“I also wouldn’t want to fight underground.” Mectillius looked over at a table full of dwarves. “Without that bunch to show us the way, it would be easy to get turned around and lost.”
“It is rather mazelike,” Sabinus said in agreement.
“What you’ve seen so far is nothing,” Stiger said. “The city under this mountain, Garand Thoss, is a site to behold. Talk about a rabbit warren. As their cities go, the dwarves tell me it is on the small side.”
“I’d love to see that, sir,” Lerga said, speaking up for the first time. Stiger eyed the man for a moment. To be promoted to his current position, he would have had to be a respected man who had distinguished himself. In essence, he was an optio in training and a junior officer.
“Well,” Stiger said, “perhaps one day you shall.”
Pixus entered the common room, following after several legionaries, much like a sheepdog herding its charges. Sabinus called out to the other centurion, waving a hand. Pixus spotted them and made his way over, weaving between tables and around people.
“Good morning, sir,” Pixus said.
“Morning,” Stiger said back to the centurion as he took a seat. Stiger glanced around. He had not yet seen the thane. “I understand you’ve been up for a while. You wouldn’t know where the thane is? I haven’t seen Brogan yet.”
“I was told he is dining in his quarters,” Pixus said.
“And the paladin?”
“Father Thomas is still in his room,” Pixus said. “He is saying his prayers, sir. I did ask him if he wouldn’t mind conducting a short service this morning. The men should find it comforting. I figure we can have it right before we march.”
Stiger gave a nod. He saw no problem with a service. Being in the profession they were in, the average legionary tended to be somewhat religious, if not devoutly so. Many went out of their way to honor the gods whenever the opportunity presented. It did not do to ignore and offend the gods, especially when Fortuna could step in at a moment’s notice and cock things up.
“Jorthan came to find me before I woke the century,” Pixus reported. “He said we would be departing shortly after breakfast, sir.”
“I can’t wait to see the sky again,” Sabinus said, slapping a hand on the table.
“Aye,” Pixus said in earnest agreement. “It’s not right for us to be here.”
Stiger eyed them a moment as he took another drink. He stole a quick glance about at the legionaries scattered in small groups around the common room. Pixus’s men had purposely sat away from the officers. There was nothing wrong with that, and it was quite normal. No one wanted to attract the attention of an officer. But those nearest looked ill at ease, if Stiger was any judge. He could well sympathize with them. He did not wish to be here either.
“I agree, sir,” Mectillius said. “It’s not natural, us being this far beneath the surface. Some of the men are feeling claustrophobic. All of the sounds down here too, the echoing and such, is not right and gets on the nerves.”
Stiger returned his attention to the table and took a bite of his bread. He considered the officers before him as he slowly chewed. He did not like the tone, or the direction the conversation was taking. If there was to be any chance at setting future events right, Stiger was stuck on this path he was going down and needed their help. More importantly, he desired very much to succeed so that he could eventually return to Sarai.
His eyes flicked from Sabinus to Pixus and then back again. If the officers felt this way, then so did the men, and probably more so. The last thing Stiger needed was a failure of morale in a desperate moment. This sentiment, he decided, needed to be addressed. Not only did he feel an example had to be made, but a purpose and expectation laid out for them as well. They needed to accept being here as their duty and it had to start now, before the attitude worsened and became entrenched.
“Right or wrong,” Stiger said. His voice was firm, but not so loud that it carried beyond their table. He pointed a finger down into the table and tapped it. “This is where we need to be. If duty requires us to spend more time here, in this tomb under a mountain . . . well, then so we shall. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Pixus said and everyone at the table sat up straighter, including Sabinus. “You’re right, of course. It was not my intention, nor my optio’s, to imply otherwise.”
