Once more, Meinyt left for a quick meeting with Skarpa and then returned to give orders to the squad leaders.
“We’ll be forming up once we leave the trees. That’s another three or four hundred yards up. Five-man front. We need to take enough ground to get the engineers within a few hundred yards of the hold, and we’ll have to hold that ground…”
When the horn signaled again, the column rode slowly up the lane that climbed gently through a small area of woods, then crossed a level meadow beside a pond. The red flies and mosquitoes seemed less numerous than on Quaeryt’s last visit, but that might have been because they had far more men and mounts on which to feast and were just spread out over more victims, but for whatever reason, he was glad that only a few pestered him, few enough that he could fan most of them away.
Once past the pond, the regiment re-formed on the meadow, with perhaps a third of a mille between the front ranks and the beginning of the gentle upslope to the top of the low ridge on which were located the holding buildings. Archers crowded the top of the modest stone tower at the end of the higher adjoining ridge, and shafts arched toward the regiment under the high gray clouds, but all fell short. All the shutters on the narrow windows of the hold buildings were fastened shut, and not a person was to be seen.
Quaeryt glanced back. While he could not see what was happening, he had no doubts that the engineers were assembling their bombards. He looked forward, but outside of the archers he saw none of Waerfyl’s retainers. Nor did he while the engineers continued to work.
Less than half a glass later, after several ranging stones, the first crock flew over the regiment and hit the stone terrace, short of the heavy log walls, but the chunks of flaming bitumen skidded across the stone, some coming to rest against the logs. More crocks flew. One never burned. Several burned out without igniting the walls, but the engineers kept up the bombardment. Before long, a corner of the large hold building showed signs of beginning to catch fire.
At that point, hundreds of men in leathers, perhaps as many as five hundred, less than a third of them mounted, poured out from behind the hold and over the ridge and down toward the regimental formation.
“Hold until they’re on the flat!” ordered Meinyt.
Quaeryt could hear other captains giving the same order.
A horn signal followed, and the regiment charged as one. Quaeryt let the captain take the lead, keeping himself in the second line. This time he had the staff ready long before the horsemen of the battalion crashed into the hill forces.
Almost immediately, the lines mixed, and there were footmen in leathers, horsemen in uniform, and those in leathers, all thrown together. Unlike the skirmishes in the trees, Quaeryt found, here there was only a little room to move, but he saw a footman with an ax, and he thrust with the staff, catching the man in the chest—and a Telaryn mounted ranker slashed down with a sabre.
Even as he thrust away a leather-clad rider, he had to wonder why he’d joined the charge, but he had little time for wonderment as another rider pressed between two rankers toward him. He used the staff to knock aside the oversized blade carried by the hill attacker, then managed to swing the staff over the mare to catch another rider on the back of the head before he slashed a ranker on his unprotected side.
For the next quint or so, he used the staff and his shields as much to beat back the men on foot who were trying as much to cripple or kill the mare and other mounts as they were interested in attacking the horses’ riders, although a few more times, he thrust at hill riders … and might even have injured one or two.
Before long, on the top of the ridge, the holding house was burning so fiercely that Quaeryt could feel the heat on his face, as he struggled just to keep men from the mare. Then, in a space of what seemed moments, the opposition faded away, and seemingly abruptly, the soldiers of the regiment were left alone. The main hold building was burning fiercely, but only the closest outbuilding was also afire.
Quaeryt found that he was panting and that his arms burned. He lowered the staff. Blood was smeared across the end, some of it already dried. He didn’t recall hitting anyone in a way that would have drawn blood. He looked to Meinyt, but the captain had eased his mount over to a ranker.
“You’re the squad leader now, Noyan. You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me a report as soon as you can.”
Quaeryt eased the mare back and tried to inspect her from the saddle. He saw no injuries, and she wasn’t limping. He did not look eastward at the bodies strewn across the matted grass at the base of the ridge, or those lying across the slope, not for more than a few moments.
“See you’re still with us, scholar,” called Meinyt as he turned his mount.
“So far.”
“Sixth Battalion officers!” Skarpa’s voice rang over the hubbub.
Meinyt rode toward the major, and Quaeryt followed to where Skarpa had gathered the battalion officers, staying back and listening.
“I’ll need reports in the next quint. We’ll camp here and head out early tomorrow. Odds are that there will be more attacks. They’ll be more vicious…”
Quaeryt could understand that. What he didn’t understand was why the hill holders had thought that the governor would ignore them forever. Or had that been because the Khanars had let them do as they pleased, at least among themselves, so long as they paid token allegiance to the Khanar?
In a way, Rescalyn acted as the Khanars had until he had the force to do otherwise.
Yet Rescalyn had been able to do it with less tariff revenue, effectively, than had the Khanars. Because the princeps was more efficient at getting and using tariff golds? For all the answers Quaeryt thought he had, there were still many questions for which he had none.
“… Commander announced that sow’s ass Waerfyl was one of those killed. He was with the first attackers. His people didn’t even seem to miss him. Likely some of the other holders will be better commanders. Each holding attack is going to be harder than the last, but there won’t be any peace in Tilbor until we’ve gotten rid of the worst of these arrogant leeches.”
