Stiger’s Tigers (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 1) (7 page)

“Nothing, sergeant,” Palla answered as he continued to dig, head bent over his work.

“That is what I thought.” Blake turned and walked off to the next group. He shared a brief look with Ranl, who was supervising a detail a few feet away. Ranl shook his head slightly, his eyes flicking briefly toward the captain, who was helping to lay logs for the walls. Blake rolled his eyes and continued on.

Lieutenant Ikely had been just as appalled as the men. He felt the captain’s behavior was very unseemly. Yet at the same time, he felt compelled to join in and follow Captain Stiger’s example. How could he stand by while his commanding officer got down in the dirt with the men? He joined a detail that was hauling logs, for the first time in his life, stooping so low as to perform common manual labor. It was hard and difficult work, earning him scrapes and bruises from the rough bark. It was a blow to his dignity, and he resented it bitterly. He was an officer, an educated gentleman from a noble family. This was not the sort of work he was meant to do! Such labor was reserved for the lowborn, who had no hope of rising above their station. Silently he cursed his captain, but continued to toil alongside the men.

As the heat of the day increased, tunics were discarded. Stiger, after some careful deliberation, also removed his own tunic, revealing a hard, lean muscular torso. A long stripe of a scar, the work of a sword, ran down his upper left chest. The scar drew a raised eyebrow or two. However, it was the captain’s back, when he turned to pick up a mallet, that drew a startled gasp from the two men working with him. They stared at their captain in horror, eyes wide. Others nearby noticed, and the reaction quickly spread.

Stiger turned to look at them with a raised eyebrow. “Have you never seen a flogged back?” he snapped irritably, eyes flashing dangerously. Stiger had considered leaving his tunic in on, if only to conceal his shame. In the end, he reasoned the men would find out sooner or later.

A flogged back was a common sight, however. It was a punishment reserved exclusively for the ranks. Officers were never scourged in such a manner. Disgraced gentlemen were dismissed from service or, should the offense prove heinous enough, executed.

The scars that stitched their way across the captain’s back were not the result of a simple flogging. The captain had clearly been flogged within an inch of his life. Such floggings were rare, and reserved for the worst crimes, like cowardice in the face of the enemy or murder of a fellow legionary. A flogging as the captain had received would usually mean the permanent crippling of the man at best. Should he survive, which was also a rare occurrence, the convicted criminal would be discharged from service and left to fend for himself. Being discharged this way also meant the forfeiture of pension, which for a legionary, was almost as terrible as the physical punishment.

His honor was intact, no matter what had been done to him. Still, he felt personally disgraced. He was ashamed that it had even been inflicted on his person. Worse, it mortified him that he had even considered concealing it. That thought made his blood boil, for the captain was a man who hid from no one.

Seeing the dangerous look, the men quickly looked away and went back to work with added vigor. The captain considered them for a moment, then spat in disgust before turning back to work himself. It is what it is, he thought. Soon enough, they will learn not what my scars say, but who I am.

Stiger pointedly ignored the glances and whispered comments that continued as the afternoon wore on. Word had spread throughout the camp. Even the sergeants had found an excuse to wander over for a look. Stiger did not care. He wanted them to look now so that they would get over their shock. Better now and come to terms with it, the captain reasoned. He did not want to build trust only to have it shaken or lost as if he had concealed some terrible secret. Let them all take a good long look and deal with it now.

As the afternoon wore on, the walls of the encampment slowly went up. At the same time, a trench was being dug a few feet beyond the walls. When complete, the trench would be three feet deep and five feet wide. The stream had been diverted away from the encampment to permit the walls to be erected. Once the trench and walls were finished, the stream would be returned to its normal flow, which took it through the backside of the camp. A small wooden aqueduct would keep fresh water flowing through a small hole cut into the wall, while a portion would be allowed to spill into the trench, eventually filling it and creating a small moat.