Stiger took a slow drink from his mug as he eyed Pixus and the others. He placed the mug down on the table. “This mission, this summit that the dwarves have cooked up with the orcs, is important. Should it fail, the orc tribes will flow out of the mountains with their blood up. They will wash against our lines like the tide during a storm, rising higher and higher with each surge.” Stiger paused. The real Delvaris had not told the legion of their purpose for coming down south to Vrell. Stiger decided he would share with them what he thought their purpose was, what he needed it to be. And he intended to make it painfully clear just what was at stake. “Has anyone here ever seen an orc?”
They all shook their heads in the negative.
“The average orc warrior stands over six feet tall, and is powerfully strong,” Stiger said. “In a fight, they are a determined enemy.”
“Have you ever faced an orc, sir?” Mectillius asked.
“Yes, he has,” Sabinus said, speaking quickly before Stiger could respond. All eyes at the table turned on the senior centurion, including Stiger’s. “The legate was with a party of dwarves just a few days ago. They were ambushed in the forest by a party of orcs.”
“You were, sir?” Pixus asked, with some surprise. “I didn’t hear about that.”
“Yes, I was,” Stiger confirmed, his gaze flicking to Sabinus. He was grateful for the centurion’s timely intervention steering him out of dangerous waters. “But know this. No matter how fearsome they look, or how strong and determined they can be, orcs can be killed. I can attest to that, as I’ve personally done it. Like any other creature the gods made, they die just the same when you stick ’em with a few inches of steel.”
Stiger fell silent and took another sip from his mug.
“Sir,” Mectillius said. “It’s that serious, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Stiger made a point of meeting everyone’s gaze at the table. “And now it is time to tell you why the Thirteenth is in Vrell.”
Pixus, Mectillius, and Lerga eagerly leaned forward. Sabinus shot Stiger a cautioning look and gave a slight shake of his head. Stiger ignored him.
“The empire has a long-standing treaty with the dwarves,” Stiger continued, “the Compact. There is something under this mountain that is of incredible importance to the empire and to the dwarves. I can’t tell you what it is, not yet, at least. The orcs want it. We’re not going to let them have it.” Stiger poked his finger down into the table again. “That is why we are here.”
Pixus leaned back and shared a glance with his optio and then one with Sabinus.
“It is why we marched all the way down here, brother,” Sabinus said to Pixus, “and left the rest of the army to deal with the Tervay.”
“Then I guess, sir . . .” Pixus said, turning his gaze back to Stiger. There was a flinty look to his eyes. “ . . . this is where we belong then, underground with the dwarves, until you say otherwise.”
“That’s right.” Stiger approved of the centurion’s change in attitude. Hopefully it would become infectious and the men would buy in, too. Stiger swept his gaze around the table. “No matter how uncomfortable it is for us being here, for the good of the empire we must make do.”
“I take it, sir,” Pixus said and blew out a breath, “you don’t think the summit will be a success?”
“I have my doubts,” Stiger admitted and hesitated as he gathered his thoughts. “Though it is noble of the dwarves to think that they might be able to reach an accommodation, achieve something noteworthy, and avoid unnecessary bloodshed, I believe that there is a strong chance the talks will ultimately fail. One way or another, it will likely come to a fight. That said, I st
ill see the need to try so I will assist in such efforts, especially if it means we can save lives by avoiding the fight I foresee as coming.”
“While we are here,” Sabinus said, “Tribune Arvus is preparing the legion for that fight.”
“So,” Stiger said, drawing everyone’s attention back to him, “once we get to where the summit is being held, you all must keep your eyes open and stand ready for the unexpected. I don’t want to be caught with only one sandal on.”
“Do you expect the orcs to betray us, sir?” Mectillius asked.
“I understand that such a betrayal is unlikely,” Stiger said, and considered telling them about the minion. He decided against it. Worrying about orcs was enough for them. “The orc king apparently has some form of honor. However, I don’t want to trust my life or yours on that. Do you?”
No one said anything for several heartbeats.
“Sir,” Pixus said. The centurion took a deep breath. “I would like to tell the men what you’ve told us. Do I have your permission?”
