The Tiger's Time

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “Too bad he’s not in spear range,” Stiger said.

  “He is for me.” Therik grabbed a javelin from the nearest legionary. He drew back, aimed, and threw in one smooth motion, grunting as he did it. The javelin flew up into the air and slammed down bare inches from its intended target.

  “That was a good toss,” the legionary said to Therik.

  “Not good enough,” Therik replied.

  Hommand turned. With the cheering, he had not heard the javelin land. He pulled the javelin out of the ground, made a show of examining it. He felt the weapon’s point as he gazed back on his father. He broke the weapon upon a knee and then turned his back to Therik. All the while, the mad cheering continued, though boos could be heard, with many of the enemy to their front pointing at Therik in apparent outrage.

  Answer me now, Stiger said, returning to his conversation with Rarokan. Agree, or you can go for a swim when this is all done.

  I agree.

  Stiger thought the answer came a little too quickly.

  “Give me another.” Therik held out his hand for a javelin from the next legionary. “I spit him good this time.”

  A screech from above dragged their attention upward. A dark blue-colored dragon, much smaller than the noctalum, was descending with frightening speed, talons extended. With the clear sky, where it had come from Stiger did not know. It was a shock. The dragon struck the gate with a tremendous crash. The ground shook with the violence of the crushing impact. Men were knocked from their feet. Stiger went to his knees, catching himself with a hand on the barricade. He felt the heat before he saw it. The dragon shot a blast of fire along the wall, burning men just feet from him.

  The dragon roared. Stiger felt a terrible fear steal over him. He huddled against the barricade, crying out in panic. His eyes were on the fearsome creature as it began moving into the fort, climbing over the ruins of the gate.

  Draw me, Rarokan said. It is using its will to frighten you.

  Stiger wanted nothing more than to run. The fear increased. He went to all fours and hid his face in the dirt of the rampart.

  Draw me, Rarokan insisted.

  Stiger could not move.

  Touch the hilt.

  “No,” Stiger cried.

  Do it now! Rarokan shouted. It will push back the fear.

  Stiger’s muscles at first didn’t want to cooperate, but his mind desperately wanted the fear to end. He reached for the sword. It was a struggle just to move his arm and overcome the paralyzing fear. Finally, his finger brushed the hilt. A surge of energy flowed into Stiger and, with it, the fear retreated. It was still there, but was not as strong as before, no longer debilitating.

  Pulling himself to his feet, Stiger was at a loss for what to do. Men just feet away were engulfed in flame, writhing away on the ground. Those who were not touched by the fire were overwhelmed by fear. So too was Therik, who was curled up and hiding behind a discarded shield.

  The wall on the other side of the shattered gate exploded in fire as the dragon let loose another spray of death. Men burned, screaming in agony before their lungs burned too. Then they writhed in unspeakable torment before expiring.

  Stiger looked on the dragon. It was huge. Not quite as large as the noctalum, but it was still damn big. There was something magnificent about the fearsome creature. The dragon was a dark blue color, almost to the point of black. Its eyes were a reddish color.

  The wyrm was moving through the gate and into the encampment. The dragon reared up and Stiger got a good look at its back, which was covered by thick, armored scales. The dragon blew out a jet of fire into the encampment. The fire sprayed outward at least sixty feet, setting men and tents on fire. It burned those crippled by fear and helpless.

  The sight of good men being killed in such a way infuriated Stiger. But he still did not know what to do.

  Attack it, Rarokan yelled in his mind. You must hurry.

  Stiger drew the sword; the familiar tingle was instead a surge of incredible power that made his hair stand on end. The tiredness from lack of sleep vanished in an instant.

  Stiger felt time slow to a crawl, even as the sword exploded into blue flame that licked at the air.

  How do I kill it? Stiger asked. The dragon seemed to be moving in slow motion. Fighting it seemed an impossible task.

  Stiger saw Dog confronting the dragon, teeth bared. The dragon hesitated and actually took a step back. Then it roared at Dog.

  Stick it now, Rarokan shouted at him. Quickly, before it attacks the guardian or becomes aware of us.

