Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Some of these did not.”

  “No, but have the captives that are healthy start clearing those boulders off the road. If any try to run away, ride them down.”

  “We can do that, sir.”

  “The rocks first.” Quaeryt nodded and rode back to rejoin the imagers.

  “Where’d that wall come from?” demanded Threkhyl, even before Quaeryt had finished reining up.

  Shaelyt glanced at Quaeryt, then at Voltyr. “Voltyr and I did it!”

  “Excellent work!” added Quaeryt, although his words applied to the quick thought from the young undercaptain.

  “We do what we can, Subcommander, sir,” replied Shaelyt with a quick smile that vanished immediately.

  “I could do that,” announced Threkhyl.

  “I’m sure you could,” replied Quaeryt. “I saw what you did in Ferravyl after the battle, but it’s also knowing when to do it.”

  “If you’d told me, I could have done it,” Threkhyl reiterated.

  Quaeryt held in a sigh and nodded. “I’ll remember that.” He was just glad Threkhyl hadn’t seen Voltyr roll his eyes.

  “Is there anything else you need from us now, sir?” asked Voltyr.

  “See if you and the others can image those wagons back together. They might come in useful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the undercaptains rode toward the ruined wagons, Quaeryt turned to Zhelan, who had returned from talking to Undercaptain Ghaelyn. “Send fourth company to hold the crest of the road up there while we clean up the mess here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A quint or so later Voltyr rode back to Quaeryt. “We got one wagon back together. The other one was … well … we made some mistakes, sir, but the one is sturdy.”

  “Good.”

  Quaeryt rode over to the image-repaired wagon, studying it carefully. From what he could tell, it looked sturdy. They’d had to use the wheels from the other wagon, possibly because none of them knew enough about wheelwrighting, but the bed and seats looked strong and smoothly fit together. “You all did a good job. Thank you.”

  He could see Skarpa riding up the road. He turned the mare. “I need to talk to the commander.”

  Shortly, Skarpa reined in beside Quaeryt, looked over the hillside, then asked, “How many attacked here?”

  “Two companies, maybe three. They hit and when we surprised them, they immediately withdrew.”

  “They attacked, and you surprised them?”

  “The imagers hit them with smoke and pepper and took apart the wagons they sent down the road…” Quaeryt summarized as quickly as he could, finishing up with the rebuilt wagon.

  “I’m sure the quartermasters can use another wagon, especially since we got shorted leaving Ferravyl.”

  “What about the supply wagons and Fifth Regiment?” asked Quaeryt.

  “The same sort of thing as here. The regiments had more casualties than you did, but so did the Bovarians.” The commander glanced up the road to the top, where fourth company held the crest. “Have you seen any of the scouts?”

  Quaeryt had no doubts that the scouts were captured, or dead, most likely the latter. “No. None of them returned. They were likely ambushed somewhere up ahead.”

  “Now we’ll have to send out scouts in full squads,” said Skarpa sourly. “Before long, they’ll have to go in companies.”

  Quaeryt understood. That meant losing more men. “Won’t they also lose more troopers?”

  “They might.”

  Given Skarpa’s tone of voice, Quaeryt didn’t press.

  More than a glass passed before the road was clear, and the casualties taken care of. Fifth Battalion’s first and second company had suffered no deaths and only a handful of wounded, possibly because of the pepper and smoke, but the Bovarians had lost twenty men, and thirty six had been captured, half of them wounded, most severely.

  A mille farther to the west, they found the bodies of five Telaryn scouts, thrown in a heap beside the road. Three had been hacked down and died fighting, it appeared. Two others had been wounded, but then had had their throats cut.

  Skarpa looked from the dead scouts to Quaeryt. “Never thought much of Kharst before. Think even less of him now.”

  Quaeryt agreed. There was no reason the Bovarians just couldn’t have left the wounded men behind … without cutting their throats. For a time, after Skarpa made quick arrangements for the dead scouts, they rode without speaking.

