Imager’s Battalion

by Jr. L. E. Modesitt

  Even the cats are wary of us.

  As he neared the only cot with a hedge, Quaeryt saw Skarpa standing on the small square side porch, talking to his four battalion commanders and punctuating his words with quick sharp gestures. Rather than interrupt or distract Skarpa, Quaeryt stopped and eased close to a bush, one that he belatedly recognized as a black raspberry, although most of the berries had been long since picked.

  He didn’t have to wait long before the majors departed and he could approach Skarpa.

  “Good morning, sir,” offered Quaeryt as he walked up to the side porch.

  “Good morning. I’ve just received the marshal’s latest orders, but something else came with them. It’s for you.” Skarpa handed an envelope to Quaeryt as he stepped onto the porch.

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt took the envelope. Only his name was written on it, in a hand he didn’t recognize, but he thought he felt another envelope inside. He thought about opening it, but then paused as he saw Khaern and Meinyt riding up. Instead, he tucked it inside his jacket.

  Skarpa waited until the last two officers arrived. “We won’t be riding out today, but I do want full-squad patrols sent out in all directions, even back along the river road. We’re so close to Variana that the Bovarians could attack from any direction. The marshal has decided that we are to remain where we are for today, and perhaps tomorrow, when the main body will rejoin us. Then we will lead the advance on Variana. As some of you already know, we are less than five milles from the earthworks the Bovarians have thrown up just south of the city…”

  “Aren’t there any city walls?” asked Khaern.

  “Why would there be? No one’s ever attacked Variana. Until now.”

  “What about cannon?” asked Meinyt.

  “There are emplacements that could hold cannon. Quite a number, but the scouts weren’t able to approach close enough to determine the numbers. The earthworks run more than a mille, and there are two lines of them with the cannon emplacements on higher ground behind the second line.”

  “Could we flank them?”

  Skarpa laughed. “Anything’s possible, but the earthworks form an arc around Kharst’s personal grounds and his chateau. The ground is hillier to the north, especially along the river, and there are earthworks there as well. There are also at least thirty regiments, from the regimental banners. I’d wager there will be more once Kharst confirms that all our forces are on this side of the river. Now, we need to talk about patrol schedules…”

  Since Fifth Battalion wasn’t included in the patrols, for which Quaeryt was grateful, he just listened as the other three discussed the schedule, which took another quint.

  “That’s all,” concluded Skarpa. “I’ll let you all know when I hear more from the scouts or from the marshal.”

  Once he had left Skarpa and had walked enough to be alone, Quaeryt opened the outer envelope to reveal a second one, addressed to him in Vaelora’s handwriting. While Quaeryt could not tell, he suspected the outer envelope had most likely come from Bhayar, although there were no markings indicating that. Before he returned to Fifth Battalion to relay Skarpa’s orders to Zhelan, the company officers, and the imager undercaptains, Quaeryt quickly read through Vaelora’s missive.

  My dearest,

  I have another letter from you, but it takes so long for them to reach me that I have no idea where you are or what has happened to you recently. I can but guess that you must be nearing Variana …

  Good guess … or farsight? Either way, she was right.

  … and making ready for that which will change the present and the future of all Lydar, one way or the other, although I pray most fervently that the outcome is the one for which you have striven.

  I know nothing of matters military, nothing of arms, and who should attack what and how. Nor do I know about the glory of victory or the pain and suffering of defeat, although it seems to me that either engenders great suffering for both the one who is hailed as victor and the one who is derided and disgraced as the vanquished. I have also read and heard tales of those battles in which the outcome balanced on the blade of a knife, and for years thereafter resentments and rebellions simmered, much as what you witnessed in Tilbor. As in Tilbor, it would seem to me, frail woman that I am …

  Frail? Hardly. Quaeryt almost snorted.

  … conquests that never end bleed both the victor and the vanquished until neither prospers, and that all would be better for a victory so absolute that none would dispute it for years. Such a victory, alas, is usually beyond the power of those who contend …

  In short, if you have the opportunity, don’t hesitate to repeat what you did at Ferravyl.

