Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “You are. I’d rather have you than two full regiments. The problem is that Deucalon and Myskyl know it, and they’ll try to get a victory over the Bovarians by putting you and the imagers in a situation where even if you win, you’ll lose.”

  “That thought had occurred to me.” Quaeryt took a swallow of the lager, then set the mug down on the table. “We just have to figure out a way to play our plaques so that everyone wins and it becomes obvious that Deucalon and Myskyl didn’t want it to happen that way.”

  “You have that figured out?”

  “Not yet.” Quaeryt offered a grin. “I’ve got until we take Variana, maybe even longer.”

  “You make that sound easy. You really think…”

  “No … it will either be long and bloody, or short and horribly brutal. That all depends on what Kharst does.”

  “What’s your wager?”

  Quaeryt shook his head, even as he thought, Horribly brutal, no matter how it turns out, but especially if Kharst can gather all his troops.

  “Oh … I should tell you about Khaern. He was posted here from Lucayl. He commanded a battalion there that was charged with rooting out the pirates. Won’t say he got all of them, but the number of merchanters lost dropped by more than two-thirds in the two years he was there.” Skarpa snorted. “Rumor is that was one reason why he was promoted and his battalion became the core of Eleventh Regiment.”

  “Oh…?”

  “Several of the High Holders southeast of Ruile have holdings and wealth far more than might be expected from their lands.”

  Quaeryt didn’t bother to sigh. He could believe it.

  “Anyway, he seems like a solid type. Most likely why we got him.”

  “And because he’s junior to you,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “Of course.” Skarpa lifted the mug and took a swallow.

  For a short time, neither officer spoke.

  “Don’t look forward to the month ahead—”

  At that moment, a trooper rapped on the study door. “Subcommander Meinyt and Subcommander Khaern are here, sirs.”

  “Show them in.”

  Meinyt opened the door, ushered in a short and wiry subcommander with red hair shot liberally with gray, and stepped into the study, closing the door behind him before the trooper standing there could. “We got here as soon as we could.”

  Both Skarpa and Quaeryt stood.

  Skarpa looked to Khaern. “Subcommander, this is Subcommander Quaeryt.” After the slightest pause, he added, “I’ve told each of you about the other.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” offered Quaeryt.

  “The same.” Khaern grinned warmly. “You don’t look like the deadliest officer Commander Skarpa has ever seen … but he said you wouldn’t.”

  Quaeryt shrugged helplessly. “I just do what’s necessary to support the commander.”

  “Sometimes that’s whether I’ve ordered him to or not.”

  “Have I ever done anything that wasn’t to support you and in our interest?”

  “No”—Skarpa laughed—“but at times you’ve done it before anyone realized what happened.”

  Quaeryt decided to put an end to that line of bantering and gestured to the plaques table, saying cheerfully, “Your lagers are waiting for you.”

  “We could use those.” Meinyt dropped into the chair across from Skarpa, who had seated himself.

  Khaern eased into the one opposite Quaeryt, waiting momentarily for Quaeryt to sit.

  After taking a swallow from his mug, Meinyt asked, “Have you two decided how to take Nordeau before the marshal orders another stupid attack that will cost too many troops?”

  “We were getting to that,” said Skarpa.

  “If he’d just have let the Bovarians withdraw to that hill and let the imagers deal with the Antiagon Fire first, we’d have lost less than a battalion, instead of a regiment. But no … he wants to attack when he wants to attack.” With a snort, Meinyt lifted his mug again.

  After setting down his mug, Khaern gave the slightest of nods, but said nothing.

  “How are your replacements?” asked Skarpa.

  “They’re replacements. Some of them barely know one end of a sabre from the other. A few even have to hang on to the saddle if they move faster than a trot.” Meinyt took another healthy swallow of lager.

  “And your new battalions?” Skarpa asked Khaern.

  “I had to raise them out of Lucayl and around there. We trained them for a few weeks there, and then on the road. We joined the others at Ferravyl.”

