The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “I would be honored if you would dine with me and my senior officers this evening,” Stiger said to Thigra. “Your sons are invited, of course, as are any officers you deem worthy.”

  “That would be acceptable,” Thigra said. “First I would like a tour of the defenses you have constructed. As we came down from Old City, from above your fortifications appear quite extensive.” He shot a heated glance at his firstborn. “I think it would be educational for my boys to learn how the empire’s legions fight.”

  “I would be pleased to give you a . . .”

  Stiger trailed off as Thigra stiffened, staring past Stiger with wide eyes. They narrowed and the dwarf grew red in the face.

  “What is he doing here?” Thigra seemed to bite out the words.

  Stiger turned to see Father Thomas, Theo, and Therik approaching the tent. He felt a sudden headache coming on. Their timing could not have been worse. All of the legionaries nearby had turned their heads at the sight of the orc. Father Thomas did not move with his former grace but seemed to hobble along, a result of joints sore with age. Therik had slowed his pace to walk at the paladin’s side.

  “He,” Stiger said firmly, “is with us.”

  “That—” Thigra jabbed a stubby index finger toward Therik, voice shaking with rage “—is the enemy’s king.”

  All activity in the large tent ceased with those words. Father Thomas stumbled to a stop, a look of sudden concern washing over his face as he took in the dwarves.

  “Thigra,” Therik said as he and the paladin entered the administrative tent, “is good to see you, too.”

  “He tried to murder our thane.” Thigra drew his sword and turned on Stiger. “How can you allow that piece of filth to walk about your camp unfettered and without a guard? You pledged the blood vengeance to our thane. This is an outrage!”

  Two of the headquarters guard entered the tent and moved forward toward the dwarves, drawing their short swords as they advanced. Stiger held up his hand to stop them.

  “I not try to kill Brogan,” Therik said, firmly stopping several feet from the enraged dwarf.

  From out of nowhere came a deep menacing growl. Dog appeared at Stiger’s side, his teeth bared at Thigra and his head lowered, ears back. The animal moved to interpose himself between his master and the dwarf. Thigra’s eyes fell upon Dog and his rage wavered. Stiger saw it in the dwarf’s eyes.

  “Perhaps,” Stiger said in a loud voice before things could spin out of control, “you will allow me and the paladin here to explain.”

  “Yes,” Father Thomas rasped, “an explanation is in order.”

  “Thigra,” Theo said, “you are going to want to listen.”

  Growl deepening and becoming more guttural, Dog advanced on the dwarf.

  Eyes still on Dog, Thigra lowered his sword before sheathing it.

  “Dog,” Stiger called, “down.”

  The growling ceased, and Dog came to a stop but remained standing between Stiger and Thigra. The menace in the animal’s posture was plain for all to see.

  “This had best be good,” Thigra said, eyes going from Dog to Stiger.

  “Oh,” Stiger said, “it is.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Stiger stepped out into the darkness from the officer’s mess, which had been commandeered for dining with the dwarves. To combat the cold, the sides of the tent had been lowered. The press of bodies had created a warm fug within. He left the sounds of boisterous laughter, the telling of tall tales, and inebriated merriment behind. Heated wine had been liberally poured, and the results had been predictable.

  Once outside, Stiger stopped and glanced back into the tent through the open entrance flap. He did not much feel like celebrating Thigra’s warband joining the legion. His heart still ached with Sarai’s loss. Then there was the coming battle. He could not count on it going down like the future Sabinus had related to him. But at the same time, Stiger felt trapped. He knew Delvaris had fought a battle in this place. It was a naturally strong position. The river and the lack of any other easy crossing made it the perfect chokepoint. More concerning to him was that the minion knew all this as well. What surprises would the minion have for him?

  A chill breeze blew by, ruffling the tent behind him. By the humidity, Stiger judged that there would be rain by morning. A storm might even be on the wind.

  How could he beat the creature without sharing Delvaris’s fate?

