Quaeryt listened intently, his eyes going from Skarpa to the map and back again, as he tried to visualize the positions and maneuvers the commander had in mind.
After two quints Skarpa rolled up the map and straightened up. “We’ll go over this again in the morning, after you’ve had a chance to think about it.” He looked at Quaeryt. “It’s stopped raining, and you still have to conduct services, Subcommander. The men are beginning to gather already. I trust you’ll be as inspirational as ever.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Skarpa rose, and so did Quaeryt and Meinyt.
When Quaeryt reached the gently sloping lawn at the back of the hold house, he was surprised to see so many troopers and officers on the slope. There must have been close to a thousand waiting. There was also no way most of them would be able to hear him. What about image-projecting your speaking voice? That way most of them will think your voice is barely reaching them.
It was worth a try.
He walked to the circular paved area that surrounded a fountain that had been drained, moving to that part of the stone paving facing the base of the slope, then turned. Concentrating on image-projecting his voice, he began with the greeting. “We gather together in the spirit of the Nameless and to affirm the quest for goodness and mercy in all that we do.”
Then came the opening hymn, and he began the only one he knew by heart—“Glory to the Nameless.” At least some of the troopers knew it, and he did not project his singing after the first few words, knowing he’d get off-key sooner or later.
The confession, as always one of the hardest parts of the service for Quaeryt, came next. He felt fraudulent in leading a confession of error to a deity he wasn’t certain existed, or that any deity existed, although he had no trouble confessing to error, just to the idea that he and those who followed his words would be forgiven by the Nameless, since he’d observed all too little forgiveness in the world.
“We name not You, for naming presumes, and we presume not upon the Creator of all that was, is, and will be. We pray not to You for ourselves, nor ask from You favor or recognition, for such asks You to favor us over others who are also Yours. We confess that we risk in all times the sins of presumptuous pride. We acknowledge that the very names we bear symbolize those sins, for we strive too often to raise our names and ourselves above others, to insist that our small achievements have meaning. Let us never forget that we are less than nothing against Your Nameless magnificence and that we must respect all others, in celebration and deference to You who cannot be named or known, only respected and worshipped.”
Quaeryt did lead the chorus of “In Peace and Harmony.”
In the silence that followed, he cleared his throat and began. “Good evening, and it is a good evening.”
“Good evening,” came the chorused reply.
“All evenings are good evenings under the Nameless. Some are good in and of themselves, and some are like this evening. They’re good because most of us have survived to reach the evening, despite the best efforts of our enemies to the contrary…” Quaeryt paused briefly, looking upward to the higher part of the slope, but even up there several troopers had nodded, and that suggested his image-projection was working.
“Earlier today, I was talking to another officer, and I asked him if the Nameless was somehow different here in Bovaria—although I guess we’re now still in Telaryn, according to Lord Bhayar…”
That brought a few smiles before Quaeryt went on.
“… or was it that the ideas attributed to the Nameless were taken differently here. He just said wisely that so far as men were concerned, it made no difference. Why does it make no difference?”
Quaeryt paused, letting the silence draw out, before he went on. “It makes no difference because no matter what the precepts of the Nameless may be, we as men, and women as women, are the ones to interpret those precepts. The Nameless does not come thundering out of the sky—at least not very often from what I’ve seen—and strike down any man who lies, or cheats, or murders … or Names in some fashion. We are the ones who enforce, or fail to enforce, those precepts. We are the ones who lead by example … or fail to do so. The Nameless has not changed nature or precepts from one part of Lydar to another. In war, the Nameless does not tell Lord Bhayar to treat small growers with care and Rex Kharst to burn the lands of such small growers.
“How does this happen? It happens, it seems to me, when those with power become more interested how others view them—and they wish to make other men desire to be like them. They wish to create other men in their likeness. What is that but another form of Naming? Yet that is not the way of the Nameless. That is why the Nameless has no appellation. It is why there are no paintings or statues of the Nameless, because the Nameless gave us the freedom to be the best we could be, not to strive to be a copy of something.
“Look around at the world. Not all creatures are the same, nor are all the creatures of a given type all the same. The same is true of people. There are tall men and women and short ones, those with red hair, and those with black or blond hair. Across the world, the colors of people’s skins differs. In these regiments, we have different men with different skills. If all of us were like each other, we could not accomplish nearly so much. We need troopers, and quartermasters, and scouts, and engineers, even imagers. There is not one likeness that fits all men—and yet rulers like Kharst would have it so … and that is one of the most evil forms of Naming of all, the vanity that one man, one ruler, would wish to have all people act in one manner, and in one likeness. And all of you have seen the evil that comes from this … and that is an evil we must firmly oppose while remaining true to what we are and can be—men with great differences striving toward a common goal, and that goal is to create a land where all can be the best that they can, and not pale likenesses of a ruler who has turned to the Namer in an effort at mindless conquest.”