  A glass later, as they passed a marsh that looked to be drying out, Skarpa turned in the saddle and cleared his throat. “There’s another matter we need to discuss.”

  “Yes?” replied Quaeryt warily.

  “We’ve had quite a few weeks without proper services, Subcommander.” Skarpa snorted. “Not even improper services. After everything today … well, tomorrow is Solayi…”

  “I’d be happy to conduct services.” Quaeryt wasn’t about to argue, even though he had no idea what he might offer as a homily. Still … he had a day to think about it.

  As the afternoon neared fourth glass, Quaeryt saw plumes of smoke ahead, at least two milles ahead, and possibly three. “I wonder if the Bovarians are burning more crops.”

  “Something’s burning,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll know what when the scouts return.”

  Quaeryt nodded. So far, the tracks of the attackers had followed the river road westward. From all indications Skarpa and his forces were following close to a battalion of Bovarians toward Villerive. “You think they’ll rejoin a larger force before we get to Ralaes?”

  The commander shrugged. “They’ve got to have more troopers ahead. The ones that tried to surprise us are setting a good pace. That means they don’t have to delay us.”

  “And they would if there weren’t reinforcements waiting?”

  “That’s my guess.” Skarpa laughed humorously. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

  Not often when it comes to battles and fighting, thought Quaeryt.

  Less than a quint passed before Quaeryt could smell smoke, but the plumes had largely dissipated. What remained was an acrid miasma that did not rise much above the treetops, but created a spreading haze over fields and meadows. The few cots they passed looked vacant, with shutters tightly fastened, sheds closed, and no livestock visible anywhere.

  Then two scouts from the squad sent out earlier rode back toward the head of the column, where they turned and rode along beside Skarpa.

  “Sir … the Bovarians burned the hamlet ahead. Every last dwelling and shed. They drove out the livestock … and more.”

  “Do you see any Bovarians?”

  “No, sir. They must have fired the place a while ago. It’s mostly burned out now.”

  Skarpa nodded. “Report back to your squad leader. He’s to make certain that no Bovarian troopers are within two milles of the hamlet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once the two had galloped off back down the road and northwest around the bend, Quaeryt asked, “You intend to set up an encampment there?”

  “It’s too far to reach Ralaes. Be even a stretch tomorrow. We need an open area that’s not swamp or muddy fields.” Skarpa gestured toward the gray clouds to the north. “We’ll likely get rain, and the hamlet’s on higher ground.”

  Left unspoken was the fact that going significantly farther, to another hamlet, risked putting the regiments in unfamiliar territory in fading light.

  Once around the bend, with the road less than a hundred yards from the river and once more heading west, Quaeryt’s eyes burned more with smoke that was markedly stronger and more acrid. Ahead, on the left side of the road, was the blackened shell of a small cot, no more than five yards by four, with the burned-out remnants of a shed behind it. A hundred yards beyond the first ruined cot were two others, one on each side of the road. Before Quaeryt and Skarpa reached them, an outrider gestured to the left side of the road. A heap of bodies lay there, mostly men, able-bodied, but all at least partly gray-haired, and one white-haired woma
n. Quaeryt counted quickly-eleven bodies, most with blood across their heads.

  “Looks like some of the villagers didn’t like the idea of having everything burned,” said Skarpa.

  “They probably protested, and the Bovarians made an example of them,” suggested Quaeryt. “That seems to be the way Kharst works … or the local commander decided that was the best way to slow us down and deny us supplies.”

  “Something like that.” Skarpa’s voice held a trace of skepticism.

  Quaeryt glanced ahead, toward a small stand of trees, an orchard in fact. The closer he rode, the more puzzled he was. “That’s an apple orchard, and most of the fruit is ripe, or close to it. Why wouldn’t they burn it?”

  “Ah … sir…” came a voice from behind Quaeryt. “You can torch a cot real quick. Takes a real fire to put a green tree to flame in spring, summer, or harvest. There’s no wind, either, and those trees aren’t that close together. That small shed, there, the one that’s burned. It’s not close enough to the trees. Might have had a cider press there. Lots of apples in the grass, though. They probably rode through and smashed what they could.”

