Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  “They’ll be on your heels.”

  Quaeryt urged the mare forward, strengthening his shields. Even as he rode forward, the lead company of Fifth Regiment close behind, he could see more pikemen moving toward the center of the road.

  Abruptly smoke and pepper sprayed into the arrayed pikes, and some of the unwieldly weapons wavered.

  Quaeryt formed his shields into an unseen wedge, linking them to the mass of mounts behind him. As the shields impacted the first pikes, he could feel pressure everywhere, as if he were being fed into an olive press or a grape press. Then suddenly the constriction vanished, and pikes and pikemen sprayed aside from the shields. For a moment Quaeryt felt as though he were burning up, but that was followed by a chill like ice water cascading over him.

  Ahead was open pavement. To the right, he corrected himself, but to the left were more Bovarians who moved toward the attacking troopers.

  He contracted his shields to cover just himself and the mare and eased her to the side of the square he was riding across-away from the Bovarians. Looking around, he could find no one before him, just the empty square, but as he turned the mare, he saw the Bovarian reinforcements meet the oncoming troopers.

  For several moments, and then for longer, perhaps half a quint, the Bovarians gave ground, slowly at first, and then more quickly. Then, the remaining Bovarian pikemen and footmen dropped their heavy square shields and began to run.

  In less than another quint, the square below the bridge held only Telaryn troopers and the long shadows cast by a sun that had barely risen. All this so early? With a long day yet ahead?

  Shaking his head, Quaeryt rode back to rejoin the imager undercaptains, all of whom looked to be unhurt, although Threkhyl’s eyes were twitching, and his face was pale. Baelthm’s countenance remained grayish. “Undercaptain Threkhyl, Undercaptain Baelthm, no more imaging today unless your own life is threatened. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir…” came the low rejoinder.

  “I want you healthy for the rest of the campaign, and you won’t be if you do too much on any one day. Second, I’d like to say I very much appreciated the smoke and pepper. It made what I had to do much easier.”

  “Sir…” murmured Voltyr, gesturing.

  Quaeryt followed the gesture with his eyes to see Skarpa riding up at the head of Third Regiment.

  “If you and the undercaptains would join us … We do have more to do.”

  “Yes, sir.” After gesturing to the undercaptains, Quaeryt turned the mare and rode in behind the commander, who followed a single company of his first battalion, the remainder of Third Regiment closing up behind the imagers who had taken station on Quaeryt.

  “With me, Subcommander,” said Skarpa, looking back.

  Quaeryt eased his mount forward.

  “How are your imagers?”

  “Two are likely finished for the day. Three can do smoke and pepper, possibly some small barrier removal. One can do more than that.”

  Skarpa nodded. “I just received another dispatch. The Bovarians are massing on the west road. They’ve abandoned their position on the east road. We’re to strike them from behind as hard as we can and as soon as we can.”

  “How far ahead is that?” Quaeryt glanced around as they rode out of the bridge square. As in other towns and cities they had entered, all doors were closed, all shuttered fastened tight, and no one appeared anywhere on the streets or in the alleys. The shops on the main avenue were largely built of a yellowish brick, with pale red tile roofs in most cases. A few were of wood, and one or two had been constructed of a red stone. All looked well kept.

  “Not quite two milles.”

  Alert as he tried to be, Quaeryt could detect no sign of other Bovarians. After riding perhaps a half mille, or a bit longer, the column came to another square, this one with a center pedestal bearing a statue of a man on horseback. Around the pedestal was a low redstone wall, topped with an iron railing.

  Definitely Naming there, thought Quaeryt as he studied the square, vacant except for the Telaryn troopers, and the raised stone platform on which the statue had been set.

  After another hundred yards or so, farther ahead, Quaeryt caught a glimpse of light on metal, and then the sight of armored cavalry charging from a side avenue into one of the companies of Fifth Regiment. Meinyt’s troopers appeared to be prepared, moving out of the way and then attacking mounts or men from the rear while another company rode in behind the armored riders.

