“What’s your name?”
“Mictenus, sir,” the man said. “Been marching under the eagles for twenty-four years, sir.”
“That’s a good long time.”
“The legion’s been a fine home for me, sir,” Mictenus said. “It will be a sad day when I muster out and settle down in a veterans’ colony.”
Stiger understood the sentiment. It was not uncommon for veterans to enlist for an additional five years of service when their initial stint came to an end.
“It’s true,” Stiger said, deciding the man deserved some truth. Glancing around the fire, he realized they all needed truth. That said, he planned to use it to his advantage. “What you heard is accurate,” Stiger continued. “Castor’s servants tortured Therik terribly for seeking peace. When we found him, he was on the verge of death, his shade beckoning from the other side.” Stiger paused, thinking back on what he had seen in that temple, recalling how they had found Therik. He blinked, bringing himself back to the present, and noticed the men were hanging on his every word. That was what he wanted. “With the great god’s blessing, Father Thomas healed Therik, King of the Orcs. I was there.”
“And you helped, sir?” Another legionary asked, this one much younger than Mictenus.
“I did,” Stiger said.
“You are gods blessed?” Another man asked.
One of the logs on the fire cracked loudly. It sounded like an arrow punching into chest armor. Everyone around the fire started, including Stiger. He chuckled, and grins were passed around.
“Are you gods blessed, sir?” the same man asked again.
“I have been told that I am,” Stiger said. “The paladin feels so, too.”
“Then we’re a doing the High Father’s work?” Mictenus said proudly, glancing around at his mates. “It is as I told you, boys. By just being here and fighting these orcs, we’re doing the good lord’s work.”
“You and everyone else in this encampment are doing the High Father’s work,” Stiger said, knowing what he said here would soon be spread across the entire camp. “As your centurions have likely told you, the legion is here to honor a longstanding treaty with the dwarves. You are here for more than just that. We fight for the High Father, but when it comes to blades and shields . . . as always, we will be fighting for each other.”
“That’s the way things just are, sir,” Mictenus said. “When the first sword or spear comes at you, all thoughts of the cause go away.”
“This time, I am afraid it must be more than that,” Stiger said. “We fight to save the empire. The treaty with the dwarves is called the Compact. Our alliance, though long forgotten by most in the empire, was forged in the time of Karus.” Stiger heard several of the men whisper the first emperor’s name in near reverence. “We’re in Vrell to keep up the empire’s end of the bargain. The dwarves have called and we have answered.” That last bit wasn’t strictly true, but it was what they needed to hear, and more importantly, it was one of the rumors floating around camp. “Our alliance protects something of incredible importance. I can’t tell you what it is, but know the priests of Castor want it badly and an army is coming to get it.” Stiger paused briefly to let that sink in. “So, we all are fighting evil, each in his own way. If it wins, the next battle will be for Mal’Zeel and our families back home.” Stiger fell silent and made a point to look around the fire, meeting gazes. “Help me keep it from coming to that.”
No one moved. The silence around the campfire grew.
“I want you to tell everyone that,” Stiger added.
“You are the champion spoken of in scripture?” a veteran to his left asked. “The High Father’s champion, as Centurion Prestus said?”
Stiger was unfamiliar with the particular section of scripture the man was referring to. The empire honored many gods under the High Father’s banner, and each sect had its own holy book or books.
“The Delphenic Scrolls, sir,” the man prompted.
“I’ve not read them,” Stiger admitted, familiar with the name but not the contents. They related to the god Saturn and something about the empire’s future. He would have to correct that oversight. Perhaps Father Thomas would know something more?
“An oracle wrote them,” the man added.
Stiger became still. He wondered if this oracle was the same one the dwarves referred to, for Braddock had mentioned her to him. Stiger sucked in a breath and glanced around the fire.
“I am the High Father’s champion.”
No one said anything. All eyes were upon him. The experience made him slightly uncomfortable.
“Thank you for sharing your pipe,” Stiger said to Mictenus.
Stiger turned to leave.
“Thank you, sir, for telling us how it is,” Mictenus said, and they all stood respectfully. “We will do our duty for you and the gods. We won’t let down the empire none.”
“I expect not.” Stiger gave a nod and then stepped off into the darkness. “Dog, come.”
A flash of distant lighting lit up the sky. Thunder rumbled a few heartbeats later.
Stiger spent the next hour walking the camp, lost in his thoughts. He refrained from visiting any more campfires. When he had had enough and felt sleep beckoning, he made his way to his tent. Someone was waiting for him a few steps from his guard detail. The two guards snapped to attention.
“Menos,” Stiger said, surprised to see the caretaker.
“Legate,” came the soft reply.
Dog ran to Menos, tail wagging.
“It is nice to see you too,” Menos said and patted the animal’s head with affection. The caretaker looked pointedly at the two guards.
“Let us speak inside.” Stiger held an arm toward his tent.
Pulling the flap aside, Menos stepped inside, closely followed by Dog.
