Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt rode forward and joined the imagers, then motioned for them to follow him and the two outriders along the lane toward the hold house. As they neared the main dwelling, he called back to Zhelan. “Leave the main house alone for now. We’ll start by looking for supplies.”

  The outbuilding nearest the hold house was the stable. The two strap handles of the main doors were not chained, but fastened with heavy rope tied into a simple knot. Quaeryt reined up and looked to Ghaelyn. “Have your men untie the knot. Then have them find something they can use to push the stable doors open. When they do, have them stand back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt waited while the troopers followed his orders, then watched as they used weathered planks they’d found stacked in the rear of the stable to push open the doors. Nothing happened.

  “Have them take the planks and wave them around inside the doors, and prod the ground there.”

  Ghaelyn conveyed that order to the troopers, and the men began to wave and prod.

  Abruptly heavy sacks filled with something crashed down onto the packed clay just inside the stable doors, followed by what looked to be a small anvil.

  “It might not hurt to prod some more,” said Quaeryt.

  More prodding resulted in no more objects falling.

  “Now they can look inside … but carefully.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ghaelyn raised his voice. “You heard the subcommander. Time to look for supplies, but watch where you put your heads, hands, and feet.”

  Quaeryt and the imagers waited, along with the remainder of first company, and the other companies of Fifth Battalion. He also listened to the low murmurs among the imagers.

  “… how does he know all that?… never been here…”

  “… doesn’t trust anyone…”

  “Would you, after what they did to that hamlet…?”

  “… you think, Shaelyt … have that expression … again…”

  “… subcommander is a child of Erion … the hunter makes his own wary…”

  Quaeryt wasn’t so sure about that, or that he’d been wary enough in the past. He looked back to the stable doors as a squad leader walked out, dust on his sleeves, trousers, and boots.

  “There’s nothing at all in the stables, sir … except … a few barrels of oats, and I’d not trust ’em, not with a dead rat lying beside ’em.”

  “We’ll make a more thorough search later,” said Quaeryt.

  The next outbuilding’s entrance was trapped in a fashion similar to the stables. Once inside, Quaeryt could see that it had held various crafts, and held a smithy, a woodworking shop, a chamber used for carding and spinning. The third structure was a storehouse.

  When Quaeryt reined up, Zhelan eased his mount alongside. “Do you think the entrance to every building is trapped?”

  “Yes … but not terribly well. Enough to hurt the unwary, though.”

  “Why…?”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Quaeryt said quietly. “I’d like to see more before I say much.”

  Unlike the other outbuildings, the storeroom doors were of heavy, ironbound oak, and were double-chained and double-locked. Voltyr and Shaelyt imaged away the locks. Once more, when the troopers probed the space behind the door, there was a reaction. Except this time, what dropped down behind the door were two huge timbers, either one enough to crush a man to a pulp. More probing released a third timber.

  Yet when the area behind the doors was cleared, the troopers reported that the space inside was empty.

  Quaeryt dismounted. “I think I need to take a look here.”

  Inside the stone-walled structure was a large open space, but on one side were several smaller rooms. All were empty. In the front west corner of the building Quaeryt found a trapdoor. Under it was a staircase. He had to wait another half quint for the troopers to find and light a torch before he could descend the stone ramp that lay beneath the door.

  When he reached the lower level, it, too, appeared empty, except for the score or so of barrels stacked two high and deep against the rear wall of the lower level. He moved warily and held full shields, stopping short of the barrels.

  “Pull out these barrels and stack them against the side wall.”

  Between two barrels in the second row, those against the rear wall, lay a dead rat. Quaeryt nodded. Then he studied the rear wall. There was something about it. He looked up to the beams overhead. While the spacing was even, the braces for the long beams had been added later, and they did not look as if they actually were weight-bearing. It’s worth a try. He turned and gestured. “Undercaptain Shaelyt … I believe this is a false wall. I’d like you to image an opening in it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Shaelyt stepped forward without hesitation.

