Scholar ip-4

by L. E. Modesitt

  Quaeryt could see the logic in that, because it limited or eliminated the fighting between High Holders, and probably also reduced the temptation for one High Holder to encroach on another. It also lowered the costs of running their holdings, because they didn’t have to pay so many armsmen. Did that allow the High Holders to pay higher tariffs and still come out ahead?

  Although they had left Boralieu while it was still comfortable, by the time another glass had passed, and the company had taken a fork in the road that led slightly south of due west, Quaeryt was beginning to feel the heat, not to mention the red flies, whose bite was worse than that of a mosquito. He’d lifted his light shields for a time, which extended a yard or so out, and that kept them mostly away from him, but holding them for more than a quint left him tired and sweatier. So he decided to bear the pesky flies and save the shields for when he might really need them.

  Another quint passed before one of the scouts rode back and signaled Meinyt. The captain halted the company. “Break for half a quint! Pass it back.”

  Then he rode forward to talk with the scout.

  Quaeryt dismounted, then blotted his face with one kerchief. He was saving the other clean one for later. The trees, even cut back to some ten yards from the road, were high enough in places that the road was a mixture of shade and sun, and the day was getting much warmer. He took a swallow from his water bottle and brushed away one of the red flies with his free hand.

  Before long, Meinyt finished conferring with the scout and issued a command. “Squad leaders forward!”

  Each squad leader passed the command back, and the five squad leaders converged on the captain at the front of the column. They six were less than ten yards from Quaeryt, but he couldn’t hear what Meinyt was saying. The brief conference ended, and the first squad leader returned to his squad just behind Quaeryt, while the others rode back along the shoulder of the road to rejoin their squads.

  “… first squad! Listen up!… brigand tracks ahead…”

  At that moment, Meinyt rode back to Quaeryt. “The scouts found tracks in the side lanes a mille or so ahead, mostly on the south side. That’s where the disputes over who owns what lands begin. The old Khanar before the war said that the road was the dividing line. The Pretender said that Waerfyl’s lands extended another half mille south. The governor has said that the road marks the boundary.”

  “Has Waerfyl protested?”

  “The hill types protest with bows, blades, and crossbows.” Meinyt turned in the saddle. “From here on, keep your eyes open, and don’t hesitate to flatten yourself against your mount.”

  “I won’t.” Quaeryt mounted, then brought the mare alongside Meinyt’s horse. He raised what he thought of as shields, hoping that they would even work. He needed more practice, and he needed more time holding them to build up his strength.

  “Company! Forward!” ordered Meinyt.

  Quaeryt rode less than half a mille when he saw a stone pillar on the left side of the road. At one time, it had clearly been higher, possibly with a capstone or something on the top, but someone had battered off the top stones, and they lay in the weeds and grass around the base of the column.

  The boundary marker for High Holder Dymaetyn’s land? Vandalized by Waerfyl’s men?

  He didn’t ask, because it made little difference. Not at the moment.

  “There’s the lane,” Meinyt said. “The tracks are fresher here, and they’ve taken a wagon. It’s not loaded. Not yet.”

  What the captain called a lane was more like a path less than four yards wide.

  “First squad! Positions!”

  Before the command was finished, the troopers in first squad split into two files and turned from the narrow road right into the trees on each side of the lane.

  “Second squad!”

  The second squad began a quick trot down the lane.

  Quaeryt heard a sound like the patter of rain. Meinyt flattened himself against his mount’s neck. Before Quaeryt could follow that example, something ripped through his thoughts-that was what it felt like-and then slammed into his upper chest near his left shoulder. He looked down to see what looked like a short arrow protruding from his jacket, then hugged the mare’s neck, if to one side because he’d done nothing about the quarrel in his shoulder.

  “Namer-sows are in the trees-the big oak there and the spreading pine!” someone yelled.

  Another pattering sound followed.

  Quaeryt kept himself flattened against the mare, who had stopped short. He urged her toward the trees. He certainly didn’t want to stay out in the open.