Several trees were positioned and carefully set to act as a makeshift bridge across the moat where the camp entrance had been constructed. Planks were laid across and firmly nailed down. The planks would ensure that the animals would not turn a hoof while being led in and out of the camp. A simple yet very stout gate was built. The gate locked into place with the walls, sealing off the bridge. To open and close the gate required the effort of several men.

In the space of nearly five hours, the farm was slowly but surely transformed into a heavily fortified encampment that enclosed both the farmhouse and barn. It was an impressive achievement, yet it was nothing the legionaries had not done multiple times before.

Every day that the company remained, Stiger knew the campsite and the fortifications would steadily improve. Stiger intended the work to help toughen his men up, while at the same time working to restore morale. They would eventually come to be proud of what they had built.

One of the company wagons, filled with chopped firewood, rattled across the newly constructed bridge, drawing the captain’s eye. While the camp had been coming together, several work details had also been busy felling trees beyond the perimeter. Company wagons repeatedly returned, heavily loaded with firewood. They had made good work of it, and already had at least three cords of wood stacked neatly next to the backside of the barn. There was already enough firewood for every tent to have a fire that evening.

With evening fast approaching, work came to a halt. The walls were firmly in place and the moat was beginning to fill. The men were dismissed and sent to clean up before evening meal was served. The captain made a point to carefully examine the walls and moat. The work was not perfect, but it was a start, and he was pleased with what he saw. Anyone attempting to storm the camp by surprise would have a difficult time of it. The possibility of such a surprise assault was low. Eli and his scouts would spot any significant force of rebels long before they even got close. Still, it was better to be prepared.

Stiger made a short stop at the stream running through the inside of the camp to rinse off the day’s sweat, grime and dirt. Refreshed, he returned to the farmhouse and sat down on the old snag. No one had gotten around to removing it yet, for which he was grateful. He had not worked this hard in quite some time, and his entire body ached from the strain.

He and the men had accomplished a great deal on their first real day, even with half of them occasionally needing to make a dash for the latrines or bushes in intestinal distress. Yet there was much more to be done.

Mercifully, the air was beginning to cool again. The captain had put his tunic back on and belted it tightly. After the morning’s assassination attempt, he made sure his sword and dagger were within easy reach at all times. He wondered if he would ever fully be able to let his guard down.

He sat for a while, enjoying the feeling of simply doing nothing. Eventually, duty called and he pulled out a dispatch pad and a thick charcoal pencil from a bag he had dropped by his feet. He wrote out a quick report to General Kromen and another to Colonel Karol, explaining where he had made camp. He provided a brief but vague update on his work with the company. He also requested that word be sent once the supply train was ready. He carefully added a line, “requesting confirmation of delivery,” and then signed each. He sealed and addressed the two dispatches.

“Lieutenant,” Stiger called to Ikely, who had been on his way to check on what the cook was preparing for dinner. The lieutenant altered his course and came up to the captain. Ikely looked as tired as Stiger felt. Undoubtedly, his young lieutenant was unaccustomed to such difficult manual labor. He had probably worked harder today than he had ever worked in his life, Stiger mused sadly. The captain handed the lieutenant the dispatches. “Please have one of the scouts carry these dispatches to General Kromen and Colonel Karol.”

“Sir,” Ikely said, exhaustion heavy in his voice. “I am afraid that all of the scouts are out training with Eli. They are expected to return in the morning.”

“I see … well then, detail a reliable man to act as courier,” Stiger said, feeling just as weary as his lieutenant. He forced himself to keep the exhaustion from his voice. The men in his company needed to believe their captain was tireless. Stiger glanced up at the darkening skyline and frowned. His courier would be departing after it was dark. “Assign an armed file to provide an escort. Make sure the men are aware that there may be rebels about.”

“Yes sir.” The lieutenant took the dispatches and left to find a detail and a reliable man. After such a difficult day, no one in that party would be particularly happy with their assignment. It was four miles to the main encampment, and four miles back.

“Sergeant,” Stiger called over to Ranl. The sergeant had been heading in the direction of the cook as well.

