“Twenty thousand!” Vargus exploded, sitting up in his chair. Several of those at the bar started talking to each other excitedly. Lan leaned back and took another sip of wine as the council degenerated into several side conversations with people from the bar interjecting their own thoughts and opinions. It seemed that things had finally slipped completely out of control and perhaps he had made a mess of the meeting. Lan finished his drink in one pull, not even bothering to taste the fine wine as he downed it.
“Lieutenant, would you mind excusing us for a few minutes?” Quintus asked after a bit, having called for quiet and received it. “I believe we should like very much to discuss your request amongst ourselves.”
“Of course,” Lan said graciously, pushing his chair back with his legs as he stood. Leaving the golden talon on the table, he grabbed his cloak from the wall and stepped outside.
After the warmth of the tavern, the cold night air struck him like a slap to the face. The lieutenant pulled his cloak tighter about himself as he stepped into the street and closed the door. Two oil lanterns hung to the sides of the door. The lanterns provided a dim patch of light by which to see a few feet out into the dirt street. Sergeant Mills, along with legionary Sulla, both of whom had been waiting outside, stood to attention and saluted. Lan returned the salute.
“That was quick,” Mills commented ironically, relaxing. Lan had been with the councilors for well over two hours. “Time to go?”
“They desired to discuss matters amongst themselves,” Lan said tersely as he kicked at a small stone with irritation. The street had once had a layer of crushed gravel, but time had seen the gravel either dispersed or ground down into the dirt.
The sergeant sighed and leaned back against the wall of the tavern, apparently content to wait. Waiting seemed to be a mandatory requirement for serving the empire. If you were not good at waiting uselessly about, sometimes for hours on end, a life in the legions was not for you. Lan chuckled to himself. Usually the reason more often than not for such interminable waits was for someone else to do their job so you could do yours.
Outside of the tavern, it was deathly quiet. With the sun well down and the moon up, the town for the most part had settled in for the night. Though Lan could not make out what they were saying, the muted voices of the councilors, sometimes raised, could be heard from inside. The debate, for that is what it seemed to be, continued for a long time.
Lan bit his lip. Usually such negotiations were handled by more senior officers, men who had much greater experience at this kind of thing. He was afraid he had made a terrible mess of things.
The lieutenant looked over at his horse, Storm, who was tethered to a hitching post a few feet away, along with the other two horses. It had been a long ride down from the castle and he was not looking forward to the journey back, in the dark. Riding at night was a dangerous business. It would be easy to miss a pothole or for his horse to make a misstep in the darkness. Still, he felt he had little choice. He needed to return to the castle as soon as possible. There was too much to do in preparing the castle for assault.
“A few days ago, these people might have ambushed and killed us out of hand,” Mills comment idly. “From what I hear, I find it hard to believe they will be kind enough to help us defend them.”
“Captain Stiger changed the dynamic,” Lan responded wearily, stifling a yawn. He was beginning to feel the effects of the wine. “Besides, as I see it, they really have no other choice. Let us hope the fools can see what is before their eyes.”
Mills grunted in reply.
Lan leaned against the wall of the tavern and waited, closing his eyes. He had heard more than enough talk to last him the night. Thankfully, Mills was silent for a time, though Lan thought he heard the sergeant mutter, ‘‘Bloody Stigers,” under his breath. Time passed and the debate inside continued unabated…then…
“Sir,” Mills called his attention, coming off the wall and nodding out into the darkness. A rider could be heard approaching. The sergeant’s hand went to the pommel of his cavalry sword as he straightened up. Sulla did the same, until Lan waved both of them back, not wanting to create an incident that could prove the undoing of any hope for improved relations. Both men relaxed but remained watchful.
A young man rode up, emerging from the darkness and into the lantern light. He seemed surprised to see legionaries standing in front of the tavern and gave all three a suspicious look before dismounting. He had a military bearing about him and wore what looked like a gray service tunic under a heavy cloak. He seemed cocksure and though he did not wear armor, he was armed with what appeared to be a legionary short sword.