  In moments a square opening appeared in the wall, revealing that it was of wood, faced with limestone to make it appear identical to the foundation walls.

  Shaelyt wiped the sweat off his forehead.

  “Good. Thank you.” Quaeryt eased forward until he could see through the opening. On the other side of the false wall, he could see more barrels, perhaps hundreds, stacked three high. He couldn’t tell how deep. “We’ve found our supplies.”

  Then he stepped back. “Desyrk and Akoryt, enlarge the opening so that someone can get inside and open the real door so that we can roll out the barrels.”

  After Quaeryt was satisfied that Major Arion and fourth company could handle sorting and rolling the barrels from the lower level of the storehouse up to the ground floor, he sent Voltyr, Akoryt, Desyrk, and Baelthm-and third company-back to the stables to see if fodder or grain had been hidden somewhere behind false walls there. Then he inspected the last three outbuildings, all of which were little more than empty livestock sheds and barns. All held no traps, or none that he and the troopers could discover.

  Finally, he rode back to the hold house with Threkhyl and first and second company.

  Once there, he studied the dwelling, not so large as Fauxheld or some of the others, but clearly larger than Nordruil, if less appealing and more grim in appearance. Every window was shuttered tight, and the shutter hinges were attached to large, flat, and sturdy iron plates. He nodded, dismounted, and walked up the wide stone steps of the receiving portico to the main entrance. Threkhyl accompanied him. Above the doors, cut into the limestone, was the name “Laesheld.” The outer ironwork doors themselves showed no lock on the outside, but they would not open. Quaeryt studied them for several moments, then pointed through the narrow crack where the doors joined. “Undercaptain, there’s an iron bar across the back there. If you would remove a small section.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A chunk of iron clanked somewhere, and Quaeryt pulled on the outer doors. They opened, creaking slightly as they did, revealing a set of carved and weathered goldenwood doors, with elaborate polished brasswork. They also did not budge. He turned to the undercaptain and gestured.

  Threkhyl concentrated, and the lock and lock plates vanished, but when he tried to open the doors, they would move neither inward nor outward. “Sir … I’ll have to image away the doors.”

  “Go ahead.” Quaeryt was getting irritated, especially since he’d tried to be gentle to the High Holder’s buildings and grounds.

  With a puff of dust, and a brief flow of chill air over Quaeryt and Threkhyl, the goldenwood doors vanished. Behind where they had stood was a wall, its masonry fresh, the bricks certainly laid within the past few days.

  “Undercaptain Threkhyl … if you would also remove this wall, preferably without destroying the archway.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Quaeryt could see that Threkhyl was showing a certain tiredness, but that was fine. If he didn’t push the undercaptain to his limits, Threkhyl’s abilities wouldn’t improve.

  Just after Threkhyl had removed the wall, behind which was a dark entry hall, Zhelan called out, “Sir, the commander is riding down the lane now.”

  “Thank yo
u.” Quaeryt turned to wait for Skarpa.

  In less than a fraction of a quint Skarpa rode to a point opposite the doors and reined up. He glanced back at the two companies and then at Quaeryt, clearly puzzled as to why Quaeryt was still at the entry of the hold house.

  Before Skarpa could speak, Quaeryt did. “Commander, we’ve located supplies. Rather than start with the hold house, we began by going through the outbuildings. Fourth company is even now rolling barrels up from a hidden space in the main storeroom, and several imager undercaptains are searching the stables for possible hidden areas there that may contain fodder and grain. The main entry here was locked with iron doors, heavy wooden doors, and blocked with a masonry wall behind those. Undercaptain Threkhyl just finished removing the wall.”

  Skarpa snorted. “We should see what lies inside that is of such worth.”

  “Sir, most of the entries have held traps. I’ve had the troopers probe with planks and the like before entering.”

