Fort Covenant_Tales of the Seventh

by Marc Edelheit

  He heard the hooting of an owl, which sounded a little out of place before dusk. Stiger abruptly realized it was the signal from Varus. Enemy in sight. He rolled over onto his belly.

  “Pass it along,” Stiger hissed to the men next to him. “The enemy is in sight.”

  Stiger strained to hear something, but couldn’t. He resisted the urge to look. So he remained where he was, listening. Absently, Stiger began silently counting. When he hit two hundred fifteen, the slow, steady clop of multiple hooves reached his ears. With each passing breath it got louder. Voices speaking the language of the Rivan, at first faint and then much clearer, came from below and along the road, which he could not directly see. Someone down on the road laughed. Another coughed.

  Pazzullo and his men silently rose to a kneeling position, almost as if they had grown from the ground. They raised their bows. As they reached for their arrows, Stiger pulled himself up to a knee. The men beside him did the same, and Stiger’s line came up also.

  Below him, less than fifteen feet away, were the blue-cloaked Rivan. It was shocking to see the enemy so close, so oblivious to their presence. They were riding their horses, which plodded along in boredom, heads hung with the heat. Each man carried a lance, the points of which occasionally caught a ray of the fading sunlight and glittered wickedly. The enemy had bundles of hay, forage bags, and nets affixed to the rumps of their horses, along with their small round shields. Stiger counted sixteen of the enemy. He glanced to the right toward the bend and could see no additional horsemen. Was it a light troop, as Tig had said? He certainly hoped so.

  There was a loud twang from twenty bows firing in unison. Stiger almost jumped. He had missed Pazzullo’s silent order to loose. The air was abruptly filled with the sounds of impact, cracks of arrows penetrating armor and flesh. This was immediately followed by screams, cries of agony, and shouts of alarm.

  “Loose at will,” Pazzullo roared.

  “Spears!” Stiger called, standing and pulling out his sword. He glanced along his line as his men came to their feet. “Aim for the horses! Aim for the horses, boys! Make your toss count!”

  Stiger’s men grunted as they threw their deadly missiles, which sailed over the heads of Pazzullo’s bowmen.

  “Draw swords!” Stiger didn’t wait to see the results. He held his sword high, even as there was a scattered series of additional twangs from Pazzullo’s bowmen as they fired down into the enemy. Stiger pointed toward the road with his sword. “At them!”

  Moving through and by Pazzullo’s line, he led the way forward, his men just steps behind. Once past the bowmen, he picked up his pace and crashed through the undergrowth. Stiger burst from the tree line and emerged into a setting of devastation and chaos.

  Injured horses screamed, with a number down and kicking wildly about. Spears protruded from several. Riders hung limply from saddles, arrows sticking out of chests, sides, and backs. In some cases, the arrow had penetrated clean through and poked out both sides. A number of the enemy lay on the ground.

  It was a slaughter. Despite that, there were several of the enemy still mounted.

  One rider, unscathed and just ten feet away, spotted Stiger. He wheeled around and lowered his lance. With no time to formulate a better plan, Stiger ran at the horse, screaming wildly as the rider kicked his heels in and the animal lunged forward, hurtling at him.

  At the last moment, Stiger dove aside and stabbed his sword into the horse’s neck, plunging the blade as deeply he could. Hot wetness sprayed him in the eyes as the razor-sharp edge of the lance passed within a hairsbreadth of his face. Then the horse was past and Stiger’s sword was violently ripped from his hands. As Stiger crashed hard to the ground, the horse let loose a scream of agony. This was almost immediately followed by a solid thud as the wounded animal lost its footing and went down.

  Stiger lay on the ground, stunned slightly from the impact. Feet thundered around him as his men arrived and tore into the remains of the troop. Shaking his head, Stiger slowly picked himself up, glanced around, and found that, for the most part, barring the enemy wounded, the ambush was already over.

  A sense of satisfaction settled over him. He had given the enemy another bloody nose, albeit a small one.

