“First company, two dead, fifteen wounded. Second company, four dead, five wounded. Third company, three dead, six wounded. Fourth company, three wounded. That does not count the undercaptains assigned to other regiments.”
“Thank you.” Only nine dead, and twenty-nine wounded. Unfortunately, Quaeryt had no doubt that the casualties were far higher among the regiments.
A squad leader wearing a green and red armband edged his mount along the side of the bridge approach toward Quaeryt and finally reined up facing him. “Subcommander, sir, the commander asks that Fifth Battalion continue to hold the bridge and prepare for an attack on the isle fort and beyond.”
“Tell Commander Skarpa that we hold the bridge but that an immediate attack on the isle fort is not physically possible. The Bovarians retracted the bridge before we could reach it.” Quaeryt gestured toward the open space beyond the bridge approach.
“Yes, sir.” The squad leader nodded, then turned his mount and rode back down the bridge approach and then onto the street that led to the southeastern gate.
Quaeryt eased out the water bottle and took a longer swallow, before fumbling out a biscuit and slowly chewing on it. You’re a little late in taking your own advice. He glanced back south, then northward toward the isle. He could see nothing behind the walls of the small fort in the middle of the river.
Before all that long, the troopers now in formation on the streets and the approach to the bridge made way for Skarpa, flanked by Khaern and Meinyt. Behind them rode the remaining imager undercaptains-Threkhyl, Horan, Desyrk, Voltyr, and Smaethyl. All five were sweat-drenched and pale.
Quaeryt eased the mare forward to meet the senior officers, then halted, as did the other three.
The imagers made their way past, and Quaeryt could see that Voltyr’s eyes were twitching. Horan was almost leaning on his mount’s neck. Quaeryt looked at Skarpa.
“I got your message, Subcommander. How did that happen?”
“We broke through the gates, and I led first company straight to the bridge. We didn’t hesitate at all. They were retracting the bridge before we were even close to it. They left some of their own men on this side rather than letting us even get close.”
“Figures.” Skarpa snorted.
“How did the imager undercaptains do?” asked Quaeryt.
Skarpa nodded to Khaern.
“They got us a narrow ramp, and one most of the way down inside the walls. We got some cover from the arrows, but we were on our own inside the walls. Not too bad. We lost maybe fifty troopers, and another hundred wounded.”
Meinyt cleared his throat. “They kept the arrows off us, but we had to follow them through the gates. They couldn’t do much once we were inside. Didn’t have to, though. They killed a good company of defenders near the gates. Froze some and got a bunch with iron darts.”
“The two you sent with me did the ramp all right,” said Skarpa. “Broad and wide. Even cut away a yard of the top of the walls and some buildings on the other side.”
“But?” asked Quaeryt, sensing Skarpa wasn’t totally pleased.
“They couldn’t do anything after that. The newer one could barely ride. We lost almost a hundred troopers to archers.”
“I was afraid of that. I gave you the ones I knew could give you the best access, but they’re not that good with stopping arrows.”
Skarpa laughed roughly. “Better than I thought. Anytime you can take a walled city without siege gear and only lose a few hundred men … Have to say I was worried, but we took most of the casualties on the ride to and up the ramp. Almost nothing after that.”
Most likely because any defender close to the walls and ramp was frozen solid, and the archers fled. Quaeryt nodded. “I haven’t seen much of the city. We’ve been holding the bridge. I didn’t want to leave it and have them attack again.”
“No one was living in the dwellings directly behind the walls. Most were either sealed up or used to store goods,” said Khaern.
“There weren’t that many people living here on the south side of the river, except for the troopers in the barracks and garrison,” added Skarpa. “None of the locals we saw looked that prosperous, either.”
“There were more people on the avenue leading to the bridge,” Quaeryt pointed out. “There are shops there.”
“Still the poor side of town,” said Meinyt.
“It’s almost like it was all a garrison,” mused Skarpa. “This side of the river, anyway.”
