Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1) (8 page)

The men took another half-step forward. The shields unlocked for a fraction of a second to allow the swords to jab out once again, and then relocked in the original position. “Push!” Stiger continued for another five revolutions.

“Stand easy,” Stiger ordered. The shield line set their heavy practice shields down on the ground with a solid thud. Real shields and swords were never used for practice. Those, being the personal property of each legionary, were saved for the real thing, and only tested in battle.

“This movement must be performed with precision and speed,” Stiger lectured, pacing back and forth along the line. “There can be no errors … there is simply no margin for mistakes. Lapses in the tiniest detail will get you or your buddy stone dead. Against rabble, the line push can be devastating. Against a formidable foe, like the Rivan, the line and the ability to perform the line push seamlessly
is
life!

“Discipline!” Stiger continued after a brief silence, having allowed his previous statement a few seconds to sink in. “Remember your discipline! Whichever side has better discipline will live to fight another day. Make no mistake, the real killing on the field begins only when a line comes apart and one side breaks. Those that break, die. Our line will not be the one that comes apart. We of the 85
^th
will hold, no matter what happens. We will hold to protect our brothers and our honor. Holding the line means life! What does holding the line mean?”

“Life!” the men thundered back.

“We will practice again and again until you get it right!”

“Dispatch rider coming in,” Lieutenant Ikely announced, gesturing toward the camp entrance, where a rider had galloped up and was speaking with the sentries.

“Take over,” Stiger ordered the lieutenant, and moved off to meet the dispatch rider, who, upon clearing the sentries and entering the camp, rapidly dismounted, holding the reigns. His eyes were wide as he took in the camp and the men doing their drill. The dispatch rider saw Stiger coming, drew up to attention, and saluted with fist to chest. He then drew a dispatch from his saddle pouch.

“With General Mammot’s compliments, sir,” he said, handing over the dispatch. He was clearly nervous at being in the presence of a Stiger.

Stiger broke open the seal and quickly read the contents. The supply train had been delayed another week, perhaps two, the general informed him, which suited Stiger just fine. Under different circumstances, the dispatch might have been considered bad news. But the delay bought him time—time to get his company in order. Stiger took out his dispatch pad and charcoal pencil. He rapidly wrote out a reply and confirmation of receipt while the dispatch rider waited. He signed and sealed the dispatch, then handed it back to the rider.

“Deliver my response to the general,” Stiger ordered.

The dispatch rider saluted, mounted back up, and rode out of the encampment. Stiger stopped himself to study the dispatch rider as he departed. The man’s armor was dirty and poorly maintained. His legs were muddy from having to walk through the muck and filth of main encampment. He had also smelled awful. Stiger looked over at his own men, who just days ago had appeared shabby and undisciplined. They now looked vastly different.

Stiger let slip a small smile of satisfaction. His men were now clean and shaven, with hair trimmed short. Their tunics had been thoroughly laundered and their armor painstakingly maintained. The rust and grime had been removed, and they had been polished and waxed. His company been here five days and the change suddenly seemed very apparent.

With extra time, his men would be much better conditioned and disciplined. Watching the lieutenant work the men through the drill, Stiger suddenly grinned. They looked, at least to his critical eye, inept. Stiger intended for his men not to simply pick up the basic drill, but to perfect and master it. Once that had been mastered, the more advanced maneuvers could be worked on.

Forgetting the dispatch rider, Stiger turned and walked back to where his men were drilling. He watched, silent for a time, as Lieutenant Ikely and Sergeant Blake ran the men through the practice exercises, shouting orders, calling attention to mistakes, and providing advice. The men were, in essence, relearning what they had already been taught, but had not practiced in a good long while.

Stiger had placed the company on a training schedule. The schedule was built around a daily rotation, with half his men drilling while the other half went out on forced practice marches, complete with full kit. The goal was not simple conditioning, but to make his men capable of marching twenty miles in under five hours. The legions prided themselves on the ability to march hard and cover great distances rapidly. The ability to outmarch the enemy was critical.