  The pounding hooves brought his head around. A lone trooper was riding for all he was worth back the way the troop had come. Varus and his legionaries blocked the road. Varus shouted an order, and short spears arced out. One spear hit the horse. Two struck the rider in the upper chest and neatly plucked him from his saddle. He seemed to hang in midair for a heartbeat, as if he were a puppet attached to a string, before he slammed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt. A heartbeat later, the horse, maddened by its injury, crashed into Stiger’s men. Bodies flew as the animal plowed through them before it collapsed several yards beyond.

  “Great gods,” Stiger breathed, heart in his throat. “Great bloody gods.”

  He glanced around to make certain it was all over and then jogged over. Two of his men were on the ground. They were still. Two others pulled themselves to their feet. As Stiger approached, he saw one of those not moving was his corporal. Legionary Erbus, having dragged himself to his knees, moved to Varus and leaned over him. The other man down, Barrath, was clearly dead. His head hung at an unnatural angle.

  Varus’s helmet was badly damaged. Blood covered the corporal’s face, though Stiger could not see a wound. It seemed to be leaking out of the helmet and onto the dirt of the road, where it pooled.

  “He’s alive, sir,” Erbus said, looking up at Stiger. “He breathes.”

  Stiger did not know what to say to that. Varus looked to be in a very bad way. The men gathered around, looking concerned.

  “This is my fault,” Stiger whispered to himself as he knelt by Varus’s side. His corporal looked close to death. The pain of the moment almost overcame him. A man was dead because of his orders, and another who had become dear to him was gravely injured.

  “We have to get this off him, sir,” Erbus said, “and examine the wound.”

  Erbus untied Varus’s helmet and then carefully removed it, while Stiger supported the corporal’s neck. Stiger’s hands quickly became slick from blood. Erbus gingerly felt the back of Varus’s head, which elicited a groan from the corporal. Varus’s eyes popped open and he attempted to sit up, but Erbus and Stiger held him back. A moment later, Varus lost consciousness and went limp.

  “Help me turn him on his side, sir,” Erbus said.

  Stiger rolled the corporal over. Erbus studied the back of the Varus’s head. After a prolonged moment, he sat back and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “He’s got a nasty bump,” Erbus said. They rolled the corporal onto his back. “I think he should live, sir.”

  “What of all the blood?”

  “A scalp wound. I am not a surgeon, but it doesn’t seem too bad. The skull under the cut seems sound enough,” Erbus explained. “Cuts on the head tend to bleed a lot, sir.”

  “Right,” Stiger said, standing. He studied Barrath and felt a wave of exhaustion and sadness overtake him. Barrath had been a good legionary, always doing as asked with no disciplinary issues. He had not deserved to die like this, run down by a maddened animal.

  “How is Varus?”

  Stiger looked over, blinking. It took him a moment to realize that Pazzullo stood before him.

  Stiger sucked in a shaky breath and cleared his throat. “Erbus says he should live.”

  “That is good news,” Pazzullo said. “It was a fine ambush, sir.”

  Stiger looked down the road. A couple of horses walked aimlessly about as his men and Pazzullo’s looted the dead.

  “Any other injuries?”

  “No, sir,” Pazzullo said, glancing down. “Just these two.”

  “That’s good,” Stiger said, a little dazed by what had occurred. He rubbed at his eyes a moment and told himself it was only the exhaustion. “That’s good.”

  “I think we should get moving, sir.” There was
a hard edge to the sergeant’s tone. “Before more of the enemy come down that road.”

  “Yes, of course,” Stiger said, snapping back to his duty. He felt somewhat guilty that Pazzullo had needed to remind him. “Erbus, get Varus on one of those horses. Barrath comes too. We have to go.”

  “Yes, sir,” Erbus said. “I will see to it, sir.”

  “Pazzullo, get the men formed up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stiger looked around. He had lost his sword. He spotted it down the road, still sticking out of the horse he had stuck. With a glance at the injured Varus, Stiger made his way over to the deceased animal. The rider lay a few feet away, lying on his stomach. A sword thrust to the back of the neck had ended him.