  Stiger understood. Shoving cowering men aside, he ran along the wall toward the destroyed gate and dragon. He ran through dragon fire, which had mostly burned itself out. He felt the intense heat on the air and through his boots. The dirt had been turned to a glassy crust and crunched with every footfall.

  The dragon had stopped moving deeper into the encampment, its attention now on Dog. It was so large that, though the head and neck were inside of the encampment, its back legs and tail were still at the gate. Stiger ran for all he was worth. He came to the edge, where the shattered gate had been, and launched himself into the air, leaping for the dragon’s back. As Stiger was in midair, the dragon blew out another gout of flame, this blast aiming for Dog.

  The dragon never saw Stiger coming. He landed hard on its back. The wind was driven from his lungs as he drove the sword down deeply into the blue armored hide.

  The sword slid in with only a little resistance. The force of the landing helped to drive the sword deeper. The hilt of the sword exploded with heat as the dragon screamed in rage, then what sounded like sudden fear and panic.

  Stiger tried to let go as pain from the sword surged up into his body, but he couldn’t. He could feel Rarokan eagerly draining the life force out of the fearsome creature, even as it struggled to fight back against the wizard. The dragon tried to shake him off, bucking like a horse. Its exertions carried it farther into the fort. Stiger held onto the sword as the dragon sought to dislodge him. The sword was in deep, and even if Stiger had wanted to, he could not have let go. His hand seemed cemented to the sword.

  The dragon snaked its head around, jaws opening for him. Stiger saw rows of serrated teeth that were nearly as tall as a man come nearer.

  Stiger screamed as the sword’s power slammed into him. The surge of energy increased to a tidal wave as Rarokan took the last of the creature’s life force in one great rush. Stiger’s vision went white. Every inch of his skin seemed to be on fire. Had the dragon breathed fire on him? The dragon screamed again, somewhat feeble this time. Then the wyrm’s legs gave out, and everything went still.

  Stiger blinked, his vision returning as the rush of power faded. The dragon was dead. He struggled to get air back into his lungs. Everything around him had gone completely still. He was finally able to suck in a breath.

  Stiger still gripped the sword, which was embedded almost up to the hilt into the dragon’s back. It throbbed with power in his hand.

  He glanced down at the wyrm. It was still and lifeless, covered in armored, fishlike scales that reflected the sunlight slightly with a metallic blue tinge. The dragon’s wings were drawn up to its body. The neck snaked outward in the dirt. The red eyes were closed, never to open again, and a long, thick, pink tongue hung limply out of a mouth filled with wicked-looking teeth. Oddly, Stiger felt regret at killing such a magnificent beast. He pulled the sword free and stood tall on the fearsome creature’s back. The weapon burned with an intense blue flame. Stiger breathed in, feeling more alive than he had ever felt.

  Yes, Rarokan said. Finally . . . I have regained a measure of myself and my will . . . You are much more than you were, more than you were ever meant to be.

  You took its soul, Stiger accused, becoming angry.

  No, Rarokan said, and Stiger sensed truth in the words. I wanted to. I only took its life force, which is more than enough. You now have the power to face Castor’s servant and withstand its considerable will.


  Satisfied, Stiger climbed down off the dragon and glanced around. Everything had gone silent. He could not see Dog. He desperately hoped the animal was okay. All eyes in the encampment were upon him. It was clear they were stunned by what they had just witnessed. Stiger felt dazed himself. He turned around in a complete circle and came to a stop. The dragon’s long tail stretched out through the ruined gate.

  He saw Cetrite had moved up near the encampment’s entrance, just fifteen yards from Stiger. Hommand was with him. Stiger’s gaze met Cetrite’s. The orc priest stretched forth his staff. Black lightning arced out toward him. Without even thinking about it, Stiger held up the sword. The black, spidery lightning struck it with a flash, crackling and snapping with the impact upon the glowing blade. Then it was gone.

  The priest’s eyes narrowed and it took a step back, pulling Hommand with it.

  The legionaries gave a hearty cheer.

  “Delvaris . . . Delvaris . . . Delvaris,” they shouted.