  Once he was off the road and so close to a pine he and his mount were partly concealed, Quaeryt straightened, concentrated, and imaged clear spirits into the wound, even as he tested how firm the quarrel was. His eyes watered, and he wanted to scream, except his head was spinning so much that all he could do was to stay in the saddle.

  When his head settled somewhat, he forced himself to image the head of the quarrel away. The rest of the quarrel came out, if not easily, without too much effort. Then he puked, barely able to keep the vomit off himself and the mare, and let the remainder of the quarrel fall to the pine needles.

  After a time, he straightened and slowly looked around. From what he could tell, he was practically alone, except for a nearby mount that was riderless. He heard yells from the direction of the lane, but those quickly subsided.

  He eased the mare toward the riderless mount, and managed to grab the reins, then transferred them to his left hand, hoping the horse didn’t try to run. Even holding the reins hurt his shoulder. Then he saw its rider, one of the rankers, barely old enough to be a soldier. He lay on his back on the road. Only the fletched end of the quarrel that had gone through his chest was visible. Even as Quaeryt watched, before he could do anything, the young man tried to open his mouth, then shuddered, and was still.

  Quaeryt glanced around, not knowing which way to go, and was about to follow first squad when he heard hoofs. He turned his head, wincing, to see a squad leader he didn’t know riding up, followed by a full squad.

  “Scholar, sir?”

  “They had crossbows. The lead squads went after them.” What else could he say?

  “Yes, sir. We know.” The squad leader rode closer. “You’re bleeding, sir. There’s a fair amount on you. Best you hold a cloth or something against the wound.” He frowned. “What…?”

  “Crossbow quarrel. I managed to get it out.” Quaeryt fumbled and took out the clean kerchief he hadn’t even used, wadded it, then eased it inside the rents in his jacket and brown shirt. The off-white cloth began to turn pink. Quaeryt put more pressure on it.

  “That’s it. Just stay here. We’ve cleared out this area, and it won’t be long before the captain is back.” He turned in the saddle. “Guylart, you and Curyn strap Zaen onto his mount.”

  Quaeryt relinquished the reins of the other mount to the ranker who rode up. Then he concentrated on trying to stop the bleeding from his shoulder. He seemed to have some success, because the kerchief wasn’t getting bloodier, and blood wasn’t seeping out from the edges. He almost didn’t notice when Meinyt returned.

  “How are you doing, scholar?”

  “I’m surviving, I think. The bolt wasn’t too deep, and I got it out without ripping myself up any more. I’ve got most of the bleeding stopped.”

  The captain frowned. “You got it out alone?”

  “Yes, sir.” Quaeryt blinked. A wave of dizziness passed over him. “What happened?”

  “There were five of them in the trees,” said Meinyt. “Each one had two crossbows. There were riders, too, but they didn’t stay around.”

  “Did you catch any of them?” Quaeryt continued to hold the cloth against the wound.

  “We got three of the bowmen. Two of them are dead. One’s in worse shape than you are.” Meinyt glanced back down the lane.

  “You need to do what you need to do, Captain,” Quaeryt said.

  “You’ll have to go
back with the other wounded and half of fifth squad. We need to follow the survivors. Can you ride all the way back to Boralieu?”

  “I think so,” said Quaeryt, although the throbbing in his shoulder worried him. The wound had felt better before he’d flooded it with clear spirits. So had his head. Yet he knew that the spirits helped. He also knew that sometimes they didn’t help enough.

  But the shield he’d raised had helped.

  “Good. Best of fortune.” Meinyt turned his mount.

  “The rest of the wounded are back this way, sir,” offered the squad leader. “But before you start back, we need to get a field dressing on that wound. Otherwise, you’ll bleed out.”

  Quaeryt winced as he eased the mare around. The ride back was likely to be far longer than the ride out had been. Far longer.

  50

  Quaeryt had been right. The ride back to Boralieu took slightly more than three glasses, and along the way, another ranker collapsed over his saddle, and the one captive, a broad-faced youth in brown leathers, died.