  That question lay heavily upon his mind. Stiger wished he had some tobacco. He had always found a good pipe relaxing. When he returned to his tent this evening, he would ask Venthus if he could scrounge some up.

  Stiger scanned the semi-darkness of the encampment before him. Torches had been secured to poles at the corner of each street to provide some light amongst the hundreds of tents. Campfires by the dozens lit up the darkened camp just ahead, casting wild, shifting shadows as the flames jumped and danced about. There were many thousands of campfires throughout the encampment. Stiger could see their combined orange glow reflected on the low-hanging clouds above.

  “I see you no wish to drink.”

  Stiger turned to see Therik standing a few feet to his left. He had seen Therik leave a short while before but thought he had retired for the evening. Stiger suspected Therik had been waiting for him. The orc took a step nearer.

  “I don’t feel like drinking,” Stiger said. “I have much on my mind.”

  “Burden of leader is something few know, and even fewer understand,” Therik said.

  Stiger did not immediately reply. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard truer words.”

  “Is good you convinced Thigra I had no part to kill Brogan,” Therik said. “I would have killed Thigra had it come to blows and then would be no fixing things.”

  In the torchlight, Stiger looked carefully at Therik. The orc had not intended the words as bravado. He simply meant them.

  “Having a paladin vouch for you is no small thing,” Stiger said.

  “I don’t usually listen to priests, but your paladin is different,” Therik said. “Something about him speaks of trust and honesty.”

  Stiger reflected on what had occurred in the administrative tent. Theo had also spoken passionately on Therik’s behalf. Thigra had given Theo’s words just as much credence as he had those of Father Thomas. Either Thigra already knew of Theo’s new appointment as Brogan’s advisor or Theo had always been a close fixture to the thane. Stiger suspected the latter. His friend was most definitely more than he let on.

  “You should have let me die,” Therik said, breaking the silence that had grown between them. “Tell me. Why you bring me back from death’s mistress? Why save me?”

  “Do I need a reason?” Stiger turned his gaze out to the darkness as, armor chinking, a file of men on patrol marched close by. The men’s gazes were upon Therik as they passed.

  “Eyes front,” the optio in command of the patrol snapped at his men. “Show some bloody respect.”

  The optio offered Stiger a salute and then they were past, moving up the street. A few moments later the patrol turned onto a side street and were lost from view.

  “I need your reason,” Therik said, crossing his large muscular arms.

  “Why?” Stiger asked him. “Does it matter?”

  Therik’s eyes glittered against the torchlight as they gazed at one another.

  “I wanted much for my kingdom. I was honored, respected. Children looked up to me. They wanted to be me.” Therik fell briefly silent. When he next spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I am without people. I can never go home. You should have let me die.” Therik’s tone lost the whisper and became firm. “So, I want to know. Why you want me? Explain. I need to know.”

  Stiger realized he should have expected this from Therik, but he had not given it any thought. There had simply been too much to do and not enough time for anything else, let alone consider what should be done with the deposed king. Therik had clearly been giving it some thought himself.

  “I am
not perfect,” Stiger said, carefully picking his words. “I made mistakes—the razing of the temple, for example. I thought by saving you I would do a small right, after doing so much wrong.”

  Therik straightened up. He held Stiger’s gaze a long moment, then exhaled and seemed to relax, his look softening. A moment later he glanced away, looking off into the night.

  “And if I am another?”

  “Then I will have to live with it, as I do with all of the other mistakes I’ve made,” Stiger said. “Besides, Castor thought to make an example of you. I was unwilling to let him do that. You deserve better.”

  “Do I?” Therik asked in a tone that was somewhat strangled. “You not only one with mistakes. I turned from Castor. It cost me all. Perhaps I should have had more faith.”

  Behind them in the tent, there was an outburst of uproarious laughter. Stiger glanced back through the entrance. He saw Thigra and Theo along with a number of legion officers laughing as Salt offered up a toast. Thigra pounded his palm on the table, shaking the cups and jars.

  “You gave me life,” Therik said, “but living with failure is not so easy.”

