The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “We have,” Father Thomas admitted.

  “And?”

  “We’re still working on solving that little problem,” Father Thomas said. “Not only do you have to live, but you will need to return to the future, where you belong, for when that time comes.”

  “I would say it is a large problem then, wouldn’t you?”

  It was the paladin’s turn to fall into an uneasy silence. He closed his eyes for a few heartbeats and then opened them. “Faith, my son.”

  “Faith?”

  “Faith in the High Father,” the paladin said. “You must have faith, for with it will come hope that, with his help, we will triumph over evil.”

  Stiger played with a loose stone using his foot to roll it around.

  “In the past I put my trust in the High Father,” Stiger said, looking back up at the paladin. “No matter how difficult things got, I never turned away from our god. I believed with all of my heart and soul. That doesn’t mean I’ve never questioned. But lately I have been doing a lot of doubting.”

  “We’ve all doubted now and then,” Father Thomas said in a kindly manner. “It is what makes us human. If you recall the teachings in the Book of Emlire, our god expects, in fact demands us to question ourselves, our actions, and our faith. Doing so brings you closer to him. My son, there is nothing wrong with that.”

  “Even if I struggled against bearing this burden?” Stiger shifted his feet slightly and kicked the small stone away. “Even if I did not heed when called?”

  “Even then,” the paladin said. “When first called, I resisted myself.”

  Stiger let out a long breath.

  “Long ago, shortly after I entered the service,” Stiger said, “I made a vow to the High Father. I am honoring my vow by putting my trust once again in the great god’s keeping.”

  “You don’t know how much it pleases me to hear that.”

  “I will do my duty,” Stiger said firmly.

  The paladin gave a nod.

  “But know this,” Stiger said. “At the same time, I wish to return to Sarai.”

  Father Thomas did not speak at first, and his gaze flicked away for a heartbeat. “I shall pray for that, my son.”

  They fell back into an uneasy silence, studying their grand surroundings.

  When Stiger said nothing further, Father Thomas rubbed his hands together, once again working to gain warmth. “I think I will go get my gloves.”

  The paladin took a step away and then stopped.

  “We will speak again on this later. If you wish.”

  Stiger nodded and watched as the paladin made his way over to his horse and began opening a saddlebag in search of his gloves.

  A low whine drew Stiger’s attention down toward his feet. Dog was sitting next to him, almost touching his left sandal. The dog was looking toward the citadel and appeared somewhat distressed, emitting another whine that was part whimper.

  “I don’t like being down here either,” Stiger said and reached down a hand to rub the top of Dog’s head. “But this is where we need to be.”

  Chapter Eleven

  There was solid double rap on the door, followed by a deep growl close at hand. Stiger opened his eyes. The light from under the door was just enough to see the ceiling and the walls of the tiny room.

  “Dog, quiet,” Stiger snapped and the growling ceased.

  There was another knock.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Centurion Pixus is waking the men, sir,” a voice said from the other side of the door. “He told me you would want to know, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Stiger said.

  Out in the hall, he could hear the voices as Pixus and his optio went from door to door, rousting the men. The legionary moved off, his footsteps trailing away.

  Stiger’s legs ached abominably. Yesterday’s march, the first in a good long while, had been hard, but he had persevered. He stretched and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Out in the hall someone walked hurriedly by, eliciting another low growl from Dog.

  “I said stop it,” Stiger snapped, looking over at the large shadow that was the animal. Dog grew quiet again. “Good boy.”

  Stiger shifted. The ache in his calves and thighs was quite painful. He groaned softly.

  “You’re getting old,” Stiger said to himself, reaching for the lamp. He took up the flint and steel and lit an oil-soaked taper with practiced ease, then touched the flame to the wick of the small clay lamp. The wick caught almost instantly and the light grew.

  Simple, plain, and austere, the room he had been given was small, much like one would find in a monastery. Despite that, it was rather warm, comfortable, and, more importantly, clean. There was no bed. Dwarves, from what Stiger had observed, did not seem to believe in them. An old, thick rug with a red and brown pattern stretched from wall to wall, making the floor a significant improvement over the cold stone below.

