Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  With that thought, he turned his mount toward second company and Major Calkoran.

  The major was waiting for him.

  “Subcommander, sir … your imagers … they kept us from greater casualties.”

  “They did. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball. He died.”

  “I am sorry for him … and for us. He will be missed.”

  For a moment Quaeryt was stunned by Calkoran’s coolness. He had to remind himself that the major had suffered incredible losses and seen far greater slaughter, and that the death of less than a score of men and a young officer could not compare to what Calkoran had experienced. “Major … how did you know they had musketeers on that island?”

  “I saw those strange trees. Except they are not real trees. Each is a … screen … around the musket stand. The Bovarians used them to hide their musketeers in Khel,” said Calkoran, adding, “Or something like them. The muskets … do not fire accurately, either uphill or downslope. They are terrible when they can be fired in mass across a level ground, and where they cannot be charged quickly.”

  Terrible … Quaeryt could see that. Four volleys into first and second company, and in a fraction of a quint, thirteen men were dead, and another eleven were wounded. Fourteen dead, now, with Akoryt.

  Without the imagers-again-the results could have been much worse.

  But the question of shields lingered in the back of his mind.

  After he finished with Calkoran, Quaeryt rode to the front of first company, his eyes going to the trees on the north side of the road and the canal, not quite seeing either. You tried to protect them … you just didn’t think about muskets in a side volley. He shook his head again.

  No matter how much he told himself that in the few weeks he’d had the imagers he couldn’t have taught them what it had taken him well over a year to learn and develop, he had the feeling that Akoryt’s death … and perhaps those of others … would haunt him.

  But he did need to give the others a better chance. They might surprise you.

  One way or the other …

  He glanced northward again, for a moment.

  32

  Just slightly after midday, Skarpa ordered resumption of the advance toward Ralaes, leaving Fifth Battalion as vanguard. He also sent out two squads of scouts and remained at the head of the column with Quaeryt as they rode alongside the ancient canal.

  A mille or so past the spot where the Bovarians had attacked, the canal turned southward. Quaeryt couldn’t help but study what the Naedarans had done. The far side of the canal was clearly a stone wall, backed by an earthen levee. On the far side of the levee was a marsh that extended northwest and joined the River Aluse. An ancient stone bridge-repaired in more recent times-crossed the canal, and on the far side of the bridge, the ancient stone road swung west to again parallel the river.

  As he adjusted the visor cap and blotted the sweat off his forehead in the early afternoon heat, Quaeryt’s eyes followed the canal. Why isn’t it swamp? There has to be water flowing from somewhere or it would have long since filled itself in. Quickly taking out his map, he located where he thought they were. While the canal wasn’t shown on the map, nor the bridge, the isle was. So was a large lake to the south, with a town called Chelaes located along the western side of the unnamed lake. Chelaes must have been important for Naedara.

  “What are you thinking about? You’ve got that expression,” said Skarpa.

  “The canal and why it was built.”

  “It was built to get boats to the river. That was a long time back. Right now, the Bovarians used the canal wall to get off that isle. They have carts or wagons and they’re moving west at a good clip.”

  “So they can set up another ambush or withdraw to meet their main body,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “Most likely both,” replied Skarpa dryly.

  Another glass passed before one of the scouts rode up beside the commander.

  “What did you find?”

  “The wagons that carried the musketeers and their muskets took another road just ahead. It’s headed south. The millestones say that there’s a place called Chelaes eleven milles south.”

  “It’s on a lake, according to the map,” added Quaeryt.

  “They won’t go that far. They need to get to Villerive.” Skarpa shook his head. “We’ll have to leave a company where the roads split … at least for a glass or so after we pass. I don’t want them circling back and following us. Not too close, anyway.”

  “Maybe there’s a back road that parallels the river road that will get them to Ralaes or Villerive sooner,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “That could be. The river swings north and then back south. Might be faster to cut across. But we don’t know. Don’t want to take any chances, though.”

  Quaeryt could understand that all too well.

  “I’m going to ride back and talk to Meinyt. You see anything out of sorts … call a halt.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quaeryt understood what Skarpa hadn’t said-that he’d better be alert to something “out of sorts” early enough to avoid another ambush.

  Skarpa looked to the scout. “You keep the reports coming to the subcommander.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the scout headed back westward and Skarpa rode toward the rear of the column, Quaeryt made an effort to study the terrain on both sides of the road-carefully, forcing his eyes to take in each area, from the scraggly weeds just beyond the shoulder of the road, to the sagging split rail fence of the small stead ahead and the lack of smoke from the chimney of the small cot.

  Quaeryt kept watching.

  Finally, a quint or so later, they reached the spot where the road to the south split off the river road, except it was a gentle turn, and the paved road was the one heading south, while the river road returned to being packed clay. Quaeryt studied the river road carefully, but there were no heavy wheel tracks and only a few hoofprints, likely those of the Telaryn scouts, heading west along the river. He could discern no attempts to blur prints or tracks on the river road, nor did he see any evidence of a concealed return to the river road as he and Fifth Battalion rode on.

