The squad on the right side of the road had retreated and was more than a hundred yards north of the hill crest.
Quaeryt felt cold inside, even if he couldn’t have said why.
He kept studying the Bovarian position, then the ground to the west of the road, mostly consisting of fields and small holdings, with cots and outbuildings scattered here and there. The side lane that he had just crossed was little more than a path, as were most of those many they’d passed over the last few glasses, and ran due west from the river road. After perhaps a half mille, it split, or joined another narrower road running north parallel to the river road. Farther back was a long narrow lake that stretched for a mille or more to the north, confirming Skarpa’s skepticism about avoiding the Bovarians, although there was an area several hundred yards wide without defensive emplacements. Quaeryt shook his head. Getting there would still expose the Telaryn forces to musket fire.
Finally, he nodded. If he took Fifth Battalion along the side road, under a concealment shield, and then they followed the side roads, they could flank the musketeers. He’d have to be careful though because the land flattened some to the west of the road, and after some fifty yards whoever rode on the side road would be exposed to the Bovarians, not that such would be a great problem if he and the other imagers could maintain concealment shields. He kept studying the land, but the cots were shuttered, and no smoke rose anywhere.
Finally, he turned the mare and rode back to rejoin Skarpa. He began, “I think we can flank them…” and then went on to describe the terrain, the positions, and what he proposed.
“You’ll need the entire battalion.”
“I intend to take all the companies.”
“We’ll move up to just below the crest of the road and re-form into a wide front. We’ll wait until you begin your attack. Then we’ll follow up as quickly as we can…”
When Skarpa finished, Quaeryt moved back and gathered all the Fifth Battalion officers. Once they were all present, he cleared his throat. “We have Bovarian forces with musketeers in position directly over that low rise before us. Our task is to swing out to the west and then flank them. Lhandor, Khalis, you’ll ride with me. Voltyr and Threkhyl, you’ll accompany Major Calkoran. Shaelyt and Horan, you’ll be with third company, and Desyrk, Smaethyl, and Baelthm will protect fourth company. Our first objective is to flank and then attack the musketeers. We’ll move out under concealment shields…” Quaeryt went on to explain, then repeated his orders in Bovarian to make sure the Kellan officers fully understood, then added, in both languages, one after the other, “Because we don’t know what else may be out there, I may have to take first company with me. If I move away from the attack on the musketeers, do not follow me. I repeat. Do not follow me. Your task is to take down the musketeers so that the regiments can advance without getting shot to pieces.”
Thankfully, no one mentioned the possibility that Fifth Battalion also risked getting shot to pieces if matters went ill.
Another quint passed before Fifth Battalion, moving slowly so as not to raise dust that would linger after the riders and their concealment shields passed, moved westward on the side road, first on the section hidden from the Bovarians and then on the more exposed part of the narrow clay and dirt road. After Quaeryt had ridden several hundred yards, he realized that the road was not nearly so rutted as most of the side roads, and, in places, the locals had filled in areas and packed the dirt.
That bothered him, and he glanced to the north to determine whether the musketeers were moving or tracking the battalion, not that they should have been able to see through the concealment shield. He saw no movement there. Then he glanced back over his shoulder to check the battalion’s progress. He’d hoped that the concealment shield would cover the battalion, but the road was so dry that Arion’s last squads were trailed by the faintest signs of dust.
Let’s just hope that the Bovarians don’t see that.
Thwump! Thwump!
The entire road shook, and Quaeryt swallowed as he saw men and mounts from the middle of third company hurled southward.
Cannon! Frigging cannon. Those repairs in the road weren’t from wear! They ranged the cannon and then concealed the impacts.
“Fifth Battalion! Off the road! Into the fields! On me!” Quaeryt image-projected the command back at the battalion, still holding the concealment shields between the battalion and the Bovarians.
Thwump! Thwump! Cannon balls exploded everywhere, as Quaeryt rode north, aiming the mare between the rows of harvested crop stubble toward a point to the west of the berm that sheltered the Bovarian musketeers facing the remainder of Skarpa’s forces.
More cannon shots tore into the dirt road, now empty of Fifth Battalion troopers—except for those already dead, dying, or wounded. Unable to see who lay there because of the smoke and dust, Quaeryt could only hope that his failure to anticipate the cannon fire had not caused too many deaths.
Quaeryt turned the mare toward the first line of musketeers, some of whom, he could see, were already trying to swivel their cumbersome weapons to the west, as if they knew that they faced an attack, while others were aiming at the oncoming troopers of Third Regiment. A moment later he saw that the westward-facing berms also had musketeers, and they were trying to sight their muskets, most likely based on the dust raised from the Telaryn mounts as they charged through the fields.
Namer-frigged mess!
He yanked his staff from the leathers and braced it against the front of the saddle, then at the last moment dropped the concealment and expanded his shields into an angled wedge, anchored to the mounts behind him, hoping that not too many of the musketeers behind the west-facing berms fired at once.
A muted roar sounded, and while he could feel impacts on his shields, they barely rocked him in the saddle as he leaned forward and extended his shields to the side as the mare jumped the berm. From the corners of his eyes, he saw musketeers and loaders crumple, and he turned northward again, angling toward the foot behind the second line of lower berms, not that he was that interested in them, but only because they protected the cannon emplacements farther back.