  As Skarpa slowed Third Regiment, Quaeryt kept his head and eyes moving, wondering when and if another force would charge out of a side street or boulevard. He saw nothing, and before long the column was moving again, past fallen men and mounts moved out of the road, with perhaps a squad tending to Telaryn wounded.

  The dwellings along the avenue increased in size with each block they traveled, and the space between the houses increased as well. Many of the dwellings had walls encircling them, and stables and outbuildings. Then, ahead, Quaeryt caught sight of two large stone gateposts, one on each side of the avenue. As he rode closer, he saw that there were no gates, nor were there any houses immediately beyond the gates, but an expanse of fields, whose plants or grasses had largely been trampled flat. Overlooking the fields on the west side of the avenue that had become a narrower but still stone-paved road was a low ridge.

  Abruptly Quaeryt realized that the eastern side of that ridge held masses of men and mounts, and it appeared that, under the press of the larger Telaryn forces, the Bovarians had withdrawn onto what looked to be the hillside estate of a High Holder. Small catapults flung dark objects into the Telaryn forces, objects that exploded into crimson-greenish-yellow fire, clinging to whatever they hit.

  Fifth Regiment had already turned westward to reinforce the Telaryn forces pressing the Bovarians, but the Bovarian line, roughly halfway up the gentle slope, appeared to be holding their own, possibly because of the effects of the Antiagon Fire grenades.

  “Antiagon Fire! We need to get closer,” Quaeryt yelled to Skarpa.

  “Second company, escort the imagers forward! Captain, you’re under the subcommander’s orders!”

  “Sir!” called a muscularly rotund captain. “Over here!”

  “Shaelyt, Voltyr, Desyrk! With me.”

  The second company edged onto the left flank of Fifth Regiment, increasing the pace until the riders were moving past the column at what Quaeryt thought might be a canter. Even so, close to a quint passed before they reached the rear of the Telaryn forces.

  “To the left, there!” called Quaeryt, gesturing toward what looked to be a gap between the advancing Telaryn troopers.

  That “gap” was an irrigation ditch, empty but somewhat muddy. Quaeryt didn’t care about the mud, but he did slow the mare. Taking the ditch was still faster than trying to force his way through Deucalon’s troopers, although the troopers did give way slightly as they saw the troopers leading officers along the ditch.

  Quaeryt did overhear a few muttered remarks.

  “… officers wanting to get into battle … friggin’ idiots…”

  “… let ’em…”

  Idiots? With what you want, is there any choice? He didn’t answer his own question, but concentrated on getting to where he could do something.

  In the end, Quaeryt and the imagers could only reach the base of the ridge. He reined up and gestured for the others to halt as well. He was still a good two hundred yards from the catapults near the top of the ridgelike rise. No help for that now.

  He concentrated on the nearest catapult, almost directly uphill from him, and as the dark object that had to be a fire grenade soared free, he imaged it back, back onto the group of officers higher on the slope. The crimson-greenish-yellow that burst from the grenade enveloped the center of the group. Quaeryt immediately looked toward the second catapult, waiting, waiting … and the second fire grenade soared … and then vanished-reappearing as it smashed into the remnants of the command group. When the third catapult began to move, Qu
aeryt returned the grenade to the base of the catapult, and the structure and those operating it flared into ugly flame. Then he returned his attention to the first catapult.

  Quaeryt’s skull was splitting by the time all three catapults were flaming masses.

  But by then the Bovarian lines had totally crumbled, and what had been a static melee was turning into a rout.

  Quaeryt, the imagers, and the company detailed to protect them just held their position as the Telaryn forces surged past them and into the hand-to-hand fighting. Quaeryt could still maintain his personal shields, although he doubted that he could have done much more than that, and in the growing confusion he decided against trying to find Fifth Battalion. Skarpa and Fifth Battalion can come to us.

  In less than half a glass, the Bovarians had fragmented into small clusters surrounded by Telaryn forces. A glass later the hillside and the lower grounds of the estate were littered with bodies in bluish gray, and hundreds, if not more than a thousand Bovarians, had fled away from Villerive and the River Aluse, heading north and west.