Quaeryt stopped and looked back south. Everywhere he looked the walls were stone, the windows narrow, with inside shutters. The streets were all of gray stone. The roofs were primarily of grayish tile, although there were replacement tiles of yellowish rose, and on some roofs there were far more replacement tiles than gray ones. “I think it was. I think … it was a Naedaran garrison.”
“But…” Khaern protested, “they’ve been dead and gone for hundreds of years.”
“Good stonework lasts almost forever,” said Skarpa.
“Or longer,” said Quaeryt dryly. Especially if it’s imaged in place. He wasn’t about to point that out.
Meinyt frowned. “There’s something else. There aren’t any marks on the stone. No names or initials cut or scratched into it. Not anywhere. If this part of Nordeau is that old…”
“Why aren’t there any marks?” asked Skarpa. “Because the frigging stone is hard. One of the troopers tried to cut down a Bovarian. He didn’t realize just how close he was to a dwelling, and his sabre hit the stone and shattered. Didn’t leave a mark on that gray stone. If a blade wielded by a strong man doesn’t leave a mark, there won’t be many. Enough of that. We’ve got another problem.” His eyes went to Quaeryt. “How wide is that gap to the isle fortress?”
“Not that wide. Ten yards, perhaps a bit farther.”
“Can your imagers build a stone span across it?” asked Skarpa.
“We likely can,” replied Quaeryt, massaging his forehead. “But not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. From what I’ve heard and seen, none of them could now, and probably not today.”
Meinyt and Skarpa nodded. A look of puzzlement crossed Khaern’s face.
“It’s a matter of strength,” Quaeryt explained. “Imaging takes great effort. If an imager tries to do too much when he’s exhausted, it can kill him. I don’t see any point in killing people when there’s not that much to be gained, especially if it means Commander Skarpa won’t have imagers when we get to Variana.”
“No one ever mentioned that,” replied Khaern.
“That’s because no one’s ever studied imaging before,” said Quaeryt.
Khaern looked more closely at Quaeryt’s greenish brown shirt. “Oh … that’s why…”
“One of the reasons,” Quaeryt agreed.
“I’ll send a dispatch to the marshal, telling him that we can probably take the isle fort…” Skarpa paused. “I’d wager they’ve got another pull-away bridge on the other side.”
“We can likely do two spans,” said Quaeryt.
“I’ll let him know and see what he has in mind.”
Quaeryt doubted that Deucalon would be all that pleased, no matter what.
58
The south side of Nordeau was quiet by the first glass of the afternoon, with patrols riding the stone streets, the sound of hooves clattering off the stone buildings, the echoes reverberating with a hollow sound that offered at least one hint why the old section of the city was a less favored place for domicile and business. Two companies, rotated every two glasses, were guarding the bridge, with a battalion ready to reinforce them at a moment’s notice, should the Bovarians start to extend the bridge from the isle fort.
Quaeryt had arranged for the imager undercaptains and company officers to be billeted in one of the handful of inns-Stone’s Rest-and quartered the rest of the battalion in both the inn and various buildings nearby. He determined that all the inns and taverns south of the River Aluse catered almost entirely to travelers and traders. Once again, he’d als
o discovered that the locals didn’t seen to care who was in charge, so long as they weren’t hurt and they received some recompense, not that they’d get all that much.
Then, he slipped into the public room of the Stone’s Rest, with a concealment shield, to see what he could overhear from the imagers who were seated or half slumped around a long table. The rest of the chamber was empty, except for a serving girl.
Horan held his head in his hands, massaging his forehead.
“It’s not that bad,” muttered Smaethyl.
“… speak for yourself…” replied the older imager. “Head like to split.”
“What did you do? Threkhyl did the ramp.”
“Who’d you think was imaging iron darts when we went down over the wall? All that iron hurts. Don’t see how the subcommander does it…” Horan raised his head and looked at Lhandor. “Not another word about his being a son of Erion…”
Lhandor and Khalis exchanged glances, but neither spoke.
