“Yes, sir.” Zhael rode off.
Quaeryt didn’t take in what happened, because his vision kept blurring with the pain in his eyes and head. He drank more water, then fumbled out several dry biscuits and methodically started chewing one. By the time he’d finished the second one, the pain had subsided from sheer agony to extreme discomfort, but he could see more clearly … for a few moments, if he squinted. He also realized that he was sore across his thighs and abdomen … and on his backside. Very sore.
He took another long swallow of the watered lager, then replaced the bottle in its holder, just as Zhael reined up beside him.
“You are wounded in another way, are you not, sir?”
“You might say that,” Quaeryt admitted. “I’ll recover.” If we aren’t attacked again soon.
“The Bovarians—the ones remaining—are long gone.”
“For the moment I have to say I’m glad.”
Zhael nodded.
Quaeryt reached up and massaged his forehead and neck again.
Almost two quints passed before Quaeryt and Zhael, waiting beside the pile of muskets, saw Fifth Battalion approach. Then Skarpa rode out along the shoulder of the road toward them. Major Zhael eased his mount away as Skarpa reined up.
“I understand you had a little action here.” The commander glanced down at the muskets stacked on the shoulder of the road.
“Another musket attack.”
“How many did you lose?”
“Two killed, eight wounded, not seriously, according to Major Zhael.”
“What were their casualties? Do you know?”
“Some fifty dead, eleven captives, mostly wounded.”
Skarpa’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t have led the attack on them, would you?”
“They attacked us, sir.”
Skarpa snorted. “I’ll rephrase that. You wouldn’t have led the counterattack, would you?”
“Only against the musketeers. Major Zhael commanded the attack against the Bovarian cavalry.”
“So you took out the musketeers … and they destroyed the Bovarians. Exactly how did that happen?”
“The major said the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who charged into musket fire.”
“I suspect that the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who were able to charge through it.”
Quaeryt managed a grin, but even that hurt. “We were fortunate.”
“Didn’t I tell you that I was already suspicious of that explanation?”
“What can I say, sir? We were.”
“How many muskets are there in that pile?”
“Forty-one, sir.”
“Did you kill all of the men who used them?”
“No, sir. I don’t know how many I might have injured. I just charged their stands from the side, and they couldn’t turn their weapons fast enough.”
“Just?”
“Muskets are like pikes, in a way. They’re awkward.”
“Have you ever been attacked by muskets before this campaign, Subcommander?”
“No.”
Skarpa nodded. “You can rejoin Fifth Battalion. We’ll take a break here and bring Third Regiment forward. Fifth Battalion will take the middle of the column, before the wagons.”
Quaeryt didn’t protest. He just nodded.
33
Late on Lundi afternoon Skarpa received scout reports that the Bovarians had invested the approach to Ralaes with revetments and trenches. He called a halt to the advance at a small, nameless, and hastily abandoned hamlet some four milles from the approach to the town. While the company officers and men of the regiments and Fifth Battalion were making camp, setting up picket lines, and taking care of mounts, among other matters, and the cooks were preparing an evening meal, Skarpa called Quaeryt and Meinyt to meet with him on the covered front porch of one of the larger dwellings in the hamlet, and one with a view of the river and a breeze off the water. For the breeze alone, Quaeryt was grateful. He’d made the ride to the hamlet in a painful semidaze, not to mention being hot and sweaty.
Skarpa had found a small table that he’d set in the middle of the narrow porch and some stools. He’d also spread a map on the table, weighted on the corners with stones. As Quaeryt listened, he tried not to squirm too much on the stool, but he was feeling more aches than he had thought he would, and there were bruises in more than a few places he couldn’t see.
“… the ground to the south of the town is low and swampy, with thick underbrush and mud holes and uneven ground. There are also extensive false olive thickets on the higher ground. We’d have to ride more than twenty milles to get around it…”
“What about that other road?” asked Meinyt. “The one the musketeers took?”
“It joins the river road about a mille toward Raelaes from here,” replied Skarpa.
“Too bad we didn’t know that.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to take it, not the part heading west from the paved road.” Skarpa cleared his throat. “The scouts found two abandoned wagons—both with broken axles.”
“They just left them?” Meinyt frowned.
“Apparently they were worried about Quaeryt’s third company catching them.” Skarpa smiled.
“After the way Zhael’s men ripped through their troopers,” said Quaeryt, “they were right to be worried.”
Meinyt and Skarpa exchanged a quick glance, one that Quaeryt ignored.
“Anyway…” continued Skarpa, “there’s about two milles of open ground east of the town, between that jungle and the river. They’ve thrown up revetments across most of the last mille, with ditches in other places. Most of the ditches are wide enough that a horse can’t jump them, and they’re filled with sharpened stakes and who knows what else…”
“Filthy water and mud, most likely,” added Meinyt.
“… it’s hard to tell how many men they’ve got, but it looks like they’ve got at least three, maybe four, regiments of foot behind those earthworks.”
“At least some muskets, too,” said Quaeryt. “Where they’ve got a clear path of fire.”
