The Tiger's Time
Chronicles of a Legionary Officer:
Book One: Stiger’s Tigers
Book Two: The Tiger
Book Three: The Tiger’s Fate
Book Four: The Tiger’s Time
Book Five: The Tiger’s Wrath (Coming 2019)
Tales of the Seventh:
Part One: Stiger
Part Two: Fort Covenant
Part Three: Eli (Coming 2018)
The Karus Saga:
Book One: Lost Legio IX
Book Two: Fortress of Radiance (Coming 2018)
The Tiger’s Time
Book 4
Marc Alan Edelheit
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Tiger’s Time: Book 4, Chronicles of an Imperial Legionary Officer
First Edition
Copyright © 2018 by Marc Edelheit. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
I wish to thank my agent, Andrea Hurst, for her invaluable support and assistance. I would also like to thank my beta readers, who suffered through several early drafts. My betas: Jon Cockes, Nicolas Weiss, Melinda Vallem, Paul Klebaur, James Doak, David Cheever, Bruce Heaven, Erin Penny, April Faas, Rodney Gigone, Brandon Purcell, Tim Adams, Paul Bersoux, Phillip Broom, David Houston, Sheldon Levy, Michael Hetts, Walker Graham, Bill Schnippert, Jan McClintock, Jonathan Parkin, Spencer Morris, Jimmy McAfee, Rusty Juban, Marshall Clowers. I would also like to take a moment to thank my loving wife who sacrificed many an evening and weekend to allow me to work on my writing.
Editing Assistance by Hannah Streetman, Audrey Mackaman, Stephanie Mesa
Cover Art by Piero Mng (Gianpiero Mangialardi)
Cover Formatting by Telemachus Press
Agented by Andrea Hurst & Associates
http://maenovels.com/
This one is for those who serve!
Author’s note:
Writing The Tiger’s Time has been an experience of both joy and pain as well as a labor of love. It is the largest book I’ve written to date and is more than twice as large as The Tiger’s Fate. I’ve also included concept art that was done prior to writing the book.
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I hope you enjoy The Tiger’s Time and would like to offer a sincere thank you for your purchase and support.
Best regards,
Marc Alan Edelheit, author and your tour guide to the worlds of Tannis and Istros
Excerpt from Thelius’s Histories, The Mal’Zeelan Empire, Volume 3, Book 2.
The Mal’Zeelan Imperial Legion
Pre-Emperor Midisian Reformation
The imperial legion was a formation that numbered, when at full strength, 5,500 to 6,000 men. The legion was composed of heavy infantry recruited exclusively from the citizens of the empire. Slaves and non-citizens were prohibited from serving. The legion was divided into ten cohorts of 480 men, with First Cohort, being an over-strength unit, numbering around a thousand. A legion usually included a mix of engineers, surgeons, and various support staff. Legions were always accompanied by allied auxiliary formations, ranging from cavalry to various forms of light infantry. The imperial legion was commanded by a legate (general).
The basic unit of the legion was the century, numbering eighty men in strength. There were six centuries in a cohort. A centurion (basic officer) commanded the century. The centurion was supported by an optio (equivalent of a corporal) who handled minor administrative duties. Both had to be capable of reading and performing basic math.
Note: Very rarely were legions ever maintained at full strength. This was due primarily to the following reasons: retirement, death, disability, budget shortages (graft), and the slow stream of replacements.
The most famous legion was the Thirteenth, commanded by Legate . . .
Post-Emperor Midisian Reformation
Emperor Midiuses’s reforms were focused on streamlining the legions and cutting cost through the elimination of at least half of the officer corps per legion, amongst other changes.
The basic unit of the legion became the company, numbering around two hundred men in strength. There were ten twenty-man files per company. A captain commanded the company. The captain was supported by a lieutenant, two sergeants, and a corporal per file.
Contents:
Part One
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Part One
Prologue
Cetrite dropped the scrubbing brush into the bucket. It landed with an unsatisfying plop and rapidly sank beneath the water to join its twin, which he had tossed in moments before.
“Here, take it.”
Gnarled hands shaking with age, Cetrite handed the old, battered broom to Harig. The initiate took it, glaring disdainfully. Harig was but a youthful orc, just a few years short of the rut that signaled maturity amongst their kind. And yet, even now Cetrite could read the rage and chaos of emotion that the rut brought in the initiate’s eyes. With a shudder of revulsion, Cetrite recalled his own rut and was grateful that it was behind him and buried along with so many other fading memories.