  Since he was one of the least badly wounded, Quaeryt waited another glass in the anteroom to the surgery. One of the aides to the surgeon checked the field dressing on his wound and cleaned the edges while he waited along with a white-faced older ranker with a broken arm.

  He had a chance to think while he waited, and the princeps’s words-those from his first meeting with Straesyr-came back to him. He’d wondered about archers, and now, unhappily, he understood. The brigands had been out of sight the entire time of the attack. Archers with the company would indeed have been useless. He wanted to shake his head, but feared even that would increase the pain.

  After a time, the ranker looked at Quaeryt. “Sir … you took a bolt in the chest, didn’t you?”

  “That’s where it hit.”

  “You worked it out, the squad leader said. Most men die if they do that. The flanges on those bolts are back-barbed tools of the Namer.”

  “I didn’t know that. I didn’t know what to do.” That’s certainly true.

  “You must be stronger than you look. Sometimes, it takes two men to get one of those out-but that’s after whoever’s hit is dead.” The young ranker winced as he moved.

  “How is the arm?” asked Quaeryt quickly.

  “It hurts. Seen enough of these … it might be shattered. Hope not. Sometimes you lose the whole arm.”

  “I hope not, too.” What else can you say? In hopes of distracting the man, he asked, “Have you been with the regiment long?”

  “Too long. Trying to finish a second term and get a stipend.”

  “How are things now, with the hill holders, compared to when you first came?”

  “They’re the same nasty bastards. Helped a lot when the governor built the post here. Helped more when he added another squad to each company.”

  Another squad?

  Before Quaeryt could ask more, one of the assistants to the surgeon came and led the ranker away, and Quaeryt sat there alone, but not for long, because the surgeon/healer-a gray-haired captain-appeared. “This way. We need to take a better look at that wound, scholar.”

  In another small room, the surgeon captain removed the field dressing, carefully, and inspected the wound. “Hmmm … fair amount of bruising…” He frowned, then touched Quaeryt’s collarbone to the left and a touch above the wound. “Does that hurt?”

  “It’s sore. Everything there is sore.”

  The surgeon lifted a needle with blackish thread attached. “We’ll need to stitch this. Otherwise, every move you make will rip it wider. It’s already ripped some. You’ll need to keep it in a sling for a few days, too.”

  The stitches weren’t pleasant, but they didn’t hurt nearly so much as either the quarrel hitting him or removing it had.

  When he finished, the surgeon shook his head, then smiled. “I wish more turned out like this. You’re a fortunate man, scholar, thank the Nameless. Most bolts that hit the collarbone break it. Even a glancing blow will do it. That’s just the beginning of the damage. Some slice the big blood vessels, but when that happens, you die right then. The one that hit you didn’t do either. It’s not shallow, but it’s not all that deep, either. It must have been slowed by leaves or small branches. That doesn’t mean we don’t have to worry, but there’s a tincture in there, or spirits, I’d guess. How did you manage that?”

  “I had some. How … I don’t really know. I’d heard it might help.”

  “Sometimes. At least, the bolt wasn’t in the flesh all that long.”

  “How did you know that?”

  A wry expression appeared on the captain’s face. “I have seen more than a few wounds like this, scholar.”

  “I’m sorry. No one even asked me, but you knew.”

  “Sometimes, I do. It’s fairly clean. Clean as possible. Keep it that way. Watch the dressing … if there’s any greenish pus … any smell … we’ll have to cut and drain … If it looks to be healing, don’t fool with it. Are your guts upset?”

  “They were after I got hit. After that, they’ve been all right.”

  “Good. One of my assistants will be bringing you some ale. You’re to sit here quietly and drink it slowly. That will help combat the blood loss. From what’s on your garments, you lost more than I’d like to see. Don’t drink any water for the next few days-just ale or lager. And don’t eat very much tonight. Nothing, if you can manage it. Oh … you can get lager or ale between meals at the mess.” With that, the surgeon was gone.