  … Even when such a victory is within the victor’s power, often he will offer ill-considered mercy before it is clear that the defeated is truly vanquished …

  That might well have been the problem in Tilbor.

  Quaeryt smiled bitterly. It was well that a battle did not appear likely at the moment. In the mood that possessed him, he scarcely felt anywhere close to merciful, but the warmer lines with which Vaelora concluded the letter did lift his spirits somewhat.

  As Quaeryt neared the cot that had sheltered the imagers the night before, he slipped the letter into his jacket, then saw Khalis beside the door. “How’s Threkhyl? Do you know?”

  “He ate some this morning, sir. He has bruises. Not so bad as the worse you had, sir, I’d wager. I made some willow-bark tea for him. He complained, but it helped.”

  “Were you a healer or apprenticed to one?”

  “My grandmere is. She taught me some things. The willow-bark tea is easy. I’ve set bones. That’s harder. I wouldn’t want to try that unless no one else could.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to.” Quaeryt offered a smile, then stepped into the cot and the main room.

  Threkhyl sat on an old straight-backed chair. He looked to Quaeryt but did not speak.

  “I hear you’re a bit sore,” Quaeryt said.

  “Don’t think there’s anything doesn’t hurt…” mumbled the ginger-bearded undercaptain. “Tell me you’ve been bruised worse.” The words were almost a challenge.

  “I likely was, but I didn’t feel anything for days. That was after what happened in Ferravyl.”

  “Oh … leastwise you weren’t awake.”

  “No, but everything was yellow and purple when I did. Hopefully, it won’t be that bad for you.”

  “Hope so.” After a moment Threkhyl asked, “When do we have to ride out?”

  “Not today. Probably not tomorrow. After that … it’s up to the marshal.”

  “The Bovarians got more cannon at Variana?”

  “Hundreds, it looks like.”

  “Frig,” muttered Threkhyl.

  Quaeryt agreed. “We’ll just have to see what we can do.”

  “Rather not do that again. Wager you wouldn’t, either, sir.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, but we’ll have to do what’s necessary if we don’t want Rex Kharst as our ruler.”

  “That bad?” asked Horan from where he stood at the side of the room.

  “I’d expect he’ll have forty regiments, if not more, and at least a thousand musketeers.” Those were guesses, but Quaeryt would have wagered they were, if anything, low, given what he’d seen so far and what the scouts had reported. “That doesn’t count the cannon.”

  “What if we just stand back away from the cannon?” asked Smaethyl. “They can’t feed all those troopers forever.”

  “Neither can we,” said Lhandor. “Can we, sir?”

  “Food will be a problem for both sides, but if a stalemate lasts until late fall or winter, we’ll likely fare worse.”

  “So we imagers have to find a way to defeat the Bovarians … is that it?” asked Threkhyl. “Even after all we’ve done already?”

  Unless Deucalon or Skarpa can come up with a better plan.

  “We’ll just have to see.” Quaeryt forced a grin he didn’t feel. “We haven’t done too badly so far.”r />
  Horan and Threkhyl exchanged looks, expressions that were more than slightly dubious.

  Rather than say more, Quaeryt turned to Lhandor. “Would you see if you could find Major Zhelan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded and slipped back outside the cot behind Lhandor.

  He needed to think. Threkhyl was right, in a way. What he’d been doing with his imaging wasn’t likely to be enough. At Ferravyl … and even at Extela, he’d been able to use some source of heat—hot rain and hot lava—to increase the power of his imaging.

  Could you have used the heat of exploding powder? He shook his head. By the time there was enough heat, his shields had already taken too much punishment. What about water? Even cold water had to have some heat because it got even colder when it froze … and the battle site wasn’t that far from the River Aluse.

  He nodded slowly. He’d have to try things out, but he could walk to the lake south of the encampment and see what might be possible.

  “Sir!”

  Quaeryt looked up to see Lhandor hurrying back.

