“So,” Stiger said, “the enemy is already behind us? Worse, they are in the city we may have to fall back on should things go to shit? Do I have that right?”
“Not quite. Where the goblins are is in the lower reaches of Old City,” Theo said. “That’s nowhere near the gate to the mountain or Grata’Jalor. They would have to get through the citadel to truly flank us. So, I think we are safe.” Theo gestured out at the enemy across the river. “Relatively speaking.”
Stiger still did not like it, especially considering Brogan was concerned enough to leave the garrison in place at the citadel. It spoke of the incursion being more serious than Theo let on.
“How long ‘til we get reinforcement, then?”
“Tomorrow at the earliest,” Theo said, taking a further look at the scroll. “Brogan does not feel it will take long to force the goblins back out of Old City. Apparently, he’s already made good progress of it.”
Stiger let out a long, slow breath. His gaze traveled back across the river. The enemy had struck in Old City to keep the dwarves from the fight. He was sure of it, and he was on his own for the foreseeable future.
“We will just have to hold, then,” Stiger said.
There was a loud crack from behind, which caused them all to jump. Stiger turned to see Thoggle had suddenly appeared upon the platform. The purple crystal on the wizard’s staff was throbbing brilliantly. It rapidly faded away to a dull, ugly purple.
Thoggle’s eyes fell upon Therik. “A week ago, I would not have foreseen you standing here in such august company.”
Stiger wondered if the wizard had meant that as a joke. If he did, it fell flat, for no one laughed.
“I am pleased you have decided to join our cause,” Thoggle said when Therik failed to respond. The orc’s jaw was hanging open slightly.
“You are the wizard they speak of?” Therik jerked a thumb at Stiger and Theo.
“I am,” Thoggle said, “and you are King Therik.”
“King of nothing,” Therik replied. “Now, I am just Therik.”
“We shall see.” Thoggle stumped his way painfully up to the railing, where he came to a stop next to Stiger. Leaning heavily on his staff, the wizard was silent for a long time as he surveyed the enemy. Stiger thought he detected the wizard’s shoulders slump slightly. But the day’s light was waning fast and he could not be sure.
“If you are wondering,” Thoggle finally said, “Castor’s minion is over there, just a short way off, as are his priests with power and the will to use it.”
“Are you here to help?” Stiger asked, wondering if the wizard would do nothing, like Ogg, as the orcs came against their lines. He recalled his conversation with Thoggle about the wizard using proxies. “Or just talk?”
“I am here to fight.” Thoggle shot Stiger an irritated look. Clearly Thoggle did not enjoy being challenged. “And if I am any judge, you are going to need my help, too.”
“Do they have any wizards over there?” Stiger asked.
“No,” Thoggle said. “They do not.”
“Are you certain?” Theo asked, shooting a sidelong glance over at Thoggle. “I had heard of an orc wizard a few years back.”
“More than certain,” Thoggle said grimly, “for I just killed her.”
“You slew Atella of the Red?” Therik asked, eyes widening. He took a step back from Thoggle, clearly alarmed.
“Yes,” Thoggle said and pursed his lips. “That evil witch is finally dead, and it wasn’t as difficult as I expected it to be.”
“So, they only have Castor’s minion and priests now. That’s a tiny mercy,” Stiger said, thinking on the wizard he and his men had encountered in the Sentinel Forest. Eli had managed to kill him before he could wreak catastrophic damage amongst Stiger’s men. It had been a desperate moment, and seeing what the wizard had done in just a short span of time, Stiger was grateful Thoggle had dealt with his counterpart on the other side.
A shout of alarm went up from the left side of the line. Stiger’s head snapped around. Several men were pointing behind them, up toward Thane’s Mountain. They were looking skyward. More men turned to look. Shouts of alarm and panic quickly filled the air.
A moment later, an earsplitting roar ripped across the air.
Stiger almost smiled.