  Varus’s injury and Barrath’s death weighing heavily upon him, Stiger blew out a heavy breath. As the men formed up, he pulled his sword free. It was time to move on.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “That is a very welcome sight,” Stiger said, and he meant it. Under the light of a full moon and cloudless sky, he and Pazzullo were gazing down into a large valley. To their backs were the forest and the men. In the center of the valley, around a half mile distant, stood a large square fort. Stiger could see sentry fires and torches flickering in the darkness. Each of the four walls was easily six hundred yards in length, with covered towers on each corner. Off farther to the south, Stiger could see the lights of what he assumed was a small town. “A sight for sore eyes.”

  “It sure is, sir,” Pazzullo said and then cleared his throat. “I think it might be better to admire the fort from the inside. Don’t you think, sir?”

  “I completely agree,” Stiger said. He turned to look behind at the weary column of men, which snaked back into the forest along the road. “Forward march.”

  The column started forward once again, with Stiger and Pazzullo moving alongside.

  Stiger was exhausted. His legs trembled slightly with each step, and he now had a persistent headache. He longed to lie down and catch up on some sleep. What kept him going was the example he felt compelled to set for his men. In a way, as long as he kept going, so too would the company. There were times he felt as if he were their willpower.

  They covered the distance rapidly, following the road, moving down the hill and into the valley. With nightfall, the hot temperatures had finally eased. With the setting sun had come light gusts of wind. The cooler temperatures were more than welcome and made the long march just a tad bit easier.

  Fields of wheat ready for harvest spread out to either side of the road. The wind rippled through the fields like ocean waves. Under the bright moonlight, it was a ghostly scene. Stiger was reminded of the man he had set afire during the assault back at Cora’Tol—an image he would not soon forget. One he knew he would carry to the end of his days.

  He felt immense relief as they neared the front gate. Placing one foot in front of the other was becoming a real effort. His men were in a similar state. Stiger was so tired now, he felt as if his mind had become shrouded by a thick fog. Even so, he noticed that despite the late hour, the fort’s gate stood fully open. At night, procedure called for the gate to be sealed.

  “There seems to be a lot of activity inside,” Pazzullo said as they crossed a wooden-planked bridge that ran over a deep defensive trench with steep sides. Stiger glanced over the side and saw spikes and obstacles below. “An awful lot of activity, sir.”

  Now that Pazzullo mentioned it, Stiger could hear quite the commotion coming from inside the fort. It sounded as if the garrison were being called out.

  “I am sure that Hollux’s arrival got their attention, if not the dispatch rider from Ida first,” Stiger said.

  Pazzullo did not reply to that. His eyes were on the four files of auxiliaries waiting before the gate, formed up into two lines. An officer stood to the right side of the formation. He spoke to a man and sent him running into the fort.

  “What do you suppose that was all about?” Stiger asked Pazzullo as he and his men began crossing the second and final defensive trench. Stiger’s boots rang with a hollow sound on the planking.

  “Dunno, sir,” Pazzullo said. “They couldn’t have just spotted us. Under this moon, we would’ve been visible clear up to the top of the hill.”

  Stiger rubbed his jaw. He considered the situation as the distance closed. Pazzullo was correct. Stiger and his men could not have been missed, especially with the news that had preceded them. The garrison would have lookouts scanning the darkness for any hint of the enemy.

  The auxiliary officer stepped out into the road and before his formation. He held his hand up, signaling for Stiger to halt his men. For some reason Stiger could not identify, he was irritated by the man’s manner, which was almost arrogant. So, Stiger decided to close the distance further. Ominously, a sergeant behind the officer snapped an order. The auxiliaries raised their shields, the bottoms of which had been resting upon the ground.

  Irritated by their reception, Stiger waited until he and his men were almost on top of the auxiliary officer, a youthful lieutenant, before he called out a terse halt.

  “Identify yourself,” the officer demanded in a haughty manner that dripped with hostility.

  “Lieutenant Stiger, Seventh Company, Third Legion.” Stiger was surprised at the other’s tone. “And who, sir, are you?”

  “Lieutenant Tride,” came the curt reply. “You are to remain here. I have sent for Tribune Declin.”

