Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Quaeryt smiled wryly as he led the mare down the packed trail to the river.

  18

  Early on Solayi morning, Quaeryt woke in a tiny room of the White Ox, one of the two inns in Roule, a town that was barely that, even if larger than any of the hamlets that dotted the south side of the River Aluse, but certainly the largest place through which the Telaryn southern army had passed in the twenty-odd milles since leaving Deauvyl. In that whole length, they had passed but one high holding—or rather the abandoned remains of one that looked as though it had been burned more than a few years in the past. The innkeeper at the White Ox had reluctantly admitted the evening before that Roule did have another such personage west of Roule, but that others had said the High Holder was personally absent from the holding.

  Although it was barely light, and the single lamp in the room barely shed enough light on the wash table—from which he removed pitcher and basin in order to use it as a desk of sorts—Quaeryt decided that since he was wide awake, he might as well write more on his letter to Vaelora. But what can you tell her that is interesting and yet will reveal nothing if it falls into the wrong hands?

  Finally, he began to write.

  … We are now north and west of Rivecote Sud, having traveled a most uneven river road. Outside of the less than effectual resistance to our taking the cable ferry at Rivecote Sud, the local people, while taking great care to keep their distance as much as possible, seem strangely indifferent, as if it matters little to them who governs them, so long as that governance is largely at a distance and does not fall too heavily upon their shoulders. They appear far more concerned about the vices and virtues of the High Holders around them than about who rules in Variana, although they are careful in the manner in which they discuss local matters. They will mention favorable traits of people, but when asked questions that might require a negative reply, the response is almost invariably, “I wouldn’t know about that.” That response does provide some information, if not all that one might desire. We’ve seen no boats to speak of on the River Aluse and no Bovarian troops on this side of the river since Rivecote Sud. This suggests that Rex Kharst is likely gathering and massing troops farther upriver, possibly at Villerive or closer to Variana.

  I would that I were speaking to you across a table or elsewhere, but such talks, which I have always enjoyed and appreciated, will have to wait until the conclusion of the entire campaign … and perhaps beyond that. I have asked one of the Pharsi officers about the myth of the lost ones, and discovered that, according to the old stories, the original lost ones were …

  Quaeryt went on to recount what Shaelyt had told him, ending with

  … so it would seem that revealing such characteristics might well subject whoever did so to considerable speculation as to his origins, his motives, and his goals, and, as we both know, speculation about unusual characteristics almost always leads to misunderstandings. Yet there always comes a time when events will conspire to require acts where the truth must out, or the speculations will be more unpleasant and the consequences more dire than the effects of the revelation of the most unpalatable of truths. In this, as in all matters, timing and judgment are paramount.

  He added that sheet to those in his leather folder and slipped the folder into his kit bag. After returning the table to its usual function, he washed and dressed quickly, then hurried down the wooden steps to the small public room to eat with Skarpa and Meinyt. He could feel the ancient wooden steps flexing under his boots, and wondered just how old the structure might be.

  Less than a half a score of steps from the bottom of the stairs, along a narrow hall was the archway leading into the public room. Quaeryt stepped through, immediately catching sight of Meinyt, seated alone at a corner table. Quaeryt made his way past tables filled with majors and captains and sat down at the table opposite the other subcommander. “Have you seen the commander?”

  “Not yet. I asked for two lagers and an ale.” Meinyt glanced around, his eyes passing over the overgenerous figure and gray hair of the innkeeper’s wife. “They must be keeping the young servers out of sight.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Can’t blame them, but…” Meinyt shook his head, then said in a lower voice, “Does it seem to you that the folks here don’t much care who rules?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that were so in most towns and hamlets, so long as the ruler leaves their lands and their daughters alone.”

  “Or pays well and treats the daughters tolerably well.” Meinyt snorted.

  “You’re more cynical than I am.”

