Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  Quaeryt had known that for a long time, and the events of the last year had more than reinforced that lesson.

  28

  On Vendrei evening, the Telaryn forces occupied the small town of Fuenh eight milles west of the river point. Of the hundred or so dwellings, Skarpa had commandeered the large dwelling above the River Aluse that served as inn and public house. In the early evening, Quaeryt walked from the inn toward the stable that held the imager undercaptains.

  Shaelyt and Akoryt were sitting astride a bench, playing plaques with a deck that appeared almost new. For a moment, Quaeryt wondered how that could be, then smiled and asked, “How many times have you imaged those plaques new, Shaelyt?”

  The young undercaptain grinned. “These … not at all. They’re Akoryt’s. I do have a deck of fortune that’s been renewed a few times.”

  “You didn’t have a sideline before you became an undercaptain, did you?” Quaeryt asked Akoryt.

  “No, sir. Not that kind.” Akoryt offered a lopsided smile. “I did tell a few people that I could take their old plaque decks and trade them in for new ones cheaper than they could buy new ones. Mostly gamblers.”

  “You’re from Estisle, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s one of the few places where you could get away with that. Enjoy your game.” Quaeryt eased away, watching Baelthm, who leaned against the stable wall. The older man was watching … something. After several moments he could make out birds in a tree-a false olive with its silver gray leaves. He shook his head, remembering when, as a boy, he tried to eat one of the hard green false olives … and the bitter taste it had left in his mouth. He could see that the birds were young robins, trying to avoid the sharp thorns in getting to the fruit.

  Baelthm looked from the tree to Quaeryt. “There’s a place for everything in the world. The robins love the false olives, and they’ll risk the thorns to get to them.”

  Quaeryt nodded. “Sometimes, finding that place is hard.”

  “That’s life, sir.” The older undercaptain smiled.

  Quaeryt moved on, toward the end of the stable, where Voltyr stood alone, looking through a gap between houses at the River Aluse. He turned as Quaeryt neared.

  “Good evening, Voltyr.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “You have a pensive expression. What are you pondering on a night like this?”

  “How you schemed to get Bhayar to send you to Tilbor, and how I am now an undercaptain in a war when I once thought that the greatest danger in life was scheming High Holders and jealous functionaries and scholars in Solis.”

  “You’re suggesting a connection?”

  “It’s more than a suggestion.” Voltyr looked directly at Quaeryt. “Sir … how many Bovarian archers did we kill?”

  “You imagers, you mean? Twenty or so, I imagine.”

  “Ah … sir … I was talking to Undercaptain Jusaph. He heard that it was thirty-one. I wondered about that. I talked to the other undercaptains and counted up what each of us did. It came to eighteen, and none of the troopers killed any.”

  “And?” asked Quaeryt mildly.

  “Others might also be able to count, sir, and come to certain conclusions.”

  “That’s possible, but I’d like that to take as long as possible.”

  “Might I ask why, sir?”

  “You may. Let me ask you a question or two in return. Haven’t all of you undercaptains improved far more than you thought possible? Haven’t many of you been able to image in ways you never thought possible?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would any of you have felt pressed, especially in the beginning, to improve had you felt that someone else, say … a more powerful imager … stood behind you if you failed?”

  Voltyr said nothing for a long moment.

  “In dealing with the flatboat attack on the bridge at Ferravyl, or the attack on Caernyn … could any one imager, no matter how powerful, have accomplished all that you did?”

  Slowly … Voltyr nodded. “No.”

  “If we want imagers to have a better place in the world, or in Telaryn, there need to be more strong imagers. The only time to develop those abilities is when they are needed desperately. That is the only time those in power will allow matters to change-and even then only the best of rulers will allow that. Chayar would not have. Bhayar might not have except that he sees an opportunity.” Before Voltyr could reply, Quaeryt asked, “Have you had any success with what we discussed in Caernyn?”

  “Of a sort, sir. For a few moments, but it takes much effort.”