  “The major will be right with you.”

  “Thank you.” First, he’d have to brief Zhelan and then finish letting the imager captains know. Then … maybe after that he could find time to work on a more reliable way of putting greater strength into his imaging.

  He shook his head, thinking about the Naedarans and their “old ones.” More power was dangerous to everyone. Is that why you’ve been leery of trying greater and greater imaging? Or just a certain amount of fear that it might be that extra effort that kills you?

  Yet … what choice did he have but to try?

  78

  Lundi came and went with no word from the marshal. That gave Quaeryt time to walk to the lake to try new imaging techniques, but his progress was slow, especially with the time spent trying to improve techniques among all the imagers.

  Finally, on Mardi, late in the day, well after the fourth glass of the afternoon, Skarpa received a dispatch announcing that Lord Bhayar and the marshal’s forces would arrive by midday on Meredi. Even so, it was more like the first glass of Meredi afternoon when the vanguard neared the encampment. By third glass, troopers and horses were everywhere, and the hamlet had been transformed into a welter of tents, wagons, and men that seemed to stretch for a mille to the north and from the forest to the river road.

  All commanders and subcommanders were summoned to a briefing at sixth glass, on a knoll on the lake’s east side. Quaeryt had assumed that the briefing would be outside because there were no cots or outbuildings in the hamlet that could hold the more than thirty senior officers summoned by the marshal. When he and Skarpa arrived, followed by Meinyt and Khaern, all four having walked close to half a mille, Quaeryt discovered a tent some ten yards by ten had been erected. Once inside, Quaeryt saw a low platform at one end, and ten commanders and a few subcommanders waiting before the platform. The only officer who looked in their direction was Commander Pulaskyr, but he’d known Skarpa and Quaeryt in Tilbor.

  “They didn’t provide you with a tent like this,” murmured Quaeryt to Skarpa.

  “No tent at all,” said Meinyt.

  “Wouldn’t know what to do with it,” said Skarpa, with a short laugh.

  Another group of commanders entered the tent through a flap beside the platform. With them was Submarshal Myskyl. He did not so much as glance in Quaeryt’s direction.

  A burly major stepped onto the platform and announced, “Marshal Deucalon!”

  The officers had barely stiffened when Deucalon appeared on the raised platform and said, “As you were,” his voice filling the tent, seemingly without effort on his part. “Good evening. You’ve traveled hundreds of milles. You’ve fought and won battles all along the way. None of those victories will mean anything if we don’t defeat the Bovarians here. We can do this, but it won’t be easy. Not at all.” Deucalon surveyed the officers in the dim light of the tent.

  “The Bovarians have assembled the largest army in the history of Lydar. The largest, but not the best. You’re the best. Commander Skarpa’s scouts have provided very thorough reports. So have the scouts we have dispatched to reconnoiter Bovarian positions on both sides of the river. We believe that by tomorrow and certainly by Vendrei, Kharst’s commanders will have more than forty regiments in position between us and Kharst’s chateau. Half are foot…”

  While we have maybe five regiments of foot troopers, thought Quaeryt, and who knows how good they are?

  “We cannot determine with certainty the exact number of musketeers,” the marshal continued, “but it appears that there are the equivalent of two regiments. These are in addition to the more than two regiments of musketeers already destroyed by Commander Skarpa’s forces. The number of cannon is unknown, but the emplacements the scouts have seen could hold between fifty and a hundred…”

  Enough to destroy all of our imagers, thought Quaeryt.

  “… Kharst has left at least three regiments, if not more, guarding the east river road into Variana. It is possible that more Bovarian regiments will arrive, but that appears unlikely for a number of reasons I will not address at the moment. At the very least, our arrival has forced Rex Kharst to tear up his rather large hunting park and private grounds to dig trenches and throw up earthworks…” Deucalon smiled, and murmurs of low laughter ran through the tent.

  It also suggests that he’s confident enough that he believes he can defeat us easily and wants to be able to chase down survivors, reflected Quaeryt, which he couldn’t do if his troops were actually inside the city or even within his chateau.

