The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I understand that you legionaries are issued a wine ration?” Theo was suddenly looking hopeful. “Do I have that right?”

  “Forget it.” Sabinus shot Theo a disgusted look. “We’re not carrying any wine with us. At this point, all the men have in their canteens is water. I am afraid you are out of luck, old boy.”

  “I’m not talking about now,” Theo said. “I’m looking forward to when we get to your camp. Do you think you will be able to spare me some wine?” He glanced back toward the piles of orc dead in the tunnel junction. “After what we’ve just gone through, I could use a drink, or two. Perhaps we can share a jar and toast our good fortune?”

  “You’re coming back with us?” Sabinus asked, clearly surprised. “You’re not going back to your company?”

  “No, he is not,” Stiger said. He would speak with Sabinus on his suspicions later. “It seems the thane assigned him to us as a guide home and liaison. He will be with us for some time, I think.”

  “A liaison for drink?” Sabinus asked and suddenly chuckled. “Or did Brogan lend him out as a wine taster?”

  “Very funny,” Theo said. “Ha ha.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Sabinus said, though he was having serious difficulty containing his mirth.

  “All right, then,” Stiger said. “It is time we got moving.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Stiger held Misty’s reins loosely in one hand, almost letting them fall. He stared down at the valley, utterly at a loss. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  They had emerged from the mountain trail onto the top of a cliff near Bowman’s Pond, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile away somewhere to his left. It seemed as if everything was burning—all of the towns and villages, farmsteads, plantations, fields ready for harvest. In the early morning light, huge columns of smoke rose high up into the blue sky, turning it an ugly gray color. The smell of smoke, even this far away from the fire, was strong.

  He shook his head in dismay. He was too late. The orcs had struck the valley hard. Gazing down at the smoke and destruction, Stiger wondered on how many had died.

  His eyes scanned downward, searching for Sarai’s farm. After a moment, he found it. His stomach clenched. It, too, had been burned. A plume of smoke climbed upward from where the house was. He could not see anything meaningful, for the smoke from the fire obscured his view and they were too far away to make out any real details.

  A terrible, gnawing fear gripped him. At his side, as if sensing his thoughts, Dog gave a low whine. Stiger swung around and took a firmer hold on Misty’s reins. He pulled himself up into the saddle.

  “Wait,” Sabinus called out, clearly aware of what Stiger intended. “Sir, you can’t go alone. It may be dangerous!”

  Ignoring him, Stiger turned the horse away from the cliff face and drove his heels in. Misty exploded forward, running for the trees. Barking, Dog chased after him. Stiger plunged back into the trees, seeking the downward slope into the valley. He found it. The wooded slope to the side of the cliff was steep but manageable. The cold fall air whipped about him as he worked his way as quickly as he could around the cliff.

  From what he had seen from the top of the cliff, there was a large vineyard just below. From the vineyard he knew there would be a path that would take him to the base of the valley. Stiger weaved his way through the trees, working his way toward the vineyard. He was moving so quickly, branches occasionally slapped him in the face when he wasn’t fast enough at batting them away.

  He came to the edge of the wood, at the highest point of the vineyard. Stiger pulled Misty to a stop and, leaning forward in the saddle, looked down again into the valley. He judged he was only three or four miles from the farm. Dog caught up with him, barking madly and circling around Misty’s legs. Though he was close to home, he had never come through the vineyard. Quickly, Stiger studied the way down, searching for a path.

  He found it—at least he thought so. The vineyard had been constructed on a series of shelved terraces. He came to the conclusion he would have to ride around the edge of the first shelf, paralleling the vines, until he came to what appeared to be a path that lead from terrace to terrace right down to the valley floor. Stiger started Misty forward again. Dog ran ahead.

  He followed the vines for two hundred yards before turning onto the path that led downward between the terraced fields of well cared for vines. The path was wide enough for a horse and cart. It was steep at points, but manageable. It was certainly not made for haste. He started down, carefully negotiating his way from terrace to terrace, going faster than he should until the path let out onto the grassy pasture slopes that preceded the valley floor.