He tied up his horse at the hitching post and walked past the legionaries with steady purpose and entered the tavern, closing the door behind him. Lan looked over at Mills, who shrugged in reply. The debate that had been raging inside ceased the moment he entered.
A short time later, the young man emerged, tucking a piece of paper into a pocket at his waist. He gave the lieutenant a curt nod, untethered his horse from the post and mounted up with well-practiced ease. Without saying a word or sparing the legionaries a second glance, he wheeled his horse about, kicked her forward and rode off, the darkness swallowing up both rider and animal.
“I don’t like that,” Mills broke the silence uneasily. “I don’t bloody like that at all.”
“Neither do I,” Lan admitted as the door to the tavern opened. He turned to find Councilor Hief looking out.
“Lieutenant,” Hief said, fully opening the door. “We are ready for you.”
The tavern seemed much warmer than before. The fire had been fed and crackled loudly. The other councilors were silent, though Vargus seemed angry. The man’s face was red with what Lan surmised was sullen resentment and anger. No surprise there, Lan thought.
“Lieutenant,” Quintus spoke formally for the group. “We have discussed your request. We are willing to begin discussions for a lasting agreement concerning how the garrison interacts with the valley. Councilman Bester will travel to the castle to the work out the details.”
“That will be acceptable,” Lan responded, relieved and becoming hopeful. Bester, as a supporter of the empire, seemed an easy man to work with.
“As to the supporting role you have requested,” Quintus continued, “you must understand that the garrison has been harsh with our people…” Quintus held up a restraining hand as Lan made to protest. “I know you were not part of the garrison and that it appears evil was the root cause. Regardless, you are now part of the garrison and there are people we must speak with before we can in good conscience make a decision to render you the assistance you have requested…or even, for that matter, withhold it.”
“I see,” Lan said, grinding his teeth in frustration. Captain Stiger would not be pleased with this result.
“Do you?” Vargus demanded angrily, leaning forward and jabbing a finger at the lieutenant. “Do you know what your precious legionaries did to my daughter?”
“No, sir,” Lan said, becoming wary. “I do not.”
“Vargus…” Bester pleaded, shooting a nervous look in the lieutenant’s direction and then back to the tavern proprietor. “Please. No.”
“He needs to know,” Vargus stated, barely able to control his rage. He fixed Lan with an intense gaze. “My daughter, the one pouring your wine…she was raped and beaten by three legionaries as she walked home on market day. That was just two months ago! My daughter! Raped by legionnaires…men who the empire supposedly sent here to protect us!”
The lieutenant did not flinch from the enraged father’s gaze, but instead returned it, refusing to look away. This was not the work of his men and he saw no reason to apologize for it, though just the same, he was appalled and embarrassed that legionaries had done such a shameful thing. Lan broke the tavern-keeper’s gaze as he saw Vargus’s daughter, who had just finished refilling a drink, flee behind the bar and duck into the kitchen, her head down, clearly ashamed. The kitchen door bange
d closed. Lan stared at it for a moment, before turning back to the hurt father, whose look nearly broke his heart.
“Yes,” Vargus continued breathing heavily, an anguished look of pain upon his face. “My daughter’s name is Jenna and she is but one of many. The garrison took such liberties with our women and…children.”
“Such behavior is unacceptable,” Lan stated. “If you know the offenders’ names, I will personally see that they are dealt with.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” Vargus laughed harshly and looked over at Hief. “That is rich, really rich.”
“Vargus,” Bester pleaded again, looking concerned.
“Lieutenant,” Vargus said ominously. “They have already been dealt with in a permanent manner. What would you say if I told you that I handled them myself?”
Lan was rocked by the man’s words. His shock was followed by anger. By rights those men should have been judged by the legion and not subject to vigilante justice, no matter what they had done!
“Those three…” Vargus continued and seemed to struggle for a word before continuing, “shits…lie in a shallow grave.”
