In another quint, the first part of the column neared the point on the lane where it wound around the base of the hillside. The Bovarian regiment was stationed on higher ground and facing westward, and away from the lane, except for a rear guard of perhaps a company, set a good hundred yards down the slope, arranged in four separated squads.
Quaeryt signaled to Meinyt, and the battalion moved out of the lane.
Quaeryt could see a number of the Bovarian rear guards looking around, clearly puzzled, but not yet seeing anything, but obviously hearing the muffled sounds of riders. He hoped they would think that the Telaryn force was simply much farther away.
Quaeryt himself could feel the strain of holding the concealment, but Third Battalion was still not in position.
Come on. Move! Get those mounts in place. Gritting his teeth, he eased his half-staff from its leathers.
He could see more than a few Telaryn troopers were as puzzled by the reaction-or the lack of it-by the Bovarians, but to their credit, none of Meinyt’s and Zhelan’s troopers said a word.
“Telaryns somewhere!” came the call-in Bovarian.
“Where?”
“Can’t see them!”
“Send scouts down that lane.”
“Scouts went up the path to the north!”
“Send more!”
Another half quint passed before Meinyt looked to Quaeryt.
Here goes! Quaeryt raised his staff … then dropped it.
Without a verbal command, not all the companies charged up the gentle slope exactly in an even line, but Quaeryt could see that they were all moving.
He decided against dropping the concealment, even when his company slammed into one of the rearguard squads, although the Bovarians could see within it, as could his own troopers, but it would appear to the Bovarian troops higher on the hillside that the rear guard had simply vanished-if many of them were even looking.
Without personal shields, Quaeryt found himself knocking aside one Bovarian’s sabre and then slamming his half-staff into the skull of another Bovarian.
“At the main force!” Meinyt yelled as the battalion largely swept through the scattered, outmanned, and confused rear guard.
Quaeryt dropped the concealment when the troopers before him were some fifteen yards short of the Bovarians. Even as he managed to rebuild personal shields he doubted he could hold for much longer, he could see the shock and consternation as Third Battalion crashed into and through the rear of the Bovarian regiment.
Two large cavalrymen, wearing breastplates and skullcap helmets, spurred their mounts toward Quaeryt, one swinging a sabre and the other thrusting. Quaeryt’s shields turned both blades, but not without him feeling like he’d been hammered across his upper body. Still, he managed a backcut with the staff that dropped one from the saddle before recovering the staff and bracing it against the saddle and using it as a lance of sorts against the next Bovarian.
For a time he couldn’t even guess, all Quaeryt did was try to avoid blows while delivering them.
Then he heard an unfamiliar horn signal, and the fighting around him and around Zhelan’s company seemed to fade, and Quaeryt could see that the foot and the cavalry of the first Bovarian force had scattered, although several companies on the south end of the hill managed to withdraw in a half orderly fashion toward the second Bovarian force.
“On the left flank … follow me!”
As Meinyt swung Third Battalion to the south, Quaeryt saw exactly what the major had in mind by pursuing the withdrawing companies into the other Bovarian force.
“Zhelan! Take the right of Third Battalion!” Quaeryt image-boosted his voice, despite the momentary light-headedness that caused, then swung the mare to parallel the captain’s charge.
Skarpa’s front moved slowly, almost hesitantly, and Quaeryt wondered why, until he saw the Bovarians charge downhill toward Third Regiment. Then the Third pulled back even more, redressing their lines. A good score of mounts of the heavy cavalry leading the Bovarian charge went down at the edge of the bean fields.
Must have been a bigger ditch there …
That was all Quaeryt had time to think about, because he and Zhelan’s company were almost upon the flank of the Bovarians, all foot. While the foot had turned to face the riders, none of them had spears or pikes, and most of the first few ranks went down under sabres and hooves. Quaeryt used the half-staff as a thrusting weapon, braced against his saddle and shields.
Halfway into the foot formation, the charge slowed, and some of the riders went down, their mounts cut from under them, and more foot swarmed toward Third Battalion.
