Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Or someone realized that the musketeers aren’t as effective against us during the day,” suggested Skarpa.

  “They aren’t that bright,” countered Meinyt.

  “They were bright enough to slow us down.”

  “Deucalon already did that,” said Meinyt. “Besides, you already said we’d need to stay here for several days until the northern army gets closer to Villerive.”

  “The men need a day or so of rest at the least. I sent out patrols early. All the Bovarians have pulled back to Villerive. The defenses there make the earthworks here look like a bowling green. They also have large catapults.”

  At a scraping—or scuffling—sound from across the public room, or perhaps beyond, Quaeryt looked away from Skarpa and toward the kitchen archway. The dark-haired woman no longer stood there.

  Then four men appeared, moving quickly, each with a small crossbow aimed toward the three Telaryn officers. All four wore blue-gray Bovarian uniforms.

  Quaeryt sprang to his feet, expanding his shields to cover the other two officers, then imaged iron darts into the chests of the attackers. Even so, all four loosed their bolts, all of which slammed into Quaeryt’s shields, driving him backward against his chair and the wall. He staggered, then finally managed to catch his balance and stand up.

  “What…!?” Meinyt glanced from Quaeryt to the four figures on the floor by the archway, then at the two troopers who had sprinted across the room.

  Quaeryt contracted his shields and hurried toward the archway.

  “Sir?” protested one of the troopers.

  Quaeryt ignored the man—as well as the throbbing headache that had arrived with his imaging—and dashed into the kitchen, where two other men held knives at the throats of the black-haired woman and a blond woman scarcely more than a girl.

  “Stop right there!”

  Quaeryt stopped, imaged the knives out of the hands of the two Bovarians, and then imaged them through the men’s boots and feet, pinning them to the floor.

  The women jumped free, but the older woman shuddered as she looked at Quaeryt.

  “Namer’s spawn!” swore the taller Bovarian.

  “Pharsi bastard!”

  No one had time to say anything else before a squad of Telaryn troopers burst into the kitchen.

  The squad leader glanced to Quaeryt. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m fine.” What else can you say?

  “Tie them up!” snapped the squad leader.

  Quaeryt waited until the two were restrained before walking toward the taller Bovarian. “How did you get in?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Quaeryt smiled, then image-wrapped a shield around the man’s head, so tightly that the Bovarian couldn’t breathe. “I don’t like assassins. I especially don’t like assassins who threaten to slit the throats of their own people.” As the man struggled, trying to gasp for air, Quaeryt looked to the black-haired woman. “Do you know?”

  Her hand shaking, she pointed to a narrow door, slightly ajar. “They must have come up from the cellars. They didn’t come in from the courtyard.”

  “Who let them in there?”

  “The innkeeper, no doubt,” said Skarpa from the archway into the public room. “The men caught him trying to sneak away.”

  Quaeryt turned back to the taller Bovarian, who was turning a dark red, and lifted the shield. “You are a prisoner, and you will be civil.” He image-projected absolute authority, although he had the feeling it was overlaid with rage.

  The man whitened, then crumpled.

  “We were just following orders!” insisted the remaining Bovarian. “We were!”

  Quaeryt didn’t doubt that, either, not from what he’d heard and observed in the last year. He turned to Skarpa. “Perhaps you should have someone talk to these two. You can always summon me if you have to.”

  “In addition to being a good commander, Major Falossn is excellent at interrogation.” Skarpa looked to the troopers. “Make sure those bonds are secure before you remove the knives.”

  The blond girl looked down, then stared at the knives, each pinning a boot and foot to the wide plank floor. What color had remained in her face drained away.

  “If the subcommander hadn’t done that,” Skarpa said mildly. “You’d be dead.”

  The black-haired woman continued to stare at Quaeryt, but said not a word.

  After making certain that the two remaining assassins were on their way to Major Falossn, Skarpa and Quaeryt turned to head back to the public room.