  Shortly, another scout rode back eastward and swung his mount in beside Quaeryt.

  “There are tracks on the road ahead, sir, just past some fields that have been harvested. That’d be a mille or so ahead.”

  “What crop?”

  “Looks to be hay, sir. They got those funny haystacks in the field, and the stubble’s short.”

  “There’s no one hiding behind those stacks, is there?”

  “No, sir. Hardly big enough to hide a single man and mount.”

  Quaeryt recalled what Calkoran had said about muskets … and flat areas. “What’s the ground like just ahead, between here and there?”

  “You can see, sir. Pretty much the same as here.”

  That meant fields and small steads on the south, and a narrow strip of brush, bushes, and occasional trees between the river road and the River Aluse.

  “Column! Halt! Third company! Forward! Pass it back!” Quaeryt couldn’t quite have said why he had reacted so quickly, but there was something about the scout’s report that bothered him, even if he couldn’t have said what. He turned to Zhelan. “I don’t like the scout’s report. So I’m going to move ahead with third company. Keep Fifth Battalion at the ready.”

  “Yes, sir. Are you certain that you don’t want the whole battalion?”

  “If it’s that bad, I’ll let you know.”

  In less than half a quint, Major Zhael reined up, third company behind him on the shoulder of the road. “Sir?”

  “We’re going to look and see about something, Major.” Quaeryt offered a smile. “I thought you and your men could keep me company.” He eased his mount around to the south, so that Zhael would be riding on the river side of the road. Then he nodded to the scout. “Lead the way.”

  For the next half mille, Quaeryt could see nothing out of the ordinary. While the fields had been recent
ly harvested, there were no haystacks or even enough grain or maize for gleaning. Then they rode past a cot set back some fifty yards from the road, with a weathered split rail fence some thirty yards to the west of the cot. Beyond the fence began another series of fields, beginning with a green plant that covered everything and stood a little over knee-high. Beyond that was the harvested grain field dotted with small haystacks.

  As they rode past the fence, Quaeryt studied the green field, clearly something being raised for winter fodder for livestock, but he could see no sign that anyone had walked or ridden through the comparatively low plants. The haystacks beyond did indeed look strange, seemingly with hay bundled into pyramids and encircled with cord. But there was something about the haystacks.

  There aren’t any in the fifty yards closest to the road.

  “Third company! To arms!” Even as he spoke, Quaeryt tried to extend his shields more and at an angle.

  A thunderous roar swept across him, with multiple impacts on his shields nearly tearing him out of his saddle. As he struggled to regain his seat, his eyes went to the left of the road, from where the impacts had come. For a moment he saw nothing out of the ordinary, before he saw the slits in the “haystacks” that were nothing of the sort.

  He didn’t have much time to consider more, because a wave of riders charged out of the woods behind the recently harvested field-and past the haystacks that were screens covered with hay, concealing musketeers-toward Quaeryt and third company.

  “Third company!” he commanded, in Bovarian. “On me! Charge!”

  He wasn’t certain he’d been heard, but then caught the words of Major Zhael, but not their meaning, as he turned the mare toward the oncoming riders, and narrowed his shields, if only slightly. Then he managed to ease the half-staff from its leathers and brace it across the front of the saddle as he guided the mare into the field.

  Quaeryt sensed rather than heard another volley from the muskets, less thunderous than the first, but could feel no impacts on his shields.

  “Zhael! Charge ahead! Not on me!” he ordered as he neared the first line of “haystacks.” He could see musketeers and the loaders ducking behind the cloth- and hay-covered frames of their stands. Abruptly he turned the mare to the right at an angle and raced along the haystacks with his shields extended, using the shields as a weapon to flatten the Bovarians. By the time he’d reached the end of the musket screens, his head was splitting, and it was getting hard to see. Still …

  You can’t let them keep shooting troopers down …

  Concentrating through the growing haze of blinding light and what felt like blows to his head, he wheeled the mare and started back along the second line. With each haystack he passed, the pain intensified.

  Ahead of him and to his right, third company slashed into the Bovarians, shredding the ambushing company.

  Quaeryt let the mare slow as he passed the last haystack/musket stand, so that by the time he rejoined the main body of the company, more than half the Bovarians were down, cut out of their saddles, and the remainder were fleeing back through the woods.

  Then he reined up, gasping, trying to massage his forehead with one hand, leaving the staff across the front of the saddle.

  Perhaps a quint later-Quaeryt wasn’t sure-Zhael rode back and reined up beside Quaeryt.

  “Sir … are you wounded?”

  “I’ll … be all right … in a while.” Quaeryt fumbled out the water bottle and took a swallow, then another. “You and your men did well.”

  “You led us well.”

  Quaeryt wanted to laugh. “No, Major. I did my best to distract the musketeers. You led third company. I hope you didn’t lose too many men.” He had trouble focusing his eyes on Zhael.

  “No, sir. Just two. Another eight have small wounds.”

  Just ten casualties? That seemed terribly low. “What about the Bovarians?”