  “That explains the Eleventh Regiment,” said Quaeryt to Skarpa.

  For an instant Skarpa looked as though he would swear, but he only nodded.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Meinyt.

  “The marshal decided that when he received eleven regiments of reinforcements, the southern army should get one.” Skarpa nodded to Khaern. “Not that I’m not very glad to have you, but another regiment in addition to yours would have been helpful.”

  A puzzled expression appeared on Khaern’s face. “How many regiments are there in the northern army, then?”

  “Twenty-two, from what we can figure,” replied Skarpa.

  Meinyt almost choked on his lager. “That—” He stopped as he caught the look from the commander.

  Skarpa said to Quaeryt calmly, “I haven’t heard about your new undercaptains.”

  “They’re not bad,” Quaeryt admitted. “Two Pharsi youths who still could be students, but they’re decent imagers. Two hill types. One wanted to kill me, but decided trying wouldn’t do much for his future. The other I don’t know, but he can image a lot of iron darts.”

  “Sounds like you did better than I did,” said Meinyt.

  “Zhelan had the same complaint as you did about the replacements for first company,” said Quaeryt. “The Khellan officers didn’t get enough to reach full complement, but all the ones they got were Khellan Pharsi types who’d been injured and had recovered. They got replacements for about nine of every ten they’ve lost.”

  “Why do you think you got better imagers?” asked Skarpa.

  “A lot of the factors and High Holders don’t like imagers. Second, the four I got don’t look that good—two almost still schoolboys, a wild imager trapper, and an independent norther.”

  “Still less than half a squad … well, half a squad counting you,” said Meinyt.

  “Let Deucalon and the Bovarians think that,” declared Skarpa. “We need to talk about what we’re going to be doing tomorrow and on the way to Nordeau…”

  Quaeryt nodded and squared himself in the chair.

  53

  Skarpa insisted that Fifth Battalion lead the way back through Villerive and over the bridge—and that he ride with Quaeryt. Third Regiment followed Fifth Battalion, then Eleventh, the engineers and support wagons, and finally Fifth Regiment. The column moved out from Saarcoyn’s grounds just as the sun cleared the tops of the ridge to the east. Shaelyt and the two young Pharsi undercaptains rode immediately behind Quaeryt and Skarpa, while Voltyr rode beside Horan, with the other undercaptains behind them.

  “Don’t see many of the marshal’s troops up this morning,” observed Skarpa as they rode past the estate quartering senior officers under Deucalon and some of the northern regiments.

  “Ours wouldn’t be moving this early, either, if we weren’t headed out,” replied Quaeryt with a smile. “It is Solayi.” That was why he’d been up later than he would have liked on Samedi night arranging his letters to be dispatched through one of Bhayar’s personal aides. They still might be read, but they would be sent.

  “Speaking of that…” Skarpa drew out the words.

  “Yes?”

  “You know very well what I’m about to say, Subcommander and Master Chorister.”

  “I fear that I do. What choice do I have?” Quaeryt paused. “But only if it does not take away from what is necessary for a proper encampment.”

  “We won’t hold services if we canno
t do so safely and properly,” agreed Skarpa.

  As they rode past the abandoned earthworks and into Villerive proper, Quaeryt noted that few if any windows were shuttered, and that, early as it was on Solayi, people were on the streets, and taking only passing notice of the Telaryn troopers. What does that mean? That they expect we’ll come and go? Or that it matters little who rules, so long as their lives are not disrupted?

  Quaeryt suspected that indifference to who ruled combined with a recognition that Bhayar had not allowed and did not intend to allow his troopers to molest the locals was the most likely reason for the near-casual acceptance of the troopers. Even with the apparent calm in Villerive, he maintained full shields, rather than triggered shields, as much to try to build up his imaging strength as because he expected a sudden attack. Those will come once we’re nearing Nordeau.

  When the outriders and scouts reached the approach to the bridge over the River Aluse, Quaeryt noted that all traces of the barricades that the Bovarians had erected had vanished, as had any traces of the battle—except for the fact that the stonework and pavement were far, far cleaner than was usual in any city he’d visited.

