Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Yes, sir.” Shaelyt moved slowly, reaching for his water bottle.

  Quaeryt understood all too well how the undercaptain felt.

  After a glass or so had passed, Major Arion returned to the square with fourth company, reining up before Quaeryt. “Subcommander, sir … You’re wounded!”

  “In a way. Bruised all over. So is Undercaptain Shaelyt.”

  “You … stopped the musket balls?”

  “We did … many of them, anyway. We weren’t able to follow the charge. What happened?”

  “They did not expect us to charge so quickly. They are all fleeing. There were not that many. Two or three regiments at most … and the musketeers. Already, there are no more in Nordeau … except those who are hiding. We killed many of them. Commander Skarpa says that as many as a regiment may have escaped. Marshal Deucalon-his forces are nowhere near.” Arion’s face screwed up into an expression of disgust.

  Deucalon’s absence did not surprise Quaeryt.

  “When it is certain that all are vanquished, Fifth Battalion is to return to the south shore and hold it. Eleventh Regiment will join us.”

  “Do you know if Subcommander Khaern has a surgeon?”

  “Sir?”

  “If he does, I’d like him to look at Undercaptain Shaelyt.”

  “I do not know. If he does, he should look at you as well, sir.”

  Quaeryt surveyed the square, trying to ignore some of the moans from the fallen men. He gestured. “Some of them need help more than we do. We’ll survive.” For now. “We’ll wait here for Fifth Battalion to finish up. Then we’ll join them for the return to the south shore.”

  “Yes, sir. I will be leaving another squad with you. It is best that way.”

  Quaeryt managed a smile. “I won’t argue with you over that, Major.”

  He watched as Arion and fourth company headed out again, this time taking the eastern avenue from the square.

  For the next two glasses, the imager undercaptains and the two squads guarded the square. Two of the troopers, who had some knowledge of wounds, did what they could for the fallen. At least, Quaeryt reflected, they kept the locals from scavenging and doing worse to the wounded who still might survive.

  It was well after second glass when Zhelan returned with Fifth Battalion, and news that Eleventh Regiment would follow later. From what Quaeryt could see, the battalion’s casualties had not been heavy.

  As he rode back over the rebuilt stone bridge and past the abandoned isle fort, Quaeryt could not help thinking, You can’t do this again. That, he knew, because the next time they faced the Bovarians, he had no doubt that there would be even more musketeers. Especially if someone noticed what happened here and escaped.

  He also wondered who might be the greater enemy for him-Myskyl and Deucalon or Rex Kharst?

  62

  When Quaeryt finally reached the Stone’s Rest, he could barely dismount, and he had to request that someone else unsaddle and stable the mare. He hated asking for that, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle the saddle. He almost tripped twice climbing the stairs to the third floor, and he was uncomfortable sitting in the desk chair and worried that he wouldn’t be able to move if he lay down.

  He did anyway, but he hurt too much to sleep, and he kept thinking about what had happened at the square. He’d been prepared for muskets. He just hadn’t been prepared for hundreds of them all firing at him-or the front of the column. Had the Bovarians known that Skarpa would have the imagers near the front? Or had the attack in the square just been designed to catch the Telaryn forces off guard?

  After thinking it over, Quaeryt still didn’t know. The comparatively small number of Bovarian defenders suggested that they’d been told to deliver enough of an attack to slow the Telaryn advance and then withdraw. Yet the defenders’ battle plan had been well thought out, and especially effective at minimizing the impact that the imagers otherwise might have had. Had it been an inspired plan designed by a junior commander who knew something about imagers and who’d seen their effect in the battle for the southern part of Nordeau? Or had it been planned by a senior commander who knew too much about Bhayar’s forces?

  But even if any of those possibilities were so, why had the Bovarians risked-and lost-so many musketeers? Especially when there had been comparatively so few foot or cavalry to support them?