  “Not much. I’ve known men who’d, if you will, lend out their wife for enough golds or other rewards. As for daughters…” He shook his head. “Heard tell that Rescalyn’s mistress found him a gentleman compared to Kharst and his crew.”

  Quaeryt nodded. “She never said much, but the few times I intimated such, she didn’t disagree, and she fled Variana after her sister’s death in rather sordid circumstances involving Kharst. She confided in Vaelora, but Vaelora had to promise not to tell me anything, except that where women were concerned, Kharst was far worse than any of the stories about him.”

  “The stories tell of a man who’s little more than a beast.”

  “I can only tell you what I’ve heard, but Vaelora doesn’t exaggerate, and I don’t think Mistress Eluisa does, either.” Absently, he hoped that Eluisa D’Taelmyn was still at the Telaryn Palace in Tilbora. Then he almost smiled as he recalled that Vaelora had never finished learning the clavecin pieces from Eluisa. There were always loose ends, in personal and professional sides of life.

  Skarpa slid into the seat between the other two officers. “We just got a dispatch from Deucalon.”

  Quaeryt decided to say nothing.

  Meinyt snorted.

  “Neither of you looks pleased.” Skarpa took the ale that the serving woman had left and took a swallow. “Can’t say that you’re wrong.” He set down the mug. “They’re still in Rivecote Nord. Their casualties were few, since the battalion stationed there decided to withdraw after initial contact rather than face destruction. They’ve got the cable ferry working. The rest of the dispatch is politely worded. We’re not to advance precipitously. He wants better descriptions of where we are, since the places we’ve been aren’t on the maps he has.”

  “Did he say anything about our taking Rivecote Sud?” asked Quaeryt.

  “Not a word. I wrote a dispatch before we left to be sent to him once they got the cable ferry back. Told him your imagers had made our capture of Rivecote Sud almost without casualties.” Skarpa grinned momentarily. “I also mentioned the winch repair. His dispatch said it was still holding up after they replaced the cables and restored the ferry service.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” replied Quaeryt.

  Skarpa took another swallow of the ale, then looked up toward the gray-haired woman.

  She hurried over. “Yes, sir?”

  “Appreciate your serving the three of us.”

  “Yes, sir.” She scurried off.

  “I’ll have to reply, right after we eat,” Skarpa went on, “since the marshal requested that I confirm his orders, and commanded the dispatch rider to wait for my response.”

  “Worries about your initiative, does he?” said Meinyt.

  “All marshals worry about their commanders’ initiative, whether they have too much or too little. Just as commanders worry about that in their subcommanders.”

  “Some commanders,” suggested Quaeryt, “are less uncomfortable with initiative in subordinates.”

  “Only when they trust them,” said Skarpa dryly, “and I can trust you two to overextend yourselves and your men … and somehow make it work.” Before either subcommander could say more, he added, “Is there anything you haven’t told me that the marshal should know?”

  Meinyt shook his head.

  “The locals don’t seem to have any great affection for Rex Kharst,” Qua
eryt said. “The marshal might see if that’s so on his side of the river, or just here because it’s more isolated.”

  “I’ll mention that. Anything else?”

  “Not that we haven’t told you.”

  “Good. We might as well eat hearty.” Skarpa glanced at the server approaching with three platters.

  19

  Later on Solayi, Quaeryt and first company rode out to the local high holding, only to find that the dwelling was shuttered and secured, as were all the outbuildings, with no sign of retainers or tenants. That, Quaeryt suspected, was likely true for many holdings as they neared Villerive. They left everything untouched and returned to Roule where, thankfully, Skarpa did not require services, perhaps because he had the men readying themselves to set out on Lundi morning. Quaeryt did notice that Skarpa sent a dispatch to Deucalon announcing his actions just as they left Roule.

  By Meredi evening, a dispatch courier caught up with them, bearing orders for Skarpa to stop in the next sizable town and to inform the marshal of their location, and not to advance unless attacked or required to deal with Bovarian forces … or unless he received orders.