  “You might try letting the hooks be fewer or looser, and carrying the shield longer to build up your strength.”

  Voltyr nodded slowly.

  “Have you talked with Shaelyt about it?”

  “Yes, sir. I think he’s better at it.”

  “Better … or working harder?”

  After a moment Voltyr offered a crooked grin. “Perhaps both.”

  “What if one of those archers had targeted you today?”

  “I thought about that, sir.”

  “You might think about it more. You might also pass that along to Shaelyt quietly.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.” After a pause Voltyr asked, “What do you plan, sir?”

  “You’re assuming a great deal,” replied Quaeryt lightly.

  “I think not. I thought you were a fool to get Bhayar to send you to Tilbor. But you had planned it all out, hadn’t you?”

  Quaeryt laughed. “I wish I could claim that. I just knew that I couldn’t do any more than I had if I stayed in Solis, and the longer I stayed, the more enemies I’d make at the palace. Once I got to Tilbor, I didn’t much like the plaques I’d been dealt, but you play what you get.”

  “To what end?” asked Voltyr quietly.

  “Exactly what will depend on how the war turns out, but we need to develop the ability to support Lord Bhayar, so that he cannot do without imagers. There are too few imagers in the world for imagers to try to control or rule, but if we can find and train others, and we support him…”

  “How do we know he will not turn on us?”

  “Unlike some rulers, Lord Bhayar is very practical and thoughtful. He already frets and chafes about how the High Holders make his life difficult, and how his provincial governors rob him of his tariffs.” Quaeryt paused. “It is most costly to maintain a large army, but imagers might well be able to use their skills in many ways to enhance his rule … and that would make it worth his while to protect them…”

  “And worth the while of the High Holders to oppose us,” suggested Voltyr.

  “But not openly, not if the school or whatever it might be called were located near Bhayar and if the imagers were trained as you are … and as you should be.”

  “But secretly they still could.”

  “That might be difficult if most within the school and buildings were imagers.”

  Voltyr looked at Quaeryt. “How do you propose to bring that about?”

  “By showing Bhayar, over time, that it is to his advantage.”

  “He’s not even here.”

  “No, and it’s better that he’s not. He would expect too much too soon. Rulers always do, and others, who have their own goals, encourage them to do so, if only to distract the ruler from their own failures and shortcomings.”

  Voltyr tilted his head to the side. “There is great risk to what you seek.”

  Quaeryt looked back. “Why not try? Could it be any worse than what … imagers have faced in the past?”

  After another thoughtful pause, Voltyr shook his head.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that between you and me … and Shaelyt, if you wish.”

  “That might be best.”

  Quaeryt smiled. “Have a pleasant evening with your thoughts.”

  “You, too, sir.”

  Quaeryt turned and walked toward the false olive, then stopped, but the robins had flown away.

 
29

  Before seventh glass on Samedi morning, as the two regiments and Fifth Battalion were forming up, Skarpa, Meinyt, and Quaeryt met on the narrow porch of the inn at Fuenh. As they stood there, Quaeryt shifted his weight off his bad left leg, and felt the planks underfoot sway ever so slightly.

  “We’ve gotten back reports from the scouts. They’ve confirmed that the maps are mostly accurate,” said Skarpa. “That’s the good part. There are hamlets spaced almost every five milles apart from here all the way to Villerive. There’s only one town of any size. That’s Ralaes. It’s some twenty-five milles from here, and a good ten from there to the outskirts of Villerive. Maybe fifteen.”

  “The bad part?” asked Meinyt.

  “The roads aren’t any better, and we’ve got company. The scouts haven’t been able to discover where they are. There might be as much as a regiment out there. They’re not riding together, either, but as separate companies.”

  “More of what happened at the river point yesterday, then?” asked Quaeryt.

  “That’s possible. Or hit-and-run attacks with archers or…” Skarpa shrugged. “Who knows? We haven’t fought true Bovarian regulars yet.” He paused. “Well … except at Ferravyl, but they didn’t get much of a chance to show what they might do.”

