The Tiger (Chronicles of An Imperial Legionary Officer Book 2) Read online

  Chronicles of an

  Imperial Legionary

  Officer

  Book Two:

  The Tiger

  By

  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.

  Chronicles of an Imperial Legionary Officer BOOK TWO: THE TIGER

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2015 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 and her team’s invaluable assistance. I would also like to thank my Beta Readers who suffered through several early drafts and provided some very interesting feedback, including a lesson on what old leather should smell like. My Betas: Barrett McKinney, Jon Cockes, Norman Stiteler, Nicolas Weiss, Stephan Kobert, Matthew Ashley, Melinda Vallem, Brett Stewart and Brett Smith. I would also like to take a moment to thank my loving wife who sacrificed many an evening to allow me to work on my writing.

  Editing Assistance by: Winslow Eliot, Echo Yupan Lu, Hannah Streetman, Audrey Mackaman

  Cover Art by Piero Mng (Gianpiero Mangialardi)

  Cover Formatting by Telemachus Press

  Dedication

  To Robert Edelheit, Father and the Best Man I know, who taught me that with hard work comes success.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A Note from the Author

  Preview: The Tiger’s Curse

  One

  MARCUS THOUGHT IT a pleasant spot. The air was crisp, cool, and the scent of the forest was strong. Wind rustled through the tree canopy above, setting off a shower of brightly colored late autumn leaves.

  The scout, Marcus, remained still, kneeling on the forest floor, watching silently as the leaves slowly settled. The display that nature put on was simply magnificent. He felt blessed to be here, in the Sentinel forest, to witness it, and his heart swelled at the beauty surrounding him. Silently he offered a brief prayer of thanks to the High Father.

  A bird called in the distance. He listened to its beautiful song. For a moment he felt that the bird was singing exclusively for his entertainment. The bird started and stopped, only to begin once again. In search of insects for a morning meal, a woodpecker abruptly began hammering away somewhere off in the distance. Such were the sounds and ways of the forest.

  Lieutenant Eli’Far, an elven ranger, had opened his eyes to the ways of the forest and taught him to watch, listen, smell…to feel the forest as if it were a living being. The process involved calming the mind and letting go. It was almost like a form of meditation. Marcus found it difficult to put the experience into words, but he was beginning to understand and sense what the lieutenant was teaching him.

  He had spent two years in the company before Captain Stiger had assumed command of the 85th. At the time Marcus had thought himself to be quite good as a scout. With hindsight, he now recognized he had been a bumbling amateur. The captain and Eli had brought change to the company and for that he was grateful.

  Eli had taught him that life in the forest, at its base level, followed a pattern. Someone properly attuned to the forest could spot the moment when something disturbed the pattern. It was this disturbance that he had been trained to watch for and one among many other important things that Eli had imparted. Incredibly honored to receive instruction from one of the High Born, Marcus had done his best to be a good student. He had always been a quick learner. He paid as close attention to the elf as humanly possible. Marcus did everything he could to put to practice what Eli had taught him. What at first had seemed inhumanly possible soon became second nature for Marcus as he became more proficient in the ways of the ranger. He was a better scout for it and without question the best in the company. He felt sure it was one of the reasons he had been promoted to scout corporal.

  He loved being a company scout and the freedom that came with the job. While scouting and on detached duty, he was not required to wear his armor. Instead, he and the others were permitted to wear their service tunics with light leathers that provided limited protection but were infinitely more comfortable. Unlike the majority of the company, they had also been issued boots, a serious improvement over standard issue sandals, particularly in the winter.

  A strong gust of wind blew through the canopy, setting off another shower of leaves. Marcus breathed in deeply through his nose and slowly exhaled. It had rained the night before. He could smell the moist earth, moss and the occasional pine amongst the great old trees. A moose could be heard braying distantly. Marcus had never seen one before coming to the South. They were impressive animals, weighing as much as two thousand pounds. Like the man-eating cats that also lived in this forest, he had learned they were to be respected.

  Marcus considered for a moment that he had come a long way from the slums of Mal’Zeel. He had been a criminal and had been sentenced to a term with the legions. That now seemed a lifetime ago. The magistrate had given him a choice, two years forced labor in a lead mine or a twenty-five year term with the legions. In essence, the magistrate was doing his best to give Marcus a fresh start, a chance to make something of himself, though at the time he had not seen it that way.