  Behind him, he could hear Shaelyt’s quiet explanation to Khalis and Lhandor as they rode through the gap in the wall he’d imaged to block the Bovarians.

  “Subcommander imaged that wall in place, except it was all the way across the bridge, until Threkhyl removed the middle part … Subcommander led the charge that broke their pikemen, and then rode three milles and took out the Bovarian catapults and their Antiagon Fire…”

  Quaeryt winced, noticeably enough that Skarpa chuckled and said, in a voice that barely carried to Quaeryt, “You can’t keep what you’ve done that quiet.”

  “Except among Deucalon’s senior officers,” Quaeryt murmured back.

  “They don’t care much for scholars who are good commanders.”

  “Or those officers who are the best commanders.”

  “Too many marshals and submarshals are like ministers that swarm around a ruler. They toady up to him. Worried more that a better commander might replace them than about the best way to win. Might be why we got Khaern. He might show up some of Deucalon’s favorites.”

  Quaeryt certainly hoped so. He’d been impressed by Khaern’s quiet assurance when they had met the afternoon before.

  Once they were over the bridge and through south Villerive, Quaeryt couldn’t help but notice that locals had been digging where the imagers had buried defenders under the flattened earthworks. Scavengers … but how can you blame them with the way Kharst treats his own people?

  While Quaeryt had anticipated that the road to Nordeau would quickly deteriorate once they left the more populated area, it did not. Less than a mille west of what remained of the earthworks, the south river road ended at a road that had come from the south—one that was narrower than the compacted clay and gravel way that had led out of Villerive, but constructed of a solid, if somewhat worn, gray stone, wide enough, if barely, for two wagons side by side. It was also far more level than the river road had been heretofore—except for the one stretch near the old canal.

  Quaeryt looked south, but the road angled to the southwest, its course not following the valleys but low ridges and even cut into the gentle hillsides in places. The dust over the stone indicated it was seldom traveled to the south.

  He turned to Skarpa. “This is a better road than the one out of Villerive. The maps don’t give an indication how good it is.”

  “Could be that it won’t last. Might just be a stretch leading to a High Holder’s place.”

  At Skarpa’s remark, Quaeryt realized that for the last thirty milles or so leading into Villerive, they’d seen no trace of a High Holder. Was that another reason why the Bovarians drove off the locals? Or aren’t there many High Holders around on this side of the river? There was so much he didn’t know and not enough time to find it out.

  His eyes went back to the road, and then to a low retaining wall on the side of the road away from the river. He frowned. Where did you last see stonework like this? After a moment he remembered. The Naedaran canal!

  Quaeryt wondered just how long the paving would last, but after five milles it showed no sign of vanishing. Although the map showed it as just the south river road, and did not depict the section running southeast from outside Villerive, Quaeryt had the feeling that the road might have once run all the way to Chelaes, not that he had any way of proving that at the moment. If so, it suggested that Villerive wasn’t nearly so old as it appeared, or that it had been little other than a village until recently, because if a city of any size had existed at the time the Naedarans had controlled the area, the road from Chelaes would likely have gone more directly to Villerive.

  When they stopped to water the mounts and give the men a break just after noon, Quaeryt couldn’t resist saying to Skarpa, “Quite a stretch for a High Holder’s drive.”

  Skarpa smiled back. “He must have wanted it badly.”

  As Quaeryt considered the road, that gave him an idea for a homily—one that would be appropriate whether he had to conduct services that night or sometime in the future.

  By late afternoon there was still no sign that the ancient stone road would disappear, but the scouts rode back and reported. “Sirs, about a mille ahead there’s a holding. Looks like a High Holder’s place. Gates are locked, but we can see the hold house, and it’s shuttered. Couldn’t see anyone around.”

  “Might be a good place to stop,” Skarpa said to Quaeryt. “Why don’t you see?”