  The one Bovarian force he had not seen had been musketeers. Had they attacked earlier and been dispersed? Or did they take so much time to set up that they had never been in position? Even from what he’d seen, that appeared to be the strongest possibility … but it was only a half-informed guess on his part. But aren’t too many conclusions you’re making just that these days?

  As the fighting dwindled away, Quaeryt watched as Deucalon dispatched patrols from the northern army to ride down every lane and road, as much as to fragment the survivors and chase them away from ever regrouping as to cut them down, Quaeryt suspected.

  Not that some probably weren’t cut down, he thought, massaging his forehead.

  This time, he could still see, and that amazed him, even as it strengthened his belief that continually stretching himself to his limits seemed to extend those limits once he recovered. But for how long? Is there a point when your body can do no more?

  46

  What Skarpa called follow-up operations took most of the rest of Mardi, and early on Fifth Battalion was dispatched to occupy and guard a large manor house a half mille west, beyond the estate and ridge on which the morning’s battle had taken place. The Khellan companies patrolled the area around the near-palatial dwelling with great diligence, a diligence, Quaeryt suspected, that assured that no Bovarian troopers would have dared even to approach the grounds and well-tended gardens. He’d posted troopers at the front and rear entrances to the house, more to create a certain respect than because he thought anyone would likely try to break in or attack anyone inside.

  Once he and Zhelan had worked out the details of quartering and patrolling, Quaeryt found himself at a loss, walking the first floor of the dwelling and the terraces from which he could observe the Khellan patrols, and in the distance the gathering of some regiments around the High Holder estate that had seen too much blood and fire.

  The bells had just struck third glass when the house assistant steward, the steward having fled with the family, cautiously eased up to Quaeryt, who stood in the shade of the east porch, again studying the hold house below which all too much, if necessary, carnage had occurred.

  “Sir…?” The man, a few years older than Quaeryt, and balding, looked nervously up to the taller subcommander, his eyes seemingly focusing on the silver crescent moon insignia on Quaeryt’s collars rather than meeting his eyes.

  Quaeryt half turned. “Yes?”

  “Will … we … I mean … you have men to feed…”

  “Yes, they will need to be fed. Is there a problem, Chaefur?”

  “The head cook, the second cook … they went with the family. Just two assistant cooks…”

  Chaefur’s Bovarian held the trace of a regional accent, but whether that was local or not, Quaeryt had no idea.

  “The troopers and officers don’t expect meals for a High Holder. If your cooks…” Quaeryt paused. “The battalion has several cooks. They’ll be in the kitchen as well.” That way they can make certain nothing untoward gets into the food.

  “Yes, sir…” Chaefur paused. “Might I ask how long…?”

  “That’s up to Lord Bhayar.”

  “Lord Bhayar? Not … Is Lord Bhayar here? Here in Villerive?”

  “I haven’t seen him lately, but I think I’d know if he weren’t.”

  “Oh … oh, dear … what shall we do if he comes here?”

  “He might summon me,” Quaeryt said, “but he won’t come here. Why do you worry about that?” There should be more of concern to you and the staff than whether Bhayar appears.

  “Master Saarcoyn … he always wants everything to be proper … whoever might arrive…”

  “Master Saarcoyn, of what is he a master?”

  “He’s a master factor, sir. A grain and timber and metals factor. He’s got three factorages, sir … and some mines to the north.”

  Quaeryt glanced at the stone pillars that ran up three stories, supporting the porch roof, then out over the iron filigree of the railing bordering the porch and down to the precisely trimmed hedges of the formal garden on the terrace below the porch. “He obviously does well.”

  “That he does, sir. But now…”

  “We’ll do our best to leave his house undamaged. That is, if we have no trouble.”

  “No, sir … you’ll have no trouble. No, sir.”

  At the sound of hooves, Quaeryt turned to see a squad of Telaryn troopers riding up the narrow limestone-paved drive to the front entrance. One of the mounts, led by a ranker, held an empty saddle. That doesn’t look good. “You’ll have to excuse me, Chaefur. If I’m not here, direct any questions you have to Major Zhelan.”