  Marcus had never seriously contemplated joining the legions. Who wanted to voluntarily sign up for a twenty-five year term of service? Life with the legions was hard, with the potential to be carved up by some distant battle-crazed barbarian. The slums of Mal’Zeel were awash with legionary cripples, who were missing limbs or suffering from some debilitating injury. Such men, deemed unable to march, were discharged with a small monthly disability benefit and whatever pension funds they had accrued during their service. Having not completed their signed twenty-five year term, they were not entitled to any lands. Unable to work, even if they could find a job, they survived on the grain dole and simply drank or diced their meager monies away. Such wretches were shadows of their former selves. He had pitied them. Still, Marcus had not hesitated to accept the offer of a term with the legions. Forced labor in a mine was the same as a death sentence.

  I am a very different person now.

  He had alrea
dy resolved, should the opportunity ever permit it, to find the magistrate and thank him.

  A fresh gust of wind rustled through the forest. He closed his eyes to listen as the wind made its way through the trees. He breathed in deeply through his nose and slowly exhaled, enjoying the smells, the sounds. He could hear the leaves rushing together and the branches swaying. The trees creaked and groaned with the wind.

  The gust eventually abated and, with it, Marcus became aware of a disturbance. He felt it, a subtle change in the pattern of the forest. It was not unexpected. He had been waiting for it. Marcus sighed deeply. His moment of serenity and peace was gone.

  He opened his eyes. His small bow lay on the ground before him. He slowly reached forward and picked it up. Three arrows were stuck loosely in the forest floor to his right and within easy reach. He quietly took one, nocked it and then looked up.

  The Vrell Road lay twenty-five yards away. Marcus could not recall the road’s actual name. People simply called it the Vrell Road, as that was the only place it went.

  He shifted, leaning forward to put his weight squarely on his knees. Concealed behind a stand of bushes, he was right at a spot where the road bent at a sharp angle. Around the bend came a heavily loaded supply wagon pulled by a pair of oxen and driven by a bored-looking teamster. Marcus allowed the wagon to continue past and out of view.

  Undetected, he just sat and watched. A second wagon slowly followed the first. Both teamsters carefully negotiated the bend and continued on out of view. A third wagon followed and then a fourth and fifth. Marcus continued to count. When the twentieth wagon turned the bend, he calmly and coolly raised his bow and drew back, increasing the tension as he pulled.

  He carefully aimed, and then released. The bow twanged. In a practiced fluid-like motion, he nocked a second arrow, rapidly aimed and released.

  The wagon came to an abrupt halt and the teamster stared dumbly in shock at the two oxen. One had collapsed without uttering a sound. The other brayed and kicked about in pain. It seemed to take the teamster a moment to realize that an arrow protruded from the neck of the beast. Eyes wide, he was just starting to look into the forest when Marcus released his third arrow. Its flight was true and took the teamster fully in the neck. Desperate, the man grasped at the arrow, which had punched completely through the soft tissue and exploded out the other side of his neck. The teamster stood up in what appeared to be shocked panic. He teetered a moment before his legs gave out and then toppled from the wagon, landing heavily, blood spurting in jets from the wound.

  Marcus grabbed his quiver, stood, and made his way deeper into the forest. Shouts of alarm from the rebel supply column rang out behind him. Marcus assumed a similar thing was happening to the next two wagons, which Todd and Davis were charged with handling. The shouts faded the farther he got from the road.

  The pace he set could not quite be described as a run, but was swift enough that it was a near jog. Eli had taught him well and he was mindful to leave little evidence of his passage lest someone track him down.

  It was a mile before he came to a stop in a small clearing, the rendezvous point. A few seconds after his arrival, Davis and Todd appeared. They nodded at each other in greeting. Satisfied that everyone had arrived without incident or injury, Marcus said nothing but turned and immediately set out, with the others following along as they made their way to the next ambush point.

  Today was the day the rebels would learn that their march on Vrell would be contested. The scouts, operating in small units, had been positioned along the road to harass, confuse and slow the enemy. Priority targets were draft animals and teamsters, followed by officers and sergeants. Orders were to strike rapidly and disappear, shortly attacking elsewhere, making it appear that the road and advance was contested by a major force. Though the enemy would think otherwise, there were no more than thirty-five men operating under Eli’s direct command, most coming from the garrison companies.

  Farther up the road and much closer to Vrell, well in advance of the enemy, Captain Stiger with the 85th and the bulk of the Vrell garrison were preparing for the enemy’s arrival. Marcus was not sure what was being planned, but he was confident the captain would be making a stand. Captain Stiger simply needed time to prepare for that stand and Marcus was going to work hard to give it to him.

  Marcus smiled as they arrived in a small clearing that they had selected earlier. He stopped and took a quick drink from his water skin, thankful once again that he did not have to wear the heavy armor of a common legionary. He wiped the sweat from his brow and took one more pull on the skin.

  “Remember, three shots only and then hoof it back here,” Marcus looked at the other two scouts. “No risks and no foot-dragging to watch.”

