Quaeryt kept imaging his own iron darts at any musketeer he could see, trying to ignore the incipient light-headedness.
There was no fifth volley from the musketeers because there were none in sight. Quaeryt thought he might have killed or wounded close to thirty of the Bovarians, and the other imagers together might have accounted for almost as many.
Quaeryt watched for a moment, grabbing his water bottle and taking several swallows as he did, to make certain that the musketeers had indeed withdrawn. Then he turned in the saddle and looked toward the undercaptains.
“Sir! Akoryt took a musket ball!” Voltytr called. “There’s blood everywhere.”
Quaeryt rode over to where Voltyr had eased his mount in beside Akoryt. As Quaeryt moved his mount to the other side of the wounded undercaptain, he could see immediately that the musket ball had hit Akoryt in the upper right side of his chest. There was considerable blood, but it wasn’t spurting. Akoryt’s eyes were open, if glazed, and his breathing was labored.
What can you do?
Quaeryt swallowed, then leaned toward the injured man, concentrating on imaging out the ball, and immediately imaging into the gaping wound something like soft clean cotton. Then he glanced around. “Shaelyt. Get him to the surgeon. That way…” He gestured toward the south. “I got the musket ball out, and his wound is packed with clean cotton. Make sure the surgeon knows that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt turned the mare and looked across the ancient canal, but there was no sign of the Bovarian musketeers. He urged the mare southward toward where the others were re-forming. In moments, he reined up beside Zhelan. “They’ve already cleared the isle, it appears. Every musket stand is gone. Do you know our casualties?”
“Thirteen men are dead, ten wounded,” replied Zhelan, “most from first company.”
“Make that eleven wounded. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball in the chest.”
Zhelan glanced at Quaeryt almost in disbelief.
“Imagers aren’t invulnerable, especially less experienced ones,” said Quaeryt.
“How badly is he hurt?”
“Badly. I don’t know how severely, but he was having trouble breathing.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Quaeryt finally caught sight of Skarpa. “I’ll see what the commander wants, but keep them well back from the canal. The Bovarians might fire from the trees.”
“Yes, sir.” After a moment Zhelan began to issue orders to move the battalion farther south.
Quaeryt rode toward Skarpa and reined up.
“Fifth Battalion took most of the fire, Subcommander. How bad was it?”
“Thirteen dead, eleven wounded, including Undercaptain Akoryt. He looks to be in a bad way.”
“I had a feeling about today.”
Quaeryt forbore to mention that Skarpa had had a bad feeling for the last several days.
Skarpa shook his head. “Musketeers, no less.”
“The imagers took out almost half a company of them,” Quaeryt said.
“How did they do that?”
“Imaged iron darts into them.”
“Ha! Good for your imagers. Might give them second thoughts. Except it won’t. They’ll still fear Kharst more than us.”
Quaeryt had no doubts about that. But isn’t it somehow terrible that fear of one’s leader is greater than the fear of death at the hands of the enemy? That suggested, in another fashion, just how important it was for Bhayar and Telaryn to succeed.
“We’ll see what the scouts discover, but I’d wager that the musketeers are withdrawing by boat already.”
“You think so, sir?”
“Be most surprised if they weren’t. Muskets and musketeers are too valuable to leave unguarded and outnumbered. They’ll pull them back and use them against us again.”
And again, thought Quaeryt.
“If that’s so, we’ll form up and keep moving.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell my officers.” Quaeryt slowly rode back toward Fifth Battalion, but caught sight of the red banner that marked the surgeon, and turned his mount that way.
When he neared the banner, he saw Voltyr and Shaelyt. Both looked pale as he reined up beside where they stood holding the reins to their mounts.
“How is he?” asked Quaeryt.
Voltyr shook his head. “The surgeon—he’s really a senior squad leader who’s a field surgeon—said you’d stopped the bleeding, sir. Mostly … but that wasn’t enough. Something with the lungs. He stopped breathing.”
“He just gasped and gasped,” said Shaelyt. “Then he didn’t anymore.”
Quaeryt didn’t hide the wince. Yet what else could you have done? After a moment he said, “We’ll need to form up again. The commander wants to keep moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Quaeryt turned the mare back toward Fifth Battalion, he couldn’t help thinking, Should you have started training all of them on shields earlier? But that wouldn’t have helped Akoryt, because he couldn’t have developed enough strength as an imager to hold shields all the time, and the attack had come without warning. Almost without warning.
With that thought, he turned his mount toward second company and Major Calkoran.
The major was waiting for him.
“Subcommander, sir … your imagers … they kept us from greater casualties.”
“They did. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball. He died.”
“I am sorry for him … and for us. He will be missed.”
For a moment Quaeryt was stunned by Calkoran’s coolness. He had to remind himself that the major had suffered incredible losses and seen far greater slaughter, and that the death of less than a score of men and a young officer could not compare to what Calkoran had experienced. “Major … how did you know they had musketeers on that island?”