  “Better that way, if you ask me,” said Meinyt.

  “What happened at Ferravyl might be why they’ve split up for now,” added Skarpa. “Do you have any thoughts on what they’re most likely to attempt?”

  “More ambushes,” said Meinyt. “Pits and fixed emplacements take too much time.”

  “An attack from the rear, the way the Tilborans did when we went to relieve Boralieu,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “I’d thought about that. We’ll put the supply wagons in the middle of the column for now. That will allow whoever has rearguard duty to attack without worrying about supplies. Fifth Battalion will serve as vanguard today.”

  That alone told Quaeryt that Skarpa was worried. When the commander finished, Quaeryt left the inn and hurried to where Fifth Battalion was mustering. There he called for all the officers to join him. Once they all were present, he spoke, in Bovarian, because all officers were supposed to understand it, and because he wanted to make sure the Khellan officers did, in particular. “Yesterday, the Bovarians tried an ambush. This morning, Commander Skarpa told me that there are more Bovarian forces ahead. They’ll try to inflict casualties on us and then withdraw so quickly that we either can’t chase them or so that we’ll follow them into another ambush. The best way to blunt them is to be ready. If you see anything strange-or anyone in a blue-gray uniform-have your men ready to fight and tell me or Major Zhelan immediately. We will be the vanguard. Now, for you imagers, if I’m not here, Undercaptain Voltyr is in charge, and you’re to use your abilities to bring down the Bovarians as quickly as you can. Is that clear?”

  There were nods, although Quaeryt suspected some of those from the imagers were perfunctory because several understood little Bovarian.

  Major Calkoran immediately asked, “Can we not attack them?”

  “You can, Major, but only if you can see clearly where your men will fight. You’re not to move more than half a mille from the rest of the battalion without my approval. They’ll try to draw us out and then cut off individual companies.”

  “They must have more than a few companies, then.”

  “Commander Skarpa believes they have almost a regiment nearby. That’s not enough men to take us all on, but enough to wipe out individual companies.”

  Calkoran nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Any other questions?” No one volunteered any, and Quaeryt had to wonder if he’d been too curt, although he certainly had attempted to be open to questions. “Then form up.”

  As the other officers began to return to their companies, Quaeryt beckoned to Zhelan.

  “What do you think, Zhelan? Did I leave something out?”

  A slow smile crossed the major’s face. “No, sir. Not this time.”

  Quaeryt managed not to wince at the gentle reminder that he had before.

  “The Khellans need to be reminded that they could be outnumbered. By including all the officers, you didn’t offend their pride.” Zhelan’s smile became a grin. “They have a lot of pride.”

  Quaeryt grinned back, shaking his head. “We’d better get moving.”

  Even so, it was another two quints before Fifth Battalion began to move out at the head of the column, with Skarpa riding beside Quaeryt.

  Once the troopers were settled into a good pace, Quaeryt turned to the commander. “You’re worried. Did the scouts see something else?”

  Skarpa shook his head. “Just a feeling. Always get into trouble when I don’t trust that kind of feeling.”

  Unlike on previous days, which had been hazy, the sky was crystal clear, the morning already warm and promising to become a blistering harvest day. Even the River Aluse somehow looked to be flowing more slowly, as if struggling against the warmth.

  Eighth glass came and went, and so did ninth glass, and there were no hints of any possible trouble. The huts and cots of the peasants and croppers were shuttered as the southern army passed, but the scouts reported no signs of Bovarians. That just made Quaeryt more certain that something would happen. A quint or so before noon, as Fifth Battalion began to ride up a gentle rise in the road toward higher ground, from somewhere behind the battalion came a faint trumpet call-the one that meant the some company was being attacked.

  “Keep a watch here, Subcommander, but keep them moving unless I send word otherwise.” With that, Skarpa galloped rearward along the shoulder of the river road.