  “I’ve learned living is hard,” Stiger said, his thoughts returning to Sarai. What would he give to see her again? What would he trade to smell the fragrance of her hair? Or the touch of her skin on his? The brush of her lips? But that was not meant to be. Stiger turned to fully face Therik.

  “Who’s to say you failed? The book of your life is not fully written. Neither is mine,” Stiger said.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think it is what we make of ourselves and how we affect others that matters in the end. In a way, you can say life is the journey, not the destination.”

  Therik reached up a hand and ran a thumb along his left tusk.

  “You sound like priest,” Therik said.

  “I took part of that from scripture,” Stiger admitted and then quoted the line from the High Father’s Holy Book. He had been thinking on it a lot since Father Thomas had helped him beat back Rarokan. “Life is the journey; death is the destination.”

  Therik gave a grunt.

  “I helped give you your life back. What you do with the extra time is your business.” Stiger paused briefly. “There is a place for you here. That is, should you wish it, of course.”

  “With you humans? Serving in your legion?” Therik shot him a dubious expression.

  “No,” Stiger said. “The legion is not the place for you.”

  “Then where?”

  “At my side,” Stiger said, once again feeling a deep responsibility for the deposed king. Despite their species being alien to one another, Stiger felt an odd kinship with Therik. The more he thought on it, the more it seemed like the correct decision. Therik needed a purpose and a place in this world. “I would welcome your help, whether it be your counsel, sword, or both. The choice is up to you.”

  Therik’s eyes widened slightly and then narrowed, as if suspicious of Stiger’s offer.

  “And if I choose to walk through the gates and out into the night?” Therik asked. “What then?”

  “Then I shall order the gates opened, and provide you with several days’ rations, a cloak, and a sword. I meant what I said.”

  “Do you still mean to kill the minion?” Therik asked.

  “Yes,” Stiger said.

  “Good,” Therik said, disgust creeping into his tone. “My son handed me over to priests. They gave me to Castor’s servant.”

  Stiger looked over sharply at the orc. “It was the minion that tortured you?”

  Therik gave a nod. “It told me to give you a message.”

  “Oh?” Stiger did not like the sound of that.

  “It is coming for you,” Therik said simply.

  “I had no doubt,” Stiger said grimly, “for should it not, I would come for it.”

  “It told me it would meet you here at stone bridge.” Therik paused and cocked his head to the side. “How did it know you would come here?”

  “That does not matter,” Stiger said, for he did not wish to explain.

  “I doubt that,” Therik said.

  Stiger suspected there was more, and though he did not wish to hear it, he knew he had to. “What else did it say?”

  “That you have seen it kill you.”

  Stiger felt a chill run down his spine. How had it known the sword had shown him the vision? Had it really been Stiger that Rarokan had shown mortally wounded?

  Who was it? Stiger asked Rarokan, turning his thoughts inward.

  There was no reply.

  Answer me!

  Nothing.

  “Is true, then?” Therik asked.

  “It seeks to get under my skin,” Stiger said. “That is all.”

  Therik gave a nod but looked far from convinced.

  “My son,” Therik said, “my army, and the priests will come also.”

  “I hope so,” Stiger said. “I want them all to come, for once your army is broken, I will get my chance at the minion. I will end this madness.”

  “You are not right in head, I think,” Therik said, “to want to face the holy warrior of Castor and its strong medicine.”

  “Perhaps,” Stiger said and gazed meaningfully back at Therik. “Look who I consort with.”

  Therik gave a grunt that was part laugh. He then grew serious and tapped a fist to his chest.

  “To face Castor, you show much heart,” Therik said. He then pointed a finger at Stiger. “I fight with you to defeat Castor. I kill my son, too. When all is done, I decide what I do.”

  “Fair enough,” Stiger said in agreement.

  Without another word, Therik turned and walked off, leaving Stiger staring after him until he rounded a street corner.

  In the distance, thunder rumbled. The sky flickered with lightning. It followed up a few heartbeats later with a deeper and longer rumble. There would be a storm tonight. Dog padded up to him, emerging like a wraith from out of the shadows.