  “Don’t let me stop you with what works,” said Skarpa dryly.

  There were no traps behind the main entry door, nor elsewhere in the hold house. Some paintings had been removed, but not all, and there were no small items of value remaining. The main parlor did hold a magnificent clavecin-with an elaborately inlaid keyboard cover-and many of the pieces of furniture and carpets were of considerable value, Quaeryt suspected.

  Once the regiments and companies were fed and settled into various spaces, admittedly in very cramped circumstances, and hurriedly, to avoid the late afternoon rain, Skarpa, Quaeryt, and Meinyt met in the study of the hold house. There were gaps on the shelves that held books, where volumes of worth or personal meaning to the High Holder had likely been removed-hurriedly, because the adjoining volumes were angled, and in some instances, a few books lay where they had fallen on the polished dark oak flooring.

  The three sat around a square table, lit by the light coming through the windows that Quaeryt had unshuttered. From what he could tell, the rain was letting up.

  “Are your men settled in?” asked Skarpa cheerfully.

  “As we can. I’ve already had men injured by little traps in the outbuildings,” said Meinyt. “Wouldn’t trouble me if we burned this place to the ground when we leave.”

  Skarpa smiled. “That would be a waste. We’ll just report about all the traps, and if Lord Bhayar wills, let the good High Holder see his stead go to another. Odd that there were none here in the main house.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want the place torched … or didn’t have time,” replied Quaeryt. After a moment he added, “I have noticed one other thing. All of the traps and devices were designed and set in a way not to damage the buildings themselves much.”

  “Makes sense,” rejoined Meinyt. “The holder wants to be able to claim to Kharst that he took many steps to harm us, while he can say to Bhayar that he only did what was necessary to keep Kharst from taking his lands.”

  Skarpa nodded. “Most of them will be like that. Those are the only kinds who’d prosper under a bastard like Kharst. Lord Bhayar’s going to have his hands full. Wouldn’t be surprised to have a battalion required to keep them in line. Likely for years.” His eyes fixed on Quaeryt.

  Quaeryt ignored the implication that he and the imagers might well be employed for that kind of duty, even though he had far earlier recognized that would be another means of strengthening the position of the imagers. “The way the buildings were trapped also suggests that the holder was told that Kharst has a plan for reclaiming the lands we’ve taken.”

  “That’s possible. He’ll certainly try to draw us in, and then cut us off and try to surround us. Deucalon stated that in his last dispatch. One of his scouting teams captured a dispatch rider. One of the dispatches stated that Kharst was summoning regiments from all over Bovaria, and that all growers and holders were to destroy stores and supplies rather than let them be captured. It also said that those who allowed Telaryn forces to take supplies would be guilty of treason and executed.” Skarpa shook his head. “That’s another reason why I’ve had you looking for supplies. Kharst will likely mount a solid defense, even a counterattack, when we near Villerive. He’ll need to do that, if only to purchase time to allow more regiments to arrive with additional troops and arms.”

  “He didn’t expect Bhayar to attack,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “He also didn’t expect to lose more than eight regiments to the last man in Ferravyl. But he’ll likely be counting on having greater numbers when we next meet.”

  “He’s lost more than a regiment just to us since we’ve left Ferravyl,” pointed out Meinyt.

  “If he can find a way to do it, he’ll sacrifice every farmboy and laborer in all of Bovaria to stop us,” replied Skarpa.

  Quaeryt was afraid that was all too true-and that it meant that victory for Telaryn would likely be a bloody affair. But then, when have wars ever been anything but bloody?

  “Regardless, we need to get on with our plans for the next few days,” said Skarpa. “We’re some eight milles from Ralaes, and that’s where we’ll stage and wait for the attack on Villerive. That’s if the Bovarians haven’t dug in and set up defenses this side of the town. So far the scouts haven’t seen any sign of that kind of preparation.” Skarpa spread out a map on the table. “Here’s what I have in mind…”

  Quaeryt listened intently, his eyes going from Skarpa to the map and back again, as he tried to visualize the positions and maneuvers the commander had in mind.