“Not so easy, is it?” offered Baelthm.
“You didn’t have to do anything, just stick with the subcommander,” said Threkhyl, nursing an ale.
“Keepin’ up with him isn’t easy … Took down those gates like they were rotten wood, kept the battalion casualties real low…”
“How low?” asked Voltyr.
“Maybe ten dead, thirty wounded, and he took ’em through a whole two companies of pikemen, scattered ’em like leaves before the wind … not counting the archers and the foot.”
“How the frig does he do it?” asked Smaethyl. “Never heard of an imager that powerful.”
“You wouldn’t except in war,” answered Voltyr. “That’s because he’s married to Lord Bhayar’s sister. He’s serious about trying to make things better for imagers. That’s why, every battle, he does everything he can. He didn’t have to do it. He was a scholar assistant to Bhayar in Solis. No one even knew he was an imager. He could have stayed there safe and out of danger.”
“He just wants power,” said Threkhyl.
Shaelyt shook his head. “He might be made a commander. He’ll never hold a rank higher than that. He knows that. Rulers and their ministers don’t trust imagers.”
“Why’s he do it, then?” asked Horan.
“He told you,” said Desyrk tiredly. “Bhayar’s the only ruler in the frigging world who’ll give imagers even half a break. That’s because some of his family was Pharsi, they say.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” declared Threkhyl.
“Sure it does,” retorted Desyrk. “He’s married. If he doesn’t make things better for us, and all imagers, what will happen to his children and his children’s children once he’s gone?”
“Sounds like you like him.” Threkhyl snorted.
“You’d be a fool to like him. But you’d be an idiot not to respect him and support him. He’s the only hope we’ve got. You don’t think so, talk to the Khellans.”
“Didn’t know you talked Pharsi.”
“I don’t. The officers talk Bovarian, and my ma did. He’s their only hope, too.”
None of the undercaptains replied, as if Desyrk’s words had quieted everyone.
Only hope? Quaeryt winced. Then he slipped away and went back to the stable. From there, with a squad from third company, he rode back to the bridge approach, where he took his time studying the isle fort. The fort had been placed, as had the city, at a point where the river was narrower and deeper and where it had cut through higher ground so that both sides of the city rested on low bluffs. As Quaeryt had thought, the fort’s walls merged a yard or two above the water with the gray mass of stone that was the isle. As he looked to the north side of the river, he noted that the area below and to both sides of the north span was walled in the ubiquitous gray stone, but beyond the walls, both to the east and west, the low bluff was composed of a reddish stone. Quaeryt moved to where the stone wall on the west side of the bridge approach ended and looked west and down. On the south side as well, beyond the gray stone facing below and to the sides of the stonework supporting the approach, the rock of the bluff was red.
While there was certainly no way to tell, Quaeryt had a definite feeling that the isle was not at all natural and that it had been imaged in place, just to support the fort.
For the next two glasses he rode through the streets, looking at everything with great care. Skarpa had been right about the general absence of marks on the stone walls. Even the pavement had only the faintest of grooves worn by wagon wheels. Finally, he returned to the Stone’s Rest, where he stabled the mare, and then searched out the proprietor and found him just outside the kitchen that served the public room.
“Yes, sir, and what might I do for you?” replied the innkeeper, a youngish man for owning or running an inn, since he was not too many years older than Quaeryt.
“Answer a few questions. That’s all for now.”
The innkeeper frowned slightly. “As I can.”
Quaeryt glimpsed a narrow-faced woman with strawberry-blond hair pulled into a bun watching before she slipped into the kitchen. “Why are there so many empty buildings here?”
“This is the old trading quarter, sir. The larger traders have their warehouses on the north side. Once there was more trade on both sides, but that was afore Lord Bhayar started tariffing the river traders going beyond Ferravyl. Leastwise, that’s what my father says.”
“Is he an innkeeper, too?”
“That’d be the family trade. He runs the Black Goose north of the river.”
