He took as deep a breath as he could manage, then imaged again.
A quick wave of blackness hit him, and he had to reach out to the stone parapet to steady himself. When he could see again, there were still three barges on the river, two in the middle, and aiming for the isle that held the center pylon.
One was already close to a hundred yards from the isle, where the cannon could not be trained on it. Quaeryt forced himself to concentrate again.
This time the blackness was worse, and his guts twisted inside himself.
Two left … just two.
He managed to image two more small chunks of iron, then grasped the stone as blackness and nausea swept over him. The tears in his eyes were like red-hot pokers. When he finally straightened, he barely could keep himself from staggering, unable to focus his eyes on the last of the barges. By the time his eyes cleared, the craft was less than twenty yards from the isle.
If you image now …
He watched helplessly as the last barge grounded on the rock from which the central bridge pylon rose.
CRUMMPTT! A column of flame and metal shot upward.
Through the pain and tears that filled his eyes, Quaeryt winced. One last friggin’ barge … and you couldn’t do anything in time. He just stood there as stones rained down from the center span of the bridge, except there were not as many as he had expected.
He blotted his eyes, trying to see the damage.
Finally, he could make out that while there was a hole in the span, at least half, if not more, of the roadway appeared to remain. Repairs might be possible comparatively quickly … at least repairs allowing troops to use the bridge. Maybe.
He glanced around him. Voltyr was rubbing his eyes. Shaelyt had pushed himself away from the parapet, although he appeared pale. Threkhyl was groaning as he rolled over, pushed himself onto his knees, and then staggered erect.
Quaeryt swallowed back bile, then spoke. “Voltyr … you’re in better shape than the rest. Help the others. I’ll be back in a moment.” He paused. “Everyone here did the best he could, and we managed to destroy most of the barges. You did well. Voltyr … for those who didn’t hear that, tell them that if they come around before I return.”
He turned slowly, trying not to show any unsteadiness, and walked toward the raised platform where Bhayar stood, still surveying the river.
Were there more barges coming? Quaeryt turned and scanned the river, much as his eyes and head throbbed, but the waters were empty, except for what looked to be one of the towboats, a good mille to the west. He turned back and continued toward the platform.
Bhayar stepped around two officers and then walked down to meet Quaeryt.
“Between us and the cannon, we got all but one, sir.”
The Lord of Telaryn nodded.
“We ran out of imagers and time before they ran out of barges,” Quaeryt added.
“The bridge looks to be passable,” Bhayar said. “Or it will be when the engineers finish immediate repairs.” He paused. “I didn’t think you could do half what you did. Kharst sent twenty-one barges. Undercaptain Sehaak counted six barges taken out by cannon, and fourteen by your imagers.”
“I wasn’t counting,” Quaeryt said. Except that we took out fifteen or sixteen. Bhayar’s face kept blurring, in between the flashes of light.
“I had that feeling. All those lost barges are going to stop a lot of upriver trading in Bovaria.” Bhayar laughed, although his voice contained a trace of bitterness. “We need to get your officers some rest and food. I didn’t realize it was quite that much work.”
“We had to image red-hot iron into the powder in the barges. Imaging iron across water seems to take much more effort than anyone thought.”
“Who thought…? You did, didn’t you?”
“The powder would have smothered a lit candle or flame.”
“You don’t look much better than your men, Quaeryt. Go take care of them.”
“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt turned and forced himself to walk back toward the undercaptains, trying not to limp too much.
73
Obviously acting under Bhayar’s orders, Deucalon ordered a major to find and assign a small chamber where the undercaptains could sleep on Mardi night. Quaeryt had a tiny chamber to himself with a pallet bed, almost directly under the parapets from which they had imaged. He collapsed onto that bed almost immediately after returning from the evening meal in an overcrowded mess.
On Meredi morning, he woke well before sunrise, fully alert. He glanced around the chamber he’d barely taken in the day before, noting that it was both bare and spare, with the only furnishings being the pallet bed, a chair, and a writing desk with a single drawer. He walked over to the desk and opened the drawer partway. It appeared empty, but when he pushed it closed, he felt something move. He opened it all the way, to discover a leather-bound volume at the back, so small that it was little more than the length of his hand from wrist to his middle fingertip. The volume was so covered in dust that when he lifted it from the drawer, gently as he did, dust flew upward and everywhere, and Quaeryt sneezed time after time.
When he finally controlled his sneezing, he carefully removed the remainder of the dust and then, more curious than ever, opened the volume, which bore no title on the cover or spine, to the title page. It read, Rholan and the Nameless. There was no author’s name given, either there or on or behind the frontispiece. Finding that strange and intriguing, he moved to the small window, where there was more light, and began to read the opening page.
All know of the words of Rholan and his thoughts and observations, as well as the precepts he formulated in support of the Nameless. Yet for all those precepts, and the wisdom behind them, few, if any, have dared voice or write one fact. There is no proof that there is a Nameless. There is also no proof that there is not a Nameless, but proving a negative is effectively impossible, particularly when one speaks of a deity whose invisible and unnameable presence and voice have never been seen or heard, except by those claiming to be its prophets.