  Quaeryt immediately urged the mare to the shoulder of the road so that he could take a quick look back eastward, but he could see nothing for a good half mille, past the supply wagons. Beyond that, the road curved southward around a low rise. That the Bovarians would attack when the front of the column could not see the rear wasn’t exactly surprising.

  As he watched, a wave of riders in gray-blue uniforms charged from out of a woodlot set back a good two hundred yards south of the road, aimed straight at the supply wagons, set in the middle of Third Regiment. Almost as quickly, two companies from the regiment swung from the column to cut off the attackers.

  “Imagers! Fifth Battalion!” Quaeryt turned in the saddle, looking at the six undercaptains. “Third Regiment is fighting off a hit-and-run attack on the supply wagons. Fifth Regiment is being attacked from the rear. Stand ready.” He had the feeling that the Bovarians would wait for a time before attacking. He just had no idea how long, only that they’d seek a time and place to their advantage. “Major, pass it back!”

  At that thought, Quaeryt glanced forward, only to see two large wagons, without a team before them, rolling down the road from the rise. The lead wagon was filled with large rocks, not quite boulders, and it was already less than a hundred yards from the outriders.

  “Shaelyt! Threkhyl! Voltyr! Image the front wheels or axles off those wagons!”

  Within moments, the front wheels of the lead wagon exploded away from the wagon bed, and the wagon nosed into the road. With the impact, the front end and empty seat gave way and round boulders began rolling downhill toward Fifth Battalion. The second wagon crashed into the wreckage of the first, and more boulders bounced and rolled downhill.

  Because the grade was comparatively gentle, Quaeryt could see that most if not all of the large stones and small boulders would not reach Fifth Battalion, but all of the stones scattered on the road and the shoulder would certainly slow any massed charge by the Telaryn forces, unless they could get past the rubble quickly.

  He glanced uphill, but saw no one, then turned to Zhelan. “Can we get past the stones quickly and re-form?”

  “Yes, sir.” Zhelan turned in the saddle. “First company! Forward and re-form!”

  Quaeryt kept the mare close to the major as he threaded his way through the stones, but first company was barely in position above
the stones when at least one company of Bovarians charged over the crest of the hill.

  “Imagers! On me! Smoke and pepper across the front ranks! Now!” Quaeryt glanced to Zhelan. “First company forward!” Then he quickly guided the mare to the river side of the road, filled with brushy ground that sloped some two hundred yards down to the river.

  “First company!” ordered Zhelan. “Charge! Second company! Forward past the rocks and re-form!”

  Quaeryt watched as the mist of pepper and smoke spread across the first ranks of the Bovarian riders, who had angled to the south side of the road to avoid the rocks hurled from the broken wagons. The Bovarians did not move out of formation except slightly, but Quaeryt could see that many were rubbing their eyes and a number were sneezing.

  He imaged more pepper and smoke, this time farther back in the ranks, then glanced up the slope on the river side of the road, feeling that more Bovarians were headed in their direction.

  In moments, another company came charging over the low crest.

  “Imagers! Smoke and pepper!”

  Because the shoulder and area clear of brush on the river side of the road were narrower, the Bovarians were bunched much closer together.

  Quaeryt waited until the second company was less than fifty yards away, then concentrated on creating an angled stone wall no more than five yards wide and a yard and a half high, just in front of the Bovarians.

  The entire front line of riders went down, and those following plowed into the mass of men and mounts.

  “Third company! On the river side!” ordered Quaeryt. “Imagers, clear the way! On me!”

  Even before third company finished surging past the imagers and toward the attackers, the Bovarians on the north side of the road-those who could-were withdrawing. In moments, so were the trailing Bovarians on the south side. The others were quickly surrounded by Major Zhael’s Khellans.

  Quaeryt rode forward and eased his mount beside Zhael.

  The major glanced at him. “They are like all Bovarians. When matters become difficult, they vanish.”

  “The problem is that when they vanish like that, they survive to try again,” replied Quaeryt dryly.