Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1) (4 page)

“Yes, sir,” Ikely answered.

“Good.” Stiger nodded. The lieutenant and sergeant saluted and left.

Holding the reins of his horse, Stiger gazed at his surroundings. Imperial legionary encampments were expected to be well-ordered, clean and maintained. This encampment was a disgrace, and spoke volumes about the commanding general.

Kromen was a powerbroker in the senate and he was trying to increase his family’s prestige by making a go of it here in the South. He had never had any real military experience and had simply purchased, called in favors, and bribed his way into his current position. Stiger saw nothing wrong with such political machinations. It had been done before and would be done again. It was expected that imperial senators would advance their careers and family interests through a successful military command and set an example for the other families by bringing further glory to the empire. It was why many sitting senators had begun their careers serving with the legions in their youth. Military service to the empire was considered a pathway to future political success, which in turn usually led to the accumulation of vast wealth, power and fame.

It was widely understood General Kromen was trying to make up for his lack of service by suppressing the Southern rebellion. Stiger suspected that General Mammot had also not served, meaning the top two leadership positions running the war in the South were held by amateurs. Both had likely also stacked the legions with their own pet officers and clients, leaving only a few hardened professionals like Karol on hand. It appeared that managing legions under their command had proved more than a match for both generals, and the evidence of that was plain.

The legionaries who had been stuck in this encampment for months looked like ghosts to Stiger. With no sewage sanitation system, everything was contaminated, including the stream running through the valley, from which the men drew their water. Diseases worse than simple dysentery were likely burning their way through the encampment. Hopefully his men, having recently arrived, had not had time to catch anything too terrible, like the Yellow Death. Stiger pulled himself up onto his horse. His mount, a stallion named Nomad, kept lifting his hooves to keep them from sinking deeper into the muck. The horse was unsettled and so was his rider.

“Easy, boy,” Stiger soothed, absently patting his horse’s neck. He continued to study the camp, from which thousands of fires smoked lazily upward into what had become a steady rain. Several scarecrows of men from other units trudged by, heads bowed against the downpour. There was a general apathy that Stiger found thoroughly disturbing.

The misery was awful to see. It was overwhelming and it offended Stiger’s sensibilities as a legionary officer. Four entire imperial legions, some of the most powerful fighting formations the world had ever seen, were rotting away before his eyes. Not for the first time, he found himself angry that such good men should be treated in such a manner. At this rate, General Kromen was sowing the seeds for a disaster. The gods alone knew what would happen when winter finally arrived and the ground hardened. At that point, the annual fighting season would begin.

“So this is what defeat is like,” Stiger said to himself, shaking his head in utter disgust. In the North, under General Treim’s command, he had led a first rate company. Here, in the South, his fortunes seemed to have changed drastically. The gods could be fickle, he knew, offering their fortune one moment and withholding it the next. Twisting the reins with a sudden surge of anger, he resolved to set his own fate. He would make his new command into a first rate company, very different from the rot that surrounded him. The 85
^th
would become the finest company in the South. He would set an example for others to follow. The gods had given him a challenge. Anger boiling his blood, Stiger ground his teeth and swore to the gods that he would accept their challenge and succeed.

Three

The company finally marched out through the main gate around five bells in the afternoon. Stiger sat astride Nomad, calmly watching as his two-hundred-odd men, along with ten company mules, slogged through the mud. Several nearby gate sentries watched sullenly as the company moved past. The sentries looked on with deadened expressions, as if they were only going through with the motions of living. Tarnished and rusted, their armor suffered from lack of care. Their shields, a legionary’s most prized possession, had also seen better days. These they had leaned against an interior of the wall of the gatehouse. If they could, Stiger wondered idly, would they march out with him?

The rain had returned to a steady drizzle. The weather was simply wretched, and judging by the clouds, might soon worsen. Despite the poor conditions and the inadequacy of the men, Stiger was somewhat satisfied. This new command, no matter how risky and dangerous the mission, was in reality an independent command. He would have a free hand in developing his men.

The captain was under no illusion that his job would be easy. His command lacked self-respect and discipline. He would instill both, while working to rebuild them into an effective, cohesive fighting force. They had learned to become indolent and lazy. He would drill and train them to exhaustion, working and pushing them to be better. Under his hand, the men would relearn what it meant to be a legionary in the service of the empire.

Though his men did not yet realize it, he cared deeply about their welfare. Stiger would devote a great deal of his personal time and attention to making their lives better. At first, they would believe he was like every other worthless officer they had known, intent on making life as miserable as possible. They would be forced to change, and they would hate him for it. Yes, they would hate him, even as they began to once again respect themselves.

Judging by the sullen and hostile looks he was receiving, they were already well on their way to developing that hate. Over time, their attitude would change and eventually they would recognize the purpose behind his actions. If that didn’t happen, one of the poor wretches was likely to stick him with a knife when his back was turned. It was not unknown for unpopular officers to meet an untimely end at the hands of their own men. Usually such outrages occurred during the chaos of battle, though sometimes it happened in camp in the middle of the night. Stiger frowned. He would have to be careful.