“Sir,” Ranl asked, coming over.

“I noticed stone walls beyond the camp, marking off field boundaries. Tomorrow morning, see that a detail is put together to collect some of the stone. I want to build a couple of makeshift ovens for cook.”

“Yes sir,” Ranl acknowledged, scratching at his neck, which had been thickened by two decades of service. Thick muscular necks were the sign of a true veteran. Over time and prolonged use, a legionary’s helmet thickened and strengthened the muscles of the neck. The helmets were universally hated, at least until a legionary was in battle. Then the once-loathed helmet, along with all of a legionary’s armor, was appreciated as it never had been before. “Fresh bread would be grand. The men have only been getting the stale stuff of late.”

“There will be an inspection tomorrow morning,” Stiger added, and then hesitated. “Actually, make that every morning. Allot sufficient time each evening for work on maintaining weapons, armor and kit.”

“Yes sir,” Ranl replied. “If they take care of their gear, it will take care of them.”

“Good job today,” Stiger said as the sergeant turned away. Colonel Karol had indeed been true to his word and given him two of his best men. “Job well done to both you and Blake.”

“Thank you, sir,” the sergeant replied, with a slightly pleased look. He was not sure why, but suddenly gaining the captain’s respect seemed important. Captain Stiger seemed the kind who rarely offered praise, and then only when it was warranted. “Nothing like good old-fashioned work to remind them they joined the emperor’s legions.”

“In the morning we will work on arms training,” Stiger said, staring off into the distance, as if he was no longer talking with the sergeant, but merely expressing his thoughts aloud. “I cannot imagine how rusty they are. Work and training. We’ll keep them very busy with both. That will be good for them.”

“Yes sir,” the sergeant said neutrally, as Stiger turned his pale gray eyes back upon him. The eyes were now devoid of any warmth. Ranl had served in the legions for over twenty years. He had seen his share of action, and yet the captain’s gaze unnerved him slightly. The sergeant had worked under a number of officers, some fine men, others not so much so. The man before him was different from all of them, Ranl was sure of it. An officer with a lash-scarred back. That by itself was an unheard of anomaly. Ranl had seen the scars that etched their way up and down the captain’s back. Not many would have survived such an ordeal. Ranl had known men who had not. He wanted to ask about it, but did not.

In a flash of insight, Ranl understood what he was dealing with. His new captain was a right proper bastard of a man. A bastard thrown into an officer’s uniform, regardless of his noble birth. The man sitting on the snag before him was a man who intuitively understood other’s motivations and played upon them. Captain Stiger was, to put it bluntly, a master manipulator. That was why he had spared Bennet. The captain had recognized that Bennet was a popular fellow. Ranl suspected the captain was a born leader, who knew his trade better than most other officers in service. That alone made him dangerous, not to his men, but to anyone who faced him in battle. Ranl, at that moment, in that flash of comprehension, understood exactly what the captain had in mind for his company. Somehow he found it comforting, and his misgivings about his assignment gave way.

“We have only a few days to work the men into shape,” Stiger said in a tone that was less of a growl. The intensity of his distant look faded as he held Ranl’s gaze. “Then we are off into the field.”

“The field, sir?” The sergeant asked, not daring for a second to look away. Stiger and Eli had not told anyone other than Lieutenant Ikely where the company was headed. Ranl had asked Ikely, but the lieutenant had declined to answer, stating he was under orders. “Where are we off to?”

Stiger stood slowly, took a step closer to the sergeant, and clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “All in good time,” he said with a slight smile, which his scar turned into an unintentional sneer. He then went off in the direction of the latrines, leaving the sergeant alone, with less troubled thoughts than he had had moments before.

Six

The sun was setting at the end of the company’s second full day in their new home. Eli and a pair of scouts returned with a wild hog and several large hares. There was much rejoicing over the catch and the knowledge that all would once again eat well. This time, smaller portions would be issued to each man.