Lan broke eye contact with Vargus and looked down at his own hands for a moment. He did not as yet have children. He had sisters and knew, without a doubt, that if something similar had happened to one of them, he would have done as Vargus had.
“I would have done the same,” Lan admitted in a low voice, looking back up at Vargus, meeting the angry father’s gaze. He needed their help, but the council also had to understand vigilante justice could not be accepted. “That said, I will not tolerate any future vigilante justice. Should a legionary cross the line, I expect you to report his transgression. I can promise he will face legion justice, which is not known for its mercy.”
Vargus said nothing for a moment, as he continued to look intensely at Lan, then the heat seemed to leave him in a rush. Exhaling heavily, he leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table before speaking.
“This one has balls,” Vargus commented to his fellow councilors before turning back to the lieutenant. “Lieutenant, I think I could almost like you…almost.”
“Enough of this,” Quintus ordered sternly, looking over at Vargus with a reproachful look. He then turned back to Lan. “Lieutenant, there are people we must speak to and consult before we can commit to any direct support. However, should you wish to pay our people for services rendered…we will not object. In fact, we will spread the word that you are paying for fair labor.”
“We will give you an answer concerning our decision to fully support you or not…soon,” Hief added with a note of finality.
He could understand it, considering what the valley had been through, particularly after hearing about Vargus’s daughter. After a moment, he nodded in understanding. He had gotten something, which was better than nothing.
“You should also know that we have decided to mobilize our militia,” Quintus added, almost as an afterthought.
“Militia?” Lan asked, attempting to hide his surprise and failing. He had not been aware that the valley had any type of military force. Neither Cannol nor any of the other garrison officers had mentioned one. Had the young man who had just left been part of that militia? Lan suspected so and that worried him. Surely the garrison officers would have mentioned a militia had they known one existed. This meant the council had concealed its existence, which was concerning. “The valley has a militia?”
“Yes,” Quintus continued. “We have four hundred and eighty men currently under arms, with the ability to call up another four hundred and eighty should we feel the need to do so. We are not as helpless as we appear.”
Lan was thoroughly stunned. Four hundred and eighty was the number of a full strength cohort. Though the empire had long since abandoned the cohort system in favor of companies and regiments, it meant that the valley’s militia was infantry-based. He had to get a message to the captain as soon as possible with this news. Those men could be very useful to the defense of the castle. On the other hand, if the council decided to oppose the empire and side with the rebels, things could get dangerous.
“Lieutenant,” Hief said, abruptly changing the subject. “Bester here told of the eagle. Is it true about Captain Stiger recovering the lost eagle?”
“It is,” Lan replied, disconcerted at the abrupt turn of the conversation. “You know of the eagle and the 13th?”
“Son,” Hief chuckled in a fatherly manner. “The legions have been garrisoning this valley for the last ten years. I ask you…how could we not have heard the tale of the famous 13th?”
Lan nodded. Of course they would have heard the tale of the Vanished. The 13th was all but legend and this being the region she was said to have been lost in, the legionaries from the garrison would have spoken about it.
“Do you believe the eagle is real thing?” Vargus demanded.
“I do,” the lieutenant said.
“Do you believe it genuine, on your personal honor?” Hief questioned. The councilman leaned forward, seemingly very interested in the lieutenant’s reply. Why is my honor being called into question? What is going on here?
“On my personal honor, I believe it to be the 13th’s Eagle,” Lan repeated. “Captain Stiger recovered the eagle in the company of an elven ranger and paladin of the High Father. There is no doubt in my mind that it is genuine.”
The councilors glanced at each other. A silent communication seemed to pass between them, as if they had just confirmed something. Lan wanted to know what this was all about but feared that he could not come right out and ask. He could not risk alienating these people. Captain Stiger had explicitly warned him about that. They badly needed to enlist the valley’s support and Lan did not wish to rock the boat, particularly now that he knew they had a large militia at their disposal. He glanced once again at Vargus’s marked forearms and knew with certainty where the scars had come from. Vargus had to be the commander of the militia.