As promised, Menos had arrived as Sian Tane. The great black dragon let loose another roar of rage so loud that Stiger thought the platform vibrated slightly. The dragon, high over their lines, circled once before swinging around and extending his great wings outward, dumping speed and altitude.
Like a great big bird, the dragon gracefully descended, landing several hundred yards behind the legion’s defensive line. The ground shook as the dragon claws touched down. Flapping his wings and standing upon his hind legs, Menos extended his long neck up into the air and let loose a great gout of flame, lighting up the dimming sky and the growing gloom of evening.
Another more distant roar cut across the air from behind the lines in the direction of Thane’s Mountain. Though Stiger could not see her, Currose was out there.
“Is that one of the guardians of the Gate?” Theo asked after a long moment of silence.
“It is,” Stiger said. “I was told Sian Tane and Currose would be coming to the party.”
“The dragon talks too much,” Thoggle said in a grumpy tone. “He should not visit with you and meddle.”
“I never thought to ever see them out of Grata’Jalor,” Theo said in a whisper.
Stiger glanced over at Therik and saw a stricken look on his face. The orc had one hand on the platform’s railing to steady himself. It was clear he, too, had not expected a dragon.
“Do you think they got this message?” Stiger asked Therik.
The orc king gave an uncertain nod but said nothing, as if at a loss for words.
Stiger turned his gaze to the orc lines across the river to see how they had reacted to the dragon. In the waning light he couldn’t see much, but the lines seemed to have remained solidly in place.
Oddly, Stiger heard cries of alarm and panic close by. He turned and swept his gaze upon his own lines. Men were screaming and yelling. Some had drifted off the line, running or walking down the smooth slope of the rampart. One went running full tilt off toward the tree line a quarter mile away. Others milled about in small groups or individually, staring at the dragon in shock.
Fear gripped Stiger’s heart in a rigid fist. He moved over to the back of the platform.
“Severus,” Stiger shouted down at the tribune, who was staring dumfounded at the dragon.
The tribune did not respond.
“Severus,” Stiger shouted, throwing his parade-ground voice into it.
The tribune shook himself and tore his gaze from the dragon. He looked up at Stiger, a sheepish expression on his young face.
“Quickly,” Stiger yelled down, “get word to the officers of every cohort. The dragon is on our side! Send all riders to spread the word. We need to keep order and the men on the lines. Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Severus said.
“Good lad,” Stiger said. “Now get on it!”
The tribune ran for the dispatch riders.
“And have the call to reform sounded,” Stiger shouted as an afterthought.
“Yes, sir!” Severus yelled back as he ran toward the picket line.
Moments later, riders went galloping off along the lines. Stiger watched the dispatch riders go, shouting as they rode along the lines. He hoped it was enough to hold the men in place, for they faced disaster if a general panic took hold.
A horn blew the call to reform, then again. Within moments, the nearest centurions were shouting orders at their men. Years of discipline that had literally been beaten into the men took hold. Instinctively, they began to respond to their officers. Stiger watched with growing relief as order was restored and the iron discipline of the legion was reasserted. Realizing the danger had passed, Stiger puffed out his cheeks.
“Perhaps,”
Theo said, “you should have alerted your officers first that a dragon was coming? And maybe me, too? I almost shat myself from fear.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The moon was high overhead, shining its bright light down upon the battlefield. On his platform, Stiger stood rooted in place, silently watching the scene unfold below him. His hands held the railing tightly in a white-knuckled grip. Therik stood next to him on the left, as did Theo on the right. Thoggle, on the other side of Theo, was there watching as well.
Trumpets blared. Thousands of the enemy, carrying hundreds of scaling ladders, made their way across the bridge at a run. Screaming battle cries, they poured out into the bowl below the ridge and began to make their way up toward the trench and defensive wall. The legion’s fifty pieces of ballista released, balls whistling overhead and hammering down on the enemy. Each impact thudded into the ground, throwing up a shower of dirt, killing and maiming indiscriminately.