“I saw those strange trees. Except they are not real trees. Each is a … screen … around the musket stand. The Bovarians used them to hide their musketeers in Khel,” said Calkoran, adding, “Or something like them. The muskets … do not fire accurately, either uphill or downslope. They are terrible when they can be fired in mass across a level ground, and where they cannot be charged quickly.”
Terrible … Quaeryt could see that. Four volleys into first and second company, and in a fraction of a quint, thirteen men were dead, and another eleven were wounded. Fourteen dead, now, with Akoryt.
Without the imagers—again—the results could have been much worse.
But the question of shields lingered in the back of his mind.
After he finished with Calkoran, Quaeryt rode to the front of first company, his eyes going to the trees on the north side of the road and the canal, not quite seeing either. You tried to protect them … you just didn’t think about muskets in a side volley. He shook his head again.
No matter how much he told himself that in the few weeks he’d had the imagers he couldn’t have taught them what it had taken him well over a year to learn and develop, he had the feeling that Akoryt’s death … and perhaps those of others … would haunt him.
But he did need to give the others a better chance. They might surprise you.
One way or the other …
He glanced northward again, for a moment.
32
Just slightly after midday, Skarpa ordered resumption of the advance toward Ralaes, leaving Fifth Battalion as vanguard. He also sent out two squads of scouts and remained at the head of the column with Quaeryt as they rode alongside the ancient canal.
A mille or so past the spot where the Bovarians had attacked, the canal turned southward. Quaeryt couldn’t help but study what the Naedarans had done. The far side of the canal was clearly a stone wall, backed by an earthen levee. On the far side of the levee was a marsh that extended northwest and joined the River Aluse. An ancient stone bridge—repaired in more recent times—crossed the canal, and on the far side of the bridge, the ancient stone road swung west to again parallel the river.
“What are you thinking about? You’ve got that expression,” said Skarpa.
“The canal and why it was built.”
“It was built to get boats to the river. That was a long time back. Right now, the Bovarians used the canal wall to get off that isle. They have carts or wagons and they’re moving west at a good clip.”
“So they can set up another ambush or withdraw to meet their main body,” suggested Quaeryt.
“Most likely both,” replied Skarpa dryly.
Another glass passed before one of the scouts rode up beside the commander.
“What did you find?”
“The wagons that carried the musketeers and their muskets took another road just ahead. It’s headed south. The millestones say that there’s a place called Chelaes eleven milles south.”
“It’s on a lake, according to the map,” added Quaeryt.
“They won’t go that far. They need to get to Villerive.” Skarpa shook his head. “We’ll have to leave a company where the roads split … at least for a glass or so after we pass. I don’t want them circling back and following us. Not too close, anyway.”
“Maybe there’s a back road that parallels the river road that will get them to Ralaes or Villerive sooner,” suggested Quaeryt.
“That could be. The river swings north and then back south. Might be faster to cut across. But we don’t know. Don’t want to take any chances, though.”
Quaeryt could understand that all too well.
“I’m going to ride back and talk to Meinyt. You see anything out of sorts … call a halt.”
“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt understood what Skarpa hadn’t said—that he’d better be alert to something “out of sorts” early enough to avoid another ambush.
Skarpa looked to the scout. “You keep the reports coming to the subcommander.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the scout headed back westward and Skarpa rode toward the rear of the column, Quaeryt made an effort to study the terrain on both sides of the road—carefully, forcing his eyes to take in each area, from the scraggly weeds just beyond the shoulder of the road, to the sagging split rail fence of the small stead ahead and the lack of smoke from the chimney of the small cot.
Quaeryt kept watching.
Finally, a quint or so later, they reached the spot where the road to the south split off the river road, except it was a gentle turn, and the paved road was the one heading south, while the river road returned to being packed clay. Quaeryt studied the river road carefully, but there were no heavy wheel tracks and only a few hoofprints, likely those of the Telaryn scouts, heading west along the river. He could discern no attempts to blur prints or tracks on the river road, nor did he see any evidence of a concealed return to the river road as he and Fifth Battalion rode on.
Shortly, another scout rode back eastward and swung his mount in beside Quaeryt.
“There are tracks on the road ahead, sir, just past some fields that have been harvested. That’d be a mille or so ahead.”
“What crop?”
“Looks to be hay, sir. They got those funny haystacks in the field, and the stubble’s short.”
“There’s no one hiding behind those stacks, is there?”
“No, sir. Hardly big enough to hide a single man and mount.”
Quaeryt recalled what Calkoran had said about muskets … and flat areas. “What’s the ground like just ahead, between here and there?”
“You can see, sir. Pretty much the same as here.”
That meant fields and small steads on the south, and a narrow strip of brush, bushes, and occasional trees between the river road and the River Aluse.
“Column! Halt! Third company! Forward! Pass it back!” Quaeryt couldn’t quite have said why he had reacted so quickly, but there was something about the scout’s report that bothered him, even if he couldn’t have said what. He turned to Zhelan. “I don’t like the scout’s report. So I’m going to move ahead with third company. Keep Fifth Battalion at the ready.”