For these reasons, over the years, I have made thoughts and observations about the Nameless, the Namer, Rholan, and others, and since the Nameless is without nomen, so will I remain as well. For the interested reader or the casual peruser, I hope you will find what follows thought-provoking, informative, or at the least entertaining.
Quaeryt stopped reading and examined the small volume more closely. There was no date anywhere, only the words “Cloisonyt, Tela,” which indicated the volume had been written before Hengyst had conquered Tela and that the writer had likely lived in the time of Rholan or close to that time. The leather was relatively soft, but clearly older, but the binding had been painstakingly done, and the text had been carefully hand-scripted, suggesting that there were few copies of the volume. Indeed, he might be holding the only one.
He turned to the second chapter of the volume.
In practical terms, Rholan has become synonymous with the worship of the Nameless. Therefore, to understand the appeal and growth of the cult of the Nameless, one must begin with Rholan. Already, the word has begun to spread that the man was mysterious and unknowable. He was neither. He was a physically unprepossessing scholar, the bastard son of High Holder Niasaen of Tela, possessed of a deep, melodic, and mesmerizing voice and an intellect surpassed only by his own sense of destiny …
Quaeryt looked at the book again. He couldn’t believe what he held in his hand. It might technically belong to the Lord of Telaryn, but Quaeryt was going to keep the volume with him, at least until he had read it all the way through. He slipped it into his gear bag and then began to dress for the day.
Immediately after an early breakfast with the other senior officers, Quaeryt was summoned to meet with Bhayar—this time in a spare study overlooking the narrow courtyard.
The Lord of Telaryn sat behind a table desk on which was spread a map. He did not rise as Quaeryt entered and closed the door behind him, but gestured to the chairs across the desk from him.
As he sat, Quaeryt noticed the dark circles under Bhayar’s eyes immediately. “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?”
“No. You wouldn’t have, either, except you wouldn’t have been any good at the staff meeting anyway. You did most of what happened yesterday, didn’t you?”
Quaeryt didn’t bother to deny it, because Bhayar already knew he was an imager, but he did shake his head. “A third or a quarter. Threkhyl is capable, and so is Shaelyt. Voltyr had a little trouble at first, but he figured it out. Baelthm, Desyrk, and Akoryt could only do it once, and Baelthm only when the barge came toward the north side of the river and was practically right underneath him.”
“That’s done for now, thank the Nameless,” said Bhayar.
“There have to be more barges…” began Quaeryt.
“Kharst can’t afford wasting that much powder again. The powder he used would charge cannon thousands of times, and he needs that for the cannon that keep the Antiagon fleet at bay. By the time he could gather the barges and make them ready, it wouldn’t matter.” Bhayar smiled politely. “I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
“How did you know the Bovarians would try to use the exploding barges to destroy the Narrows Bridge?” asked Bhayar. “I never asked you how you knew.”
“How did you know?” countered Quaeryt.
“Spies. They’re more useful than guessing.”
“How many did you lose?”
Bhayar’s lips quirked into a tight smile. “More than I would have liked. How did you figure it out without spies?”
“It made sense after you’d explained how Kharst could take over Telaryn. He wouldn’t have to do it all at once. First, he’d destroy the bridge. That would allow him to invade the south side of the river. He could spend years fortifying and building emplacements.”
“I understand that, but what about the barges?”
“When they used mock barges for the false diversionary attack from Cleblois and then used unseasoned troops against Third Battalion, I had to ask why. Why would Kharst spend all that time and effort building mock barges? Why not just use real barges, especially if they weren’t really going anywhere? And if he were going to use real barges for a direct assault on Ferravyl, why alert us with a false attack? That suggested that the barges were already being used. That meant either a direct attack or an attack on the bridge.”
“Both, it appears. Kharst used some of those barges to carry at least two regiments to the east side of the Vyl some ten to fifteen milles south.”
“Is that where you’re sending Third Regiment?”
Bhayar nodded.
“Just Third Regiment?”
“It’s more to slow them down. Deucalon doesn’t want to send more, not with at least four Bovarian regiments still across the Vyl and enough barges remaining to ferry them across.”
“Do you think they’ll still attack?”
“We’ve already taken steps to encourage them. Third Regiment crossed the bridge well before dawn this morning. We had artists paint a canvas so that the bridge looks more damaged than it is, and we’ve strung a cable from bridge pier to bridge pier, and we’re having boatmen use it as a guide across the river.”
“To give the Bovarians the impression that the bridge isn’t safe to use?”
“That’s the idea. Now … Commander Skarpa has requested your presence. That brings up another question. What if the Bovarians try another attack here … at the same time that you’re with Third Regiment?”
“I could split the imagers, and leave several under Voltyr’s command for whatever use you can make of them.” Quaeryt paused. “But how are you going to get Zhelan’s company across the bridge without anyone seeing them?”
“They crossed with Third Regiment this morning. They had your mare as well. You can walk across after you choose who will accompany you.”