The forty throwers, snug in their covered towers, began cracking away, discharging their powerful bolts into the masses of the enemy. Disregarding armor as if it were parchment, the large iron-tipped bolts punched into bodies, sometimes passing clean through. The deadly bolts had been known to rip off arms, legs, and heads. Stiger had even seen bolts go clean through one enemy and kill the next right behind. The force of the tension-powered bolts was tremendous.
Despite the deadly barrage, the orcs came on, pushing steadily forward. The thousands of concealed foot-sized holes, each with a sharpened stake, had crippled dozens before the orcs realized there was peril underfoot. Still they came, creeping forward and watching where they placed their feet. As they moved up the slopes toward the trench and wall, a rain of arrows from the auxiliaries arced up into the darkness and fell downward. The arrow storm became a near continual shower that rained down ten yards before the trench.
Stiger thought it a wonder any survived the deadly hail and marveled as the enemy continued to push forward. A massed javelin toss aimed for those about to climb into the trench flew out from behind the barricade. The clatter of the metal-headed shower of heavy missiles momentarily overrode all other sound. Orcs fell by the hundreds and still, like an advancing tide, they swept forward, climbing down into the trench.
This wasn’t war, Stiger thought, watching the enemy’s valiant thrust forward. It was a waste of fine soldiers, nothing short of murder.
The thought of an enemy commander so willing to callously throw away the lives of such well-trained and disciplined soldiers, even if they were orcs, angered Stiger. It surprised him that he held a measure of sympathy for Castor’s followers. He suppressed that feeling. He had a job to do.
As those first into the bowl neared the trench and defensive wall, the next formation crossed the bridge. They had to climb and clamber over the bodies of those who had fallen as they began their advance up the slopes. They had to discover for themselves the peril of the crippling concealed foot-sized holes. All the while, the legion’s artillery hammered down in a pounding rain of merciless death.
By the time good numbers of the enemy had started to climb down into the trench, Stiger estimated there were more than a thousand orc casualties on the field. The stakes that waited at the bottom of the V-shaped trench took even more lives.
So steep were the walls of the trench, orcs slipped and fell into it and were impaled, the sharpened stakes punching clean through armor and unarmored body parts with uncaring purpose. Others were eager to keep moving forward to get under the shelter of the base of the legion’s defensive wall. They shoved those before them, throwing them into the trench, and then clambered down and onto the bodies of wounded and dead. They trampled those unfortunates, in some cases most likely driving the stakes of the impaled deeper.
Stiger’s hands gripped the railing so hard his fingers hurt. In moments, the trench was a seething mass of the enemy. Then the first few began climbing out and working their way forward. They huddled under the lee of the wall and must have felt relief at beating the odds and finally reaching safety. Any sense of security was only temporary, and terribly misleading.
From above, legionaries began dropping rocks down on the heads of the enemy sheltering just below. Those that, in the chaos and scramble of the advance, had managed to retain their shields held them over their heads for protection. It wasn’t much, as the rocks were in some cases thirty pounds or more. More damaging was the heated sand the legionaries shoveled over and onto the enemy below. Then came buckets of boiling water. The water splashed down, not only scalding exposed skin, but also running under armor and burning away the flesh there. The screams of agony sounded animal-like to Stiger.
It was awful, almost painful to watch, but absolutely necessary. This was war in all its wretched magnificence. When those uninitiated to the horror thought on battles, they never saw this brutal butchery.
Under the light of the full moon, Stiger watched as ladder teams worked their way forward, all the while under an unrelenting barrage. A ladder carrier would drop or release his hold as he tripped, was struck by a missile, or injured in some other way. The heavy ladder would topple to the ground and then inevitably be picked up as another orc lent a hand. The team would continue working its way ever forward through the storm.
Stiger could not help but admire the enemy’s courage and resolve. It was an impressive spirit of determination that drove them forward. He also felt a little guilt, since he had helped provide them their motivation with the razing of the temple and town in Forkham.