Skarpa continued using the map to point out what he’d learned from the scouts for another half quint before he finally said, “That’s what we know now. I’m in no hurry to attack. Not for a day or so, anyway. The men could use some rest—and so could you and the imagers, Subcommander. We need to feel out where their strong points are and see if there’s somewhere we can break through and then wheel and pin them against their own earthworks.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Tomorrow, when you’re rested, I’d like you to ride closer and see what you think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get some food and sleep. Leave everything else to Zhelan. That’s what he’s there for.”
Quaeryt nodded, not trying even to smile pleasantly.
Skarpa stood. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”
For all that Skarpa said, it would be a while before the cooks had rations ready. While Quaeryt was sore and tired, he wasn’t sleepy. So he made his way to the eastern end of the hamlet, where Fifth Battalion was settling in around cots abandoned by their owners or tenants.
Zhelan was the first to catch sight of him. “Sir … the first cot there … there’s space for you and the imagers.”
“Thank you. You’ve told them?”
“Yes, sir.” Zhelan stood waiting.
Quaeryt knew Zhelan wanted to know what Skarpa had said, but wouldn’t ask. So he said quietly, “The Bovarians have thrown up earthworks and trenches across all the approaches to Ralaes…” He went on to summarize Skarpa’s words, then ended with, “We need to see that the men get rest, but that they’re ready in case the Bovarians try another surprise attack.”
“Do you think they will?”
“They very well might. We’re getting close to Villerive, and they can retreat behind all those earthworks after they try a strike.”
“A few extra sentries might be in order … posted farther out.”
Quaeryt nodded,
then added, “Perhaps mounts already saddled for a squad … or two?”
Zhelan offered a faint smile. “I’d thought that, sir.”
After he talked over matters with the major, Quaeryt started toward the cot that Zhelan had pointed out. He was still some twenty yards away when Voltyr approached from where he had been standing under a small maple.
“Sir?”
“What is it, Voltyr?”
“I hoped I could talk over a few things with you.”
Quaeryt nodded, wondering if he could evade the thrust of the undercaptain’s inquiries, or if he should, for he had no doubt questions were on Voltyr’s mind. How could they not be after all that’s happened in the last day or so?
“There have been times when we should have suffered from arrows. Those around us did. This morning, those closest to you were not injured by the first musket attack, while many farther away were. This afternoon, those near you were not injured.” The undercaptain paused. “You can extend shields some distance, can you not?”
What do you say to that? “Learning shielding, from what I know, is difficult, but I’ve tried to give all of you instruction in imaging … as best I could. It takes time to learn and strengthen abilities, and there’s never been any imager who lived long enough or who worked with others enough to develop a way of teaching imagers. Not that I know.”
“Until now,” said Voltyr quietly. “That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it? You’ve been pushing us as fast as you thought we could learn.”
“It wasn’t fast enough for Akoryt,” Quaeryt said quietly.
“He wasn’t strong enough yet. Shaelyt and I can barely hold shields for a fraction of a quint.” Voltyr stopped as Shaelyt walked around the end of the cot and then toward them.
“Good afternoon,” offered Quaeryt.
“The same to you, sir.” Shaelyt’s eyes went to Voltyr.
The older undercaptain smiled. “I was telling the subcommander how it seemed more than fortuitous that anyone close to him suffered fewer, if any, wounds from arrows or musket balls, and that suggested shielding beyond just himself.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Shaelyt, “but none of the undercaptains thinks it’s fortune. Nor does most of Fifth Battalion. Wharyn told Shaelyt that you were not a lost one. He said you were the son of Erion. He said you rode down twenty-one musketeers, and their iron musket stands. Only two of those you struck survived. They counted twice.”
“What do you two suggest I say, then?” Quaeryt kept his voice humorous. “No matter what Captain Wharyn says, I can’t claim I’m a son of Erion. I’m not, and claiming such wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“It might not hurt to let the rest of the undercaptains know you’re an imager, sir,” suggested Voltyr. “Quietly, of course.”
Quaeryt nodded. “You’re probably right that the time for that has come. I’ll let them know after morning muster. I’d like to let them have the day to think it over.”
“I have another question, sir,” ventured Shaelyt.
“Yes?”
“Many times when you have done what others would claim is not possible … you have been injured. Yet nothing has struck you. You are moving with great care even now…”
“I don’t deny it. I’m a bit sore. You want to know why?”
Both undercaptains nodded.
“Beyond a certain point … I’ve learned from experience … when there are too many impacts on shields, the force of those impacts are born by the body.” Quaeryt paused for a moment. “It’s like a physical shield. If a sabre hits a shield that’s properly held, the shield-holder doesn’t feel much. If a horse rears and its hooves and a battle ax hit the shield, the man holding the shield is likely to have many broken bones, if he survives.”
“You’ve survived worse than that with no bones broken,” Shaelyt pointed out.
“At times that’s been true. But not at other times. You saw what happened to me at Ferravyl. And I was bruised all over when I came to Ferravyl because I’d used shields against explosives in a wagon. The more you work on shields the stronger they get—but there’s always a breaking point. I had shields, probably like yours, when I went to Tilbor. They weren’t enough to protect me against a crossbow bolt fired at close range. They slowed the bolt enough that it didn’t break my collarbone or go deep enough into my chest to kill me. But it was more than a month before I rode again. In the last battle in Tilbor, I wore myself out and was flattened by a heavy cavalryman. That broke my arm and tore up a few muscles.”