  Quaeryt turned, realizing that Ghaelyn was the one who had spoken. “Thank you. They must have been in a hurry.” But why? We weren’t that close to them.

  “Might have orders to fall back to Villerive.” After a moment Skarpa raised his arm. “Column! Halt!”

  The order echoed back along the long line of riders.

  “Subcommander,” Skarpa ordered Quaeryt, “have your companies patrol an area out to a mille in an arc around the hamlet. Have them check for tracks, any sign of the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll do the best we can here, for the night.”

  “Imagers, two undercaptains each with second, third, and fourth companies…” Quaeryt went on to organize the perimeter patrol.

  30

  Fifth Battalion settled into another apple orchard besides the one Quaeryt had first spied as a form of shelter. He slept uneasily on Samedi night, and not just because there was a brief shower a glass or so past sunset. The light rain barely wet the leaves or the ground, not even enough to dampen the dust, and no one attempted a night attack on Skarpa’s force.

  Quaeryt woke at the first hint of light, both stiff and puzzled. He pulled himself together and went to look for Zhelan, meeting him near the front of the orchard where a rutted lane ran from beside the trees and then joined the river road.

  “Sir?”

  “No problems last night?”

  “No, sir. I thought there would be.”

  “So did I.”

  “Every company looks to be ready … or they will be shortly.”

  “What do you think about this?” Quaeryt gestured toward the nearest burned cot.

  “I can’t say I know what to make of it, sir. Unless it was to slow us down, but we wouldn’t have pushed on last night anyway.”

  “They might not know that.”

  “If we’re facing the less experienced Bovarians, they might not.”

  “You think the better Bovarian troopers are on the north side of the river?”

  “Be my guess, sir. More of them, too.”

  “You might be right. But if we’re not … however it’s come about, it bothers me.”

  Zhelan offered a crooked smile. “Me, too, sir.”

  More than two glasses passed before the troopers were fed, gear was stowed, and the column rode out of the unnamed hamlet, with Fifth Battalion riding behind Third Regiment, the supply wagons following fourth company, and Fifth Regiment in the rear. While the day was overcast, the clouds were not dark, nor were they particularly low. That didn’t matter, because they’d been riding for perhaps two quints when a gust of wind whipped over them, and rain began to patter down on the troopers, not enough to be considered a downpour, but enough that, if it continued, the road would turn to muddy slop.

  Quaeryt was riding with Major Arion and fourth company, and since he couldn’t do much about the rain, he turned to Arion, riding beside him. “You’ve fought against Bovarians, Major. Did you see anything like what we saw yesterday?”

  Arion offered a bitter laugh. “Many times. They would burn any village that did not surrender. They would kill anyone who tried to stop their torches. In the end, when winter arrived, many froze. Most were women. The men had already died or were in the forces chased into the Montagnes D’Glace.”

  “They didn’t treat their own people much better.”

  “Kharst trusts no one who does not obey his every word. That includes his subjects and his High Holders. His father before him was like that, and his grandsire before him.”

  “That’s against the precepts of the Nameless,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “The Nameless is different in Bovaria.” Arion’s sarcastic tone would have curdled fresh cream. “As are many things. Why do you think every rex has needed so many troops?”

  Quaeryt nodded, although he hadn’t thought of using armsmen that way. Still … to keep High Holders in line, a ruler has to have some leverage. Bhayar and his sire had used rewards and prestige, and … occasional force. Kharst appeared to use terror, in one form or another.

  After the briefest pause, Quaeryt asked, “Is the Nameless truly different in Bovaria, or are the ideas attributed to the Nameless just different?”

  “So far as men are concerned, is there any difference?”

  Quaeryt laughed, ironically. “Well taken, Major.”