Stiger glanced back behind his defensive line. The archers were lined up in spaced formations of twenty and broken up along the length of the ridge. Fires had been lit next to each formation. This provided additional light to see what they were doing. Each archer had dozens of arrows stuck in the ground before him.
An archer simply needed to reach down for a fresh missile, aim, and then loose. The legion’s archers were firing behind the line with no direct line of sight on the enemy. Their indirect fire was guided by spotting officers positioned on the wall, who, by holding up flags at a certain angle, provided them the elevation at which to loose. Though it would have been preferable to give the archers direct line of sight, Stiger could not afford to, as space along the barricade was needed for his heavy infantry, who were even now preparing to receive the main assault.
Stiger’s gaze shifted back to the wall as the first of the ladders went up. It was immediately pushed off and back even before the enemy could begin climbing. Additional ladders crashed against the barricade, and the real assault began. The legionaries fought back, using shield, short sword, spear, and sometimes fists.
The number of scaling ladders being thrown up against the wall went from dozens to hundreds in just a few heartbeats. The fight for the wall was just as brutal and ugly as the advance up the ridge. Stiger watched as a legionary reached over the barricade and stabbed at an orc who was first up a ladder. The legionary’s short sword took the orc in the neck. At the same time, two legionaries on either side of the first managed with their shields to push the ladder back and off the wall. Three other orcs were on it, clinging tightly to the rungs as the ladder crashed down into the trench.
Stiger’s eyes were drawn to another ladder. An orc holding onto the top of the ladder with his left hand swung a sword one-handed with his right. He slashed it out in wide arcs at a legionary directly behind the barricade. The man easily blocked the clumsy strikes with his shield. Another legionary to the man’s left leaned out over the barricade and punched the iron tip of his javelin into the orc’s exposed armpit. The creature howled in agony and fell from the ladder, taking the two orcs below him to the ground.
Everywhere Stiger looked, it was the same. The legion was having no problem holding the line and keeping the orcs from gaining purchase anywhere along the wall. The enemy was paying a terrible price for the assault.
Stiger let go a breath he had not realized he was holding and he released the railing. His fingers ached terribly and he flexed
them. He had been so focused on the action, he had not noticed the overwhelming noise from the battle. It seemed to crash home as it beat down on the senses. The great cacophony was almost a physical force hammering at his ears in a great jumble of sound.
Turning around, Stiger swung his gaze around to look behind him. Maddeningly, Sian Tane remained where he had landed and was doing nothing to help. The dragon’s head was up. His gaze was on the fighting, head swaying back and forth as he looked about.
Currose had not yet shown herself, but Stiger had heard her distant calls before the fighting had begun. Where was she? He also had no idea where Father Thomas had gone. It was possible the paladin was with the surgeons, preparing to care for the wounded. The battle so far was being fought on a mundane level. The orc priests had not yet put in an appearance, nor had the wyrms.
How long would that last?
Shifting his gaze back to the fight below, Stiger wondered what he was missing. To this point, the battle had gone as expected. Surely the minion did not wish it to go that way. Or did it? Rarokan had shown him the vision of Delvaris dying on a battlefield, mortally wounded by Castor’s servant. If events played out the same way, Stiger would die in Delvaris’s stead on the following day. Castor would win. At some point, somewhere, he knew he must face the minion. Would it be as he had seen in the vision?
The thought of the upcoming confrontation gnawed at him. How could he beat the creature and still survive?
Watching the fighting drag violently on, Stiger felt like a helpless bystander. Plans had been made and were now being executed. For the time being, as the legate he had nothing to do other than observe. It was frustrating, for he wanted to do something, anything. That was the terrible temptation, to interfere or micromanage. It was only with great effort he managed to refrain from doing so, for that was something that could and had led inexperienced leaders to their ruin. Stiger understood he had to let the officers of the legion do their jobs.
The Tiger's Time Page 59