The two exchanged glances again.
“So … you’ve continued to fight when you knew…” Voltyr let his words break off.
“When necessary,” Quaeryt admitted. “Sometimes you have no choice. Just as sometimes troopers and their commanders have no choice.” No good choices … there are always choices …
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’ll go over this with the others in the morning.” Quaeryt nodded and turned.
As he walked back toward the central cot near where rations were being prepared, Quaeryt could feel their eyes on his back. Did you say enough? Too much? Did you make it clear enough?
He could only hope so.
34
Quaeryt woke in the darkness to an off-key trumpet and the insistent clangor of a bell, followed by shouted commands, and then by the muffled sounds of weapons. For a moment he had no idea where he was, not until the undercaptains around him began to stir. Then he sat up on the thin pallet he’d covered with his single blanket and yanked on his boots and put on the uniform shirt he’d folded and laid aside to sleep in the too-warm night.
“Imagers! Muster out front!” Quaeryt stood and hurried toward the door.
When he reached the narrow porch of the cot, he glanced around, but while he heard sounds, they did not come from the river road to the west, but more from the southwest. That made sense. The Bovarians wouldn’t have attacked along the road if they wanted to surprise Skarpa’s forces.
Both moons were but thin crescents. Neither shed much light, and in the near darkness, all he could see were the shadowy figures of troopers forming up.
What can you do that will be most effective? As soon as he asked himself the question, he realized how stupid it was, since he had only a general idea of from where the Bovarian attack was coming … and none about what Telaryn forces were responding and how.
When the imagers all appeared, after what seemed like a quint, but was closer to a few moments, he ordered, “On me! To the headquarters house.” At least we can protect Skarpa, if necessary.
But by the time they had reached the large dwelling, it was clear that Skarpa and the other officers had already left.
“We’ll move up the river road,” Quaeryt stated firmly. “Be ready to image. Smoke first, then iron darts. Only on my command.”
“… can’t see … friggin’ thing…”
Quaeryt had no trouble recognizing Threkhyl’s loud and surly voice.
“… is night, you know?” replied Desyrk. “You expect the moons to shine for you?”
“… be helpful…”
“Quiet,” Quaeryt ordered firmly, but not loudly, image-projecting his voice back at the undercaptains. He strained to hear and to see any moving shadows, but the only sounds nearby were those of his men. Even the noise of fighting to the south had died away.
After walking another hundred yards or so, Quaeryt heard movements to his left, coming from the south, and he immediately extended shields. “Stand ready!”
At that moment a good squad of Telaryn troopers charged out from a small grove of trees on the left side of the river road toward the imagers.
The two troopers in the lead ran into Quaeryt’s shields and rocked back. One stumbled, and the other fell at the edge of the road, then scrambled to his feet.
“Imagers! Halt!” snapped Quaeryt in Tellan. Then he image-projected his voice at the troopers. “As you were!”
The troopers stiffened, and a squad leader
hurried forward, blade at the ready.
“Sir?”
“Subcommander Quaeryt. The imagers and I couldn’t do much in the dark where every one is all mixed up. So I thought we’d cover the river road.” Quaeryt hadn’t thought it out quite that precisely. He’d gone more on instinct.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t know.”
“You wouldn’t have. No damage done,” said Quaeryt. But there could have been. The last thing we need is to take out our own troops—or have them take out an unaware imager. “We haven’t seen any Bovarians. Have you?”
“Not here, sir. The ones who came from the south withdrew when we hit them. Well … after they hit us and we pushed them back. The captain sent us here to make sure they didn’t circle us.”
As the squad leader explained, Quaeryt could see more troopers gathering and forming up in the trees.
“It’s just the imagers and Subcommander Quaeryt, sir!” the squad leader called.
A captain strode out of the trees. “Subcommander, sir, Subcommander Meinyt didn’t tell us you’d be here.” The accent suggested he was from one of the battalions from Piedryn.
“He didn’t know. There wasn’t time to inform him.” Quaeryt gestured. “We can move west on the road together.”
“Yes, sir. Appreciate it, sir.”
As Quaeryt led the imagers along the road, flanked by the Telaryn company, his eyes searched the dimness ahead, barely illuminated by the stars and thin crescents of Artiema and Erion, but a portion of his thoughts were elsewhere.
Holding shields was the only imaging that was even halfway effective in deep darkness or where the imagers couldn’t see, for one reason or another, and he was the only imager proficient in doing that. Yet … Have you delayed too long in trying to start them in learning shields?
He didn’t think he could have started much sooner … but the question still nagged at him.
35
Quaeryt was up early on Mardi, dressed quickly despite muscles that were still sore, and saw to the imagers, telling them that they would meet again after breakfast. Then he met with Zhelan about Fifth Battalion before hurrying to the house that served as Skarpa’s temporary headquarters. As he drew near, three tiny gray kittens darted under the front porch. He couldn’t help but smile.
Imager’s Battalion Page 25