Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  “Escort him to the study. I’ll meet him there.”

  “Do you think…?” asked Vaelora.

  “I don’t think so. I’d judge he wants to see me before I return to talk over how he’d like us to work together.” Quaeryt stood and smiled wryly. “But you never know.”

  He reached the center hall at the same time as did Skarpa. The ranker escorting the senior officer stepped back in deference to Quaeryt. The commander had obviously worn an oilcloth waterproof, since his uniform shirt and tunic were dry, while his trousers beneath the knees were wet.

  “I hope the ride wasn’t too difficult,” offered Quaeryt, gesturing down a corridor made gloomy by the heavy clouds outside.

  “Wet, and long, but not hard.”

  “You could have sent word for me to see you early tomorrow.”

  “Then I’d have gotten a courier soaked and made tomorrow even longer for both of us.”

  Quaeryt reached the study and motioned for Skarpa to enter, then followed, closing the door behind himself. Skarpa stopped and extended a visor cap, an officer’s cap with the insignia of the double moons. “I thought you might like a replacement. I heard yours fell apart … in the ice. You’ll need it here in the south.”

  “Oh … thank you.” Quaeryt almost flushed as he took the visor cap. He’d never thought about the cap. Half the time, he forgot he was wearing it. Sometimes, he’d just forgotten it. He stepped toward the circular table, where he seated himself, as did Skarpa.

  “I wanted to talk with you where we wouldn’t be interrupted before you returned to Ferravyl,” said Skarpa.

  “That suggests problems or matters of which I’m unaware … if not both.”

  “There are always problems. Sometimes, we just don’t recognize them. Sometimes, they’re people who shouldn’t be problems, and sometimes we hope, against hope, that they’ll disappear.” Skarpa laughed. “I learned a long time ago that it’s best not to rely on hope if there are other paths. I’d rather save my hoping for times when there is no other way.”

  “What are the people problems?” asked Quaeryt.

  Skarpa shook his head. “I don’t know, except it takes Deucalon far too long to decide. That happens most often when a subordinate raises too many questions that don’t matter.”

  “You don’t have any idea?”

  “No. Even if I did, what difference would it make? He won’t listen to the most junior commander about subcommanders and majors he’s worked with for months or years. Especially not about more senior commanders.”

  Quaeryt could see that.

  After a moment of silence Skarpa said, “I understand Lord Bhayar visited you yesterday. I presume he did discuss more than family.”

  “I understand Zhelan and I will have to deal with three Khellan companies…”

  “It’s worse than that. Each company is led by a Pharsi officer who used to be the equivalent of a major or a subcommander, with another officer below him, and most of the troopers don’t speak either Tellan or Bovarian. The officers speak both Bovarian and Pharsi. That was another reason for putting them under you.”

  “Another reason?” inquired Quaeryt lightly. “Besides the fact that he can claim I’m of Pharsi descent?”

  Skarpa nodded, then said slowly, “There’s also the fact that people around you who aren’t loyal to Lord Bhayar … don’t … prosper. And that you seem to know quickly who they are.”

  “How many officers besides you have come to those conclusions?”

  “Myskyl, of course, and he told Deucalon. Every officer in all the Tilboran regiments.” Skarpa grinned. “So by now … just about every officer.”

  On top of everything else … Quaeryt shook his head.

  “Could any of your imager undercaptains handle his own company?” asked Skarpa. “Not now, of course. We don’t have the troopers. I’d like to start, when you think it possible, by giving each a squad, with a senior squad leader at their elbow.”

  “I wouldn’t put any of them in command yet … even of a squad.” They know far less than I did, and I knew almost nothing. “Desyrk’s got the most common sense, but he’s not that strong an imager. Voltyr has sense, and he and Shaelyt are stronger, but they have a lot to learn. In time, it might work if the squad leader were in charge of the squad’s movements to begin with, and those three were told they were being trained to take over greater leadership. But I wouldn’t do it now, or anytime soon.” Quaeryt grinned ruefully. “I’m barely effective with a company, and that’s with Zhelan to keep me from making too many mistakes. But that’s why he’s there.”

  “You’re better than that, but unlike some officers, you understand what you can do.”

  “You think this is going to be a much longer war, don’t you?”

  “Don’t you?” returned Skarpa.

  “I don’t think that fighting large battles will take all that long. What comes before may take months, and what comes after will take years.”

  “That’s why I wanted to know about your undercaptains. Who’s the strongest imager … among them?”

  Quaeryt didn’t care for the way the question had been phrased, intentionally, because Skarpa was effectively pointing out that Quaeryt was the strongest imager, without saying so. “That would be Threkhyl, but he’s like an ax with a greasewood shaft.”

  “Good to keep in mind, but that’s not what we need right now.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “There’s another question I had. An observation. It looked to me that you and the imagers created that bridge.”

  “I’m just their subcommander.”

  Skarpa raised both eyebrows.

  “I might have helped some,” added Quaeryt.