  “More than fifty. They are not used to experiencing a charge when their muskets are not effective. We have eleven prisoners. Most will not live, I think.”

  “Are there any captive musketeers?”

  “There are two, sir,” answered Zhael, his voice subdued. “The others…”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “You killed them, sir. Their necks, their bones … Most of them. One or two ran into the woods. We did not chase them far … as you ordered.”

  “I just charged them with my staff so they wouldn’t shoot any more of us.”

  “They will not do that.” Zhael did not quite meet Quaeryt’s eyes.

  After a long moment Quaeryt said, “If you’d have some of your men collect the muskets and pile them by the side of the road for the wagons to pick up. I don’t want the Bovarians to come back and collect them.” Quaeryt massaged his forehead again. It didn’t seem to help the throbbing in his skull. “Oh … and if you’d dispatch a trooper to tell Major Zhelan that Fifth Battalion can join us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zhael rode off.

  Quaeryt didn’t take in what happened, because his vision kept blurring with the pain in his eyes and head. He drank more water, then fumbled out several dry biscuits and methodically started chewing one. By the time he’d finished the second one, the pain had subsided from sheer agony to extreme discomfort, but he could see more clearly … for a few moments, if he squinted. He also realized that he was sore across his thighs and abdomen … and on his backside. Very sore.

  He took another long swallow of the watered lager, then replaced the bottle in its holder, just as Zhael reined up beside him.

  “You are wounded in another way, are you not, sir?”

  “You might say that,” Quaeryt admitted. “I’ll recover.” If we aren’t attacked again soon.

  “The Bovarians-the ones remaining-are long gone.”

  “For the moment I have to say I’m glad.”

  Zhael nodded.

  Quaeryt reached up and massaged his forehead and neck again.

  Almost two quints passed before Quaeryt and Zhael, waiting beside the pile of muskets, saw Fifth Battalion approach. Then Skarpa rode out along the shoulder of the road toward them. Major Zhael eased his mount away as Skarpa reined up.

  “I understand you had a little action here.” The commander glanced down at the muskets stacked on the shoulder of the road.

  “Another musket attack.”

  “How many did you lose?”

  “Two killed, eight wounded, not seriously, according to Major Zhael.”

  “What were their casualties? Do you know?”

  “Some fifty dead, eleven captives, mostly wounded.”

  Skarpa’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t have led the attack on them, would you?”

  “They attacked us, sir.”

  Skarpa snorted. “I’ll rephrase that. You wouldn’t have led the counterattack, would you?”

  “Only against the musketeers. Major Zhael commanded the attack against the Bovarian cavalry.”

  “So you took out the musketeers … and they destroyed the Bovarians. Exactly how did that happen?”

  “The major said the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who charged into musket fire.”

  “I suspect that the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who were able to charge through it.”

  Quaeryt managed a grin, but even that hurt. “We were fortunate.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that I was already suspicious of that explanation?”

  “What can I say, sir? We were.”

  “How many muskets are there in that pile?”

  “Forty-one, sir.”

  “Did you kill all of the men who used them?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know how many I might have injured. I just charged their stands from the side, and they couldn’t turn their weapons fast enough.”

  “Just?”

  “Muskets are like pikes, in a way. They’re awkward.”

  “Have you ever been attacked by muskets before this campaign, Subcommander?”

  “No.”

>   Skarpa nodded. “You can rejoin Fifth Battalion. We’ll take a break here and bring Third Regiment forward. Fifth Battalion will take the middle of the column, before the wagons.”

  Quaeryt didn’t protest. He just nodded.

  33

  Late on Lundi afternoon Skarpa received scout reports that the Bovarians had invested the approach to Ralaes with revetments and trenches. He called a halt to the advance at a small, nameless, and hastily abandoned hamlet some four milles from the approach to the town. While the company officers and men of the regiments and Fifth Battalion were making camp, setting up picket lines, and taking care of mounts, among other matters, and the cooks were preparing an evening meal, Skarpa called Quaeryt and Meinyt to meet with him on the covered front porch of one of the larger dwellings in the hamlet, and one with a view of the river and a breeze off the water. For the breeze alone, Quaeryt was grateful. He’d made the ride to the hamlet in a painful semidaze, not to mention being hot and sweaty.

  Skarpa had found a small table that he’d set in the middle of the narrow porch and some stools. He’d also spread a map on the table, weighted on the corners with stones. As Quaeryt listened, he tried not to squirm too much on the stool, but he was feeling more aches than he had thought he would, and there were bruises in more than a few places he couldn’t see.

  “… the ground to the south of the town is low and swampy, with thick underbrush and mud holes and uneven ground. There are also extensive false olive thickets on the higher ground. We’d have to ride more than twenty milles to get around it…”

  “What about that other road?” asked Meinyt. “The one the musketeers took?”

  “It joins the river road about a mille toward Raelaes from here,” replied Skarpa.

  “Too bad we didn’t know that.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to take it, not the part heading west from the paved road.” Skarpa cleared his throat. “The scouts found two abandoned wagons-both with broken axles.”