Quaeryt wished he could have come up with a better ending to the homily, but any words he had tried to make a rousing end had seemed false. So he concluded with a simple phrase: “The Nameless has told us to turn from false images, whether in our minds or in the minds of others … and so we should … today, tonight, and for all time.”
He stood there silently for a moment after he finished, before beginning the closing hymn, the one he knew the best—“For the Glory.”
“For the glory, through all strife,
for the beauty of all life,
for all that is and will ever be,
all together, through forever,
in eternal Nameless glory…”
As in the past, when the voices of the men died away, he did not offer the standard benediction, but waited for silence, then simply said, “As we have come together to seek meaning and renewal, let us go forth this evening renewed in hope and in harmony with that which was, is, and ever shall be.”
After the benediction, he just stepped back, and stood on the stone oblong, before the dry fountain, waiting for the men to disperse.
Skarpa walked over. “That was carefully worded.”
“I hope so,” replied Quaeryt.
“There was another thing…” The commander paused. “You didn’t speak all that loudly, but all of the men seemed to hear and understand what you said.”
“I’m glad they did.” Quaeryt offered a grin. “At least, I think I am. I’ve done better.”
“We all have, but you’re still better than any chorister I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard more than a few.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you and Meinyt right after breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.” Although Quaeryt had a chamber with a comfortable bed, he wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon.
He still had to write out notes for Bhayar about the High Holder of Laesheld, based on what he and Fifth Battalion had uncovered, and he hoped he’d have a chance to write a few lines to Vaelora as well … before he was too tired to think well enough to write.
31
After breakfast on Lundi, Quaeryt sought out Shaelyt and drew him aside into a dim parlor in the hold house.
“What is it, sir?”
“I had a chance to talk to Undercaptain Voltyr the other day, but not you. He said you had made some steps toward developing the ability to shield yourself. How much progress?”
“I can harden the air so that I cannot break through it. That tires me so much that I can only do it for perhaps a third of a quint.”
Quaeryt nodded. “That’s a good start. Can you make the air less hard, so that you can push a sabre through it, but only with great effort?”
“I have not attempted that, sir.”
“You should. That should take less effort. That way you can hold the shield for longer.”
“What good will that do, sir, if I might ask?”
“First, the longer you can hold shields, the stronger you will become. Second … have you seen what happens when an arrow or a blade strikes water? How far does either penetrate?”
Shaelyt frowned, then smiled abruptly. “Thank you, sir.”
“You need to keep working every day, and you might pass that on to Voltyr.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all for now. You need to get ready to move out.”
Once Shaelyt had hurried off, Quaeryt made his way out to the west courtyard for morning muster. After that, while the companies were readying to head out, he returned to the hold house study to meet with Skarpa and Meinyt.
The commander’s first words were to the point. “The scouts I had out early this morning have discovered more Bovarians. Another regiment, half foot, is marching toward Villerive.”
“Where did they come from if they’re on this side of the river and marching away from us?” asked Meinyt.
“I’d guess they were stationed along the eastern end of the Bovarian border with Antiago. That dispatch indicated every regiment in Bovaria was being called in.”
“They had to have left before the battle at Ferravyl,” said Quaeryt. “If they came from there, they had to cover twice as much ground as we have to reach Villerive.”
“That could be. It doesn’t change anything. It’s another regiment we’ll have to fight. There’s no telling when they might stop and take a stand, either.”
“Not before Ralaes,” offered Meinyt. “They’ll need a day or longer to recover.”
“That’s only if they’ve traveled from the border,” Skarpa pointed out. “For all we know, they could have been much closer. They could be waiting four milles west of here.”
“What formation do you want this morning?” asked Quaeryt.
“The one with Fifth Battalion as the van.”
After receiving quick status reports from the two subcommanders, Skarpa dismissed them to make ready for immediate departure. Quaeryt reclaimed his kit from the bedchamber he’d used and hurried out to meet with Zhelan and the company commanders to let them know that Fifth Battalion would again take the lead in departing Laesheld.
Two quints later, when Quaeryt rode out through the weathered limestone gates and onto the river road once more, he felt that the air was slightly cooler, most likely because of the scattered rains of the previous days, but the crystal clear skies suggested that the day might end up as hot, if not hotter, than the previous days. He glanced ahead where the second of the squads dispatched as scouting parties disappeared over the crest of one of the low rolling hills that flanked the River Aluse, although with each mille they rode westward, the hills had become less steep, and now resembled gentle rises.
From what Quaeryt recalled of geography studied years previously, the midlands of Bovaria, stretching from the hills that ran from Kephria to the western end of the Sud Swamp northward almost to the eastern end of the Montagnes D’Glace, were largely flat and fertile, and the River Aluse ran through the midsection of that fertile area.
Fifth Battalion had barely covered a mille when Skarpa rode forward and joined Quaeryt.
“Have you seen anything? Have the scouts reported?”
“No, sir.”
“The Bovarians won’t let us ride into Villerive.”
“I’d think not, but who knows where they’ll take a stand?”