  The others nodded in grim understanding. They were playing a dangerous game. Taking more shots or hesitating a few seconds to watch the aftermath might be tempting, but it could also prove risky should the enemy be given time to gather their wits and respond. The orders were to strike from hidden positions and, if possible, remain unseen as they melted back into the forest.

  Satisfied that they were in mutual understanding, Marcus sent them on their way. Each headed off in the same general direction toward positions that had been carefully selected with an eye toward concealment. So quick had they moved from the previous ambush that Marcus judged it unlikely the enemy column they were approaching was even aware of the attack on the supply column just a few miles back.

  Marcus took care to move as silently as possible. He picked his way through the forest toward the road, barely a mile away. The enemy had scouts and skirmishers of their own, of which they had seen little. The rebels appeared to not expect any resistance and, as such, had not pushed skirmishers and scouts out to screen the flanks of their march. Marcus grinned. He was about to punish them for that lapse.

  As he neared his selected spot, Marcus could begin to hear the steady tromp of many feet ahead of him through the brush. He and his men were about to attack an infantry column, which would be a much more dangerous undertaking. Marcus eased behind thick brush and knelt down.

  Through the brush, he could see the rebel infantry marching by, a little under twenty-five yards away. He took his bow from his back, leaving the quiver in place and stuck three arrows tip-first into the soft forest floor, just deep enough that they would stand up on their own.

  The rebel soldiers looked far from impressive. Dressed in near rags, many were barefoot. Very few wore any real type of armor, with only a handful here and there wearing the odd helmet. They were armed with long wooden spears, topped by iron tips, but more curiously, they did not carry shields. Spearmen usually carried shields. The rebel infantry kit included bags that were either slung over shoulders or hung on backs from ties around their necks. Marcus assumed these contained personal possessions and rations.

  The rebels did not march in step or ordered rows as a legionary company might, but simply walked in clumps. From a professional soldier’s view, they looked very much like the rabble that they were. Still, that did not stop Marcus from respecting them and what they were capable of doing. After all, it was men like these who had forced four imperial legions to retreat northward, stranding both his company, the 85th Imperial Foot and the garrison of Vrell behind enemy lines.

  Marcus studied the column for a few seconds before he saw what he took to be a sergeant. The man carried himself with an air of importance and authority. He was well dressed and, unlike his men, he wore boots. He was also better armed than the others, having a shield and a short sword, worn on his right side.

  In one smooth motion Marcus took an arrow, nocked it, aimed and fired. The arrow landed with a meaty thwack and heavy grunt, taking the man full in the chest. He staggered before falling to his knees. Marcus grabbed another arrow, aimed and released, hitting the man who had been marching next to the sergeant. So fast did it happen that the second man was hit before those around him seemed to realize they were under attack. The second man cried out as he c
ollapsed onto the road, where he rolled in the dirt, tripping the man directly behind him.

  Captain Stiger’s orders were not only to strike at the enemy’s supply, but also to prune the enemy ranks of their leadership. Eli had added to those orders and had made it clear that they were also to strike down those who were near the officers and sergeants, so it would rapidly become apparent that being around leadership was an unhealthy proposition. This would also have the future side-effect of making it easier to spot any rebel officers and sergeants.

  Marcus took his third shot as cries of alarm and screams of rage and pain began to sound up and down the column. Davis and Todd, having taken his cue, also struck. A horse somewhere up the road screamed in pain. With a deep sense of satisfaction, Marcus melted back into the forest. One of his men had found an officer.

  Two

  HOLDING THE REINS in his right hand, Stiger pulled Nomad up to a halt. The sound of many axes, chopping away, came from the trees along this portion of the road. He leaned back in the saddle and stretched out his sore back. He had been in the saddle nearly every waking minute for the past five days, riding up and down a forty-mile stretch of the Vrell Road. He intended this to be his defensive corridor. When the enemy encountered it, their advance would come to a near crawl. Stiger’s defenses began with the near complete destruction of the road. His plan included four fortified defensive lines for the enemy to overcome. Accordingly, he was spending all of his time overseeing the work, providing advice and giving direction where he felt it was needed.

  Stiger took a long pull from his canteen and then wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm. He was dusty, grimy, tired and extremely saddle-weary. He had not bathed or shaved in several days and felt thoroughly dirty. Being dirty made one itch. Stiger hated the feeling.

  What I would not give for a proper bathhouse, Stiger thought with longing, scratching at his stubble. A bathhouse and a shave.

  If he had to guess, Nomad was just as tired of the saddle and road. The horse was becoming somewhat temperamental. Like his master, he needed a break. Soon, old friend, he thought as he patted the neck of his horse affectionately. You will get a rest.