Having rotted away in the South, Stiger’s company had lost the ability to march effectively. That would rapidly change. Once his men accomplished twenty miles in five hours, they would be permitted a short break before immediately marching another twenty. A good company could easily cover forty miles in a day, usually in ten to twelve hours.

For those who were not participating in the daily practice march, the morning focus was on formation drill and mid-day was devoted to weapons and kit maintenance. This was followed up by camp upkeep and improvement. The men’s late afternoons would involve weapons and hand-to-hand drill. Each day one half of the company would march and the other half would train. Both groups would have the evenings off to recover and relax.

Stepping forward, Stiger began making the rounds, observing, providing instruction, and offering criticism or advice where he thought it appropriate. The morning wore on and the temperature climbed. The men began to perspire heavily as they worked at drill. The wooden practice shields and short swords grew heavier the longer they worked. Both practice implements were intentionally made weightier than the real thing, with the intention of strengthening the men’s arms. They were hated with a passion.

The captain eventually called a stop to the drilling and sent the men to eat. He motioned for Ikely and Blake to walk with him as he went back to the farmhouse. “Have you had an eye out for any suitable corporals?” The company’s previous corporals had been removed from the unit prior to Stiger taking command.

“We have discussed it,” the lieutenant admitted with a slight hesitation. “The sergeants would like to get to know the men better before they select candidates for your approval, sir.”

“A wise move,” Stiger nodded, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. The corporals would provide the glue that held not only a file of twenty men together, but more importantly a portion of line under the stress of combat. It was essential to not only select a respected man, but one who was reliable and capable. In a typical company, which Stiger’s current command was not, retirement, death or disability were the usual reasons behind promotion. Decisions concerning whom to promote were given serious thought, and the men selected had proven themselves to the company over a number of years of service.

Stiger was under the time constraints set by the supply train and his mission. He needed to select his corporals sooner rather than later so that they could get comfortable with their new rank and roles prior to departing for Vrell. Without the sergeants really knowing the men, any candidates they selected could potentially create problems that might not be apparent until the company was in battle.

“Will a week be sufficient?” the captain asked, mentally wincing. He knew it was an unfair thing to ask, but there was simply no choice.

“Should be, sir,” Sergeant Blake responded after a moment’s hesitation.

“Good,” Stiger said, and then decided to change the subject. “I want the trees and brush pushed back another 300 yards around the encampment. This will deprive anyone wishing us ill the opportunity of close cover.”

“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Ikely nodded. “Clearing that land should yield plenty of firewood and kindling. Sir, I meant to ask about the scouts and drill …”

“Lieutenant Eli’Far will handle the training of the scouts,” Stiger answered, cutting off the lieutenant. “Those men are essentially detached, and will not be subject to drill or marching practice.”

“We have a few who are good with their hands,” Sergeant Blake spoke up. “I would like to form a detail to work on the barn. It leaks, and if we intend to stay here much longer or use this site again in the future, some repairs are needed.”

“Excellent suggestion, Sergeant. Detail a party,” Stiger said. He should have thought of that sooner. There had just been too much to get done in the basic setup of the camp. “Put them to work on the farmhouse as well. I need a few chairs and also a table for work.”

The farmhouse was a two-room affair. One room the captain intended to reserve for his personal quarters, and the other for company work. Once cleaned out and patched up, it should work nicely.

When the company returned from Vrell, if he could swing it, this site would become the company’s permanent home. The captain understood that if he kept his unit combat effective, it was likely they would be assigned real work more often than the other companies, keeping them out of the main encampment and safe from the risk of disease being bred there. The wind shifted suddenly, bringing the smell of fresh bread and drawing his thoughts away. He turned to look in the direction of the two new ovens, which had been built the day before.

“Cook’s working on the first batch of fresh bread,” Lieutenant Ikely remarked.

“Make sure he has sufficient help in preparing meals,” Stiger ordered, gesturing at the cook, who was checking on the bread. “Have the squads rotate, providing some assistance each day. I think that it would not be a bad idea to also assign him a permanent assistant. Someone properly suited to learn his job.”

“It has already been done, sir,” Sergeant Blake admitted. “A few years back, we was on campaign when our cook went and died. No one else in the company knew how to prepare a meal proper-like. It was not a fond experience.”