The hunters, proud of their handsome catch, made a show of parading it through the camp before turning it over to the cook. Colonel Karol had assigned the cook to the company on the same day Stiger had been given command. It was clear the man was gifted at his craft.

The snag in front of the farmhouse had been removed and reduced to fire wood. The captain was seated on the stump, which remained. He idly watched the men gather around the hog in excitement. Their lot was improving, though he was working them to exhaustion. They feared and hated him and would continue to do so. He knew that. It was a given.

Stiger’s thoughts swung back to the attempt on his life. It had come very close to succeeding.
How many more attempts will there be?
He wondered, his thoughts darkening. It was fairly unlikely Bennet would try again. The experience seemed to have taught the man something. With a new lease on life, Bennet worked himself harder than anyone else.

Who will make the next attempt?
Stiger asked himself.
Who else might prefer the safe, though thoroughly unhealthy, life of the main encampment?

Assassinations of unpopular officers rarely, if ever, occurred in camp. There were just too many witnesses about. Such attempts were more likely to happen during the heat of battle, where a murder could easily be lost in the confusion and mayhem of combat.

Stiger rubbed the stubble on his chin, irritated by the thought of another of his men attempting such a vile act. If it came, he would have to make a real example the men would be unlikely to forget.

“Hog tonight,” Lieutenant Ikely announced as he cheerfully approached. The farmhouse had become the captain’s command post and quarters.

“Seems that way,” Stiger said softly. The lieutenant, though green and young, had worked alongside the men over the last two days, as the captain had. He had done everything Stiger had expected and more. Sparing the lieutenant a quick glance, he decided that it was likely the lieutenant was a good man, whom he would probably one day name a friend.

“I am told there is a lake a few miles from here,” the lieutenant offered. “Some of the men hail from fishing villages along the eastern coast …”

Stiger nodded in agreement at the unspoken suggestion. There was no guarantee that once the march began, there would be time to hunt and cook game. Freshly caught fish could easily be salted and dried for the coming march. It would help stretch their durable food supply and also provide some variety beyond salted pork, which unfortunately they had in plenty.

“Put a couple of men on it,” Stiger said. “Anything they manage to catch, get them drying.”

The two officers were silent for a few moments, both watching the men. Stiger, after a second hard day’s work on the camp, was thoroughly blown, though he was careful not to let it show. He was really looking forward to turning in for the night. Sleep beckoned strongly, and he stifled a yawn.

“The cook …” Stiger asked abruptly. “What’s the man’s name again?”

“Cross,” the lieutenant answered. “Miles Cross.”

“Thank you,” Stiger responded neutrally. “I would like to have a word with him after the men are fed this evening.”

“I will see to it, sir,” Ikely said.

Eli separated himself from the scouts and walked over.

“A successful hunt,” Stiger said by way of greeting.

“It was,” Eli agreed and sat down on another stump a few feet away. Stiger had set a fire between the two stumps. It crackled happily. The elf freed a canteen from his travel pack. He placed the pack carefully at his feet before taking a sip. Having spent a night and a day out with his scouts, he seemed refreshed and at ease.

“How are the scouts working out?” Ikely asked.

“They are coming along nicely,” Eli answered. “A few more days, and some of them will be able to operate fairly effectively without my direct oversight.”

“What I want—” Stiger began with a frown.

“What you want is the best,” Eli interrupted.

“Exactly,” Stiger growled softly. “I want the best scouts.”

“The best scouts,” Eli continued with a sardonic look, “to find the enemy before the enemy finds us. They must also be the best hunters, because if they are good at hunting animals, they will be good at hunting their fellow man.”

“Correct,” Stiger responded.

Lieutenant Ikely’s eyes widened at this.

“A month with me, and they will be the finest scouts in the South,” Eli asserted. “Though I must admit, they don’t need to learn too much to do that. Competence does not seem to be a strength highly valued here in the South.”

“Eli,” Stiger breathed heavily, patience drawing thin, “drop it.”