Stiger thought about it and then shook his head. “I shall tell them myself, after Father Thomas’s service and before we march.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Pixus said, looking somewhat relieved. “Coming from you, the men will take it all the more seriously. Have no fear, sir. Once we get to the talks, my men will keep their eyes open. Next to Sabinus’s cohort, these are the best men in the legion.” He shot a glance over at Sabinus, and a slight smirk traced its way onto his face. “Perhaps even better than his best century, now that I think on it.”
Mectillius and Lerga broke out in broad grins, looking over at the senior centurion. Even Stiger almost grinned at Pixus’s cheek in poking a senior officer. He suspected the two men had been friends for years.
“Only in your dreams, my friend,” Sabinus said, pointing a finger at Pixus. “Your boys can’t hold a candle to mine. That is for certain.”
“Care to make a wager on that?” Mectillius said gamely. “Ever since our last pay, I’ve got a few coins that have been burning a hole through my purse, sir. What say we put some of your coin against mine?”
The mood at the table lightened, and Stiger found himself grinning at the exchange between the officers. It seemed that no matter the time period, there was always a healthy competition between units.
Sabinus chuckled, leaning back on the bench. “I don’t need to wager my hard-earned money against yours, Optio. I know my boys are better. That’s all that matters to me.”
“Is that so?” Pixus said. “Seems like more of an excuse to not prove it than anything else.”
“An excuse?” Sabinus said and his eyes narrowed. “All right, then. When we return to camp we can hold a contest to show who’s the best.”
“What do you have in mind?” Pixus asked, suddenly very interested, a sly look in his eyes. “What type of contest? It had best not be writing, as most of my boys don’t know their letters.”
Before Sabinus could reply, a shout rang out in dwarven. Almost as one, Brogan’s warriors stood. They began carrying their plates and mugs over to a table near the kitchen door, where they stacked them. In a stream, the dwarves moved off toward their wing of the hostel, likely to don their armor and gather their kit. Stiger was pleased that Fifth Century would be ready before Brogan’s escort. It would also allow time to address the men.
“Well,” Stiger said, standing. So badly did his legs ache, it took effort to keep from groaning. “I believe it’s time for us to go as well.” Stiger paused and looked at both Sabinus and Pixus for a long moment. Here was the perfect excuse to give Fifth Century something to think about and look forward to. Perhaps it might even partly take their minds off being underground. “Gentlemen, I do believe we will revisit this conversation. Pixus, you may wish to consider sharing this upcoming contest with your men.” Stiger paused and looked between the two officers, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I have no doubt that together we can come up with a suitable challenge and settle this important question once and for all. Don’t you agree?”
“Aye, sir,” Pixus said, grinning broadly at Sabinus. “Such an opportunity to show up First Cohort is just what my boys need to take their minds off of being under the mountain . . . that and your coming talk, sir. It should give them a little motivation.”
“Good,” Stiger said, pleased.
Sabinus looked none too happy, likely about the challenge, but he nodded as well. The honor of First Cohort was now at stake.
“Centurion Pixus,” Stiger said. “Would you be kind enough to have your men fall in, out on the road? I will speak with them after Father Thomas’s service.”
“Yes sir,” Pixus said. “And thank you, sir, for telling us what’s what and why we came.”
Stiger gave a nod as he stuffed his last roll and uneaten cheese wedge into one of his cloak pockets. He finished the water in one swallow and turned away, carrying his plate and mug to the table, where he stacked them with the others. Stiger visited the food table and grabbed a second bread roll, taking a bite.
“Plates and mugs go over there,” Pixus hollered, pointing. “Stuff what you’ve got left in your mouth and fall in outside. Anyone keeping me waiting will be on a charge. I promise you, punishment detail will not be a joyful experience.”
Chapter Twelve
“Yes, sir!” the men shouted as one.
Stiger was just wrapping up his talk to the men. He gave a satisfied nod, the massed shout echoing off the walls of the tunnel. Listening to the echoes as they retreated into the distance, Stiger wondered how far the sound would carry.