“It’s the more prosperous inn?”
“More so than here, but … we do well enough.”
“This part of Nordeau seems very old, yet the stones seem new…”
“Always been like that, sir.”
“Who built it?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, sir. Some say the old ones did, years and years back.”
“The old ones?”
“The ones who came before … from Chelaes or thereabouts. I wouldn’t know. My great-great-grandsire came here came from Tuuryl. This was his first inn. Grandsire built the Black Goose before I was born.”
While the man was polite, Quaeryt realized that he avoided looking quite directly at him. “Did the troopers from the barracks frequent your public room?”
The innkeeper chuckled. “Hadn’t a been for them, might have closed down years ago.” He paused. “You did say we could charge your men for the second ale or lager, didn’t you? And all after that?”
“I did indeed. Or for any ale or lager they want when you’re not serving them breakfast or dinner. No more than two coppers for the ordinary. Three for the special.”
“Fair enough, sir.”
Quaeryt suspected that what the man meant was that it was fair enough under the circumstances. “Have there been any more or any fewer troopers here in the last weeks?”
“I couldn’t say, one way or another, sir. Looked to be the same to me.”
“Did anyone tell you that we were marching on the city?”
“No one said anything … except … well, a few days ago, one of the traders I knew took everything he could and headed north … told me Rex Kharst’s forces were losing and pulling back … said we’d be wise to do as he was.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“The inns are all we have. Besides, my sire … he said that you’d let the inns be, leastwise those in Villerive.”
Quaeryt asked more questions, but it was clear that the innkeeper knew little beyond what he had already said. Finally, Quaeryt smiled and said, “Thank you. I appreciate your time.”
The innkeeper nodded. “Pleased to have been of help, sir. If you would excuse me…”
“Of course.”
Quaeryt waited until the innkeeper turned. After glancing around for a moment and seeing no one near, he raised a concealment shield and slipped after the man. Quaeryt stopped just outside the archway to the kitchen, because the innkeeper was on the other side talking to the woman Quaeryt
had observed earlier.
“… did he want, Shajan?”
“… asked questions about the old quarter here and the Bovarian troops … lots of them…”
“… why would he? He looks like one of them…”
“… can’t be. He’s a Telaryn officer … maybe more than that … what I’ve overheard…”
“Still looks like an old one … yellow-white hair … those eyes…”
Old one … is that the same as a lost one?
“… how would you know?… no paintings of them…”
“… I’ve heard tell…”
“… don’t upset him … the way things are … we’ll survive…”
“… won’t … but you deal with him…”
Quaeryt shook his head and moved away, still holding the concealment. He needed to check with Zhelan about the billeting and feeding for Fifth Battalion.
A glass or so later, after he’d finished with the major, as Quaeryt was waiting to enter the public room of the inn, a squad leader hurried up to him. “Subcommander … Commander Skarpa has called a meeting of all the subcommanders at sixth glass at the Traders’ Bowl.”
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Once the squad leader had left the small front hall of the inn, Quaeryt permitted himself a sardonic smile, wondering what Deucalon’s reaction to Skarpa’s dispatch had been.
After he finished eating with the company officers and the undercaptains-a subdued affair, possibly because the imagers had little to say, and because Quaeryt could only tell the company officers that he’d heard nothing yet-he headed out for the Traders’ Bowl, the larger inn where Skarpa had made his headquarters.
As Quaeryt walked along the stone-paved way, carrying shields, despite a certain strain, he made a point of taking in every building and discovered that every one was built of gray stone, giving the quarter a cold and forboding appearance despite the warm damp air of harvest.
The Traders’ Bowl looked as though it might have once housed a wealthy family because the stone window frames were far larger than most of those he’d seen in Nordeau so far. When Quaeryt stepped inside, he saw a Telaryn ranker standing in the entry hall, a large foyer with niches in the walls, possibly designed for statues or the like, but devoid of ornamentation, possibly most recently removed, thought Quaeryt.
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