  To Quaeryt that made little sense, and yet the planning of the defenders’ tactics showed considerable thought-although the sloppy execution had made matters less disastrous for Skarpa’s forces than otherwise might have been the case.

  Quaeryt lay on the bed for several glasses, thinking, semidozing … and failing to come up with answers that satisfied him, only yet another question that he should have considered earlier. Why hadn’t he seen any cannon? The Bovarians had powder; the exploding barges had proved that. They had muskets, and plenty of those, and they had used those for years. Cannon had been used at sea for several decades, but nowhere had the Telaryn forces faced cannon.

  Because they’re heavy and hard to move quickly, and Kharst didn’t expect to use them inside Bovaria?

  He could think of no other answer, but the fact he couldn’t satisfied him not at all, because that suggested he hadn’t considered all the possibilities.

  In time, he rose and struggled down to the public room to eat with the other officers, all of whom were polite enough-or tired enough-not to comment on his appearance and stiffness. He did indulge in having two mugs of lager, and that seemed to make the climb back up the stairs somewhat less painful.

  Khaern’s combat surgeon, a squad leader, did not return to the south side of Nordeau until after seventh glass, and there were deep circles under his eyes and blood splatters all over his sleeves. Even so, he winced as he looked at the welts and incipient bruises across Quaeryt’s body … and the slight black eyes that were also forming.

  “You’ve got a lot of bruises here, Subcommander, and I’d say you came as close as possible to fracturing at least one of your ribs, maybe all of them. Your whole chest is going to hurt for weeks, maybe longer. Your eyes might even swell shut. You shouldn’t be doing much.”

  “I still need to ride before long.”

  “We can wrap your chest with some stays, but if you get hit again like you did here, you could break a rib or two. If it’s a bad break…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t even count your eyes…”

  Quaeryt understood all too well. He also understood that Myskyl or Deucalon would likely want to put him in that position again. And you can’t let them. “Wrap me up. I’ll have a few days to recover. After that, I’ll try to avoid getting hit.” He paused. “How about Undercaptain Shaelyt?”

  “He’s better off than you. Not much.” The squad leader and field surgeon paused. “If I might ask, sir…”

  “We were leading the charge. We … got pounded pretty hard.”

  “You’d better let someone else lead for a while, Subcommander, or you won’t be leading again.” He paused. “I’ll bring by some canvas tomorrow, and we’ll figure out the best way to brace you and the undercaptain.”

  “Thank you.”

  After the combat surgeon left, Quaeryt eased out of the rest of his uniform and returned to the bed. He had absolutely no doubt that he faced a long and painful night.

  63

  When the first gray light of Mardi morning oozed through the shutters of his room at the Stone’s Rest, Quaeryt tried to turn away from the window, except his neck was so stiff that his head barely moved. Eventually, he did manage to sit up. After an even longer time, he stood and tottered to the washroom where he viewed himself in the mirror.

  Most of his forehead was turning bluish, as was the skin and flesh over his cheekbones, and he definitely had two bloodshot and black eyes. About the only parts of his body that didn’t ache were his legs below the knees and his feet. Washing up was painful and time-consuming.

  Getting downstairs to eat felt as though it took more than a quint for the two fl
ights of stone steps. Fortunately, the field surgeon did return with canvas and some bone stays, and the wrapping helped immobilize his ribs and chest, but even so, taking a deep breath shot pains through his entire chest.

  Quaeryt was sitting in the public room, sipping on a lager, not wishing to climb steps or anything else, debating whether to try to make his way to see Skarpa when the commander arrived at the Stone’s Rest and slipped into the chair opposite Quaeryt, who had made no move to rise, although he would have, had he felt more able to move easily.

  “I’d heard you’d been injured,” began Skarpa, “but how … like this?”

  “Undercaptain Shaelyt and I were shielding the front of the columns as they came off the spans into the square. The Bovarians fired too many muskets…”

  Skarpa frowned. “We recovered over four hundred muskets, but … you’ve faced them before.”

  “Not five hundred all fired at once.”