  As he moved to the archway, he caught a few words murmured by the older woman. “… black coney and ancient Pharsi lord … worst of all…”

  Quaeryt managed not to break step.

  Once he and Skarpa were in the public room, Meinyt walked back from the main entrance, where he’d apparently been directing the removal of the dead would-be assassins. He looked at Quaeryt with a half-humorous smile. “I thought so, but you’ve been very careful.”

  “I didn’t have a choice here,” Quaeryt said dryly. Then he laughed ironically. “Actually, if I weren’t so tired, I probably could have misdirected the crossbow bolts, caused them to slip, and various other mishaps to occur.” He took a deep breath. “I was too tired to think straight or do anything else.”

  “Why…?”

  “Why haven’t I done more at times?” Quaeryt followed Skarpa’s example, sitting down in one of the chairs at another table. “Because I’ve usually done everything I can.” Not always, but usually. “It takes strength, and the ability to see. When I get near my limits, I can’t even see. I can barely stay in the saddle. It’s a different kind of fighting, but it takes a lot of effort.”

  “That’s when you’ve gotten hurt or wounded, isn’t it?” Meinyt’s voice was low as he eased into the adjoining chair.

  Quaeryt nodded. “I’ve also had to protect the undercaptains until they can learn better how to protect themselves.”

  “Since it’s in the open, between us, anyway,” said Skarpa, sounding not at all surprised, “who else knows?”

  “The only one who knows besides the undercaptains and you two, so far as I know, is Lord Bhayar. Myskyl suspects something. Others may as well. It’s been hard to disguise it and still be effective.”

  Skarpa nodded, then grinned. “Well … since Lord Bhayar knows, he’ll obviously have told Deucalon and Myskyl. So we don’t need to report anything.”

  Meinyt grinned as well. “I think you’re right about that, sir.”

  “Far be it from me to disobey a superior,” added Quaeryt.

  “What about the men?” asked Meinyt.

  “Don’t make a fuss about it. If an officer says anything, just tell him that the imagers need an imager to lead them, as if it’s absolutely normal.” Skarpa turned to Quaeryt. “There are already rumors, and you couldn’t keep it hidden much longer anyway.”

  Quaeryt nodded. That will cause other problems, but there will always be problems.

  A trooper appeared with three mugs of lager, setting them on the table. “We tapped a new keg, sirs, and we had the women drink some first.”

  “Thank you,” said Skarpa.

  Quaeryt just nodded and reached for his lager, immediately taking a slow but long swallow, hoping it would ease the pain behind his eyes. It had been a long day already.

  “There’s another question,” offered Meinyt. “How did they know we’d be here? They had to have been there since sometime last night.”

  Skarpa laughed. “We’ve been predictable. All they had to do is ask what we did in any town we’ve taken. We haven’t commandeered houses in the larger towns, and this is the best inn. Where else would we be?”

  “So they sent scouts back?”

  “Spies. They couldn’t have gone in uniform. They probably just left people behind, men who were from the area and posing as deserters who didn’t want to get caught by either us or Kharst. People would certainly believe that. They know how brutal Kharst can be. Then
those men would pass on the information. Right now, there’s not much we can do about it—except check the cellars and closets of every public house we go into first.”

  “But…” Meinyt shook his head. “I suppose they’re everywhere.”

  “I’d be very surprised if they weren’t,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll never know. If we hold this part of Bovaria, and we will, they’ll become deserters in truth, and we won’t know the difference. Even if we discover some of them, we certainly can’t hang them unless they break laws in some other way, because we’ll never know if they were truly deserters or truly spies.”

  Just another aspect of war you hadn’t considered. But Quaeryt understood exactly what Skarpa meant. To most people, deserters were those who didn’t want to fight or who opposed Kharst. While some might think them cowards, and while desertion was a hanging offense, for Bhayar to have ordered them executed for effectively supporting Telaryn would have seemed cruel and hypocritical. Besides, most people would likely be wary of them for the rest of their lives.