Eli cantered up as Stiger sat contemplating his men and the job ahead. The elf was exceedingly perceptive, and having sensed his friend’s mood, said nothing as the company continued to march by. Eli had known Ben Stiger for nearly a decade, and in that time they had become good friends. Eli knew Stiger would speak when he was ready. Besides, Eli recognized, there was really no need to interrupt his friend’s thoughts at the moment, as he did not have anything of pressing importance to report.

“Sorry lot, are they not?” Stiger said finally, without turning. It was more of a statement than a question. The captain sighed heavily, rubbing the stubble on his jaw with his right hand while his left held the reins loosely.

“Far from the poorest I have seen,” Eli responded neutrally, not wishing to burden his friend with his true judgment. Instead, he chose to deflect. “I do believe, though, as you humans speak, that you have your work sliced out for you.”

“Say and cut,” Stiger corrected, with a slight trace of amusement. Eli had picked up the common tongue that was spoken throughout much of the empire, but occasionally he still mixed up his words. Eli, like all elves, strove toward personal perfection in nearly every task, no matter how insignificant. It nettled the elf every time Stiger caught him mangling the common tongue. These days, however, such mangling was less frequent than it had been when they first met. Stiger wished he could speak Elven as well as Eli spoke Common.

“I found a nice location,” Eli reported, not wanting to admit to a human he had made such an error. “An old farmstead about four miles from this valley. The farmhouse and barn appear to have been abandoned for several years. Both will require a bit of work to keep the rain out. The barn is of good size and will provide adequate shelter for the animals. The main planting field is overgrown, but with some clearing it will provide plenty of space for the company to camp and train. There is also a small stream running behind the farmhouse.”

“Sounds like a pleasant spot to begin rebuilding the men,” Stiger responded, still watching his bedraggled men slog sullenly along.

“I took the liberty of instructing Lieutenant Ikely on which road to take,” Eli informed his friend as he pulled the hood of his cloak up further in an attempt to keep the drizzle out.

Stiger was silent for several moments. He looked back over at the gate. “A sad state this place.”

“I will readily admit I have not seen its like,” Eli admitted, glancing over at the wooden walls of the encampment. Whether they were keeping the enemy out or the legionaries in was up for debate. “I feared for your health.”

“I wish I had your constitution, my friend,” Stiger sighed. He had never seen Eli with even a case of the sniffles, let alone anything more serious.

After a few minutes, the last of the men stumbled, and sloshed by, followed by Sergeant Ranl and four newly acquired and very battered, old supply wagons on their last legs. The wagons were covered and packed full of supplies. Trailing the wagons were the ten additional heavily loaded company mules, two or three tethered to the tail end of each wagon. The mules, like the men before them, struggled in the churned up mud of the road. Sergeant Ranl handled the lead wagon himself, holding the reins loosely. The sergeant nodded to the captain as the wagon struggled past. The captain nodded in return.

Stiger waited till the last of the wagons crawled by before he brought Nomad to a slow trot alongside the road, where the ground was a little more firm. Eli kept pace next to him. At the far head of the column, Lieutenant Ikely steered his horse off to one side, angling the company onto the proper road. Next to the lieutenant slogged the company’s standard-bearer. The red battle standard drooped, heavy from the rain. A faded number “85” was emblazoned on it. Stiger thought the standard looked exceedingly sad.

For some time the two friends rode in silence together, next to the wagons, before Stiger broke the silence with a question.

“Did you happen across any rebels while you were scouting for a campsite?” Stiger would have bet two imperial gold talons that the legions were under direct enemy observation. Had Stiger been the rebel general, he would have the legions closely watched. If anyone were able to prove that theory, it would be Eli. There was no better scout than an elf.

“Yes,” Eli admitted. “I discovered two concealed positions. When time permits, I shall perform a more thorough search to determine if there are any others.”

“Good,” Stiger replied with a slight growl. “I will want them eliminated before we march to Vrell. They must not report our departure.”

***

Four long muddy hours were consumed slogging to the campsite Eli had selected. Besides the rain and mud, his legionaries were poor marchers, which contributed to the slow pace. Stiger had been taught, from the first moment that he had entered service, that those who could not march were useless.

A legionary should be able to march twenty miles under full kit without becoming blown. A full kit included shield, armor, sword, spear (if required), mess kit, personal gear and issued rations. Imperial spears were heavy, usually weighing around nine pounds, and his men had not been issued any. In the captain’s opinion, their load was light, and yet his men were having difficulty making just four miles! Had the campsite been a couple miles further, he was confident many would have collapsed.

The sun had completely set by the time the company arrived at the campsite. Thankfully, the rain had also stopped falling. The moon, which was beginning to poke through a scattered cloud cover, provided a bit of pale light. Wet, tired and muddy, the men staggered along, feet catching on branches and fieldstones as they stumbled into the campsite.