“You know,” Cetrite said, slowly picking up the bucket handle, his joints crying out with pain. It seemed that with each passing winter, he became less mobile. “There was a time such attitude would have seen you beaten to within an inch of your life.”
“Thankfully”—Harig spat into the bucket and then bared his sharpened tusks in a bold grin—“we no longer live in such times.”
Cetrite took
a deep, calming breath, free hand caressing the hilt of his athame. As a lowly rudimentary priest, his sacrificial knife had never tasted blood.
“You are right, it is a shame.” Cetrite removed his hand and turned to go, shuffling out of the storage room. “In my youth, I would have beaten you myself.”
Harig followed and chuckled darkly, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
Cetrite moved slowly through the winding passageways of the temple. So far underground the air was pleasingly cold. It was late and there were few about. For that little mercy, Cetrite was enormously grateful. His rank amongst the priestly order was low, just above the initiate class. He was also reviled by most—if not all—of the senior priests.
“We go to perform an important task,” he said, sensing Harig’s impatience at their pace. “Try to show some respect.”
“If you mattered, old one,” Harig said, “you would not have been sent to do an initiate’s job.”
“That may be so,” Cetrite said with a cackle that sounded, even to his ears, slightly mad. “But it makes no difference. Our task matters. That is all I need to know.”
“Scrubbing the altars clean?” Harig expelled a disgusted breath. “Please. You delude yourself, old one.”
Cetrite eyed Harig a moment as they walked.
“No matter how large or small the task, by simply performing it, we honor our god,” Cetrite said, the feeling of belief welling up within him. “I am proud to have dedicated my life to Castor.”
“You have wasted your life,” Harig snorted.
“Have I?” Cetrite’s tongue flicked out to his shattered right tusk. He had broken it in his youth, fighting with another male. His tongue gently caressed the broken stump that was yellowed with age. “Have I really?”
“If you hadn’t, you would have risen higher than a rudimentary.”
“There is more to faith than priestly rank,” Cetrite countered. “More than a simple pre-rut bull can know.”
“Bah,” Harig said and spat again, this time on the stone floor. “There is nothing worthier. Rank is everything. It brings one power.”
“Priestly rank is nothing,” Cetrite said, turning a corner and stepping out into the main corridor that led to the great worship hall. “Faith to Castor is all that matters. You are a fool to think otherwise, for faith brings its own power.”
Harig made to reply, but then shut his mouth with a snap as two advanced priests rounded a corner ahead, moving in their direction. As they neared, both Cetrite and Harig lowered their heads and averted their gazes. They stepped aside, pressing their backs to the walls, permitting their seniors free passage.
“You should just die, already,” one of the two said, stopping to look mockingly upon Cetrite.
“Soon enough, Karf.” Cetrite felt nothing but loathing for his fellow priests, this one included. “Age will likely take me before long.”
“Let him be,” Erog, the other advanced, said. “You are wasting your time with this old fool. As he said, time will claim him.”
Cetrite spared a glance at Erog. He saw barely concealed sympathy in the other’s gaze. It stoked the fire of Cetrite’s hate for these priests with their pretend faith. Though middle-aged, both Erog and Karf had played the game well enough to climb the priestly ranks. Cetrite had never felt inclined to do so. In Cetrite’s mind politics had nothing to do with faith, and yet these two advanced priests held the power here, not him.
“Why let him be?” Karf demanded, looking back to Erog. “He is a disgrace to the order.”
“Even so,” Erog said. “It is late and I wish to eat before the kitchen closes for the night.”
“You think too much with your stomach,” Karf said, and turned back to Cetrite with a malicious look.
Cetrite knew what was coming. He set his bucket down so as to not spill the water he had drawn from the holiest of wells, the Deep Dark. He raised his gaze to lock eyes with Karf. These encounters always ended with some form of violence. There was no avoiding it, and so he embraced what was to come.
“I promise you, Karf,” Cetrite said, throwing caution to the wind. “There shall be a reckoning between us, either in this life or the next. I swear it upon my faith.”
Karf’s eyes widened in surprise, as did Erog’s. Cetrite sensed Harig stiffening in surprise at his side. A moment later Karf’s fist lashed out and connected with Cetrite’s jaw, slamming the back of his head into the wall. Another powerful fist to his stomach doubled him over, driving him to his knees. Pain exploded in his side as a kick rolled him over onto his back.
“Speak to me again like that . . .” Karf stood over Cetrite, rage mottling the green of his face. Karf’s hand went to the hilt of his athame. As an advanced, his sacrificial blade had drawn blood. “ . . . and I will send you on to our master.”