  “… the comparative openness of the terrain will allow us greater opportunity to maneuver at will and to concentrate our forces as necessary as well as to move quickly enough that we do not suffer significant casualties from cannon fire…”

  Deucalon continued to talk in generalities for almost another quint before he finally said, “Please convey this to your battalion and company officers. Unless matters change suddenly, there will be another briefing for all of you, here, tomorrow evening at the same time.” Deucalon stepped back, and a major Quaeryt did not recognize stepped forward.

  “That is all, sirs.”

  By the time the major had delivered those few words, the marshal had vanished from the tent. In moments, Myskyl and the commanders around him were also gone.

  Skarpa said nothing until he and his three subcommanders were well away from the briefing tent. Then he looked to Quaeryt. “What do you think?”

  “He didn’t mention who will lead the attack.”

  “He didn’t, did he?” Skarpa smiled sardonically. “What do you think that means?”

  “That we will,” growled Meinyt from behind Quaeryt. “He’s not saying because he doesn’t want anyone to notice that we keep getting thrown into the fire.”

  “Or that he doesn’t want the Bovarians to know,” suggested Quaeryt.

  “How would that…” Meinyt stopped abruptly. “You don’t think…?”

  “I don’t know what to think, except it’s more than a little unusual that our forces are much smaller and yet the only musket and cannon attacks have been against us.”

  “Even Myskyl wouldn’t do that,” Meinyt admitted.

  “Exactly,” said Skarpa. “I doubt any of the senior officers would, either, but with over a hundred majors … the marshal might not want to say anything yet. He didn’t tell us anything that the Bovarians wouldn’t already know.”

  “I didn’t see Lord Bhayar,” said Khaern.

  “He doesn’t usually attend briefings,” said Skarpa. “He gets briefed first.”

  “Why is Lord Bhayar even here?” asked Khaern abruptly. “If the marshal is making the decisions…?”

  Skarpa looked to Quaeryt and smiled. “You might explain that best.”

  “It was his decision to attack Bovaria when we did. He’ll be the one executed if Kharst wins. His family will be destroyed. And … he was trained by his f
ather to make those kinds of decisions. He can and will override the marshal if he thinks it necessary.”

  “And … if you think so…?” pressed Khaern.

  “I can occasionally tell him what I think. He still decides,” replied Quaeryt dryly. “That’s why I’m a subcommander and not on his staff or the marshal’s.”

  “It’s also why you’re married to his sister,” said Skarpa. “He didn’t give you any choice there, either.”

  “You’re … married to Lord Bhayar’s sister?” asked Khaern. “And he put you where you’d be leading charges?”

  Belatedly, Quaeryt realized that he’d never mentioned Vaelora to anyone outside Fifth Battalion except Skarpa and Meinyt, and it was clear that neither of them had told Khaern. “Why not? He’ll be where he can be killed when we meet the Bovarians.” That wasn’t quite true, because Bhayar would be farther from the action than Quaeryt would be, but Quaeryt had no doubts that Bhayar would not survive if the Telaryn forces were routed. “His father sent him as a ranker to Tilbor during the fighting there, and his grandsire sent his father into battle as well.”

  “No other rulers in Lydar do that,” Khaern said.

  “No other rulers are descended from Yaran warlords.” Quaeryt’s words were dry.

  “Do you think we’ll attack on Vendrei?” asked Meinyt.

  “It won’t be tomorrow,” replied Skarpa. “That’s about all we know.”

  With Deucalon advising Bhayar, Skarpa was absolutely right, Quaeryt reflected.

  The four kept walking, with Erion slowly rising in the east behind them, Artiema almost ready to set in the west, even before the sun.

  79

  Almost exactly at the second glass of the afternoon on Jeudi, Quaeryt was standing at the north end of the lake that formed the southern end of the Telaryn encampment, still trying to improve his imaging by trying to draw heat from the lake water or, later, from a river, rather than from the rain that wasn’t likely to arrive when he needed it.