  It was a relief to be down. There was now only open land, broken by a handful of pastures and fields of wheat or barley between him and the farm, perhaps a little over a mile distant. He rode hard, passing a series of fields where the crops had been burned. In the distance, he could see the remains of farmsteads and plantations. Smoke climbed steadily upward from every structure in sight. A huge plume to the north told him the town of Venera had been hit and burned.

  Stiger cut through a wheat field that had been burned, the edges of which still smoldered. He passed close to a scorched-out farmhouse and caught a glimpse of several bodies, including children, lying before the entrance. They were spaced out one after another over ten yards. It appeared as if they’d been killed while running for their lives. Black-fletched arrows poked out of their backs. The sight of the dead civilians spurred him onward. Like a vice, fear gripped his heart.

  “Come on, come on,” Stiger shouted, kicking Misty again, wanting the horse to go faster.

  Hooves pounding, he turned her onto the hard-packed dirt road that led to their farm, steering around potholes and ruts in the road. Maddeningly, it seemed to take forever, but then the farm was in sight. He urged her onward.

  The thick smell of smoke on the air seemed to get stronger with every yard. At the edge of the farmyard, Stiger yanked back on the reins. The horse skidded to a stop. Misty’s breath came hard, heavy, and ragged, steaming on the cold air. Sweat ran down her flanks as her breath gusted in and out. Foam had accumulated around her mouth. It dripped onto the ground, but Stiger paid her no mind. His eyes were on the farm. That was all that mattered.

  As if in a dream, he slipped to the ground and released the horse’s reins. Where before there’d been a quaint little farmhouse, only a burned-out, smoking shell remained, much of which had collapsed in upon itself. Surprisingly, the barn he had repaired and they’d worked on together still stood. One wall was charred black. For some reason, after being torched, the fire had gone out and the barn hadn’t burned.

  His eyes scanned the farmyard. There were bodies everywhere, orcs and dwarves. Aleric’s boys had clearly not gone down without a fight. Many of the dwarves lay in lines, almost as if they’d gone to sleep next to each other. Wherever a line of dead was, a heap of orcs lay before it. At a glance, Stiger understood Aleric had managed to form his company for battle. The lines of dead meant they’d fought in formation. This also told Stiger the orcs had come to the farm in force. Only half of the dwarves seemed to be wearing any armor. That meant the attack had come as a surprise. The enemy’s focus had been the farm and not Aleric’s camp, some two hundred yards away. Stiger glanced over that way and saw the camp stood oddly untouched and undamaged. The tents were still arranged in orderly rows.

  Dog padded up to Stiger’s side and gave out a long whimper.

  There was no sign of anyone alive. The orcs had come and gone. They’d left no survivors. Only a handful of carrion birds showed any life, and these were worrying away at the bodies.

  As if drunk, Stiger took a staggered step forward and then another. Through sheer force of will alone, he continued forward, placing one wooden step after another. It was almost mechanical, as he stepped around and over the bodies. He found it a gruesome scene, some of the dead having suffered terrible wounds. Dried blood had dyed large
patches of grass red or coated the dirt green. Whatever had happened here had occurred hours before, likely in the dead of night.

  Nearer the barn, he came across their cow. She had been butchered for her meat. The pigs had also seen the same treatment. They’d been led out of their pen and also butchered. There was no sign of the sheep. Even the chickens were gone.

  Stepping up to the barn, Stiger peered inside. It had been ransacked and looted. Most of the tools and tack for the horse were gone. The hay, set aside for the coming winter, had been taken as well. That, Stiger thought, was likely the reason the barn stood. Stiger’s eyes swept the interior. The spare saddle, an ancient thing that was falling apart, had been taken too. He noted they’d even grabbed the cart. A pair of shovels and an old hammer were all that remained of the tools. His harvested walnuts lay upon the ground, scattered and discarded like a child’s play stones.