“Yes, sir. Are you certain that you don’t want the whole battalion?”
“If it’s that bad, I’ll let you know.”
In less than half a quint, Major Zhael reined up, third company behind him on the shoulder of the road. “Sir?”
“We’re going to look and see about something, Major.” Quaeryt offered a smile. “I thought you and your men could keep me company.” He eased his mount around to the south, so that Zhael would be riding on the river side of the road. Then he nodded to the scout. “Lead the way.”
For the next half mille, Quaeryt could see nothing out of the ordinary. While the fields had been recently harvested, there were no haystacks or even enough grain or maize for gleaning. Then they rode past a cot set back some fifty yards from the road, with a weathered split rail fence some thirty yards to the west of the cot. Beyond the fence began another series of fields, beginning with a green plant that covered everything and stood a little over knee-high. Beyond that was the harvested grain field dotted with small haystacks.
As they rode past the fence, Quaeryt studied the green field, clearly something being raised for winter fodder for livestock, but he could see no sign that anyone had walked or ridden through the comparatively low plants. The haystacks beyond did indeed look strange, seemingly with hay bundled into pyramids and encircled with cord. But there was something about the haystacks.
There aren’t any in the fifty yards closest to the road.
“Third company! To arms!” Even as he spoke, Quaeryt tried to extend his shields more and at an angle.
A thunderous roar swept across him, with multiple impacts on his shields nearly tearing him out of his saddle. As he struggled to regain his seat, his eyes went to the left of the road, from where the impacts had come. For a moment he saw nothing out of the ordinary, before he saw the slits in the “haystacks” that were nothing of the sort.
He didn’t have much time to consider more, because a wave of riders charged out of the woods behind the recently harvested field—and past the haystacks that were screens covered with hay, concealing musketeers—toward Quaeryt and third company.
“Third company!” he commanded, in Bovarian. “On me! Charge!”
He wasn’t certain he’d been heard, but then caught the words of Major Zhael, but not their meaning, as he turned the mare toward the oncoming riders, and narrowed his shields, if only slightly. Then he managed to ease the half-staff from its leathers and brace it across the front of the saddle as he guided the mare into the field.
Quaeryt sensed rather than heard another volley from the muskets, less thunderous than the first, but could feel no impacts on his shields.
“Zhael! Charge ahead! Not on me!” he ordered as he neared the first line of “haystacks.” He could see musketeers and the loaders ducking behind the cloth- and hay-covered frames of their stands. Abruptly he turned the mare to the right at an angle and raced along the haystacks with his shields extended, using the shields as a weapon to flatten the Bovarians. By the time he’d reached the end of the musket screens, his head was splitting, and it was getting hard to see. Still …
You can’t let them keep shooting troopers down …
Concentrating through the growing haze of blinding light and what felt like blows to his head, he wheeled the mare and started back along the second line. With each haystack he passed, the pain intensified.
Ahead of him and to his right, third company slashed into the Bovarians, shredding the ambushing compan
y.
Quaeryt let the mare slow as he passed the last haystack/musket stand, so that by the time he rejoined the main body of the company, more than half the Bovarians were down, cut out of their saddles, and the remainder were fleeing back through the woods.
Then he reined up, gasping, trying to massage his forehead with one hand, leaving the staff across the front of the saddle.
Perhaps a quint later—Quaeryt wasn’t sure—Zhael rode back and reined up beside Quaeryt.
“Sir … are you wounded?”
“I’ll … be all right … in a while.” Quaeryt fumbled out the water bottle and took a swallow, then another. “You and your men did well.”
“You led us well.”
Quaeryt wanted to laugh. “No, Major. I did my best to distract the musketeers. You led third company. I hope you didn’t lose too many men.” He had trouble focusing his eyes on Zhael.
“No, sir. Just two. Another eight have small wounds.”
Just ten casualties? That seemed terribly low. “What about the Bovarians?”
“More than fifty. They are not used to experiencing a charge when their muskets are not effective. We have eleven prisoners. Most will not live, I think.”
“Are there any captive musketeers?”
“There are two, sir,” answered Zhael, his voice subdued. “The others…”
“What happened to the others?”
“You killed them, sir. Their necks, their bones … Most of them. One or two ran into the woods. We did not chase them far … as you ordered.”
“I just charged them with my staff so they wouldn’t shoot any more of us.”
“They will not do that.” Zhael did not quite meet Quaeryt’s eyes.
After a long moment Quaeryt said, “If you’d have some of your men collect the muskets and pile them by the side of the road for the wagons to pick up. I don’t want the Bovarians to come back and collect them.” Quaeryt massaged his forehead again. It didn’t seem to help the throbbing in his skull. “Oh … and if you’d dispatch a trooper to tell Major Zhelan that Fifth Battalion can join us.”
Imager’s Battalion Page 24