  “Now listen here,” Stiger snarled, stepping nearer the man. “I don’t know what your game is, but—”

  “I have my orders,” Tride said. He pointed at the ground. Though his tone was firm enough, Stiger thought he detected a little unease. “You are to wait here.”

  Stiger ground his teeth in frustration as he swung toward Pazzullo with a questioning look. Pazzullo gave a rough shrug.

  “Sir,” Pazzullo said, drawing Stiger’s attention toward the fort.

  A man in a richly cut tunic had emerged, clearly the tribune. The line of auxiliaries parted to let him through. He was flanked by another officer, this one wearing the armor of a prefect, and three large auxiliaries. Stiger felt Pazzullo stiffen at his side and guessed this was Hollux’s commanding officer, Prefect Lears. The Lears family were no friends of the Stigers, nearly outright enemies.

  “Stiger, I presume?” the tribune asked.

  Stiger offered a salute to the tribune, who waved it away.

  “Yes, sir,” Stiger said. “You are Tribune Declin?”

  “I am.” The tribune walked right up to Stiger and gave him a hard look. Stiger read a deep, burning anger in the man’s eyes and sensed danger.

  “You, son,” the tribune said, biting off each word, “have a lot to answer for.”

  “Excuse me, sir? I am afraid don’t understand.”

  “Your orders?” The tribune held out an expectant hand.

  “What?” Stiger’s tired mind attempted to grapple with the situation that was threatening to spiral out of control.

  “You have orders?” the tribune asked. “Come on, man, I don’t have all night.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” Stiger said. “My orders come from General Treim.”

  “Well, then,” Declin said, “let’s see them.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Stiger said, face flushing. “I’m afraid I destroyed them back at Cora’Tol.”

  “To what end?”

  “I did not want them to fall into the hands of the enemy, sir,” Stiger said. “General Treim made it plain I was to destroy them if necessary.”

  Tribune Declin eyed Stiger for a few heartbeats, then made a point of slowly looking him over. Stiger knew his appearance was dreadful and very unlegionary. With a look of contempt, the tribune’s gaze returned to Stiger’s face.

  “You are a disgrace, sir,” the tribune said. “An utter disgrace and a poor excuse for an officer.”

  Stiger said nothing, though he very much desired to rebut that statement.

  “Just as I h
ad surmised, sir,” the prefect said, drawing the tribune’s attention. “He is operating without orders.”

  Stiger felt his mouth fall open. Surely the tribune did not think that. Did they truly believe he was without honor?

  “Sergeant,” the tribune said to Pazzullo, “step aside.”

  The sergeant did as he was bid, casting a sidelong glance at Stiger that was filled with worry.

  “What is going on here?” Stiger, having recovered from his surprise, rapidly became angry. With the onset of his anger, the exhaustion fled. “I am operating under the direct orders of General Treim.”

  “If you were,” the Tribune said, “then you would have your orders.”

  “I don’t need written orders,” Stiger said. “The general gave me my orders himself, personally.”

  “And what were they?” The tribune’s eyebrows rose, as if he were dealing with a small child telling a fib. “I want to hear what great task the general set for you that you needed to be dispatched so far from the action.”

  “I was to travel to Cora’Tol and take Lieutenant Aggar into custody, sir.”

  The tribune shared a meaningful glance with the prefect. They both turned their gazes, far from friendly, upon Stiger.

  “The general could have sent a messenger,” Declin said. “I would have easily been able to apprehend Aggar if required. Why send you instead?”

  “Those were my orders, sir.”

  “Is that so?” the prefect asked.

  “It is,” Stiger said. “Upon my honor, it is.”

  “Why was Aggar to be detained?”

  “I was not privy to that,” Stiger said. “I was to locate the lieutenant, secure the prisoner, and return him to headquarters for questioning.”

  “Then your orders don’t mention commandeering the Fort Footprint garrison, do they?” the tribune asked.

  “The enemy is coming,” Stiger countered. “When I could not find Aggar, and learned of the threat, I took the initiative. It was the only sensible thing to do.”