  He took another swallow of lager, better than most he’d had since leaving Nordruil more than a month before. He thought his headache was easing.

  40

  After Skarpa dismissed Quaeryt and Meinyt, Quaeryt put his gear in a small room in the inn, as had Meinyt, in order to leave the larger chambers for majors and company officers to share, and washed and shaved. It was well after ninth glass when he began the four-block-long walk to the smaller Black Pot Inn, where Fifth Battalion and its company officers were based, to meet with Zhelan. He already told the imager undercaptains to be ready to meet with him at second glass in the side courtyard at the South River Inn.

  A light misty rain sprinkled down intermittently from light gray clouds, but died away as Quaeryt neared the blocklike two-story inn, with wooden walls stained almost the gray of the clouds. Zhelan was standing and waiting on the side porch, empty of anyone but the major himself. Quaeryt took the sagging wooden steps carefully, because he found himself limping again, a sign that he was more tired than he realized.

  “How are you feeling, Subcommander?” Zhelan glanced to the pair of chairs.

  Quaeryt needed no reminders and seated himself. So did the major.

  “About the same as everyone else, I imagine. Tired and sore.” Quaeryt cleared his throat. “A little hoarse, too.” After another pause, he went on. “We’ll be here for another day, possibly longer. I don’t know if word has reached you from other officers, but the morning scouting patrols reported that the Bovarians have pulled back to Villerive, and it’s fortified all the way around…” From there Quaeryt passed on the rest of the information that Skarpa had divulged about the general disposition of the Bovarian troops and the likelihood that the northern forces might be several days in arriving.

  “None of that’s exactly a surprise, sir.”

  “No,” replied Quaeryt with a slight laugh.

  “Sir … might I ask … but it seemed that some of the undercaptains are…?”

  “Getting more accomplished as imagers? I certainly hope so. We’ll need everything that they can do at Villerive and later.” And especially at Variana.

  “Sir … it’s also been said … ah … that you…”

  Quaeryt nodded. “It has been said.” He paused. “Imaging is very difficult, and it takes a great amount of strength. By the end of a battle or skirmish, even at the beginning if an imager tries to do too much, imagers can be very vulnerable. At times, improper imaging can kill an imager.” Quaeryt smiled sardonically. “And yes, I was an imager from the first battles in Tilbor. I’ve learned a great deal from that, and I’m trying to see that the undercaptains don’t make as many mistakes as I did. They’ll probably make as many, though; they’ll just be different ones.”

  Quaeryt could still see the hint of a question in Zhelan’s expression. “Being an imager is a bit like being an armored heavy cavalryman. You have better weapons and protection, but it takes more strength to use both, and if you’re in the wrong place or make the wrong decision, all your weapons and armor may not be enough to help you survive. They may even weigh you down more. That’s why it’s better that too many people don’t know who’s an imager and who isn’t. Especially since we have so few.”

  After a moment Zhelan nodded. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Without first company, I doubt any of us would have made it this far.”

  “You would have, sir.”

  “Perhaps … but the others wouldn’t have, and we’ll need them more and more.”

  “I can see that, sir.”

  “Now…” said Quaeryt, “you need to tell me about how the rest of Fifth Battalion is doing, and if there’s anything you or they need.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve got maybe a hundred mounts could stand reshoeing…”

  Quaeryt listened for a good two quints before rising and heading back toward the South River Inn. As he strode back through the warm damp air, he decided that before he started working with the imagers, he needed to make arrangements for one of the farriers attached to either Fifth Regiment or Third Regiment to work on the battalion’s mounts, since Fifth Battalion hadn’t been assigned a farrier.

  That took almost a glass, before he ran down Skarpa’s farrier in the stable beside yet another inn, The Overflowing Bowl, and extracted a firm commitment from the trooper, officially a senior squad leader, to report to Zhelan first thing on Vendrei morning. As he crossed the courtyard, he saw a brown dog lying on a heap of straw beside the stable door.

  “Hello there,” he said warmly.