  After two quints Skarpa rolled up the map and straightened up. “We’ll go over this again in the morning, after you’ve had a chance to think about it.” He looked at Quaeryt. “It’s stopped raining, and you still have to conduct services, Subcommander. The men are beginning to gather already. I trust you’ll be as inspirational as ever.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Skarpa rose, and so did Quaeryt and Meinyt.

  When Quaeryt reached the gently sloping lawn at the back of the hold house, he was surprised to see so many troopers and officers on the slope. There must have been close to a thousand waiting. There was also no way most of them would be able to hear him. What about image-projecting your speaking voice? That way most of them will think your voice is barely reaching them.

  It was worth a try.

  He walked to the circular paved area that surrounded a fountain that had been drained, moving to that part of the stone paving facing the base of the slope, then turned. Concentrating on image-projecting his voice, he began with the greeting. “We gather together in the spirit of the Nameless and to affirm the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”

  Then came the opening hymn, and he began the only one he knew by heart-“Glory to the Nameless.” At least some of the troopers knew it, and he did not project his singing after the first few words, knowing he’d get off-key sooner or later.

  The confession, as always one of the hardest parts of the service for Quaeryt, came next. He felt fraudulent in leading a confession of error to a deity he wasn’t certain existed, or that any deity existed, although he had no trouble confessing to error, just to the idea that he and those who followed his words would be forgiven by the Nameless, since he’d observed all too little forgiveness in the world.

  “We name not You, for naming presumes, and we presume not upon the Creator of all that was, is, and will be. We pray not to You for ourselves, nor ask from You favor or recognition, for such asks You to favor us over others who are also Yours. We confess that we risk in all times the sins of presumptuous pride. We acknowledge that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we strive too often to raise our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our small achievements have meaning. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your Nameless magnificence and that we must respect all others, in celebration and deference to You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”

  Quaeryt did lead the chorus of “In Peace and Harmony.”

  In
the silence that followed, he cleared his throat and began. “Good evening, and it is a good evening.”

  “Good evening,” came the chorused reply.

  “All evenings are good evenings under the Nameless. Some are good in and of themselves, and some are like this evening. They’re good because most of us have survived to reach the evening, despite the best efforts of our enemies to the contrary…” Quaeryt paused briefly, looking upward to the higher part of the slope, but even up there several troopers had nodded, and that suggested his image-projection was working.

  “Earlier today, I was talking to another officer, and I asked him if the Nameless was somehow different here in Bovaria-although I guess we’re now still in Telaryn, according to Lord Bhayar…”

  That brought a few smiles before Quaeryt went on.

  “… or was it that the ideas attributed to the Nameless were taken differently here. He just said wisely that so far as men were concerned, it made no difference. Why does it make no difference?”

  Quaeryt paused, letting the silence draw out, before he went on. “It makes no difference because no matter what the precepts of the Nameless may be, we as men, and women as women, are the ones to interpret those precepts. The Nameless does not come thundering out of the sky-at least not very often from what I’ve seen-and strike down any man who lies, or cheats, or murders … or Names in some fashion. We are the ones who enforce, or fail to enforce, those precepts. We are the ones who lead by example … or fail to do so. The Nameless has not changed nature or precepts from one part of Lydar to another. In war, the Nameless does not tell Lord Bhayar to treat small growers with care and Rex Kharst to burn the lands of such small growers.

  “How does this happen? It happens, it seems to me, when those with power become more interested how others view them-and they wish to make other men desire to be like them. They wish to create other men in their likeness. What is that but another form of Naming? Yet that is not the way of the Nameless. That is why the Nameless has no appellation. It is why there are no paintings or statues of the Nameless, because the Nameless gave us the freedom to be the best we could be, not to strive to be a copy of something.