  “They fired all at once? That’s not…”

  “That’s not the way they’re supposed to fire. They’re supposed to alternate volleys so that they can’t be rushed while reloading.”

  “Why did they change? I’m not sure I understand…”

  “Someone had an idea about how much protection an imager can provide. We can create shields, but if there’s too much … force … the shields give and crush in on our bodies.” That was an oversimplification, but Quaeryt wasn’t about to try to explain it all.

  “You were able to do more than they thought, weren’t you? Was that why, even with so many muskets, there was so little damage to the troopers?”

  Quaeryt gave a very small nod.

  “That’s why Zhelan could get to the pikemen and muskets before they could do worse,” added Skarpa. “He thought you’d done something.”

  “I think we helped,” Quaeryt admitted.

  “More than helped. Made all the difference. Said you were a good officer. Too friggin’ brave, but good.”

  Brave? I don’t think so. “Have you heard from the marshal?”

  “Got a dispatch this morning. He wrote that they were slowed by logistical difficulties.” Skarpa snorted. “Logistical difficulties, my ass.”

  “He wants to save his forces for the assault on Variana,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “That’s where the glory is,” said Skarpa. “If he wins.”

  “That’s just the beginning of the problems. You know that. How long did it take to bring Tilbor under control?”

  “Ten years … and it’s less than a third the size of Bovaria.”

  “If we defeat Kharst and his forces-decisively-at Variana,” said Quaeryt, “Bhayar could probably work out something with the people of Khel. That would leave the western part of old Bovaria. Pacifying that could take over a year and use all the forces Deucalon has.”

  “He’ll stay in Variana and have Myskyl do it.”

  Not if either of us has anything to say about it. “Lord Bhayar will have to decide about that, based on what happens at Variana and how.”

  “You have something in mind, Quaeryt? When we get to Variana?”

  “Only the general idea that I can’t do what I did yesterday again.”

  “What else?”

  “We need to make sure that Kharst masses his forces.”

  “After what we’ve done to smaller forces along the way, that might not be a problem.”

  Unless Kharst or his commanders understand what actually happened at Ferravyl. “I hope not. When will Deucalon arrive?”

  “Not before tomorrow sometime.”

  “Good and bad,” Quaeryt said.

  “That will give you and the imagers more time to recover,” agreed Skarpa. “It will also give my men too much time to get in trouble.”

  Quaeryt frowned.

  “They said Villerive was a bawdy city.” Skarpa snorted. “The north side of Nordeau is far worse. You and Khaern are fortunate to have your men here.”

  “They won’t think so once they’ve heard from the others.”

  “They won’t hear until we’ve left for Variana.”

  “And if we wait too long, that will give Kharst more time to amass forces there.”

  “You seem convinced that he’ll have a huge army there.”

  “Aren’t you?” countered Quaeryt.

  “You almost convince me. I still have trouble seeing why, if he does, he hasn’t used it before now.”

  “Because he has the same problem in Khel that Bhayar had in Tilbor, and getting troopers back from the west takes even longer. He also doesn’t care that much about the cost to his people so long as it costs us more. What he doesn’t understand is that the people know that as well, which is why we’ve not had too much difficulty with them. Even the High Holders have avoided us when they could. Kharst wants us weakened as much as possible and as far into Bovaria as possible before he attacks … but he can’t afford to give up Variana. So that’s where he and his forces will be.”

  “Have you told Bhayar this?” asked Skarpa.

  “When have I had a chance? I’d suggest,” Quaeryt went on, “that you not mention all that to Deucalon or Myskyl. If they’ve thought of it, they’ll think you’re trying to take credit for the idea. If they haven’t, they will take credit.”

  Skarpa nodded slowly. “You are feeling better, aren’t you?”

  “Not much, but I’m not feeling worse, and that means I’m likely getting better.”

  “Good.”

  After Skarpa departed, Quaeryt remained in the public room, nursing his lager, then saw Shaelyt standing in the archway. “Shaelyt!”