  “I’m not the only one with doubts about that statement.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’m certain it is. Rescalyn, Myskyl, and Governor Straesyr all agreed on one thing. Nothing you say is untrue. It’s just not always the entire truth, or it has nothing to do with what the question was, although it may seem that it does. Myskyl said you and your imagers built the bridge and Third and Fifth Regiments will be the first to use it.”

  “So we’re assigned to the south side of the river because we created the bridge?”

  “Can you think of a better reason?” asked Skarpa. “Besides the fact that we’re the three most effective regiments they have?”

  “Three? I heard that you’d have two regiments and a battalion, and that half of each regiment was composed of Piedran rejects.”

  “Any regiment under Meinyt will be effective, and a battalion under you and Zhelan is as good as a regiment.”

  “I do marvel at your optimism.”

  “Realism. We’ve had more actual fighting than any other regiments, and we’ve killed and captured more than any others, and we’ve had fewer casualties. Bhayar knows that.”

  “I’m certain he does.”

  “He also knows one other thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “You are absolutely loyal to him.” After a moment Skarpa asked, “Why? You can’t have liked the way he treated you after all you did in Extela.”

  “He did what was necessary. I made a choice between doing what was politically wise and what was best for the people. It wasn’t necessarily the best for the High Holders. I knew there were risks. You even told me so. I made a mistake. I thought I’d have more time than two months. But … unlike many rulers, Bhayar does not discard those who support him.”

  “No … he uses everyone to their advantage … and his.”

  An astute observation. “He’s been known for that. It’s one of his strengths.”

  “And yours, if I do say so, is to use others’ needs for your own ends while overfulfilling their wants.”

  “You grant me too much capability,” protested Quaeryt.

  “No. I do not. You are fortunate that Bhayar does not see what I do.”

  But he does … and wishes to use me to help him gain the rule of all Lydar. �
��He sees enough that I must be cautious.” That, too, was true. Quaeryt smiled. “What else need I know before tomorrow?”

  Skarpa smiled in return. “That is all for now. Enjoy the day … and your wife. When we leave on Lundi, it will be months, if not longer, before you see her again.”

  Quaeryt rose from the table, sensing that Skarpa would not be the first to stand, even though he should have been, given that he was Quaeryt’s superior. “I intend to.” More than you can imagine.

  “Good.”

  They walked from the study together toward the front entry and the cold rain that awaited the commander on his ride back to Ferravyl.

  4

  Quaeryt rode out of Nordruil just after dawn with only half a squad as an escort. He would have preferred even fewer men, so that more would remain at the holding to protect Vaelora. She had pointed out that taking fewer men would have suggested to anyone who was watching that he was either foolhardy or a powerful imager. Needless to say, Quaeryt heeded her advice. He also carried full imaging shields the entire ride, the first time he had done so since the last battle. He’d only been able to hold partial shields on the ride to Nordruil, and not even all the way. Even though he was feeling much better, when he reached the fortified bridge over the Aluse, a quint before sixth glass, he felt tired from the strain of holding the shields.

  After he crossed the bridge, now largely repaired, he noticed a small stone tower, three yards tall, on the east side of the approach. He couldn’t help but frown. He hadn’t seen that before, had he? Fretting that he was short of time, although he had no reason for such feelings, he urged the mare forward and then westward and into the courtyard, where he reined up behind the north wall before the chimes had announced the glass.

  Zhelan was waiting for him. “Good morning, Subcommander.”

  “Good morning, Major.” Quaeryt dismounted.

  “The senior officers’ meeting is in the conference room on the second level. In moments.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to meet with you after that.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll meet you in the corridor outside afterward.”

  Quaeryt handed the mare’s reins to one of the rankers and hurried through the closest door and then up a back staircase. As he took off the visor cap and tucked it under his arm, he was obviously the last officer to enter the room, given the looks he received, but at least Bhayar wasn’t there yet. Meinyt and Quaeryt, as the only subcommanders, sat at the foot of the long table, below some fourteen commanders, although Quaeryt was seated beside Skarpa, who was clearly the junior regimental commander at the table.

  As Quaeryt slipped into the chair, he murmured, “You didn’t mention the meeting.”

  “It was announced at ninth glass last night,” Skarpa replied in a low voice. “By Deucalon’s adjutant.”

  The one raising unnecessary questions … or just one of several? After a momentary hesitation Quaeryt nodded. Skarpa hadn’t been about to send a courier—or several couriers—through a driving rain in the middle of the night to make sure that Quaeryt arrived on time for a meeting where the only thing desired of him was his presence and his silence. Still …

  The meeting-room door opened.

  “Lord Bhayar!”

  All the officers rose.

  “As you were.” Bhayar’s voice was dry as he approached the end of the table, where he stopped and remained standing. “As Marshal Deucalon and some of you already know”—Bhayar drew out the silence before continuing—“we have seen no sign of Bovarian forces near Ferrravyl. It’s most likely that Kharst has pulled back his forces, possibly as far as Villerive, or at least to positions where the terrain is more favorable. I would prefer beginning this campaign tomorrow, but the first two regiments from Ruile will not be ready until Lundi. Unhappily.” Bhayar turned to Deucalon. “If you would.” He seated himself and looked politely at the marshal.

