,” Stiger said. “Interesting always seems to lead to trouble with you paladins.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” the paladin said. His brows drew together. “Why do you suppose they dug down so deep?”

  “We thought it strange also, Father,” Sabinus said. “But then again, the creatures who constructed this follow the cult of Castor. They don’t think like us.”

  “True,” Father Thomas said. “It is a bit presumptuous to suppose we can understand the mind of an orc. Though if I had to make a guess . . .”