  The priest said something to Therik’s son, who turned, drew his sword, and shouted to an orc just behind him with a horn. The horn call was a long, steady blast. There was a moment of silence. The enemy host gave a great shout and surged toward the trench that surrounded the encampment. Hundreds of the enemy carrying the bundles of sticks moved forward and tossed them into the trench.

  The assault was on.

  Stiger’s eyes swung around the gap in their wall where the gate had been. The wall to his right still burned with dragon fire. The bodies of burned legionaries littered the wall and the slope leading down into the encampment. It was a horrific sight. He put it from his mind.

  “I need a line!” Stiger shouted at a group of legionaries from the reserve who were milling about just yards away. He pointed with his sword toward the gap. “I need a line, now!”

  Stiger glanced around. Orcs were throwing bundles of sticks into the trench every few feet to form bridges from where the enemy would make their assault on the walls. They had only moments to get a shield wall set or all would be lost.

  “You heard the legate,” a centurion amongst them roared, shoving and pushing men forward toward the gate. “Get moving.”

  The first orc made it through the trench, pulling himself up and out. Stiger strode forward, passing over the ruined gate to confront it. The creature spotted Stiger, bared its tusks, and swung a hammer at him. Stiger ducked and stuck it with his sword, which punched right through the chest armor like a heated knife in butter. There was a sizzling sound. The hilt of the sword, already hot in Stiger’s hand, grew warmer. The orc’s eyes glazed over and it fell back, dead. Another orc climbed over the bundles of sticks that had been tossed in and leveled a sword at Stiger, but it did not move forward to strike. Others orcs began climbing up out of the trench or over the bundles of sticks.

  Stiger moved forward to attack before they could come together against him. The first orc he attacked seemed slow as it moved its sword to block his strike. Stiger knocked the creature’s blade aside and jabbed it through the neck. The creature fell back into the trench, knocking another who was climbing out backward and down onto the sharpened stakes below. Stiger jabbed another right behind it as it too was climbing out. All it took was a nick on the arm and death was immediate. As Stiger fought onward, the sword’s flame grew in brilliance with every life taken.

  More orcs climbed out of the trench, and soon their numbers became too great. Stiger rapidly found himself giving up space so they couldn’t surround him. The fighting was becoming hotter by the moment. He struggled to kill and keep the enemy away from him. A sword snuck through his defense and smacked down painfully on his shoulder armor, almost knocking him off balance.

  Staggering, Stiger retreated a couple steps as a hammer swung out into the space where he had been. Then, Dog was there, jumping on the back of a warrior who had thought to strike from the side. The animal ripped and tore at the orc’s shoulder, taking him to the ground. Therik was beside him, roaring and hurling oaths in his own language as he fought using the sword Stiger had given him and wearing only a simple tunic.

  The king slashed open the neck of his opponent. Therik pounded his chest and let out an animal-like roar before engaging another of the enemy. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiger saw Father Thomas wading into the fight, his beautifully crafted saber flashing brilliantly in the sunlight. Though old beyond his years, the paladin moved with the grace of a dancer.

  Stiger lost track of time. He had no idea how long they fought, taking orc after orc. His focus became single-minded. The rage the sword had fed him was absent, and in its place there was a terrible determination to kill all before him. He had to buy enough time so that a defensive line could be formed before the gate.

  Something hit Stiger hard on the back and knocked him to the ground. He lost his grip on the sword and it went flying. Dazed, Stiger rolled onto his side. As he did, a large foot slammed down into the ground where his head had been a moment before. Stiger looked up at a massive armored thing standing above him with a large spear in hand. The thing struck down for his chest. He rolled again. The iron spearhead hammered into the ground next to him.

  Stiger pulled his dagger and scrambled backwards. He was able to get back to his feet and came to a crouch.

  The creature looked much like an orc but was far larger, at least twelve feet tall and without the tusks. Its skin was green, but unlike an orc, it was very hairy, almost as if it were covered in fur. It was also very muscular and powerfully strong. He found himself facing a mountain troll.