Quaeryt’s lips quirked. Clearly, Skarpa hadn’t forgotten his last meeting with the late holder Waerfyl.
82
As Quaeryt rode past where the natural stone gateposts had been, well before sunrise on Samedi morning, all he saw was a pile of rubble and stone. Behind them, he knew, they had left the smoldering ruins of Waerfyl’s hold, with every building burned and leveled, and all stores either taken or destroyed, but with several wagons commandeered and filled with food, grain, and other fodder. When he saw the gateposts destroyed as well, he shivered. Rescalyn was making it very plain what the cost was for attacking Telaryn.
But how much of that is to make the point not to cross him personally?
The road that the regiment took angled to the northeast and was one that Quaeryt had never seen before. Sixth Battalion now rode as the first full battalion back from the vanguard and directly behind Rescalyn and the command group, with Meinyt’s company leading the battalion. For that reason, Quaeryt rode with both Skarpa and Meinyt, since Skarpa usually rode at the head of his battalion. Quaeryt also had refrained from wearing the overlarge green shirt, since he could occasionally see the governor, and that meant Rescalyn could see him.
A good glass after riding out, and just as the sun was beginning to rise, Quaeryt said, “I haven’t been on this road before. Where are we headed?”
“This is the direct back road to Saentaryn’s,” replied Meinyt. “In a few glasses, we’ll join the road where we dealt with the coal wagons.”
“And where from there? After Saentaryn?”
Meinyt shrugged. “No one’s told me, but the next closest hill hold belongs to Demotyl.…”
“Are all the holders who signed that message neighbors of Waerfyl?”
“What message?” demanded Skarpa.
“Oh … I thought you knew. Waerfyl and some other hill holders sent a mi
ssive saying they’d had enough of Telaryn interference. It was signed by Waerfyl, Demotyl, Huisfyl, and Saentaryn.”
“Demotyl and Saentaryn adjoin Waerfyl’s lands. Huisfyl’s are farther into the hills, and then you get to one of the biggest holdings. That’s Zorlyn’s.” Skarpa frowned. “How did you know about the message?”
”The governor told me before he sent me to Sixth Battalion,” admitted Quaeryt.
“That’s good to know. The governor hasn’t told me, or any of the battalion commanders. Not in our meetings, anyway.”
“We’re likely to reach Saentaryn’s hold by right after midday, aren’t we?” asked Quaeryt.
“That’s likely.”
“Will we attack this afternoon?”
“That’s up to the governor. I would. Men and mounts will be a bit tired, but Saentaryn won’t expect it that soon.” Skarpa shrugged. “Then I’d give the regiment a day to recover before moving on. More if the men need it.”
“Demotyl’s holding is more than twenty milles north,” added Meinyt. “No way anyone could get there and then get back to attack in less than a day and a half, maybe more. Any other hill holding’s more than twice that far.”
Slightly past midmorning, the horn signal for an attack was sounded from the rear, but the column never even slowed, and several quints later, word reached Skarpa that only a small group of attackers had appeared, and that they’d been driven off with minimal casualties.
“Most of the survivors from Waerfyl’s hold likely retreated deeper into the hills,” observed the major. “Saentaryn’s likely on his own.”
“Wasn’t Waerfyl?” asked Quaeryt.
“He was, but he’s always had more lands and men,” said Meinyt. “That was one reason, I’d guess, Saentaryn raided the coal mine. They couldn’t cut enough timber for the winter.”
“Or they hadn’t, and realized it too late,” added Skarpa dryly.
Less than a glass later, a volley of arrows arched from the trees toward the command group, but two squads from the vanguard charged out even as the shafts were falling, and no more were fired. But the squads didn’t find anyone, either.
“Less than a mille to the gates,” said Meinyt.
“They won’t let us much past there,” predicted Skarpa.
The major was right.
Before the regiment was even out of the trees beyond the gates, attackers swarmed toward the column from all sides, again, both those mounted and those on foot. The initial numbers seemed so great to Quaeryt that he couldn’t help wondering who’d thought that Saentaryn had fewer fighters.
Two riders surged through a gap between squads and charged Quaeryt. He braced the staff against the saddle pommel, so that it extended on each side, then ducked, urged the mare forward, and angled the staff until the forward tip slammed into the gut of the man on the right. The momentum of the impact twisted the staff so that the left side crashed into the back of the shoulder of the other attacker, whose blade had glanced off Quaeryt’s shields at an angle.
He’d barely straightened in the saddle when a slender figure on foot appeared from nowhere with a sharp and bloody blade, bringing it up as if to gut the mare.
Quaeryt struck down with all the force he could muster, the iron-tipped end of the staff cracking into the temple of the attacker. Even with the din and shouts around him, he could hear and feel the crunch of breaking bone. As he pulled the staff back, trying to recover his balance, an edge ripped of the attacker’s leather cap-like helm, and a cascade of dark hair revealed that the attacker he’d killed was a young woman.