  “Hello there,” Stiger said, suspecting the animal had been watching him and Therik converse. Could it really understand what he said?

  Dog sat down and looked up at him, tongue hanging stupidly out of the side of his mouth. His tail gave a single wag in the dirt.

  “Care for a stroll around camp?” Stiger asked. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  Dog stood and wagged his tail energetically.

  “Let’s get to it, then.”

  Stiger set off, slowly walking through the large encampment. Years ago, he had taken to walking at night when problems had plagued him. It helped to lessen the tension and stress. Walking with Dog was itself soothing. There was something about that animal’s companionship that just helped. Perhaps it was knowing Dog was there, a constant companion that never judged.

  “Whichever god sent you,” Stiger said to the animal as they turned onto a street lined with communal tents from First Cohort, “I am grateful.”

  Lifting a leg to urinate on a tent’s guide rope, Dog ignored him. Stiger kept walking. A moment later, Dog caught up, falling in at his side like a good soldier. The animal sniffed the ground as they continued their walk through the heavily shadowed camp.

  There were few legionaries up and about at this late hour. Those he did see were gathered around campfires, enjoying their wine ration, talking, or taking a turn at dice. The rest were asleep, for the morrow promised another day of hard labor, beginning at sunup and ceasing only when the sun dipped beneath the mountains.

  Stiger passed close to a fire where ten men had gathered for warmth and light. They made to stand, scrambling hastily to their feet.

  “Keep your seats,” Stiger said, waving them back down, and entered their circle. He smelled the tobacco before he saw that one of the men was smoking a pipe. It flared in the semi-darkness as he took a hearty pull, sucking in the smoke.

  Stiger stepped closer to the fire and warmed his hands. Dog sat down at his side.

  “May I have a pull?” Stiger asked, lookin
g over at the man.

  “Of course, sir.” The legionary handed the pipe over to another man, who gave it to Stiger. “It’s not as fine as you’re likely used to, but it’s tobacco.”

  Stiger took a long pull on the pipe, savoring the warmth and taste. He handed the pipe back to the man and blew out a long stream of smoke. He almost sighed with pleasure.

  “Thank you,” Stiger said. “It’s been far too long since I enjoyed a good pipe.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Stiger noticed several jars of wine sitting in the dirt. A few lay on their sides, clearly empty. The men were issued a daily ration and had clearly been sharing. It was a common practice. Stiger could almost sense the weary exhaustion around the fire.

  “After a long day of hard work, there’s nothing finer than a jar of wine, a good pipe, a warm fire, and the company of one’s comrades,” Stiger said.

  “You can say that again, sir,” the man with the pipe said with a chuckle. The others joined in.

  “I am surprised you boys aren’t asleep yet,” Stiger said.

  “We will be soon enough, sir,” the same legionary said. He was an older man, nearing retirement age. “Is it true, sir?”

  “Is what true?”

  “About you and that paladin . . .” The man then hesitated, as if he abruptly realized he had become perhaps too presumptuous. Stiger noticed several of those around the fire lean forward eagerly or became more attentive. He could well guess what was coming.

  “About me and the paladin doing what?” Stiger prompted when the man did not speak further. He wanted to hear what rumor was making its way around camp. “It’s all right. Ask your question.”

  “Performing a miracle and healing that orc king?” The man’s gaze was intense, hopeful even. “One of my mates heard Centurion Prestus talking about it, sir. But you knows how things get in camp with tales. They grow in the telling.”

  Stiger thought on it for a moment before he replied. Belief in the gods was strong amongst the legions. In a profession where death and maiming was a distinct possibility, the men tended to be devout believers, worshiping either one or multiple deities. It always paid to offer up the regular sacrifices to Fortuna. At least, one hoped it did, for she could be a fickle god. It did not do to neglect the gods by avoiding services or failing to offer appropriate sacrifices. Legionaries were also seriously superstitious. A good commander recognized this, and Stiger was about to play on it now.