“I hope you do.” Cetrite gasped with pain as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. Wiping dark green blood from his mouth, he turned his gaze back to his tormentor. “My faith is firm. When the time comes for me to cross over, my lord will welcome me.” He managed a bloody grin. “Perhaps he will even send me back to deal with unfinished business.”
Karf straightened and actually took a step back, eyes narrowing.
“Come on,” Erog said, grabbing at Karf’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to the old fool.”
Karf hesitated. His eyes ran over Cetrite, and there was uncertainty in them. He was clearly weighing Cetrite’s words.
“Remember what I said,” Karf finally said. He turned and started walking down the corridor, Erog at his side.
Cetrite watched the backs of the two advanced priests.
“I always remember,” Cetrite said, struggling to his feet. There was no help from Harig.
Cetrite gingerly felt his lip, which had split. Thick dark-green blood ran down his age-wrinkled hand. He was sure there would be some bruising. He tested his jaw. Nothing seemed broken, his few remaining teeth included. The back of his head was bleeding too, but not terribly badly, he decided, after gently touching the wound. He had suffered much worse than what Karf dished out.
“Not only are you old,” Harig said, letting out a sigh, “but you are stupid as well. Life would be so much simpler for you if you conformed.”
Cetrite considered the initiate, hating him as much as the others. Harig played the game, too. The youth would likely rise high amongst the ranks and lead a comfortable life, pampered even. All the while, Cetrite would live out the remainder of his days in obscurity and simplicity, seeking only the honoring of his god.
“You confuse stupidity with faith and strength of will,” Cetrite snarled. “These petty diversions mean little to my lord. He cares nothing for such insignificant games.”
“Our lord,” Harig corrected.
“I wonder, is he? Truly?” Cetrite reached for the handle, once again picking up the bucket. He continued down the hall, shuffling a little slower than before. Castor taught that suffering was only an affliction of the mind, and as such, he did his best to put it aside. “Pain is only transitory, for faith and obedience are all that matter.”
Harig grunted at the quotation from the holy books. He spared another disdainful look and then continued along the corridor, leaving Cetrite behind. The old priest followed as best he could.
The path to their destination was long. The two passed several chapels. All were empty. It was late. Even so, not much was different during the daylight hours. Few these days bothered to honor Castor. Cetrite recalled a time when these chapels had been full of the faithful, but now . . . He allowed a disgusted breath to escape slowly.
Like the priesthood, the flock had turned away.
The church was out of favor with the populace. Despite that, it wanted for nothing. Castor’s temples and shrines were well maintained and cared for. Dues and tithings were still paid. It was either contribute your share, which in recent years had become burdensome, or fall under a poorly sharpened sacrificial knife. Where priests had once been welcomed and honored,
they were now reviled and despised.
“Things should be different.”
“What was that?” Harig, ahead, turned slightly. “What are you blathering on about now?”
Cetrite did not bother to reply as they entered the main worship hall. It was a vast space. The hall was arranged in the shape of a half oval with tiered stone benches for worshippers to look down upon the great black marble statue of Castor and the three sacrificial altars arrayed before it. Massive arches supported the ceiling high above, from which darkened candle-bearing chandeliers hung down on thick iron chains. During services, these chandeliers were lit and the subterranean hall was bathed in a yellowed radiance.
A few fires burned around the base of the great statue. These shed dim light outward and up to where Cetrite and Harig had entered the hall. As expected, there was not a soul about.
In all his years, Cetrite had never seen the worship hall completely filled. It had been made to hold twenty thousand orcs. On holidays, barely a third of that number bothered to attend. Even fewer were truly faithful. Most only paid lip service. How Cetrite longed for the day when the faithful returned.
“Let’s get this over with,” Harig said and started down the steps toward the altars. The initiate’s voice echoed harshly off of the hall’s walls.
Ignoring Harig, Cetrite took a moment to savor the view. He drew in a deep breath of cool air. The altars and statue of his god never failed to touch his heart. Naked, Castor stood tall, chest bare, muscles bulging. The god’s tusks were bared as if facing an enemy. Castor held forth a great sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. The sword represented the god’s strength and power, the lantern the light of faith, righteousness, and wisdom.
Legend told that once the lantern had shone with holy light. Now it was simply cold, black marble carved by mortal hands. The days of miracles and priestly medicine were gone. The flock had turned away from Castor, away from hope. And the great god had turned his back upon the people.
The scripture spoke of such miracles as being commonplace during the age of wonders, but today such things existed only in one’s imagination and faith. Cetrite considered, not for the first time, that he had been born in the wrong time.