  Stiger turned away from the barn door and gazed upon the ruins of their once happy house. He knew what he would find there and hesitated to continue on. Like the house, his hopes and dreams had gone up in smoke. Knowing he had little choice, he made his way over.

  As he came up to the ruins, he could still feel the heat of the fire that had claimed the house. It radiated from the stone foundation, pushing back on the chill air. Thin wavering and curling trails of smoke drifted upward from a few beams that yet smoldered, occasionally giving off a low crackle or pop.

  The stench of the burned wood filled his nostrils. There was another smell there as well, something he had encountered before. He felt like vomiting. It was the sickly stench of charred and burned flesh. He entered what had been the kitchen. The fireplace still stood, as did the oven, appearing almost as if nothing had happened. Everything else was gone or nearly unrecognizable. It was shocking to see what had seemed permanent changed in such a way.

  Then, he saw the body.

  It was half buried under a pile of ash and debris. A blackened hand, fingers outstretched, poked up out of the ash, as if reaching out to him for help. What he could see of the body had been burnt beyond recognition, all except for some long brown hair. It had somehow escaped the inferno which had destroyed the house. He was certain it was Sarai.

  “Oh, gods,” Stiger whispered.

  He had come back too late.

  “I’m sorry,” Stiger whispered, his throat catching with the words. “I am so sorry.”

  Tears blurred his vision. He fell to his knees amidst the ash and debris. When it had mattered most, he had not been here to protect the woman he loved. He lowered his head into his hands and wept uncontrollably.

  “I should never have left,” he cried out with the agony. Stiger pounded his fist upon a burnt floorboard, dislodging a cloud of ash and shaking the debris. “I should never have left you.”

  Dog came up behind Stiger. The animal sniffed at him and then placed its big shaggy head on Stiger’s right shoulder. The touch surprised him and he stiffened. He sensed the animal was sharing its own sorrow at Sarai’s passing.

  Stiger couldn’t take it. He shrugged the animal off. He wanted only to be left alone with his grief. The ache and heartbreak were so terrible, it was almost indescribable. His chest burned from the pain.

  He was utterly gutted, devastated. It was as if a great big hole had been ripped from his soul. He cried out in anguish, sounding very much as if wounded in battle. He had known peace and joy. He had tasted contentment, something that had been absent from his life. It had all been ripped violently away.

  Stiger felt betrayed. He had been let down by the god he had served, worshiped, and honored.

  A feeling of absolute loathing stole over him.

  He hated.

  “I hate them all,” he said. The senseless devastation the gods had wrought upon him gave way to an unmitigated rage. Stiger surrendered to it, relished it even. The tears went from those of grief and loss to rage. With effort, he tore his gaze away from Sarai’s charred and unrecognizable body.

  He pulled himself to his feet and looked around the destruction of the farm, studying his surroundings. By the woodpile, next to his split firewood, his eyes fell upon an orc standard that had been planted boldly in the ground. He recognized it immediately. It belonged to Therik. It was clear the banner had been intentionally left for him to find.

  The sight of it made him ill. Stiger bent over and wretched, emptying his guts upon the ash. He straightened, wiping his mouth clean. He stared hard at Therik’s standard, stoking his rage and hate.

  “I will kill them all,” Stiger whispered to himself. It was a promise. “I will make them pay for this. I will make them suffer.”

  Dog gave a growl that seemed filled with a matching anger.

  And I will help you, the sword hissed. We shall give them suffering beyond what they could have ever imagined possible.

  Stiger had resisted Rarokan’s efforts for so long. Now he wondered why. The sword had been correct. Orcs could not be trusted. The summit had been a mistake. The orcs were the enemy. There was only one thing to do with them, and that was to kill them all.

  “Agreed,” Stiger said to Rarokan, his eyes moving back to Sarai’s body. “First, there is yet something I must do.”

  I understand.