Skarpa shook his head and said nothing more.
Quaeryt listened to the undercaptains riding behind them, trying to hear what they were saying. For a time, the talk was about the rain and the strangeness of Laesheld. Then the comments drifted more onto the campaign.
“… seems like the Bovarians are letting us get too close to Variana…”
“… want to draw us in…”
“… commander and subcommander must know…”
“… subcommander knows more than he says…”
“What’s he done lately?”
That was Threkhyl’s voice, louder than it should be, as always, Quaeryt reflected.
“Besides keeping a score of troopers from getting hurt with all those traps, you mean?” asked Voltyr cuttingly.
“… not that special…” muttered the ginger-haired undercaptain.
“… and some imagers aren’t that bright, either.”
The last comment was murmured in such a low voice that Quaeryt barely heard it, but after that, for a time, none of the undercaptains spoke, not loudly enough for Quaeryt to overhear.
Another glass passed. While the day warmed, Quaeryt had to admit that so far it remained pleasant. Ahead, the road turned to the left, paralleling a narrow strip of water upstream of where it entered the River Aluse. Right after the turn, the dirt road was replaced by narrow stone paving, if ancient and worn. The waterway was so narrow that it had to be a canal, although it now appeared abandoned. The canal separated the river road from a wooded island or peninsula. Quaeryt couldn’t tell which yet. There was only a narrow strip of brush in front of the line of shorter trees just ahead on the south side of the island. The land north of the canal and the ground where the river road ran once had to have been joined, Quaeryt felt, because they were almost the same level, and the first trees were less than a hundred yards from the right shoulder of the road. The slopes down to the almost stagnant water on each side of the ancient canal were steep, and Quaeryt could see the remaining riprap that still faced the slopes in places between the bushes and grass.
Why was there a canal here? With a paved road? He pulled out his map, but there was nothing that showed either the island or the canal.
“There’s nothing on the map that shows this,” he said to Skarpa, riding to his left. As he spoke, his eyes took in the area to the south on the map, and after a moment he nodded.
“What? The stream?”
“It looks like it was once a canal. It might be left from the time of Naedara. This part of the road, too.” Quaeryt almost smiled because he’d been able to figure that out.
“You’re the scholar. If they could build this, whatever happened to the Naedarans?”
“In some ways,” replied Quaeryt, “we’re their descendants. They were the first to worship the Nameless. There are still buildings in Ruile that they built, and supposedly they settled most of the larger towns south of here.”
“So what happened to them?”
“No one really knows. Some think it was because the Red Death wiped out most of the people in their towns, and then the Bovarians finished them off. Others claim that…” Quaeryt paused, because he thought he heard hoofs moving more quickly, as if someone was riding quickly along the shoulder of the road. He looked back, then saw Major Calkoran riding toward them, almost at a gallop, on the river—or canal—side of the road.
“What is it?” asked Skarpa.
“Major Calkoran’s riding hard to catch us.”
In only a few moments, the Khellan officer pulled in beside Quaeryt, just as first company drew abreast of a stand of shorter trees that grew almost to the edge of the far side of the old canal. Quaeryt looked past Calkoran to the isle. Something about the trees …
“Subcommander!”
>
“Major…” Quaeryt wasn’t certain what the Khellan officer had in mind.
“Subcommander, Commander! You must turn south, off the road. Now!”
“Why must we turn?” asked Skarpa.
Calkoran gestured toward the canal. “Those are not trees. They are—”
At that moment, a sound like rolling thunder swept across the column, and Quaeryt was rocked sideways in his saddle from impacts on his shields. Even as he struggled to right himself, he expanded the shields to cover those around him, hopefully the imager undercaptains as well.
“All companies! To the south! Off the road!” ordered Skarpa.
Quaeryt looked to the canal. Where there had been trees was a company of musketeers, each one with a heavy musket on a stand, with an assistant beside him.
Another volley followed, with smoke billowing up from the line of Bovarians.
“Imagers! Smoke and pepper into musketeers!” called Quaeryt. “Make it acrid and foul and thick!”
Quaeryt pulled the mare onto the canal side shoulder of the road, and began to image iron darts at the musketeers, one after the other.
“Threkhyl, Shaelyt, Voltyr! Image iron darts into the second line of musketeers!”
Another volley from the musketeers tore into Quaeryt’s shields, and he had to grab the front of the saddle to stay on the mare. He could feel himself getting light-headed, and he paused for a moment from imaging darts and grabbed for his lager-filled water bottle. Several swallows later, after the impact of another volley of musketry, he thrust it back into the holder and looked around, discovering that he and the imager undercaptains remained alone on the road.
You should have thought about that.
“Keep imaging at the musketeers! Don’t let a one survive!”
The fourth volley from the Bovarians was ragged, and Quaeryt could see a good half company of the remaining musketeers withdrawing into the taller trees. Others hurried forward, keeping low, to drag the musketeers wounded by the imagers’ iron darts back into the trees.
Imager’s Battalion Page 23