“While he is in there with me, I am to be disturbed by no one,” Stiger said to the guards. “Not even my servant. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” one of the men said.
Stiger brushed by them and let the flap fall back in place. A lamp had been left burning. It provided dim but serviceable light. Dog went to his customary corner and lay down, almost immediately going to sleep.
Menos was looking curiously around the tent, seeming to marvel at the most mundane of things.
“Why have you come?” Stiger asked when Menos had said nothing. The caretaker seemed wholly absorbed in the inspection of the interior of the tent.
“You took my advice,” Menos said, studying the lamp hanging from the support pole. He poked at it with a finger. “I felt you wage your battle as you beat Rarokan back, as I knew you could.”
“Father Thomas helped,” Stiger said. Somehow, he was not surprised Menos knew about it. “I would not have been able to win without his assistance.”
“I know, the paladin told me,” Menos said and looked over at him. “You are in a war for your mind and body. You won the first battle. Rest assured, there will be another. The next time, Rarokan won’t make it so easy for you.”
“As always, you are just full of good news,” Stiger said.
“You amuse me, human,” Menos said, without any hint of mirth. “No one has dared speak to me as you do for thousands of years, perhaps even tens of thousands. In a way, I find that refreshing.”
“And I thought elves were long-lived,” Stiger said, in awe of the creature standing inside his tent.
“Noctalum are unique amongst the races,” Menos said. “We have a greater measure of the divine spark within us. That is both a blessing and a curse.”
“In that there are times you must watch what you love pass on?” Stiger asked.
Menos was silent a long moment as he contemplated Stiger.
“Yes, that is correct. With the passage of time, everything changes. In this way, my mate and I have suffered more than you can imagine.” Menos paused and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, his silver-eyed gaze seemed to pierce Stiger’s soul. There was a sadness there that Sti
ger had not noticed earlier. “No, that is not correct. I sense from your aura that perhaps you can conceive such suffering. You have my sympathies on the passing of your mate.”
Stiger sensed that Menos was being entirely sincere. Like an unexpected visitor, the grief threatened to bubble up again as the sympathy from the caretaker struck home. With effort, Stiger forced it back down.
“Thank you,” Stiger said, his throat catching slightly. Then what Menos said a few moments before registered. “The divine spark you spoke of, the one in your life force, is greater, and therefore your lifespan is greater. That is your curse. Is that correct?”
“Rarokan has been revealing things he should not,” Menos said, cocking his head to the side in a way no human neck could bend. “Such knowledge should not be shared lightly.”
“He did not tell me this,” Stiger said. “There are barriers between his mind and my own. What he tells me, I have learned, I cannot trust.”
“Then how do you know of such things?” Menos asked curiously.
“During the struggle against Rarokan, his mind was completely focused on Father Thomas and the High Father. The barriers came down and I saw much I had not understood.”
“You could read his thoughts?” Menos asked, taking an excited step nearer. He pointed a long finger at Stiger. “You had a glimpse into the mind of a High Master?”
Stiger gave a nod.
“Such a thing has never happened before,” Menos said. “You are a lucky man, for there is great knowledge locked away within such a mind, much of it forbidden. Then again, you may be just as unlucky.”
Menos spared Stiger a short look before turning away and stepping over to his camp table. He ran a long, delicate finger across its surface before looking back to Stiger.
“The High Masters are the true disciples of their gods,” Menos answered. “There is always one per god, no more, no less. These wizards wield nearly unimaginable power and, as I have already told you, move almost freely through space and time with very few restrictions. Rarokan was one of these disciples, a fallen one, if you will. Their power is so great you might even call them demigods, for they and they alone do the direct bidding of their masters, orchestrating and masterminding events on our plane of existence.” Menos gave a short pause. “Pray you never meet Castor’s High Master of Scarlet. She is death incarnate. It is a good thing her attention is on more important worlds than ours.”
Stiger was chilled by the thought of such an evil wizard.
“Now,” Menos said, picking up a silver stylus from the desk and examining it. A moment later, he returned it to the desk. “Tell me what you know of the spark.”
“I understand it allows the gods to have influence in our world,” Stiger said. “It is in both my life force and my soul. It gives me the ability to use will, though I am not fully sure how it all works.”
“That is an interesting way to look at it,” Menos said. “Your understanding of the spark is limited. It is more than you think.” Menos gestured a hand at him. “You are graced by it and have free will. I speak not of holy power, but of free choice. The gods only have as much influence as we give them. The same, in a way, goes for Rarokan. That is why he has become so dangerous. He chose against his god.”
“Father Thomas has begun teaching me how to withstand the assaults,” Stiger said. “I had my first lesson this evening before our feast with the dwarves.”
“By training your mind?”
“Yes,” Stiger said. “In a way, it is like Eli’s lessons to feel the forest.”
“He is an elf?”
“Yes,” Stiger admitted. “I consider him my closest friend.”
“You keep interesting company,” Menos said. “How did the paladin’s lesson go?”
“Not well,” Stiger admitted. “I was never able to feel the forest either.”