  “But … sir … dinner?”

  “Plan on fifth glass. Set up serving tables for the troopers in the courtyard off the kitchen. The servers can dish the food into the troopers’ mess kits. They’ll serve me and the officers in the dining room after the men are all fed.” Quaeryt turned and followed the porch that circled the entire dwelling back to the front.

  Chaefur did not follow. Quaeryt only had to wait a few moments under the roof of the entry portico before a squad leader dismounted and hurried up the four wide limestone steps, halting and inclining his head politely before he addressed Quaeryt.

  “Subcommander, sir, Lord Bhayar would like to see you. We have a spare mount.”

  “One moment, Squad Leader.” Quaeryt turned to the pair of troopers flanking the front door. “Troopers … if one of you would immediately convey to Major Zhelan that Lord Bhayar has summoned me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded to the troopers, then followed the squad leader to the mount, a chestnut gelding far larger than Quaeryt’s mare. The fact that he had no trouble mounting, or riding down the drive, was another indication of how much had changed for a scholar who had seldom ridden until a year earlier.

  The squad leader headed almost due east, back to the hold house that Quaeryt had been observing less than a quint earlier. When Quaeryt dismounted under a portico easily three times the size of the one at Master Saarcoyn’s manor-like dwelling, he noted a good squad of troopers stationed there, half on each side of the double doors.

  “We’ll be waiting for you, Subcommander.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt turned and walked toward the doors.

  One of the troopers opened the left door.

  Once Quaeryt stepped into the large marble-floored circular entry hall, a young captain moved forward. “Subcommander Quaeryt … sir. It will be a few moments, sir. Would you like a cool lager while you wait?”

  Quaeryt had to admire how the captain eased him toward what had to be a receiving parlor. “I would, thank you.” He took a seat in the velvet-upholstered armchair, rather than the matching green settee.

  Almost immediately, the captain returned, extending a crystal beaker containing a lager so light that it was barely golden.

  “Thank you.”

  “My
pleasure, sir.” The captain slipped away, leaving Quaeryt with the lager.

  Quaeryt took a sip. The lager was good. Not excellent, but good, and Quaeryt didn’t hurry in drinking it. He’d often had to wait on Bhayar.

  Even so, he’d almost finished the beaker when a tall and squarish figure in Telaryn officers’ greens strode past the receiving parlor toward the entry hall. The older officer’s face was impassive, and his jaw clenched. Quaeryt recognized Deucalon, but the marshal did not even glance in Quaeryt’s direction. More likely he doesn’t want to.

  Several moments later the captain returned. “Subcommander…”

  Quaeryt took a last swallow of the lager and placed the crystal beaker on the side table, then stood and followed the young officer down the hallway to the second door.

  “The subcommander, sir.”

  “Have him come in.”

  Quaeryt eased off the visor cap, slipped it under his arm, and stepped through the white oak door that the captain had opened for him. As soon as he stood in the study, its paneling matching the white oak of the door, with a wall of shelves to his right, the door closed.

  Bhayar sat alone at a circular conference table of polished white oak, but rimmed with inlaid green stone, most likely malachite, reflected Quaeryt. The Lord of Telaryn gestured to a chair across the table. “Please sit down. I hear you’ve had several hard days.”

  Quaeryt sat. “I’ve had harder, but not many.”

  “I thought as much.” His dark blue eyes intent, Bhayar looked directly at Quaeryt. “Deucalon is furious at what you did, you know? Or didn’t do, more precisely.”

  “He didn’t look particularly happy when he left you.” Although Quaeryt had a good idea why, he wanted to be sure. “With what is he displeased?”

  “You know as well as I do. Your imagers created that wall on the north side of the bridge. That kept the Bovarians from retreating to the south side of the river.”

  “We had orders to take and hold the south side and to keep the bridge from being destroyed. We did that, sir.”

  Bhayar smiled. “You did indeed.”