  Skarpa made no comment, but only passed the dispatch to Meinyt and Quaeryt.

  “Does he want to take until winter to reach Variana?” groused Meinyt.

  “Marshal Deucalon is very cautious,” suggested Quaeryt.

  Skarpa raised his eyebrows, then said, “We’d best find a good sizable town, then.”

  That took another three days, because the commander deemed all those through which they passed as hamlets or “little better than hamlets,” although several were almost as large as Roule or Rivecote Sud. Skarpa did send off dispatch riders every day, reporting on each of the hamlets or small towns, and their locations, while observing the lack of sizable towns on the south side of the river that met Deucalon’s criteria.

  Finally, just before ninth glass on Solayi morning, the scouts reported a millestone stating that Caernyn was six milles ahead.

  “That’s even on the map,” observed Skarpa.

  Both subcommanders, riding on each side of him, laughed.

  The scout looked puzzled, but set off once more to investigate the town.

  Two glasses later, the scouts returned, riding hard before they reined up. “Sir … they’ve got troops. More than we’ve seen since Ferravyl. They’re dug in behind stone walls, not really exactly forts, on the slopes south of the town. There’s a long swamp on the south.”

  Skarpa looked to the subcommanders “Had to happen sooner or later.” Then he asked the scout, “What about the troops? How many?”

  “It’s hard to tell, sir. They look to have more than a regiment, and some are wearing maroon uniforms.”

  “Maroon uniforms? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I couldn’t say that they all are, but most of those we saw were.”

  “What else? Did you see any catapults? Or cannon?”

  “There weren’t any cannon ports in the walls, sir, but we couldn’t rightly see what was behind them. We had to ride hard to escape one of their patrols.”

  “How does the river road approach the town and those slopes…?” Skarpa asked questions for almost a quint before he sent the scout off to discover what else he could. Then he ordered the regiments forward once more.

  “Maroon uniforms,” offered Meinyt. “They wouldn’t be Antiagon troops, would they?”

  “Who else would be in maroon? But why would they be here? It’s more than five hundred milles to the nearest part of Antiago.”

  “The Autarch did wed Kharst’s niece,” offered Quaeryt. “It just could be that Aliaro fears that if Bhayar takes even the eastern half of Bovaria, he’ll turn his sights to taking Antiago.”

  “That’s more likely, except that regiment had to be in Bovaria before we even set out from Ferravyl,” said Skarpa.

  “Maybe the Autarch thought Kharst would defeat us, and he wanted his share of the spoils,” suggested Meinyt.

  “We need to give him his fair share,” said Skarpa sarcastically. “If we can.”

  “If we can?” asked Meinyt. “They’ve only got a regiment.”

  “They’re using stone walls,” said Quaeryt. “Do you think they might have imagers and Antiagon Fire? Was that why you asked about catapults?”

  “With Antiagons, that’s possible.” He frowned. “They probably won’t have imagers, not in Bovarian territory. Antiagon Fire—that’s more likely. If they do, we’ll need your imagers.”

  Quaeryt frowned. “I’ll have to think about what they can do.” He glanced to the hazy but clear sky. No chance of rain. Not soon, anyway.

  “One of them can deflect arrows. Why not a fireball thrown from a catapult?”

  “Arrows don’t weigh nearly as much.”

  “And a bridge doesn’t weigh anything?” asked Skarpa.

  “They weren’t trying to stop it or move it,” Quaeryt pointed out. “They’ve never dealt with Antiagon Fire. Neither have I.” You’ve only watched it being fired from a cannon in a strange shell … and only once at that.

  “None of us have,” Skarpa said, “but we’re likely to find out sooner or later.”

  “I need to talk to the imagers.” Quaeryt guided the mare back along the narrow shoulder of the road until he reached Fifth Battalion. As he eased in beside Major Zhelan, he called out, “Undercaptain Voltyr, forward.”

  Voltyr rode forward.