Menos gave a laugh. “It takes more than one lesson to master the power of the mind.”
“Father Thomas told me the same,” Stiger said. “Though in this case, I think the sooner I learn the better.”
“It is good you do not know more of the spark from Rarokan or how to wield his powers,” Menos said, “for if you did, I might have had to kill you.”
“What?” Stiger took a step back, suddenly wary. His hand almost went for his sword, but he restrained himself. “Why?”
Menos offered him a thin-lipped smile.
Stiger crossed his arms. “I grow tired of half-answers.”
“Very well,” Menos said. “Having unrestricted access to Rarokan’s knowledge and the ability to use will is a dangerous combination. You are the High Father’s champion and you can use will, but there are limits. Be careful your ambition does not rise to match Rarokan’s.”
Stiger gave that some thought before replying.
“He wants to become a god,” Stiger said. “If he succeeds, he would be more terrible than Castor. I cannot allow him to win, either.”
The answer seemed to please the caretaker.
“Agreed. When this madness ends, and the minion is no more, come to me. I will instruct you in the use of your mind. Between the paladin and myself, we should be able to train you in the skills needed to protect yourself from him.”
Stiger was surprised by the offer.
“I will take you up on that,” Stiger said, “provided we are around. There are a lot of orcs coming.”
“There are worse things than orcs,” Menos said, with a disturbing, mirthless chuckle. “The Horde is coming. Castor’s servant brings mountain trolls, goblins, and wyrms. This world has never seen the Horde, but it is about to, and soon.” Menos paused briefly. “There are other places on Istros that harbor populations of the lesser races. Should our enemy succeed here, those isolated pockets of orcs and goblins will rally to the Horde’s banner, and with them darkness shall descend upon this world.”
“Great,” Stiger said. “You just keep bringing good news, don’t you?”
The tent lit up with the flash of lightning. Thunder rumbled loudly, seemingly almost on top of them.
Menos gave a laugh that sounded forced. “I am beginning to like you, human. I truly am. Don’t ruin the affection I feel toward you.”
“What is a wyrm?”
“It is what your people call a lesser dragon,” Menos said, “and the elves call a Minor Drak.”
“A dragon like you?” Stiger was dismayed by this. He had seen what Menos in his true form was capable of doing.
“They are nothing like me or my kind,” Menos said with savage heat boiling his tone. “They are smaller, for one thing. Wyrms don’t have the same level of intelligence we have. They are a mere shadow of us. You might even consider them stupid, as they take direction easily from their keepers.” Menos grew grave. “That aside, wyrms are very dangerous.”
“I don’t know how we can fight dragons, lesser or not.”
“You cannot,” Menos said. “Well, you can try and perhaps you may triumph against one, but not four. No, my mate and I will have to help you. When they come, we shall be there.”
“What about the Gate?” Stiger asked. “Who will protect the World Gate? Who will guard it?”
“No one,” Menos said simply. “In a way, the World Gate is now useless to both sides. Thoggle agrees with me on this. The minion cannot open the Gate without a wizard’s assistance, and none on this world are, at the moment, powerful enough to lend their will to the effort.”
Menos walked to the entrance of the tent. A hand reached toward the flap and then stopped. He turned back, silver eyes glittering in the lamplight.
“The minion has grown powerful and it comes for you. By killing you, the High Father’s champion, Castor wins everything on this world. Should that happen, the future will be a dark one, for all peoples on Istros. We must defeat it, which means you and the paladin must face the creature directly. For only because of you, with your sword”—Menos’s eyes drifted down toward Rarokan in its scabbard at Stiger’s side, before returning to lock gazes w
ith him—“do we stand a chance to beat it. Everything comes down to this battle.”
“But even if I succeed,” Stiger said, “it is my understanding the real task set for me is in the future, the time I come from. How will I return?”
“Thoggle and I have determined we may have the means to return you to your time and without using the Gate, which we have both determined we are unable to manipulate.”
Stiger suddenly felt a surge of hope, something he had not had for a long time. Despite his grief for Sarai, there was suddenly light at the end of the tunnel. He would be able to return to his time, where he belonged. All he had to do was defeat another of Castor’s minions. If it were only as easy as it sounded.
“So you can get me back to my time?”
“We might be able to.” Menos gave an unhappy nod. “The price for that will be high. Thoggle has insisted I allow my memory to be altered when we return you to your time.”
“I see,” Stiger said.
“No, you only think you understand,” Menos said.
“Then tell me,” Stiger said with frustration. “Tell me what I don’t understand. I am tired of not knowing what I need to.”
Menos gave a chuckle. This time the amusement leaked through. A thin, frail smile formed on his perfect face.
“When the time comes, my mate and I will handle the wyrms. You must hold the Horde until Brogan’s army can arrive. Or, at the very least, allow the thane’s army to get near enough to make a difference. That will be your chance, for the minion will become desperate and will likely come directly for you, gambling everything. That is your time, your chance.”
“I will do it,” Stiger said. “I will face the minion.”
The Tiger's Time (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 4) Page 56