  After another set of wind gusts, the rain subsided to less than intermittent, with drops occasionally striking Quaeryt, as if to remind him that it could resume at any time. For the next glass, the raindrops splattered down infrequently. Then the sky began to clear in the northeast, and by the second glass of the afternoon, only a few clouds remained, and the afternoon became even more hot and steamy.

  Skarpa called a halt slightly before third glass, and immediately thereafter came riding back along the side of the road. He eased his mount in beside Quaeryt’s mare and dismounted, handing the reins to his mount to the ranker who held the mare’s reins and walking to join Quaeryt and Zhelan.

  “There’s a high holding a bit more than a mille ahead on the left. I’d like you and your imagers to look into it and see what supplies-or anything else of value to the campaign-might be there … and if it would be suitable for sheltering the troops tonight.” He looked to the northeast, where another set of clouds-far darker than those earlier in the day-had begun to mass and move slowly toward the River Aluse and the Telaryn forces.

  “It looks empty?”

  “It does. Whether that’s so…” Skarpa shrugged.

  “We’ll look and see.” Quaeryt glanced toward Zhelan, who had already mounted.

  A half glass later Quaeryt, at the head of Fifth Battalion, had reined up before a pair of weathered and stained limestone gateposts. The iron gates themselves were secured with a rusted iron chain and a single lock. A wall of limestone, only two yards high, extended from the gateposts some twenty yards on each side, ending in earthen berms perhaps a yard and a half high, on the top of which were planted a form of spiky juniper. The berms stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Through the iron bars of the gates, the holding looked to be far less opulent than Fauxheld, almost modest by comparison, with a good-sized hold house and several modest outbuildings. All were constructed of the same limestone as the gates, and all had weathered gray tile roofs. There was no sign of a single person or any livestock, nor did any of the chimneys show traces of smoke.

  “I don’t like this,” muttered Zhelan. “They burned a hamlet, and they left an entire holding empty and untouched? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Quaeryt was certain that it did, especially given that it wasn’t the first time. He just didn’t know in what way. Like Zhelan, he felt uneasy. He studied the gates, noting the deep wagon or coach ruts running from where the pavement ended onto the road itself. Those ruts had been softened by the rain that had fallen earl
ier that morning. Then his eyes went to the pavement. Outside the gate were tracks, but the pavement had been swept inside the gate-but only for a distance of fifteen yards or so. Yet there were no tracks or ruts in the uneven grass on each side of the swept portion of pavement.

  “Look at the pavement inside the gate,” Quaeryt said to Zhelan.

  “It’s some sort of trap.”

  “There may be a few.” Quaeryt gestured to Desyrk. “Remove the lock, if you would.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Desyrk studied the chain and lock. In moments, the lock was in two pieces, and one of the first company rankers stepped forward and unwound the old chain, then swung the gates open and outward.

  “Undercaptain Threkhyl, forward. Image something heavy onto the paving stone just inside the gate.”

  Despite a puzzled look, the ginger-haired undercaptain immediately replied, “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt thought he could hear a grinding sound. “Another boulder, if you would.”

  A second boulder appeared, next to the first, and abruptly the entire paved section of lane that had been swept collapsed, leaving a pit a yard deep.

  Zhelan glanced to Quaeryt.

  Quaeryt only nodded, then said, “Imagers forward.”

  Once the undercaptains were lined up facing the open gate, he added, “I’d like that pit filled in solidly and the paving stones replaced. Undercaptain Voltyr, you coordinate the effort.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make certain it’s firm. You six will be the first to ride across it.”

  Desyrk and Akoryt exchanged quick glances, but Voltyr only nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else. A faint smile flicked across Shaelyt’s lips. Once again, Threkhyl looked puzzled, if but for a moment.

  The undercaptains took almost a quint to fill and repair the pit. All were sweating from the combined effort of imaging and the mugginess of the day by the time they finished, mounted, and rode to the far side-which remained solid.

  Baelthm was pale, Quaeryt noted, and he called out, “All of you eat something … and get a drink from your water bottles.” He gestured to Zhelan. “Have the battalion follow … slowly.”