  The dog lifted its head slightly, and its tail gave a single thump.

  “You’re right,” replied Quaeryt. “It has been one of those days.”

  “Careful, sir.” A stable boy stepped out of the stable. “He can bite. That’s why the chain.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt hadn’t noticed the chain. He decided against trying to give the dog a pat, mournful as the canine looked.

  By the time he neared the South River Inn, it was nearly second glass … and he had to retrieve his staff from his room before working with the imagers. The two bells of the afternoon chimed out as he hurried down the steps with his staff in hand. Not only was he later than he would have liked getting back to undercaptains who he expected would be both tired and restless, but he was also late, and he hated that, even if it happened to be by only a few moments.

  The five of them were indeed in the east courtyard, beside the roofed porch holding neither stools nor chairs. Quaeryt did not bother with much of an introduction to what he had in mind. “You have all been working to see if you can learn another imaging skill. This afternoon we’ll see how well you’re coming. I’ll be testing your shielding skills.”

  He took in the resigned expressions and grinned. “I’ve told you before. You only improve when you’re required to do more when you’re already tired. That makes this afternoon a perfect time to try to improve.”

  He gestured toward Shaelyt. “Step forward.”

  The youngest undercaptain did so.

  “I’m going to try to hit you with my staff. It won’t be that hard. Try to block the blow with an imaging shield. Ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt took the staff in the two-handed grip of a seaman, feinted, and then came forward with the lower end of the staff. He could feel some resistance slowing the staff, but the end struck Shaelyt’s thigh. Quaeryt stepped back. “Try to tighten the hooks or whatever image you’re using. Ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The second time Shaelyt managed to stop the staff, although Quaeryt thought he could have pushed through if he’d used more strength. “Better. I’m going to use more force this time. Ready?”

  Shaelyt nodded.

  Quaeryt struck, but from the other side. Shaelyt’s shield stopped the staff, but the force knocked him back half a yard, and the Pharsi almost fell. “Much better.” Quaeryt lowered hi
s staff. “What happened there is something else you all need to understand. Imaging shields spread the force of a blow across the whole shield. If you’re not balanced, you can stop a blow and still end up pushed from your mount and trampled or worse. Still”—Quaeryt nodded to Shaelyt—“you have the idea, and you need to build up your strength.”

  “How do we do that, sir?” asked Desyrk. “Are we supposed to beat each other bruised?”

  “No. You can build up strength by holding the shields as long as you can, then taking a brief rest, and doing it again and again. It’s even better if you do it while walking or riding.” Quaeryt motioned to Voltyr, ignoring the slight wince. “You’re next.”

  Voltyr’s shields were more like unseen soft cheese, slowing but not completely stopping the staff. Desyrk’s effort slowed the staff, then collapsed. Baelthm was unable to mount any sort of shield. On the other hand, Threkhyl could block anything—for a few moments—but was so exhausted after three tries by Quaeryt that he was shaking and almost collapsed.

  Quaeryt lowered the staff and looked at the ginger-bearded imager. “When you can raise a shield, it will likely stop almost anything, but you can’t keep doing what you’re doing and have any strength left. I’d like to suggest something else for now. What about creating momentary shields, solid ones—when you see or feel something headed in your direction—but holding them just long enough to block something. Perhaps, if you start that way, you can do it more quickly and more often without exhausting yourself.”

  Threkhyl frowned, then nodded slowly. “I can do that.”

  “There’s one other thing,” offered Quaeryt.

  “Yes, sir?” Threkhyl’s words were cautious, his eyes wary.

  “I’d like to commend you, again, on creating that stone span across the dry moat. You reacted quickly. You made taking out those musketeers much easier and allowed us to do it much more quickly. Subcommander Meinyt said it likely saved a good hundred of his troopers. I thought you ought to know.” Quaeryt smiled as warmly as he could.

  Surprise flickered in Threkhyl’s eyes for an instant before he spoke. “Thank you, sir.”