“Suffered a bit of intestinal disorder, did we?” Stiger chuckled.

“A bit, sir,” Blake said. “Just a bit.”

Seven

The camp was settling in for the night. The men had drilled and trained heavily over the past few days, showing vast improvement under the instruction of the officers and sergeants. The camp was coming together as well, now clearly resembling a fairly typical temporary company camp. The barn and farmhouse were fully habitable, having been cleaned out and thoroughly patched. The tree and brush line around the camp were also in the process of being cut back, receding further with each passing day. This provided plenty of firewood and kindling.

The scouts under Eli’s supervision had become very skilled in both hunting and trapping, not to mention more proficient at scouting. Their catch had included hog, deer, hare, pheasant, partridge, geese, duck and a number of other edible game. The men were eating well and it showed in both their physical activity and morale.

The fishermen had turned out to be quite skilled as well. Their catch, large-bellied trout, was drying on several hastily built stands near the far side of the barn. The fish would help supplement the regimen of salt pork, mush and hard bread for the march.

Stiger had made it a habit to move about the camp in the evening, stopping to speak and visit with his men. He had found that after a long, hard day’s work, they were more relaxed and willing to open up, if ever so slightly, to their commanding officer. It allowed him to sample their temper and needs. He felt that making such rounds also allowed his men to become better acquainted with their commanding officer. A few had even ventured to offer ideas—some good and some poorly thought out—on improving the encampment.

“A good officer listens to his men,” General Treim had told him. Stiger made a point of implementing the good ideas and making sure that those with the ideas got the credit for them.

Stiger had always been very perceptive when it came to reading others. Though no one else had dared ask about his back, he noticed that the men had been acting a tad more respectful. Yes, he had done a great deal to improve their lot since taking command, and yet … there was something more to it than that. He rather suspected that Eli had shared the story of his flogging with Lieutenant Ikely, who had then passed it along. The lieutenant had also been acting a bit differently, too. Sighing, he knew it mattered little. No one spoke of it, at least within his hearing, which he appreciated. The flogging was more of a personal embarrassment; a stinging slap to his pride and honor. One day, he fully intended to address the matter to his satisfaction. Until then, he would not speak of it. It was good that the men knew the story. If it earned him a bit of respect, he would take it.

Deep down, he felt they were all good men. In reality, he chose to believe each was a good man, though many were likely not. He would give them all the benefit of the doubt, until one or another proved otherwise, like Bennet. Likely, a number had been convicted of petty crimes and sentenced to a term with the legions. Some had more than likely joined for adventure or glory. Others had signed up to escape the desperate, crushing poverty, debt and city slums.

The legions promised a hard life in return for a pension and a plot of land upon retirement after twenty years. One acre was awarded for each year of service. Those veterans who signed up for an additional five years and completed twenty-five would receive fifty acres and a bonus to their pensions upon retirement. Whatever the reason for joining, all that really mattered to Stiger was what each man made of himself. Who they had been before was of no consequence. They were legionaries now, members of his company, and it was as simple as that.

Returning to the farmhouse, Stiger took a seat on his customary tree stump by the fire. Someone had thoughtfully kept the fire fed, and it crackled comfortably, smoke keeping away the bugs, which were few on this chill night. He pulled out his pipe and tapped it clean before filling it. Taking a small twig from a pile he had set aside for such a purpose, he lit the pipe. He puffed up the burn and took a moment to enjoy the rich, relaxing flavor of good old eastern tobacco.

The captain smoked, staring into the depths of the fire. Riding south, he and Eli had spent many a night before their campfire. Traveling south had been the first time in a long while that he had not had any real responsibility. It had almost seemed carefree, and he had enjoyed it. He glanced up at the night sky and sighed softly. He missed his evening conversations with his good friend. Without Eli, the evening fire was a lonely one.

Alone with his thoughts, the captain found himself thinking about his past. Stiger had been an officer in the legions for nearly a decade, and in that time he had seen more than his share of fighting. A number of good men had died under his command, for the battlefield was not a perfect place, and tough decisions often translated into blood, suffering and death. Even when he had done everything right, he had still lost men.