  Deucalon did not stand, but his deep voice carried the length of the long table easily. “The best roads lie on the north side of the Aluse. So do most of the larger towns. So does most of the population of those that span the river, particularly Nordeau and Villerive. Variana is also largely on the north side. The northern army will advance along the north. Beginning at sixth glass on Lundi, we will begin barging men, mounts, and horses and wagons, unless, of course, the imagers can create another bridge from Ferravyl to Cleblois…” Deaucalon looked down the table.

  “I fear not, Marshal,” replied Quaeryt. “Not unless you can create another massive warm rainstorm.” And be willing to sacrifice thousands of men and mounts. Or others. At that thought, he managed to keep from shuddering.

  “I thought as much, but it was worth inquiring.” Deucalon cleared his throat in a fashion that strongly suggested disappointment. “So we will have to rely on barges and guidelines to cross the Ferrean. In the meantime, the southern army under Commander Skarpa will take the bridges and advance along the south. The southern army is not to proceed more than a day in advance of the northern army…”

  Quaeryt listened as Deucalon described the general plan of attack, in essence to take both sides of the Aluse and all the towns while heading directly to Variana. What Quaeryt worried most about wasn’t the attack along the river, or even taking the Bovarian capital, although the campaign leading to Variana could not be anything but bloody. What followed might well be worse, since even if the initial campaign were a complete success, at the end Bhayar would hold little more than a tenth of Bovaria. Then what?

  The people in what had once been Khel might well flock to Bhayar, but that would still leave a large part of Bovaria unconquered.

  “… now that you all have been briefed on the overall strategy of the campaign, you need to inform your officers and continue with your preparations. That is all I have.” Deucalon turned in his chair. “Lord Bhayar?”

  “I have nothing else. You all know what to do better than I could tell you.” With a warm smile, Bhayar rose.

  So did all the officers.

  “Good day.”

  Quaeryt watched as the Lord of Telaryn departed, followed by Deucalon.

  That none of the commanders or the submarshal said a word as they filed out of the chamber did surprise Quaeryt, if only for a moment. No one wants to reveal anything. It also saddened him, after a fashion.

  Once outside in the corridor, he started to turn to Skarpa, then paused. The commander was looking at the three officers who had met Submarshal Myskyl—two majors and a subcommander.

  The black-haired major had a face even more forbidding than Bhayar’s seneschal in Solis, and his eyes flicked across Quaeryt and Skarpa, taking them in and instantly dismissing them. The slightly older-looking major, with longish sandy brown hair and a brush mustache, concentrated on Myskyl with what Quaeryt felt was a fawning intensity. The subcommander offered a warm smile, clearly directed at Skarpa, and inclined his head as well before returning his attention to Myskyl.

  “Are those three part of Deucalon’s staff?” asked Quaeryt.

  “Subcommander Ernyld is his chief of staff. I don’t know the majors,” replied Skarpa quietly, turning back toward Quaeryt.

  “Is there anything else for now?”

  “No. You and I and Meinyt should meet outside the senior officers’ mess two quints before dinner.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Skarpa just nodded, then headed for the main staircase.

  Quaeryt looked around for several moments before he saw Zhelan waiting at the end of the corridor and made his way to the major. “Sir?”

  “Can you gather all the officers of the battalion for a quick meeting?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d thought you might wish to talk to them after the senior officers met, and I told them to stand by. The best I could find was an empty storeroom off a tack room—”

  “That will be fine. Lead the way.” After a moment Quaeryt asked, “I understand first company received reinforcements and replacements. How do they look to be?”

  “Half
of them have some experience, and I’ve had the squad leaders working the others hard.”

  Quaeryt nodded.

  “You know, sir … about the other three companies?”

  “I know that they’re Khellan, and that few of the troopers speak either Tellan or Bovarian, and that each is commanded by an officer who was once a major or even a subcommander. What else have you found out?”

  “They’re all pretty much Pharsi. Each company has two officers. One is a major, and the other a captain. They don’t like us much, but they hate the Bovarians.”

  “You’re worried that if we’re too effective, they’ll try to massacre the survivors?”

  “The way they were talking, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “How long have you spent with them?”

  “Four or five glasses over the past few days. Commander Skarpa didn’t tell me until Mardi.” Zhelan handed Quaeryt a single sheet of paper.

  Quaeryt scanned it.

  2nd Co.

  Major Calkoran D’Kors

  Captain Eslym D’Kors

  3rd Co.

  Major Zhael D’Kors

  Captain Wharyn D’Kors

  4th Co.

  Major Arion D’Kors

  Captain Stemsed D’Kors

  D’Kors … they can’t all be related … He almost shook his head. That was the Bovarian naming custom. D’Kors just meant they were cavalry officers. He folded the paper and slipped it inside his jacket, a jacket that was too warm even before eighth glass. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” He image-projected a gentle sense of appreciation.

  “Those are matters I can help with, sir.”

  Quaeryt understood all too well what Zhelan wasn’t saying—that the major knew full well that Quaeryt was more than anyone, including Quaeryt, was admitting.

  When they reached the stable storeroom, Zhelan stepped in first, announcing, “Subcommander Quaeryt.”