  Two cushions stuffed with goose down and a blanket had been left for sleeping. The blanket was wool and moderately coarse, but a welcome addition that Stiger had elected to use over his own. The interior walls had been plastered over to keep the heat in, and a small hole little larger than his thumb emitted heated air without a hint of smoke. The hot air hissed softly as it blew. A rounded piece of corkwood hung by a chain next to the hole. Stiger had not needed to plug it. The heat was enough to combat the pervasive chill of the underground and kept his room comfortable. Stiger had seen dwarven heating before, so it had not been a shock to him, but it had been to Pixus and his men.

  Overall, Stiger had spent a pleasant enough night and felt rested, though sore. Dog was curled up in the corner. Head resting over a paw, his eyes were fixed upon Stiger, watching his every move.

  “Sleep well, boy?” Stiger asked.

  Dog just watched him, his deep, watery eyes unblinking.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Legs aching with strain, Stiger pulled himself to his feet. He stretched, trying to put the pain from his mind and work out the stiffness. Stretching, though painful, often helped to loosen up the muscles. Stiger’s earliest weapons instructors had taught him the importance of stretching. Sergeant Tiro had reinforced and ingrained it further.

  “I am definitely getting old,” he said to himself. Stiger found it took him longer to bounce back from serious exertion than it had just a few years before. He felt the hand of age upon his shoulder, a most unwelcome friend. On cold mornings, the joints in his knees ached. “And . . . you’re getting too soft. Time to toughen up.”

  He decided that only more marching would be the cure to his ailments. That and further exercise. Once his legs warmed up, the pain would lessen some.

  Stiger relieved himself in the bucket that had been provided by the keepers of the hostel, a team of elderly dwarves who upon arrival had fallen all over themselves greeting their thane and his guests. Stiger had gotten the impression that such a visit was very rare.

  He put his sandals on, lacing them up and tying them off so that the fit was both comfortable and firm. His armor was next. Predictably, it had rubbed him raw and would again today as the march continued. He knew in a few days’ time he would barely notice, but until then, wearing the armor would be supremely uncomfortable.

  Stiger patiently laced up his armor, cinching it tight, before tying off each strap. He checked to make sure the straps were tight and secure. He took a moment, shrugging his shoulders around until the armor fit just right.

  Willfully putting the discomfort from his mind, he slipped on his sword and then clipped his cloak in place. Satisfied that all was in order, he folded the blanket he had been given and placed it in the corner, then smoothed out the rug as best he could.

  The previous evening, Stiger had performed a full toilet, which had included a shave. Not without a little satisfaction, he felt his jaw and found it still mostly smooth, with only the hints of budding stubble. He always felt like a new man after shaving.

  Sti
ger collected his few possessions, returning them to the saddlebags. He was careful not to disturb the food Sarai had packed, nor the precooked rations Pixus had provided him with. He checked about to make sure he had missed nothing. Picking up his pack and saddlebags, Stiger opened the door and then blew out the lamp. Lastly, he grabbed his helmet.

  “Atten-SHUN,” a legionary called loudly out when Stiger stepped out of his room. The other legionaries in the hallway snapped to attention and put their backs to the wall.

  “Carry on,” Stiger said, looking first one way and then the next. Oil lamps set in mirrored recesses lit the spacious hallway in a muted, yellowed light. The stone walls had been plastered over. Theo had explained that the dwarves preferred plaster to not only help insulate their buildings, but also to muffle sound. The plaster was clearly showing its age, with exposed stone visible in numerous places.

  “Dog,” Stiger called. “Come.”

  Dog poked his head out into the hallway, almost tentatively at first, and then followed after. Stiger turned in the direction of the common room, the men making space for him and Dog, who trailed along behind. There were no dwarves about. They had been quartered in a different part of the hostel. As he made his way down the hallway toward the stairs, Dog received a friendly pat from more than one man as he padded by.