He preferred to think that in the scale of life, on balance, he had saved more than he had lost. It was not much, but it was some form of comfort. Ultimately, on nights like this, when he was alone with his thoughts, he was haunted by those whom he had lost.

Stiger pulled out his dispatch pad and put pencil to paper. He wrote out a brief update to both General Kromen and Colonel Karol on his progress with the company. Stiger had long since learned the value in keeping his commanders informed. Regular updates helped to minimize misunderstandings. Finished, he sealed the dispatch and tucked it, along with the pencil and pad, back into his tunic pocket. A messenger would deliver it in the morning.

Rising, Stiger threw two more logs onto the fire and then cleaned out his pipe, putting it away carefully. He could have slept in the farmhouse, but the night was cool and the ground thankfully dry. Though the farmhouse had a serviceable fireplace, tonight he would prefer to sleep under the stars, next to the fire, where it was warm. Retrieving his field blanket from the farmhouse, he arranged it on the ground and sat down. He removed his boots and made sure they were upright so that unwanted critters would have a more difficult time of crawling in. He rolled up a spare tunic to use as a pillow, then placed his dagger underneath it. He kept his sword within easy reach. With the fire crackling merrily, he lay down and was soon asleep.

“Sir,” Lieutenant Ikely nudged his captain gently. Stiger’s eyes snapped open, hand shooting for his sword, before he realized that it was his lieutenant. Alarmed, Ikely stood up and took a step back.

It was still dark. The moon was further down the sky, though Stiger felt as if he had just closed his eyes a few moments ago. A quick glance at the embers glowing in the remains of his fire told him a significant amount of time had passed. The large rocks placed around the edges of the fire still radiated heat. Sitting up, the captain rubbed at his eyes, driving the sleep away.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” Ikely apologized, sounding grave.

“What is it?” Stiger asked bluntly, throwing a log on the fire and using a smaller one to stir the embers up. With luck, the log would catch and not require much more effort.

“Sergeant Ranl discovered one of the sentries asleep,” the lieutenant stated.

“Damn it,” Stiger cursed, angrily throwing the smaller log into the fire. He wasted no time in pulling his boots on. “He has the offender in custody?”

“Yes sir,” Ikely responded. “He placed the man under arrest and put another at his post.”

“All right,” Stiger growled, standing up. Catching a sentry asleep on post was bound to happen sometime. It was what Stiger would be forced to do to keep it from happening again that really bothered him. Sighing deeply, he belted on his sword. Better to set an example now than have it occur in the field. “Let’s go see the man.”

Lieutenant Ikely led the captain toward the other side of the camp, where the latrines were located, behind the farmhouse. Most of the tents had been erected on the other side of the house, the front side of the camp. Since they did not have a proper stockade, they found the man sitting on the ground, between the two sergeants, who were verbally berating him. He looked miserable and afraid, especially when he saw Stiger. The sergeants stepped back. The legionary stood and came to a shaky attention. A bruise was forming around his left eye. One of the sergeants had clearly made a point with a fist.

“You fell asleep on watch,” Stiger said. It was not a question.

“Yes sir,” the legionary responded, voice trembling a little. The man was young. If Stiger had to guess, he would bet that the man had not been under arms for more than a year.

“What is your name?” Stiger asked coldly.

“Legionary Teg, sir,” the frightened man answered.

“The watch are the eyes and ears of the company. You realize that by falling asleep, you jeopardized not only your life, but the lives of the entire company?”

“Yes sir,” Teg said more firmly, coming to the realization that his own fate was now in the hands of his captain. A look of resolution crossed his youthful face. This impressed the captain. Teg might be worth something.

“Sorry, sir,” Teg stated firmly. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Damn right it will not happen again,” Stiger growled, getting in the legionary’s personal space. In the field, he could sentence a man to death for such an infraction. Teg and the sergeants knew this as well. All stood still, holding their breath, and wondering if the Stigers were as terrible as everyone said they were. The captain, however, was not in the habit of executing his men for petty infractions. Deep in enemy territory, it would not be so trivial. Regardless, such lapses could not be tolerated. “Five lashes, to be administered first thing in the morning, followed by punishment detail.”