He had little time to think about that, not when another rider charged him, swinging one of the overlarge blades that the hill riders seemed to prefer. He tried to slide the blade with the staff, but its weight and the momentum of the rider almost ripped the staff out of his hands, and the blade came down on his shielded shoulder—and shattered.
That scarcely helped Quaeryt, because the impact rattled him inside the shields like a dried pea in a cup, so that he could barely stay on the mare and hang on to the staff. Another ranker to his left took on the disarmed rebel, and Quaeryt tried to keep moving and gather himself together.
After that, he jabbed, thrust, swung, and tried to avoid getting hit too many times, but by the time the field, such as it was, cleared, his head was throbbing, and he was having trouble seeing, although he did catch sight of men in leathers riding out, trying to shield others on foot from pursuing squads. But, following Rescalyn’s orders, the troopers did not follow far into the woods, only enough to assure that those they had pursued were truly fleeing.
Quaeryt was exhausted, bruised in more places than he wanted to count, and grateful to be alive—and that was using imaging shields. Without them, he’d have been long since dead. He was definitely no warrior, and his respect for the rankers and officers continued to increase.
This time, Rescalyn had not ordered the engineers to bombard the dwellings, not that he’d had the time or the ground to allow that before the initial attacks. Once the area around the building was secured, two squads from Seventh Battalion went through the structures, one at a time. They emerged without wounds, and without captives.
Quaeryt waited, still mounted, with Meinyt’s company, surveying the edge of the trees and the open ground beyond, well short of the holding buildings, where much of the fighting had taken place. His eyes dropped to his sleeves, and he realized that he’d never put on the green shirt, and that the browns barely showed the blood splatters. He looked up again, forcing his eyes to look at individual bodies. During the attack, he’d felt as though there were thousands, yet there were probably less than two hundred bodies, and many, he suspected, were youths and women, some of whom had fought with little more than knives. He swallowed, trying to keep the bile down.
Yet … what else can any ruler do with holders who continually flount authority?
Finally, Skarpa relayed the order to dismount and deal with what needed to be done immediately … tending to the wounded, checking mounts, cleaning weapons.
After meeting briefly with the governor and the other battalion commanders, Skarpa returned and summoned his officers. Quaeryt joined them and listened.
“We’ll be able to use the buildings and some of the supplies. That’ll be good, especially if there’s rain tonight. Some provisions are gone. Not that many, but the best. There’s plenty of fodder and grain for the horses. They didn’t have time or the wagons to move much. We’ll be able to give the men decent cooked meals. It’ll take time, but we have that. We won’t be moving out until Lundi. But it’ll be early Lundi. Now … see to your men.”
Quaeryt had to admit that Rescalyn had been correct in his decision as to when to attack. But then, Quaeryt had considerable regard for the governor’s tactical and strategic abilities, just as he had significant suspicions about Rescalyn’s ambitions.
83
Quaeryt was so tired that, when he woke up in the small shed with most of Meinyt’s company on Solayi, he had no idea at first where he was or how he’d gotten there. When he tried to move, he was reminded instantly. He just lay there on a pile of pine branches that was better than bare ground, but not much, thinking.
Solayi … the day of rest.… Rest from what? Killing?
He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but he was almost afraid that, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. So he rolled over and struggled to his feet.
“That leg bothering you, again, sir?” asked a ranker.
“It does more in the morning. I’ll be all right in a bit.” He didn’t bother rolling up his gear, not when they’d be there one more night. He walked out of the shed into a grayish morning. While it was still early, the gray was because of the featureless clouds that had rolled in, not because it was before dawn. He made his way toward one of the cookfires, where he saw Skarpa talking with another major.
By the time he reached the cookfires, the two had walked away, deep in conversation, and Quaeryt didn’t follow the
m. After a breakfast of egg and mutton hash inside a rolled flatcake, accompanied by some very bad ale—likely the dregs from Saentaryn’s stores—that he had to pour into his own water bottle, Quaeryt still had a headache and was still sore and stiff. He went to check the mare, but she looked and acted better than he felt.
He’d no sooner returned to the area that held Sixth Battalion than a ranker hurried toward him. Quaeryt had the feeling he knew who was seeking him.
“The governor would like to see you, scholar.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s inside, in the main hall of the hold.”
Quaeryt nodded and walked toward the hold building, not dawdling, but not rushing, not with the way his leg felt. When he got there, two guards blocked the open double doors. “Not yet, sir.”
After more than a quint, one of the guards called, “Sir, the governor will see you now.”
Quaeryt stepped through the open double doors into a large foyer, although the ceiling was not raised above normal height or open to the upper level. The floor was wooden, and oiled, but showed the marks of years of wear, and the grain suggested it was oak. The walls were oak-paneled, and lighter oblongs suggested that paintings had hung there and been removed, either by Saentaryn’s retainers earlier or at Rescalyn’s direction later. Quaeryt wasn’t about to ask which.
“Sir … the governor’s that way.” A squad leader pointed to the square archway to the left. “He’s expecting you.”
The large hall—obviously a dining hall—had been roughly cleared, with the long tables and benches pushed against the walls. A shorter table stood before the natural stone hearth and chimney, but well out from the stonework. Rescalyn sat behind the table.
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