“It will take my scouts at least a month before they get their wind,” Eli continued, ignoring his friend’s protest and moving away from the sensitive topic.

“Their … wind?” Lieutenant Ikely asked.

“He means that each scout will need to build the endurance to run long distances without tiring,” Stiger explained. “Having sufficient wind is essential.”

“I instruct them as I would an apprentice striving to become a ranger. A good ranger should be able to run ten miles without tiring or stopping for a break,” Eli explained. “A ranger should also be able to flow through the forest, silent, undetected and at a quicker pace than we marched to this camp.

“Much of what I teach my scouts,” the elf continued after a pause, “besides simple conditioning, is how to move silently and rapidly. They learn to read the signs and listen to the voice of the forest.”

“Voice of the forest?” The lieutenant asked with a curious frown. “What is that?”

“Birds, animals,” Stiger answered with a deep sigh, as if the subject was tiresome. “If you don’t hear any birds … something or someone has disturbed them.”

“Ah …” the lieutenant nodded. “I understand.”

“Scouting is arduous work,” Eli explained further. “Over time, a scout must become one with his environment … he must feel the very life of the forest.”

“Now that, I just don’t understand,” the lieutenant admitted. “How can you feel the forest?”

“It is an elf thing,” Stiger said, waving a hand in his friend’s direction. “Trust me.”

“The captain makes a passable scout, but a ranger he will never make,” Eli said, flashing a close-mouthed smile at his friend.

Stiger frowned, declining the opportunity to reply to the dig, as he knew he was more than “passable” in Eli’s eyes. However, the ranger comment was true. Very few ever became true rangers, masters of the forest, like Eli.

“So you don’t feel the forest, then?” Lieutenant Ikely asked, noticing the captain’s frown.

“I’ve tried … believe me,” Stiger said wryly, scratching at his stubble again, which itched. He felt the urge to shave. “To frustration’s end … I have tried.”

“Will any of our scouts learn to ‘feel’ the forest?” The lieutenant asked, looking back over at Eli.

“Doubtful,” Stiger admitted. “Eli has only ever been able to teach one human to feel the forest, and he was an odd one. Bren was one very odd man.”

“A fine scout he was,” Eli nodded soberly, the merriment leaving his face.

“Was?” Ikely asked looking between the two. “What happened to him?”

Stiger said nothing. Instead, he instead pulled out his pipe and tapped it clean.

“His life force ended in the forests of Abath,” Eli finally answered, breaking the uncomfortable silence, a look of profound sadness marring his perfect face.

“Life force?” Ikely asked, looking over at the captain. “He was killed, then?”

“Yes,” Stiger said softly. “An arrow took him in the neck.”

The three became silent for a time.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Ikely began hesitantly. “The men have been asking about your back. What should I tell them?”

“Tell them whatever you flaming wish,” Stiger snapped angrily, jabbing the pipe in Ikely’s direction. The captain glared at the lieutenant for a moment before standing abruptly. He looked about to say more, then turned, and without another word, stomped off in the direction of the stream.

“I did not aim to offend,” Lieutenant Ikely said, concerned, watching the captain disappear into the darkness. “The men want to know more about the man commanding them …”

“You did not offend.” Eli breathed a heavy sigh, looking into the fire.

“What did he do to deserve such a flogging?” Ikely asked, deciding to be blunt.

“Deserve? He did absolutely nothing,” Eli responded, looking up from the fire and meeting the lieutenant’s eyes levelly. “Nothing.”

“Then why was he flogged?” the lieutenant asked.

Eli sighed deeply, looking again into the captain’s fire, which was beginning to die down. He stood, grabbed a log from a nearby pile, and tossed it onto the fire, which crackled enthusiastically. He then resumed his seat. He remained silent, staring into the fire. Ikely was beginning to think Eli would not answer. He turned to go.

“He willingly took the place of a convicted man,” the elf finally said, looking back up at Ikely with sadness in his eyes.

“He what?” Ikely exclaimed, shocked. “Why? Why would he do such a thing?”