  Its eyes fell on the dagger in Stiger’s hand. A leering smile broke out on its ugly face. The creature showed him yellowed and rotten teeth as it lumbered forward.

  Stiger looked around for his sword and saw it behind the troll. There were no other weapons within easy reach.

  “Okay, big boy,” Stiger said to it, studying the troll carefully so that he could better understand his opponent’s weaknesses. The creature wore plate armor over a thick brown woolen tunic. The armor covered both its chest and back. It also wore greaves, which protected its shins, and vambraces for the forearms. “Shall we dance?” Stiger asked it, flashing the troll a smile of his own.

  The troll seemed to get his meaning, for it charged, lumbering forward. Stiger stood his ground as it came nearer. He could feel the heavy footfalls of the troll through his boots. The troll swung the end of the spear like a club, aiming for his chest. Stiger ducked and dove to his left, rolling in the dirt as the spear swung harmlessly overhead and coming right back up to his feet. It was a neat trick Sergeant Tiro had taught him years ago.

  The troll’s momentum had carried it past Stiger. Before it could turn around, he lunged after it, driving the dagger into the back of the troll’s unprotected knee. The troll screamed as the blade went in and staggered a step. It whipped the spear back and around to get at Stiger.

  Stiger gave the dagger a vicious twist and felt the blade cut through tendon before dodging backward and away. The troll, limping badly, turned around. There was murder in its eyes. Stiger took a couple of steps backward then, with a flick of his wrist, reversed his hold from the hilt to the blade. Before the troll understood what he was doing, Stiger threw the dagger with a smooth, practiced motion. The dagger landed spot on with a sickening, meaty thwack and imbedded itself dead center in the troll’s throat.

  Surprise mixed with pain registered in the troll’s beady eyes. It dropped the spear and reached up, feeling the hilt of the dagger. It drew the blade out and then looked at it as green blood flowed freely from the wound and down its chest armor. The troll opened its mouth and a thick stream of blood flowed out. It began to choke. The troll released the knife, tottered a moment, and then fell forward to the ground. Its legs twitched.

  The fighting was still going on around Stiger. He reached down and picked up his sword. As he did, an orc rushed him. Stiger brought his sword up and blocked the strike, turning it aside. The tip of the orc’s blade scraped across Stiger’s chest armor. The
n they crashed together and went down in a tumble as the orc’s momentum carried it forward.

  Stiger almost lost his grip on his sword as the orc landed atop his sword arm. With his free hand, he punched the creature in the face again and again until it moved to get away from him and the repeated blows. Suddenly free, Stiger got back to his feet and made to lunge for the orc, who had pulled himself up to his knees. Someone grabbed him from behind, roughly dragging him backward. Stiger saw the green arms of an orc wrapped tightly about his chest and fought back, trying to swing his sword at the creature.

  “Stop,” the orc shouted in his ear. “It is Therik.”

  Stiger relaxed and allowed Therik to continue to drag him back and through a line of legionaries who had placed their shields to the front. Therik released him and stepped back. Stiger blinked, regaining his senses. The intense single-minded focus was gone and with it came a severe tiredness that threatened to buckle his knees. The sword had dimmed, too. Stiger saw Dog still out beyond the line. The animal knocked an orc down and neatly ripped open its throat.

  “Dog,” Stiger shouted. “Come.”

  Dog turned and immediately bounded back toward him. The legionaries of the line opened their shields so the animal could get through. Stiger, Therik, and Dog moved back through four ranks and found themselves standing before the body of the dragon. The tail trailed backward through the line and beyond the gate. Father Thomas joined them a moment later.

  “You crazy.” Therik grinned and pointed his sword at the dragon’s body. The king was breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight. So too were they all. “Taking on wyrm by self . . . I never have thought it. Then you take troll.” He pounded Stiger on the back. “I like you.”

  Stiger glanced around as the sound of the assault on the fortified encampment slammed home. He could see the tops of scaling ladders land. There had been no opportunity to remove the dead on the south wall. Those sent to secure the south wall fought amid the burned and charred remains of those who had died to dragon fire.