  He stood and pulled his gaze from the body. Dog looked up at him with watery eyes. Stiger glanced down at those sad, sympathetic eyes and then walked woodenly toward the barn. He did not want sympathy. His hands shook from the rage. He had never known such utter loathing. Revenge was all that mattered now.

  Stepping into the barn, he found an old shovel and laid his hand upon it. He closed his eyes a moment, not quite prepared for what he was about to do. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back outside with the shovel in hand.

  Dog was waiting.

  Stiger stumbled to a stop, abruptly and unexpectedly reminded of happier times, when he had looked upon the animal as just another hungry beggar in search of a meal. The sadness returned in a rush. He gave out a half sob, struggled, and then got a handle on his emotions. He continued on. Just beyond the woodpile, there was a lovely old apple tree.

  Stiger hesitated a step, recalling a near perfect day not too long ago. It had been beautifully sunny with not a cloud in the sky. He and Sarai had been picking apples. Stiger could almost see her standing there, next to the tree, bag in hand. He shook his head and continued on.

  Wormy fruit littered the ground. The tree produced so many apples, they had only collected what they could possibly use and a few bushels to sell or barter away at the local market. Stiger had intended to gather up the excess apples when time permitted. They would have gone into the pigs’ slop. Now, like Sarai, they were destined to rot. The thought of it brought out the rage, which helped to overshadow the pain.

  Sucking in a haggard breath, Stiger glanced around the tree. He selected a spot in the shade, four yards from the trunk. He hoped there weren’t too many roots. Stiger bent his back and began digging, steadily tossing aside one shovel full of dirt at a time. The tears came again and he wept as he dug. Shovel after shovel, Stiger continued, working himself into a furious and unrelenting pace.

  His breath came fast and hard. It felt good to do something, even if it was digging a grave. In a short time, he became thoroughly drenched in sweat, and still he continued on. As he worked, the rage gave way once again, shifting back over to sadness. He wept until his eyes hurt and no more tears would come. He had not cried like this since his mother had died during the civil war back when he was a youth. He continued digging.

  The sound of approaching horses caused him to stop his work and turn. Theo and Father Thomas were riding up to the farm. Their horses appeared lathered and their breath steamed in the cold air.

  Entering the farmyard, they spotted Stiger and came to a stop. Theo slowly slid off his pony. The dwarf eyed Stiger for a long moment, glanced around at the dead, and then made his way over to the farmhouse. A short while later, he returned with a grim expression and stomped over.

  Their
gazes met.

  Theo laid a hand upon Stiger’s shoulder, an unbelievably sad look in his eyes. It made it all feel worse somehow, knowing that another sympathized with his loss. Stiger resumed shoveling.

  “She was a good and kind woman,” Theo said. “She cared for you very much.”

  “There are no words,” Stiger said, voice hoarse with raw emotion. “No words.”

  Theo patted him on the shoulder, turned, and walked off towards the barn, leaving Stiger and Father Thomas alone. The paladin sat upon his horse, his face drawn and pale. He seemed about to say something. Stiger held up a hand and shook his head violently in the negative, then turned his back on the paladin and resumed digging. After a few moments, Father Thomas climbed down off his horse and led it over to the barn.

  Theo returned with a shovel.

  “No,” Stiger said. “This is something I must do myself.”

  “That, my friend, is where you are wrong.” Theo stepped into the grave and, before Stiger could object further, began digging.

  Stiger looked over at the dwarf for several heartbeats. He did not have the energy or the will to force Theo out, so he resumed his work. They dug in silence, working rapidly, and before Stiger knew it, the grave was ready to receive a body. Stiger glanced toward the house. He wasn’t ready to let go. He knew in his heart he never would be.

  Unspeaking, the two stood for a time, gazing into the grave.

  “I lost my wife ten years ago,” Theo said, breaking the silence. Stiger could hear the emotion hang heavy in his friend’s voice.

  Stiger looked up. Theo’s face was a mask of grief.

  “I did not know,” Stiger said. He was unsure what to say other than, “I am sorry.”

  It sounded rather weak.