He had no doubts that Voltyr and Calkoran would continue against the musketeers, and that Shaelyt and Major Zhael—and what was left of third company—would as well.
The rearmost berms had to be those sheltering the cannon, but Quaeryt wasn’t about to charge them directly. Instead he urged the mare toward the Bovarian foot berms, where, since he saw no pikes, he hoped to demoralize the foot and push them back.
Except … the space behind the berms was empty … or mostly so, with just a few foot troopers sprinting away from Quaeryt and first company.
Had the Bovarians dug trenches to create the impression of a larger force just to get at the imagers?
He still wasn’t about to ride into the cannon. Instead … he imaged hundreds of tiny pieces of white-hot iron into the space behind each of the berms he could see. Surely … some of them …
That was as far as his thoughts went before thunder roared up around him and his shields shredded and squeezed him into darkness.
74
Quaeryt woke with someone sponging his face with a damp cloth. Where was he? He could smell dust, and blood, and sweat, but his eyes burned so much he could see almost nothing except a grayish haze. Then … a young face swam into view, leaning over him.
“Sir?”
Khalis … that’s who it was.
Quaeryt tried to speak, but only a croak issued forth. Somehow, he managed to swallow, and then say, “I’m here … I think.” His entire body felt sore, but … he slowly tried to move toes, fingers, hands … Everything felt as though it were still attached to him. He realized he was lying on something hard, the ground, most likely, except that there was a blanket under his head.
“Did I … get blown off … my horse?”
“Ah … yes, sir.”
“How is she?”
“Better than you, I fear, sir.”
&nb
sp; That doesn’t sound good at all.
His expression must have alarmed the young imager undercaptain, because Khalis quickly added, “I don’t think you broke any bones. Your shields must have held until you and the mare hit the ground. You rolled clear. But … you have scrapes and gashes. You will have more bruises, I fear, sir.”
Quaeryt struggled into a sitting position, but Khalis had to help him before he could drink any of the lager from his water bottle. That helped some, although he still found it hard to see, given the painful flashes across his eyes. “What time is it?”
“After fourth glass, sir.”
“We prevailed?” You hope.
“Yes, sir.”
How that had happened, Quaeryt had no idea. The Bovarians had set up the whole situation as a trap, a trap for imagers. The one thing none of the imagers could have withstood, even Quaeryt, was a cannonball against his shields. And there was no doubt that Kharst, or his commanders, knew that Skarpa’s forces were protected by imagers who rode near the front. No doubt at all. The only question Quaeryt had was how the Bovarians knew. He also had an answer to the question of where the Bovarian cannon were—at least some of them.
“Sir?”
Quaeryt looked up at the second voice, one he recognized, belatedly, as that of Zhelan, who stood behind Khalis.
“I’m here. How bad was it?” Quaeryt had to squint to see Zhelan because his eyes were still mostly blinded by the darts of light that stabbed into them.
“Third company was hit the hardest,” replied the major. “Most of Zhael’s third squad was killed, and a few in fourth squad. Sixteen dead, five wounded. The wounded only got shallow cuts from rocks and pebbles blasted at them. The first and second squads weren’t touched. Second company lost the last three men in fourth squad to cannon. All the others were killed or hurt once we attacked the musketeers. Thirty-one dead, twenty-three wounded, over the whole battalion.”
Quaeryt shook his head slowly. Only fifty-four casualties out of that mess?
“Sir … we took most of the casualties for the entire force. The regiments only had forty men wounded, and not a single death.”
Exactly what that bastard Deucalon wanted … and you obliged him.
Rather than say anything, Quaeryt nodded, then took another swallow of lager from the water bottle. Finally, he said, “We were very fortunate. I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”
“You were why it wasn’t worse. You got everyone off the road quickly.”
Not quickly enough. “I did what I could.”
Zhelan straightened. “Here comes Commander Skarpa.”
Just what you need now. Quaeryt did not try to stand, but waited as Skarpa dismounted and walked toward him.
“I see you’re in one piece,” offered the commander.
So far. But how long can you keep pressing your abilities as an imager? “How many cannon did they have?” Quaeryt asked before Skarpa could ask him more.
“Ten. We found pieces of ten, anyway.”
“Just ten cannon … ten frigging cannon,” Quaeryt muttered.
“It could have been much worse,” replied Skarpa. “I don’t see how you managed to incur so few casualties. After the first two shots, that entire lane went up almost at once.”
“At the first shot … I realized how stupid I’d been.”
“Stupid?”
“Stupid,” said Quaeryt. “The road wasn’t rutted enough. There were places where it had been repaired and packed down. The cannoneers had been practicing. They’d ranged the entire frigging road … They knew we were imagers and that they’d be firing blind.”
Skarpa shook his head. “Do you know how many officers could have reacted that fast?”
“A really good officer would have seen those patches in the lane and known instantly,” said Quaeryt.
“How? We haven’t seen any cannon at all … until now.”