Legionary Teg said nothing, but his shoulders sagged slightly in relief. The sergeants’ eyes also reflected relief. They had expected worse.

Stiger spared his legionary a last cold, hard look that said
I expected better of you
, before turning on his heel and stalking off. As Stiger made his way back to the farmhouse, he knew there would be no more sleep for him tonight. In the morning, he would have to watch someone flogged. Damn … damn … damn! How he hated the lash. Yet deep down he understood it was a necessary part of the legionary’s life. Without it, there would be no order.

As soon as the sun was up and before breakfast, Stiger had the company drawn up to witness the administration of punishment. The prisoner, without a tunic, was led to a tree in the center of the encampment. The tree was a lovely old oak that contrasted harshly with the ugliness that was about to happen. The tree had been spared by Eli, who, for some unknown reason, insisted it not be chopped down like all of the others. Stiger supposed Eli had felt some type of primal connection with the tree. Unfortunately, the lovely oak would now forever be known by the company as the punishment tree.

Legionary Teg was bound to the tree with rope. “This man fell asleep on watch,” Stiger said, loud enough for all to hear. “He has admitted his guilt. His breach put all of us at risk. In a few days’ time, we march. Where matters little. What you need to know is that we are marching into hostile territory. Should a sentry fall asleep at the wrong moment, we will all be in dire peril. Such lapses will not be tolerated! I have ordered five lashes, followed by punishment detail. Sergeant Ranl?”

“Sir,” the sergeant responded, turning to face the captain. He was standing a couple of feet behind the judged man, holding the implement of punishment, a short, yet vicious judicial whip. Sergeant Blake stood off to the side. He had just given Teg a small piece of wood to bite down on.

“Sergeant Blake?” Stiger asked harshly.

“I stand ready, sir,” Blake replied with a grim look.

“You may administer punishment,” the captain ordered harshly, hating himself even as he spoke the words.

“One!” Blake thundered, and Ranl let the wicked-looking judicial whip fly.

Crack!
The whip sounded loudly across the near-silent camp. Teg said nothing, but tensed as the strike landed, trying with all his might to keep from crying out. The whip drew a thin red line of blood across the legionary’s bare back.

“Two!” Another vicious crack, followed by a second red line across the man’s back. Stiger kept his gaze unwavering, fixed on the legionary. He mentally recoiled with each crack of the whip, recalling his own punishment as if it had occurred yesterday. He could almost feel the searing pain that accompanied each crack, until there was only numbness.

“Three!” The legionary issued a groan, but did not cry out.

“Four!” Another groan. Legionary Teg embraced the tree tightly, knuckles turning white.

“Five!” An anguished groan, followed by a short sob, came from Teg.

“Punishment has been administered, sir,” Ranl said, turning to face the captain. Some blood had spattered across his face.

“Cut him down and see to his wounds,” Stiger ordered, thoroughly sick to his stomach. “Lieutenant Ikely, dismiss the company.”

“Company dismissed!” Lieutenant Ikely shouted, as the sergeants cut Teg down. The company was too small to rate a surgeon, but they had a surgeon’s mate. Teg was helped and forced to lie down on his stomach as his wounds were attended to.

Stiger watched for a moment more, then turned and walked back to the farmhouse, where he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

***

“A pleasure to see you again,” Captain Handi said pleasantly, flashing a radiant smile filled with teeth that seemed a little too perfect. Handi’s eyes betrayed his true feelings, though. The man dismounted, handing his reins to Sergeant Ranl, as though the sergeant were a mere stable boy and beneath notice.

Stiger said nothing as he took the captain’s offered hand. The handshake was weak. Stiger had encountered men like Handi before. Foppish, phony and filled with ambition. He disliked such men intensely, as they tended to use and abuse their power with little regard for the consequences other than in relation to themselves. In Stiger’s experience, such men typically thrived under weak or ineffectual commanding officers.

“So nice to get away from the dreary day-to-day life in the encampment,” Captain Handi exclaimed, taking a deep breath of fresh air while making an exaggerated show of glancing around the camp. “I just love occasionally getting out into the country.”