  A goodly number of the men already had their armor on. Pixus had seen to it that his century had visited the washing rooms the night before, meaning all they had to do other than gather their kit was suit up.

  The hostel had aqueduct-fed water, and as a result, the legion’s fetish for cleanliness had been satisfied. Pixus’s men were presentable, and from what Stiger could see their kits were well-maintained. Always one for setting the example, Stiger had personally cleaned and polished his armor before going to sleep.

  The air in the underground was not only cold, but surprisingly humid. Stiger could only imagine how the rust would grow on metal if not looked after on a regular basis. Rust was the enemy of every legionary.

  Stiger had been surprised at the sheer size of the Stonehammer Hostel. He had expected something small. In fact, it wasn’t even a building at all, but a complex that had been carved into the bedrock of the mountain. From what he had been told by Theo, there were more than five hundred rooms on ten different floors. In its heyday, the hostel had been regularly packed with visiting travelers and traders.

  Stiger worked his way down the stairs, descending three flights to the level that housed the common room. The stairs continued down farther, bending out of sight. Whether they traveled to another floor with additional guest rooms or a basement, Stiger did not know.

  Following several legionaries, Stiger moved through a series of hallways, past innumerable doors, until he came at last to the common room. If the Stonehammer had been a military establishment, the common room would have been a mess hall. It was crammed with stout, long tables and benches that showed their age, well-worn and battered by years of use.

  Large multi-wick lamps mounted to the walls with mirrored recesses provided much of the light. Thick candles on the tables augmented the effort. The strong smell of tallow mixed with fresh bread hung heavily on the air.

  Stiger found the room packed with both legionaries and dwarves. Brogan’s escort only wore their tunics and had not donned their armor. It was understandable. Legionary armor was far less bulky than the dwarven kind, which attempted to protect nearly everything and was quite cumbersome.

  A good number of the dwarves were civilians, mostly men. There were a number of females in the mix, along with a handful of older children, clearly distinguishable by their lack of beards.

  Colored tapestries hung down the walls, adding color and helping to muffle sound. Despite that, the common room was crowded, noisy, and surprisingly welcoming. With all the bodies, the room was warm. Stiger liked it.

  Sabinus saw him and worked his way over.

  “Did you sleep well, sir?”

  “I did,” Stiger said, his stomach rumbling at the smell of fresh bread. “You?”

  “Not so well, sir,” Sabinus said.

  “That’s a shame,” Stiger said. “I’ve always been able to sleep at will, something I picked up long ago while on campaign. Sleep whenever you can get it.”

  “Agreed,” Sabinus said and then frowned. “Usually that’s not a problem . . . it’s just being underground makes me a tad uncomfortable, if you know what I mean?” Sabinus turned and pointed. “They’ve set a table with food along the back wall, sir.”

  Stiger looked. Legionaries and dwarves had lined up, waiting their turn.

  “They don’t have coffee, do they?” Stiger didn’t smell any. Sarai had only been able to afford a weak black tea. After years of service, he had missed coffee as a morning staple served by the legion’s cooks. Stiger had forgotten how much he had looked forward to his morning coffee.

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” Sabinus said. “Sadly, they don’t even have tea.”

  “Did Pixus bring any, perchance?”

  “No, sir,” Sabinus said. “As you know, we’re traveling light, with the mules only carrying bare essentials. The men are carrying just seven days of precooked rations, nothing more.”

  “A small tragedy, then,” Stiger said. “Where are you sitting?”

  “Over there, sir,” Sabinus said. “Pixus has already fed himself and is rousting the last of his men. He will be joining us soon enough.” Sabinus shifted his feet. “Ah . . . I hope you don’t mind, sir. I’ve invited the optio and standard-bearer to share breakfast with us.”

  “Good thinking,” Stiger said. “I look forward to meeting them.”

  “I’ve already served myself,” Sabinus said. “If you wish, I can take your things over to the table.”