  “Do you know anything about Antiagon Fire?”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re likely about to face an Antiagon regiment that’s positioned behind stone walls. Would you like to wager that they don’t have at least some weapons that employ Antiagon Fire?”

  “No, sir. But I don’t know much about it.”

  “It has to be created by imagers, it’s said.”

  “Yes, sir, but I don’t know how. No imager I know ever knew how.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  “It’s supposed to be a sticky liquid that’s dark, like bitumen, and it has resins mixed in it, and some say brimstone, and then there’s a yellow-white powder that’s mixed with that, but it has to be coated with hot wax or it will burn, even on top of water.”

  “It burns on top of water?” asked Zhelan.

  “I’ve read about that,” replied Quaeryt. “Do you know why it takes an imager to make it?”

  Voltyr shrugged. “No, sir, except I heard that only an imager could create the powder.”

  Quaeryt looked to Zhelan. “Have you ever encountered it?”

  “No, sir. Aren’t the Antiagons the only ones who have it?”

  “At least one High Holder from Nacliano has it,” replied Quaeryt. “His ships have special cannon and shells they use against pirates.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “Voltyr … ask the others if they know anything about Antiagon Fire, then ride back and ask the Khellan majors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In little less than a quint Voltyr returned with the information that none of the imagers or Khellan officers knew more than he and Quaeryt had already discussed.

  As he rode on, Quaeryt continued to think. Given the way Captain Shuld had handled the shells on the Diamond Naclia, it had been clear they could easily explode. That meant a regiment likely wouldn’t carry large amounts … But what if they kept them in small containers, like miniature cannonballs that would fit in small catapults? He tried to recall what had happened to the pirate ship. The flames hadn’t appeared until after the shell struck … Yet it couldn’t have been the impact that created them—or they didn’t need much of an impact because there were too many reports of Antiagon Fire being used against troops in situations where the impact of a shell or globe grenade could not have been that forceful.

  When, a glass later, just after midday, Skarpa called a halt more than a mille from the stone emplacements, Quaeryt still had no answers. For all his questions, he had come up with only one possible way of dealing with the Ant
iagon Fire. And it was a way he really didn’t want to try, especially after he rode forward to join Skarpa and Meinyt and surveyed what lay before them.

  The approach to Caernyn was suited far more to defense than attack. The river road followed a tongue of land, likely man-made, through a marshy lowland before leaving the swamp and rising along the right side of a slope that extended a half mille or so before flattening out. The marsh continued around the base of the slope as far as the eye could see, turning into a lake at some point. The far left end of the slope was heavily wooded, and the woods angled westward away from the marsh. The river road rose from the swampy lowland into a gradual slope that bordered a bluff overlooking the River Aluse. Near the top of the slope a waist-high brick wall some five yards from the right shoulder of the road marked the edge of a steep drop-off down to the River Aluse. Between the road and the woods was an expanse of meadow that held grass and a few low scrub bushes. At the top of the slope, between the road and the woods, was a pair of long walls rising two yards above the matted grass that grew right up to the ancient stones.

  At the river end of the wall flew a banner bearing the emblem of a chateau in the center of a yellow sunburst against a vivid blue background. At the southwestern end of the walls was a second banner, bearing a jagged lightning bolt of green and yellow crossed with a stylized halberd, all against a bright maroon background.

  So … Kharst … or those who ruled before him … believes he is the sun whose light illuminates Bovaria? Do all rulers believe they are at the center of everything? Quaeryt was afraid he knew the answer to his question.

  “Subcommanders, do you have any suggestions as to how we might best attack?” Skarpa raised his eyebrows.

  “Go around them if we can, and attack from the rear,” suggested Meinyt.

  “It’s twenty-five milles around the southern end of that swamp and lake,” replied Skarpa. “Might be farther than that, and it looks like the approach from the west isn’t much better.”

  “Why’d they build a town here, then?” asked Meinyt.