“Why are you questioning my honor?” Lan asked, in the heat of the moment surprising himself at being so brash. Was it his supposition that Vargus was a military man that spurred him on? “Why is this so important to you?”
“Is it also true Captain Stiger is related to General Delvaris?” Vargus asked, ignoring Lan’s question. There was no trace of the lingering anger in Vargus’s voice. If anything, the man’s voice seemed tinged with awe.
“The captain says it is true,” Lan stated, knowing that his questions would remain unanswered unless he pressed the issue. He was unwilling to do so. “As he is a Stiger, I have no reason to question either his claim or his honor. Besides, the Delvaris name is not exactly venerated in the empire.”
“As in only a fool would willingly lay claim to it?” Vargus barked out a laugh. “Lieutenant, I think I could almost like your captain too.”
“Very well, lieutenant,” Quintus said with a heavy breath that almost seemed to Lan one of relief. “You have given us a lot to discuss and consider. Councilman Bester will travel to the castle tomorrow to hammer out an agreement with you. We will also get back to you with our decision soon.”
“Thank you for your time.” Lan stood and shook hands with each councilor. Vargus, grip firm, held the handshake a moment longer than seemed necessary. Perhaps it was another test. Lan was tired and eager to start back to the castle. The meeting and wine had only added to his fatigue. He grabbed his cloak and exited the tavern, intentionally leaving the golden talon behind.
The cold air struck him hard and he pulled his cloak tightly around him and closed the door. Mills and Sulla stood to attention, saluting. Lan pulled on his gloves. He looked up. The moon was high in the sky and it was becoming very cold.
“Mount up,” Lan snapped. His breath frosted in the cold night air. They untethered their horses and he pulled himself up onto Storm, saddle leather creaking as he shifted position to get comfortable. Looking back on the tavern, he caught a glimpse of Vargus’s daughter, Jenna, peeking out a second floor win
dow and down into the street. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second before she retreated from view. Lan felt sorrow for the poor girl. Perhaps, he considered, he could help make amends for what had been done to her. He decided to think on it. Lan pulled his horse around and gently nudged Storm into a slow, careful walk down the unlit street, headed out of town, his thoughts troubled, by the negotiations and Vargus’s daughter.
Six
MARCUS SAT CROSS-LEGGED on his camp blanket, which he had carefully laid out on the cold but dry ground of the scout camp. The rainy season was over. The ground was now firm and hard. Marcus and his team had cleared the camp of its carpet of autumn leaves and debris. They had made this secluded spot their home, at least for a precious few hours, as they rested and recovered.
The air was bitterly cold, with strong gusts of wind periodically blowing through the forest, stirring up the fallen leaves and shaking the trees. Even at a distance of two forested miles, they were far too close to the road to risk a fire. Instead, the scouts had only their blankets to rely on for warmth. It was a hardship to be sure, but such was the way with the legions. You either cut it or you did not. Those who could not were almost always weeded out during basic training and their initiation into legionary life.
Todd was taking his turn sleeping, snoring, while Davis and Marcus worked on manufacturing arrows. Though they received a regular supply, so active was their pace that they were always running short. It was the reason why each scout carried the tools to make their own.
Though arrows could be made from a number of woods, Eli insisted they make theirs from shoots of dogwood, which in the Sentinel Forest was difficult to locate, but not impossible. As a result, any free time that was not spent sleeping was generally devoted to the manufacture of spare arrows, a monotonous yet relaxing activity.
Neither spoke as they toiled away, cracking out arrow after arrow. While they worked, they were careful to keep watch and listen. They chipped away rough edges and smoothed shafts with small files, careful to make sure every shaft measured between twenty-four to twenty-seven inches in length. Once the shafts were ready, they were fitted with four-bladed iron heads. The fletching they were using came from a goose they had taken down the day before, in a small lake a few miles off the road. A week ago, the fletching had come from a pheasant that had made for some good eating. So proficient had they become that, upon completion, each arrow represented about ten minutes’ labor and, if their aim was true, would account for one rebel.
The Tiger (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 2) Page 6