“You must understand. The captain is a complicated human. I have known him for many years, and there are times when even I do not understand his motivations. Those under his command mean a great deal to him,” Eli explained. “He takes his duty to the empire very seriously … almost, you could say, as a sacred trust. What he considers his personal honor is bound up in it.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Lieutenant Ikely said. Personal honor was something imperial families took very seriously. “But not taking the place of a convicted man. Why would he do such a thing?”

“One of his men was accused, by General Lears, of theft and sentenced to four hundred lashes,” Eli continued. “The captain felt that the man was innocent and the punishment, shall we say, overly harsh even for a guilty man. When the captain appealed the sentence, General Lears offended and impugned the captain’s honor and that of the company he commanded. On the day of punishment, the entire legion was assembled to witness justice being administered. The captain publically insisted upon taking the man’s place.”

“And General Lears accepted the substitution?” Lieutenant Ikely asked, aghast at such ungentlemanly treatment of a fellow gentleman.

“Yes,” Eli answered.

“Four hundred lashes should have killed him!”

“Yes,” Eli answered with a small nod, “our captain is a tough man.”

“Astonishing,” the lieutenant breathed in awe. “All for an innocent man …”

Eli looked up at Ikely with a surprised look. “I never claimed he was innocent, only that the captain believed him innocent.”

“He was guilty then?”

“Very,” the elf replied with a sad chuckle.

“What happened to him?” The lieutenant asked after a moment. “What happened to the thief?”

“His life force ended in the same battle that Bren’s passed this plane of existence,” Eli explained, a look of sadness once again gracing his face. “The man gave up his life saving the captain’s.”

***

“Again,” Stiger shouted to the men. He could feel his voice beginning to grow hoarse. It had been a long while since he had personally led and conducted a drill. “Begin!”

The men locked their wooden training shields together with a mighty crash and stepped forward. “HAAAH,” resounded from close to a hundred thunderous voices.

“No, no, no!” Stiger shouted, frustration boiling over. The captain moved up to the shield line and the men relaxed their stances, practice shields thudding heavily to the ground.

“What is your most dangerous weapon?” Stiger thundered at the line of men. No one answered. He selected one man. “You, tell me. What is your most dangerous weapon?”

“My sword,” the man ventured cautiously, raising his wooden practice sword and shaking it slightly.

“Wrong,” Stiger thundered back, pointing at the man’s head. “Your mind is your most dangerous weapon. It is time to use it.” He pushed his way through the line of men so that he was behind the formation.

“Lock shields right!” the captain thundered.

The shields snapped up and thunked together loudly.

“That is NOT how you lock shields,” Stiger roared. “In a real battle it will get you planted in a shallow grave, providing fodder for the worms.”

The captain began manually adjusting the men, physically moving their shields into proper alignment. Sergeant Blake stood passively a few feet away, watching the captain work the men. The sergeant was amused, thoroughly enjoying the show the captain was putting on. It was not every day he got to see an officer act like an average sergeant. Usually officers, as proper gentlemen, declined such close contact with the rank and file. It was almost unheard of for officers to participate in regular drills. Most, only ever caring to understand company and regimental maneuvers, would not have been able to spot an improper shield alignment.

“I want every one of you to look at how these five men have their shields … properly interlocked,” Stiger told the rest of the men in the line, who stepped back to look. “These five can push at this point here, with the force of five men. You five … push forward!” The three men took the proscribed half step forward.

“Now unlock shields and jab,” Stiger ordered. The shields scraped apart a few inches and lightning fast, five short swords jabbed out and back before the shields thunked back into the original interlocking position. “Excellent. Let’s try that again with the whole line. Reform!” The men quickly reformed their line.

“Lock shields right!” Stiger snapped. “Push!” The men pushed a half-step forward and the shields unlocked in unison, the swords jabbed out and back, and then the shields locked back into place as the men shifted their weight to the opposite side, pushing the imaginary enemy line again.

“Push!”