  At Quaeryt’s gesture, the undercaptain moved gingerly into the public room and eased himself into the chair across from the subcommander. His face bore the same kinds of bruises as did Quaeryt’s. “Sir?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad, sir.”

  “And I’m Lord Bhayar’s grandsire,” replied Quaeryt sardonically. “Is there anything that doesn’t ache or hurt?”

  Shaelyt smiled sheepishly. “My feet and calves.”

  “Mine, too.” Quaeryt paused, then asked, “Has your family always lived in Fuara?”

  “I don’t know about always, sir. My grandfather was born there. So was my grandmere. Their parents, I don’t know. No one ever talked about it. You know how families can be.”

  Quaeryt chuckled. “That’s one thing I don’t know.”

  “Oh … sir … I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I just don’t know. If families are anything like scholars, there are many things they don’t talk about. Are both your parents Pharsi? Are there many Pharsi in Fuara?”

  “Not that many. My father said that Mother was the only Pharsi woman he could wed because she was the only one in town who wasn’t at least a first cousin.”

  “Are there any other imagers?”

  Shaelyt pursed his lips. “No one talks about my aunt. My mother’s older sister. She was always a little different. That’s what Mother said. It was about all she said. She took a position as governess with a wealthy family in Bhorael.”

  “That’s a fair ways from Cloisonyt and Fuara,” observed Quaeryt.

  “Two weeks on horse in good weather back then.” Shaelyt took a swallow of lager from the mug before him. “I don’t think she had much choice. She might have been with child.”

  “Do you think she could image?”

  “I don’t know. Ma-Mother said she could sometimes tell when things were going to happen. Usually they were terrible things. She dragged everyone out of Grandpere’s house when she was barely twelve. It was in the middle of a rainstorm. The house was buried in mud when the stock pond dam gave way. Mother didn’t tell me that. Grandmere did.”

  “You got along well with your grandmere, then?”

  “Better with her than my parents.” Shaelyt smiled crookedly. “She once said I was more like my aunt.”

  “How did you get conscripted … or found out as an imager?�
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  “Greed.” Shaelyt grinned. “I’d figured out how to image coppers. You make them dirty. I’d done that for years. You spend a copper here and there. People don’t notice.”

  Quaeryt kept his smile to himself. “That’s true.”

  Shaelyt’s grin vanished. “They ask questions when you have silvers. Too many questions, especially if your family are weavers.”

  “But if a coin is pure silver…”

  “That makes them even less happy. My father didn’t know what to do with me, and he was afraid someone would try to kill me. So when he heard Lord Bhayar was offering a gold for imagers to become undercaptains, he put me on a mule, and we rode to Cloisonyt.” Shaelyt shrugged. “He was right. Sooner or later, things would have gotten worse in Fuara, and I’d have had to flee or worse.” He looked to Quaeryt. “Voltyr said no one knew you were an imager. Why did you let it be known?”

  Quaeryt laughed. “Partly to survive, and partly because of love. Bhayar suspected for years, but it wasn’t in his interest to pursue it, since I’d never caused anyone any trouble. But when his sister became interested in me, he decided having an imager married to his sister might be in his and her interest. Then, when we fell in love … there weren’t many choices. I didn’t want any of you knowing it to begin with because I wanted you to rely more on yourselves. Maybe that was a good idea. Maybe it wasn’t.”

  “You protected us, didn’t you?”

  “As I could … until Akoryt died. Then I decided that I couldn’t keep doing it. There were too many things I couldn’t control.”

  “You’ve still done it.”

  “So have you,” Quaeryt pointed out. “That’s why you’re all bruised and sore.” He took another swallow of the lager, then raised a hand to the serving girl who peered out from the kitchen. “Another lager here.” He pointed to Shaelyt.

  “Yes, sir.” The serving girl hurried back into the kitchen, returning almost immediately with a mug she set before Shaelyt.