“You knew I’d suggest splitting the imagers?”
“No. Commander Skarpa said you were more of an officer than you would admit, and that you’d end up with him.”
Somehow … even as Skarpa’s assessment amused Quaeryt, it also bothered him. Are you that easy to read? “He needs Zhelan more than he needs me.”
“He said you’d say that, and his answer was that he needs Zhelan under your command.” Bhayar laughed.
All Quaeryt could do was shrug helplessly.
74
Jeudi morning found Quaeryt riding southward on the river road on the east side of the Vyl, its channel barely more than thirty yards across, if deep enough to make crossing a chancy business. Still, during the previous day, they’d seen no sign of any Bovarian forces, although they had moved slowly through small village after small village, some barely even hamlets, resting men and mounts frequently. Quaeryt had ended up bringing Shaelyt and Desyrk with him, and leaving the others, because Threkhyl was still the strongest imager; Voltyr had a head on his shoulders; Akoryt was limited in what he could do, but helpful; and Baelthm wouldn’t do well in a battle, anyway.
“I don’t see why they didn’t cross somewhere along here,” observed Quaeryt. “You could run cable across between two trees, one on each side, and hand over hand the men and harness the mounts and pull them over. That’s if you didn’t want to cross at a known ford.”
“But they didn’t,” Skarpa said.
“So the whole point of all of this is to split our forces again?”
“Yes. We don’t have a choice. Not really. If we don’t find them and slow them down—or stop them—then they could circle and catch our forces from the flank or behind.”
“So they weaken Bhayar’s forces one way or another.”
“That’s what they hope. But Third Regiment’s better than they think, and you and that overlarge company are worth close to another regiment.”
Quaeryt snorted. “You actually told Bhayar that I’d end up with you? You’re going to get in trouble, my friend, wagering on me.”
“That may be, but those who wagered on others fared far less well,” replied Skarpa with a cynical grin.
“A mere matter of chance.” And Quaeryt wasn’t even certain Skarpa was right. Certainly, anyone who had wagered on Quaeryt’s ability to remain as governor of Montagne would have lost … although Quaeryt was less and less certain he personally had lost, since governing was a thankless position and since he had learned more than he’d originally wanted to admit, especially about trying to avoid situations where the choice was between getting something done and making people with power happy.
“I think not.”
At that moment a scout appeared, riding back north on the river road toward the outriders and the vanguard that Skarpa and Quaeryt led.
“The scouts have found the Bovarians,” suggested Quaeryt.
Skarpa just nodded and raised an arm, gesturing for the scout to join him and ordering, “Column! Halt!” Then he rode out to the side.
Quaeryt followed.
The scout, a junior squad leader, reined up.
“What did you find?” asked Skarpa.
“The Bovarians are about two milles ahead,” began the scout. “That’s where those hills are. They’ve formed up in two positions. One regiment is on the south hill, in plain view. The other is on the back side of a hill north and east of there. The space between the northern hill and the river road is mostly fields. I think they’re bean fields. There aren’t any walls, but there are ditches on the west end of the fields … look to be mixed regiments, maybe half foot, half mounted…”
When the scout finished, Skarpa asked, “How far apart are the two regiments?”
“Close to half a mille. Could be a bit more, sir.”
“Did they see you?”
“We tried to be careful, but they might have. Didn’t see anyone moving, though.”
Skarpa frowned. “I want you to go take another look, but stay off the road and out of sight. We need to know if they’re holding those positions or getting ready to move.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll move up another bit, but take our time.”
Once the scout had turned and headed his mount back southward, Skarpa turned in the saddle and looked at Quaeryt. “What do you think?”
“What if you form up on the flat in those bean fields?” asked Quaeryt. “They’d have to leave the heights to engage you.”
“They won’t. The longer they can keep us occupied…”
“Exactly,” said Quaeryt. “But what would happen if they were attacked from the rear? From behind the hill they’re on?”
“They’d see anyone coming. They’d pull back to the hilltop and use the heights,” Skarpa said.
“I think there’s a way to get close enough so that they’re surprised. The attacking company could split off before you get in eyesight of the nearer regiment. What if you posted scouts, so that when the Bovarians are surprised, you know when to start up the west side of the hill. The regiment to the south would likely wait, wouldn’t they? Even if they didn’t, it would take them time to reach the hill, and you’d have the higher ground.”
“I’d be caught between two regiments.”
“No, you wouldn’t, because you’d still have the north side of the hill open to withdraw, if you have to.”
“And you’re going to be the one to make that hidden attack?”
“Well … I’m not very good at following other people’s orders…”
Skarpa shook his head. “You realize what will happen to me if you fail?”
“It won’t be any worse than what happens to me,” Quaeryt pointed out. “And you just said that the Bovarians would wait for days if we don’t attack.”
“You don’t have enough men to make that work. You need a battalion, at the very least.”
“See if Meinyt would support me.”
“He’d support you to the Namer’s door,” snorted Skarpa. “I don’t have to ask.”
Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio Page 55