Sergeant Ranl and Lieutenant Ikely had thoughtfully secured and brought along a supply of dried logs in one of the wagons. They had also brought a small supply of “Dragon’s Breath,” a low-quality flammable liquid made from olives, specifically used for starting fires in damp conditions. A fire was made while a search was organized for semidry branches and logs. These were added to the growing blaze and soon the camp had a single large bonfire blazing away, driving back the dampness and darkness. The fire helped to restore weary spirits.

Per his custom, Stiger walked the outskirts of the campsite to obtain a firsthand look of the perimeter. It was exactly as Eli had described it, overgrown and abandoned. If Eli said something was so, it usually was. Stiger had long-ceased questioning his friend in such matters. As Stiger made his way around, the sergeants were busy moving about the camp, supervising the clearing of brush and the erection of tents. The company had no corporals, so Ikely was assisting as best he could.

The captain paused briefly to study the activity behind him as the men worked, then continued his examination of the camp perimeter. Though it was dark and little could be seen, Stiger had learned the hard way that wherever he was camped, it was wise to have at least a basic grasp of the lay of the land. Should they come under attack, such knowledge of the ground could prove to be the difference between life and death. When the sun came up, he would do a second, more thorough study of the perimeter and surrounding terrain.

Eli had chosen well, he concluded, after coming full circle on his walk around the perimeter. He had begun at the backside of the campsite, where the stream gurgled happily. It was a fine spot to begin the process of rebuilding the men. The site had everything he needed: running water, plenty of room for training, and most importantly, it was secluded. A little scrub forest had grown up around the farm, the result of long-abandoned and untended lands.

The main encampment was far enough away that his company would effectively be isolated from the sickness, disease, poor morale and resentment being bred within its walls. There would be some contact, but Stiger would do everything he could to keep his men as isolated as possible. Stiger himself, however, was not far enough away from the petty intrigue. Along this line of thought, his right hand had involuntarily found the pommel of his sword, gripping it tightly. He was sure he had neither seen nor heard the last of Captain Handi.

Stiger suddenly became aware of a strange quiet, or perhaps a sense of disquiet, in the trees on the other side of the stream. The bugs had stopped singing their nightly tune. The captain mentally tensed, but showed no physical reaction. He casually shifted his stance, carefully removing his hand from his sword pommel, though keeping it close. He scanned and studied the tree line on the opposite side of the stream. The tension left him as he realized what it was that had set him on edge.

“It is a very good site,” Stiger said quietly, shifting his stance and eyeing the dark woods beyond the stream with some amusement. He crossed his arms and cracked a smile. “Excellent try.”

Eli, silent as a fox, stepped out from amongst the trees, almost seeming to materialize out of thin air. The elf carefully stepped across the stream, using a couple of large rocks to keep from getting wet. He approached without the slightest trace of a smirk on his perpetually youthful face.

“I admit, I thought I might have caught your mind wandering,” Eli frowned. “You look … shall I say, distracted.”

Eli had quit the column early during its march. He had taken it upon himself to perform a more thorough reconnoitering of the area surrounding the company’s campsite. As a result, he had been gone for several hours.

“How very perceptive of you,” Stiger replied wryly. His heart was still beating rapidly, though it would never do to admit it to his friend. The two had been playing this game for years. Each would occasionally attempt to sneak up, unobserved, on the other. All elven children played the game, and Eli had introduced Stiger to it. Deeply impressed with Eli’s skill, Stiger had resolved to learn all he could in an attempt to emulate the elf’s nearly effortless ability to move through the forest unheard and unseen. Under his friend’s patient tutelage, Stiger had become quite skilled, though he could not quite reach the level of mastery his friend had achieved. In the end, Stiger had come to the conclusion that if he had several hundred years to become one with the forest, he would be able to easily match Eli’s skill.

“Thinking about Miranda?” Eli asked with a straight face.

“No,” Stiger responded firmly. “I am not.”

“You had a choice, you know …” Eli said. “Life at court with a beautiful lady, or in the field.”

“Are there any rebels about?” Stiger growled, changing the subject. Though he could not see it in the gloom, he was sure there was a twinkle in his friend’s eye.

“There was one who came around,” Eli admitted, waving behind him, giving up on nettling his friend, at least for the moment. “I was able to identify several other observation posts.”

Stiger sighed. He had suspected as much. He was silent for a time as he considered the matter, turning to study the bustling campsite where the men worked.

“I think it unlikely the rebels should strike us so close to the main encampment,” he said finally as he began to walk back toward the center of the camp.

Eli moved with him. “Agreed,” he said, side-stepping a fieldstone that was in his path. No matter how low General Kromen’s legions had sunk, the legend of legion prowess and power should keep the enemy cautious, at least this close to the main encampment. “I saw no indication of large concentrations of rebels nearby. There is, however, significant evidence of imperial cavalry patrols.”

“At least General Kromen is keeping some part of his army employed … even if it is only the cavalry,” Stiger said sourly. In the captain’s opinion, most cavalry troopers were next to useless. Ranks filled with the minor nobility, who had an overly high opinion of their own abilities, the cavalry tended to be arrogant and difficult to work with. It was rare to find a cavalry officer of some worth.