  More than a glass later, and after drinking a large mug of bitter ale, with his arm in the sling, Quaeryt walked slowly back toward the main building and the officers’ mess. Because he was a little light-headed, he took care with every step. It wouldn’t be all that long before the evening meal, and his quarters at Boralieu were almost as small as the room at the Tankard had been.

  When he entered the mess, he didn’t even have to ask where to find ale or lager. A ranker came up and took in the sling and the caked blood. “Ah … lager or ale, sir?”

  “Lager, please.” Quaeryt took a seat close to the end of the single long table, but it was too high to rest the arm in the sling on. So he pushed back the chair slightly and waited for the lager, which arrived quickly.

  He really didn’t feel that thirsty, and just sipped it as he could and thought, trying to ignore the combination of sharp stabbing pain and dull throbbing aches in his chest and shoulder. The fact that the surgeon had seen more than a few crossbow-quarrel wounds and that the mess attendant hadn’t even asked what he wanted tended to confirm Rescalyn’s assessment of the dangers of the hill brigands.

  After a time, close to two quints before the bells rang out fifth glass, Skarpa entered the mess, his head moving from side to side until he saw Quaeryt. He immediately hurried over, a puzzled expression on his face. “I’d heard you took a quarrel. I expected you to be laid out in the infirmary. Did I hear wrong?”

  “No. I managed to get it out without ripping myself up more. It must have been slowed by leaves or something. It didn’t break the bone or cut too deep.”

  “From all that blood, it wasn’t just a scratch, either,” Skarpa said.

  “No. I’ll grant that. The surgeon had to stitch me up. He’s still worried about the blood loss and the wound turning bad, but he’s done what he can.”

  “He’s had more experience than any one of us would like him to have.”

  “I certainly learned firsthand just how nasty the hill brigands could be. Getting shot on the first patrol…” Quaeryt shook his head.

  “It does happen. The governor’s always telling the troops that there are no safe patrols in the hill country. Almost every other one has some sort of trouble. One of the rankers who died was on his first patrol out of training.”

  “I wondered about that. I think he was the one hit when I was. I managed to grab the reins of his mount … I mean, after I worked out the quarrel.”

  Skarpa’s eyes widened for just a moment. “You saw him get hit?”


  “No. I got hit. Later, I saw him, but he died before I could do anything. Then I got his mount.”

  “You took a quarrel, worked it out, caught a stray mount, and then rode back here?”

  “It wasn’t that easy. My … guts … didn’t agree after I got the quarrel out, and I had to hold a cloth over the field dressing most of the way back to keep the bleeding down until it finally stopped.”

  “You should have been a cavalry officer.”

  “Me? I was so stupid that I ducked too late. I didn’t even realize that pattering sound was quarrels going through leaves.” Quaeryt paused. “Why would they shoot through leaves?”

  “Because you can’t get a totally clean shot in the woods. That’s one reason why they use the crossbows. They’ve got more power, and they don’t get stopped as easily.”

  “I still can’t believe I just watched for a moment.”

  Skarpa laughed. “That’s what makes a good officer. Everyone makes mistakes. Those who are smart enough or tough enough to survive become good officers.”

  Quaeryt had his doubts, but he wasn’t about to contradict the major.

  What he did know was that, once he felt better, he definitely needed more practice with his shields. He also needed to be too sick to ride back to Tilbora until he was far more healed than anyone thought he was, because he had a very bad feeling about things.

  51

  For the next five days, all Quaeryt did was eat, rest, and drink lager-and clean off the area around the dressing with small amounts of clear spirits that he imaged when no one else was around. He had bouts of fever, or at least hot sweatiness, but those subsided after several days. He even slept through the time for services on Solayi, not that he’d planned to attend. While he slept a great deal, part of that was because he didn’t sleep all that well. He had to stay on his back and prop the arm on his injured side so that it wouldn’t move when he drifted off into a state that was more doze than true sleep. By Meredi, especially after the surgeon captain’s assessment that morning that the wound was healing nicely, he was feeling improved enough to begin exploring the fortress that was Boralieu.