  “Thank you.” Stiger handed his pack, bags, and helmet to Sabinus. “I will be over shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dog abruptly left Stiger as Sabinus moved away toward his table. Stiger watched as the animal rapidly worked his way toward the kitchen door, where an older dwarf wearing an apron stood silently watching the common room with a distinctly unhappy expression. The dwarf was idly playing with his beard. Stiger recognized him from the previous evening when they had arrived. He had made a point of feeding Dog.

  The dwarf’s expression cracked as Dog approached with its tail wagging enthusiastically. He had clearly made a friend in Dog, whose head came up to the dwarf’s upper chest. Dog licked vigorously at his face, which elicited a hearty laugh.

  The dwarf patted the top of the dog’s head, and then scratched at his neck with both hands. Dog soaked up the attention, craning his neck this way and that for more scratching. His hind leg began to work, as if he were scratching himself. The dwarf turned and held open the kitchen door. He and Dog ducked inside, the door closing behind them.

  “I hope he’s got something good for you,” Stiger whispered and made his way over to the table with the food. The dwarves and legionaries stepped respectfully aside for him.

  The table contained several large wicker baskets filled bread rolls and cheese wheels. The cheese had been sliced neatly into smaller wedges. Sarai had been right; the dwarven cheese was riddled with holes. It was curious stuff, and Stiger was looking forward to trying it. He liked a good cheese. There were also pitchers of beer and water, along with a stack of wooden mugs.

  Stiger grabbed a battered wooden plate and threw two rolls on it and a small wedge of cheese. He then poured himself some water and made his way over to the table where Sabinus was with Pixus’s optio and standard-bearer. The three men stood respectfully. Stiger waved them back down as he set his plate and mug on the table.

  “Sir, I would like to introduce you to Optio Mectillius and Signifier Lerga,” Sabinus said.

  As legate, Stiger should have known all of his officers by sight. He wished belatedly he had thought to ask Sabinus their names.

  “I know their names,” Stiger said. “I’ve seen them both on parade more than enough.”
Stiger gave a nod, hoping his bluff worked. It was almost an embarrassment that Sabinus had to feed him their names. Stiger consoled himself in the knowledge that he was only playing at being their legate. He took a seat opposite Sabinus.

  “Yes, sir,” Mectillius said, with no hint of disbelief. “Good to have you back with us, sir.”

  Stiger gave another nod and took a healthy bite of his bread roll. The optio was an older man, who absently reached up to scratch at one of the pock scars that tracked their way across his cheeks. Mectillius had a hard look about him. From what Stiger had learned about Pixus, the optio was likely very competent. Pixus seemed the sort not to tolerate incompetence or laziness in the men he commanded.

  Chewing his bread, Stiger found it to be fresh and good, but not as fine as Sarai’s. He washed it down with a drink of water and then took another healthy bite.

  “What the dwarves have been able to accomplish is truly incredible, sir,” Mectillius said. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Stiger agreed, “it is. They seem to dream large.”

  “I thought Mal’Zeel couldn’t be outdone,” Mectillius said. “The public buildings, temples, and the palace of course, after all this . . .” He shook his head in dismay.

  “Granted, what they’ve done is impressive, but I don’t think I could ever live underground,” Sabinus said, finishing up his roll with a swallow and chasing it down with some water. “It’s just too cold and dark.”

  “I couldn’t either, sir,” Mectillius said to Sabinus. “I need the sky over my head, the sun and moon. I’d even take the open sky on a frigid winter night over this . . . though the heated air in the rooms was nice. Wish we had that back at our garrison.”

  “Optio, I will be sure to add that to the list of requested improvements,” Stiger said, with some amusement. “Just as soon as we can figure out how they did it.”

  “Should I note that, sir?” Mectillius asked, and pulled out a pad and charcoal pencil.

  “Good one,” Stiger said.

  Mectillius returned the pad and pencil to his cloak pocket. The optio took a deep breath, glancing around.