Fifth Century was assembled around him in a half oval. Pixus had gathered his men just to the side of the entrance to the Stonehammer. Its wooden double doors were painted a bright red. Above the door, an exquisite hammer had been carved into the stone. Wielding the hammer was a stone dwarf in the motion of striking at a wall, clearly at work digging a tunnel.
The hostel was located at what looked like a key junction of four tunnels, three of which were smaller than the one they had taken to get here. The space was large, with stables opposite the Stonehammer’s entrance. Five heavy-duty wagons were parked, one next to the other, just off to the side of the red double doors. Large tarps covered the contents of their beds. Stable hands were leading a team of oxen out of the stables toward the wagons.
An open skylight in the direct center of the junction, some seventy feet above, provided the tunnel’s only illumination. It told him how deep in the earth they were, but not where. Stiger found it more than a little odd to not know where exactly he was. It was a new experience for him.
Water cascaded down from the skylight in a waterfall, meaning it was raining. The dwarves had thought of this eventuality, and a large drain with a rusted iron grate was located directly under the skylight.
Stiger brought his attention back to the men. All eyes were upon him. They had seemingly accepted what he had just told them about their mission and what was at stake. Despite their apparent enthusiasm, he knew they would be concerned. Any sane person would. He just hoped their sense of duty and discipline would see them through whatever was to come.
“When we reach Garand Kos, I expect you to treat the orcs with respect. That said, I want you to keep your eyes open. I am not expecting trouble, but best be prepared should it find us. Understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” they shouted again as one.
“Anyone wanting to bring us trouble will receive it back in kind,” Stiger told them. “That happens, we show them our shield wall and give them some good steel.”
The men gave another hearty cheer, the sounds of it echoing off the walls of the stone chamber.
Stiger waited for the cheer to die down. “Centurion Pixus, kindly form your century for march.”
“Aye, sir.” Pixus turned to his men and pointed using his vine cane. “Fifth Century, you heard the legate, fall in.”
The men broke up, quickly moving to where they had left their shields and y
okes. Stiger watched them, with Sabinus at his side. The centurion held the reins of both Stiger’s horse and his own, which the stable hands had groomed, fed, and saddled.
“Well said, sir. They were hanging on your every word.” Sabinus handed the reins over to Stiger.
“It has been my experience . . .” Stiger said, rubbing Misty’s forehead in an affectionate manner. He had always liked horses. “ . . . if you clearly lay out the mission and your expectations, the men perform better.”
“Agreed.”
Stiger looked over his horse. He had secured his saddlebags before his talk. He checked his saddle, making sure it was cinched tightly, giving it a good pull. The saddle did not budge.
“I tell you,” Stiger said, turning to watch the men as they started forming a double column for march, “though I feel compelled to go and give the talks a chance, I don’t feel good about this. My experiences with the orcs have been . . . shall we say, negative at best.”
“Yes, sir,” Sabinus said. “I’ve never had dealings with orcs, so I will take your word on it.”
“They worship a dark god,” Stiger said.
“Castor,” Sabinus said. “Father Thomas told me, sir.”
“What good can come from consorting with such filth?” Stiger looked over at Sabinus, the senior-most centurion of the Thirteenth. “I ask you, how do you treat with creatures that worship such evil? Surely their hearts are just as black as their god?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Sabinus appeared troubled. He glanced over at Brogan’s escort, which had formed for march. “The dwarves have had dealings with the orcs. They’ve managed to keep the peace. That may be something to think on.”
Stiger considered the centurion’s words. “You’re saying that perhaps the orcs are not so bad?”
“I did not say that, sir. They may be perfectly awful.” Sabinus paused to suck in a breath. “It may be a possibility they can be negotiated with, as the dwarves seem to think.”
“Maybe,” Stiger said. “I guess we shall see if they are correct.”
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