  “Shaelyt, Khalis, join me. Undercaptain Ghaelyn … if you’d assign a squad to accompany us?”

  “Yes, sir. First squad on the subcommander!”

  A quint later Quaeryt reined up before the entry lane on the south side of the stone-paved road that continued westward into the distance. The iron gates to the holding were attached to pillars a yard square, each faced with dark red brick and topped with a square flat gray capstone. A low wall, less than two yards high, extended for thirty yards on each side of the gates before merging with ancient hedgerows. A large single lock held the chains that secured the gates.

  Quaeryt turned to Shaelyt. “If you would remove the lock, Undercaptain.”

  “Yes, sir.” Shaelyt dismounted, handed his mount’s reins to Khalis, and walked over to the gates. After a moment the lock hasp separated from the body, and Shaelyt caught the lock, then extracted the hasp from the chains.

  “Squad Leader, if you’d have troopers open the gates,” ordered Quaeryt.

  In moments Shaelyt had set the lock and hasp on the stone paving by the gate pillar and remounted, while two troopers were unwinding the chain and then opening the gates.

  Once the gates were open, Quaeryt eased the mare forward and led the way. The lane to the hold house was paved in the same gray stone as the ancient road and ran straight back less than two hundred yards to the top of a rise so low that the incline was barely perceptible.

  When Quaeryt reached the square paved area before the hold house, he reined up. The hold house itself was modest, at least for a High Holder’s dwelling, built of a dark reddish brick with a rose-colored tile roof and perhaps only a third again as large as Factor Saarcoyn’s dwelling. The main entry had a small roofed porch, not even a portico, behind which was the main section of the dwelling, large and square, from which extended two wings. The shutters, tightly closed, were of dark stained wood, while the wooden trim was painted an off-white. The wide single front door was of oiled oak and ironbound.

  Quaeryt dismounted, handing the mare’s reins to Shaelyt, and walked to the door, carrying full shields. He pounded on the door, not expecting any response … and after a time was convinced that he would receive none.

  He studied the door for a moment, then concentrated, trying to image away the door hinges. Nothing seemed to happen. He stepped forward and pressed on the door. It shivered, but did not move. Then he pulled on the door lever—and jumped to the side as the door
leaned toward him and then crashed down on the stone paved entryway. In the archway behind the door was an iron gratework. Quaeryt could see the bolts holding it in place and imaged them away. The gratework fell inward and struck the polished stone floor of the narrow entry hall with a dull clung.

  With three troopers leading the way, Quaeryt made a quick inspection of the dwelling. Some of the larger and more common furnishings remained, but only those that were worn, at least what would have been considered worn for a High Holder. Everything smaller and of value had been removed—and relatively recently, from the lack of dust. After checking the hold house, Quaeryt returned to the front, mounted, and rode to the courtyard on the west side between the dwelling and the three outbuildings.

  None of the three had been constructed recently, but all had rose-colored tile roofs that appeared comparatively newer than the buildings. The smallest and oldest-looking structure was of one story, square, and built of gray stones that looked to be similar, if not identical, to the paving stones in the ancient road, while the long stable and what seemed to be a warehouse were built of the same dark reddish brick as the hold house. Do the road, the lane, and the oldest building actually date back to Naedaran times?

  Inspections of the stables and the two storehouses revealed that all stores had been emptied and all livestock driven away. While Quaeryt doubted that such quantities could have been moved far, it would have taken days, if not longer, to track it down. Still, all the buildings made the hold a good point for stopping, especially since the map showed no towns or hamlets that close and since the scouts had discovered nothing better. The stone-paved road had also meant they had covered far more distance than either Skarpa or Quaeryt had thought possible.

  With those thoughts in mind he rode back and met Skarpa, who had halted the column at the gates.

  “Well?” asked the commander.

  “It’s largely empty. No stores and no supplies, but there’s fresh water, and it would be a good place to stop.”

  “Hoped it might be.” Skarpa grinned. “And there’s time to have evening services.”