“No … but we’ve talked about it, wondered why there weren’t any…”
“Stop second-guessing yourself. None of your officers even knew what was happening. You’ve trained them well enough that they didn’t even hesitate, and they carried out your orders after you were out of the battle.”
At least you did something right. But will you next time … or the time after that?
“How many Bovarians did you capture?” Quaeryt asked, almost as an afterthought.
“Maybe thirty.”
“They must have had at least a battalion supporting the musketeers. Did the rest escape?”
“No. When they saw you and Fifth Battalion smash through, most of them dropped their weapons and fled. They were running past the cannon emplacements…”
“Oh…”
Skarpa nodded. “It was bloody. Your men saw you go down. They weren’t exactly gentle with the survivors.”
Quaeryt didn’t know what to say.
“Undercaptain Lhandor told me that your shields saved most of first company, but they weren’t happy about what it did to you. Neither were the Khellan officers and men.”
For some reason, this time, that didn’t bother Quaeryt. It didn’t even bother him that it didn’t, although he suspected he’d feel guilty later. “Do you know how many Bovarians there were in position before…?”
“Two battalions.”
“Only two battalions. They were sent out just for us.”
“That’s likely. I don’t like it, either.”
“We’ll have to be more careful.” Quaeryt paused. “We’ve stopped here for the night?”
“Maybe longer. I’ve sent a dispatch to the marshal. I reported that Fifth Battalion faced cannon fire and took the heaviest casualties of all my units. Then I asked if he wanted us to press on tomorrow.”
“He will.”
“That may be, but I’d wager we won’t get a response until sometime in the morning.”
Quaeryt nodded, but he had his doubts about that. Deucalon might lag with his forces, but he’d have no qualms about pushing Skarpa and Fifth Battalion.
“You need some food and rest.”
That, Quaeryt didn’t doubt.
75
Quaeryt was standing outside one of the temporarily abandoned cots west of the battle site before seventh glass on Solayi morning, still thinking about the results of the cannon. You’ve worried about trying to do too much with your imaging, but somehow it’s always worked out. Can you count on that?
He was still pondering that when Skarpa rode up and dismounted.
“How are you feeling this morning?” asked the commander.
“Sore. What else would you expect?” Sore was an understatement, since every movement hurt to some degree, and his chest, which had almost felt healed, ached once more.
“A dispatch rider showed up about a quint ago. I thought you’d like to see what the marshal’s orders are.” Skarpa extended the sheet of heavy paper.
Quaeryt took it and began to read, skipping past the salutation and flowery first words.
… Given the likelihood that favorable weather will not last, you are to press on with deliberate haste until you reach a favorable staging position for a final attack on Variana. Such a position should be no farther than a half day’s travel from the city’s edge unless you earlier encounter any defensive works too great for your forces to surmount without exorbitant cost …
Quaeryt handed the sheet back to Skarpa. “What cost is exorbitant? When you don’t have enough troopers left to hold off the Bovarians before Deucalon can arrive?”
“Something like that.”
“When should we be ready to ride out?”
“Well…” drawled Skarpa, “the orders say deliberate haste. Say around ninth glass. By then I should have good scouting reports for the river road over the next ten milles. That’s almost to the outskirts of Variana.” He offered a crooked smile. “I told the scouts to look for places on the side roads with recent smoothing or repairs. Also for really deep ruts anywhere.”
“Do you think we’ll see more cann
on before we reach Variana?”
“I’d not be surprised if there might be one or two that try to loft a shot or two into the front of the column.” Skarpa shrugged. “Also wouldn’t be surprised if there were none, and all that Kharst has could be waiting for us outside Variana.”
“The maps don’t show any bridges over the Aluse between Caluse and Variana.”
“Might be because there aren’t any. That also might be why Deucalon didn’t have much choice in crossing the Aluse.”
“Because Kharst wouldn’t want us to take his chateau?”
“That … and most of the city is east of the River Aluse. So Deucalon would have to take the city first just to get to the bridges in order to reach the chateau. Also … once we take the chateau and defeat Kharst, the folk in the city will give Lord Bhayar less trouble. Makes sense.”
“It also makes sense for us to soften things up for the marshal.”
“That’s what junior commanders and subcommanders do. Even when they’re not imagers.”
Quaeryt smiled wryly, accepting the modest rebuke. “We’ll be ready by ninth glass.”
“We likely won’t see any Bovarians for a bit, but you never know.” Skarpa nodded, slipped the order sheet back into his uniform, then returned to his horse and mounted.
As the commander rode off, Zhelan appeared. “Sir?”
“We’re to be ready to ride by ninth glass.”
“With all due respect, sir…”
“It’s not the commander’s decision, but the marshal’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
The way in which Zhelan agreed suggested the major was less than impressed by Deucalon’s orders.
By ninth glass, Quaeryt was still sore, but not quite so stiff when he mounted the mare, who seemed wholly untroubled or bruised. “You’re hardier than I am.”
“Sir?” asked Khalis, who’d had a tendency to hover around Quaeryt, and who was already mounted and waiting.
“Just telling my mare she was tougher than I am.”
Khalis shook his head.
“She’s fine. I’m the one who’s sore.”
Imager’s Battalion Page 53