Quaeryt found himself near the edge between the armed foot and stalled cavalry. Widening his shields slightly, and hoping he could hold them long enough, he urged the mare forward, and then turned her upslope at a slight angle. The impact of the shields threw back the footmen enough, Quaeryt thought, that the rest of the company could press forward.
After riding some fifty yards, as the mare slowed, he turned her back downslope, again at an angle. By the time he pulled back from the front edge of the fighting, he could barely see, but he could sense that Zhelan and Third Battalion had broken through the foot and were attacking the rear of the main Bovarian body … and they had the higher ground.
Quaeryt just pulled up in an open space, holding on to his shields, hoping he didn’t have to use them more, barely able to hang on to the half-staff.
After another quint or so, gradually and then in a rush, the remaining Bovarians broke, fleeing westward into and through the marshy ground to reach the river, struggling in various ways to cross. More than a few drowned, Quaeryt judged, although he could barely see at all by that time, between the throbbing pain in his head, and the flashes of fire in his eyes.
Shouldn’t be making a habit of this.
In the end, Quaeryt remained reined up on the middle of the slope of the southern hill, hardly noting the squad of Zhelan’s troopers that surrounded him. Every so often, he could see enough to determine that the Bovarian casualties had been enormous, with bodies everywhere, horses standing as if shocked in places and other horses sidling out of the way of Telaryn riders.
Sometime later, how much Quaeryt couldn’t tell, Meinyt reined up beside Quaeryt, who was bent over, his head practically against the mare’s neck and mane.
“Sir?”
Quaeryt straightened slowly. “Yes, Meinyt?”
“The Bovarians never saw us, did they? The first ones, I mean.”
“They didn’t seem to. I hoped they wouldn’t. I’d appreciate it if we could leave it like that.”
Meinyt smiled. “I can do that, sir. So long as you ask for Third Battalion if you can.”
“I can do that.” I certainly can. Quaeryt forced a smile, not that he didn’t appreciate Meinyt’s words, but his head throbbed, and he could barely see. “Thank you.”
“Our thanks to you, sir. I think the commander would like to see you, sir.”
Quaeryt rode slowly downhill, through the dead and dying, the mare avoiding fallen men and mounts.
Skarpa was waiting on the road. He waved the two imager undercaptains away and rode over beside Quaeryt, then reined up almost stirrup to stirrup.
“How did you manage that?”
“Manage … what?” Quaeryt replied, his mouth so dry he could hardly speak. Belatedly, he realized he should drink something, and he was about to reach for his water bottle when he realized he still held the bloody half-staff in his left hand. Slowly, he replaced it in the leathers and then extracted the water bottle, taking a long but slow swallow of the watered lager.
The flashes across his eyes lessened slightly, as did the pounding in his skull, and he finally looked at Skarpa.
“You broke the entire flank by yourself.”
“No. I just gave them a little space so that they could attack.”
“That’s the same thing,” snorted the commander.
“How many did we lose, do you think?”
&n
bsp; “More than I’d like, but less than anyone would believe. Probably three hundred, at a guess, another couple hundred wounded. Some of those won’t make it.” After a pause he added, “The Bovarians had about as many survivors as we had casualties.”
“That’s a victory, isn’t it?”
Skarpa nodded. “Meinyt said you managed to get them close enough that the first regiment was completely surprised.”
“We were fortunate.”
“No. The only fortune involved was that you were with us.”
Quaeryt took another swallow of the watered lager. It tasted better than he recalled.
Skarpa smiled. “At least, I won’t have to explain how you got yourself killed.” Another pause followed. “Or why you didn’t when anyone else would have.”
Just don’t ask.
Skarpa didn’t. Instead, he turned in the saddle and looked to Shaelyt and Desyrk. “Undercaptains, you’d best escort the subcommander to his company.”
“Thank you,” murmured Quaeryt.
Skarpa just nodded.
75
By the seventh glass on Vendrei morning, Third Regiment was riding back northward on the river road. Skarpa had left the most seriously wounded in the only small town, barely more than a large hamlet, commandeering what passed for an inn to take care of those men for whom travel would be a death sentence. At the rear of the column marched 150 Bovarians, half of whom were wounded. Just behind the company acting as vanguard rode Quaeryt and Skarpa, with the imager undercaptains and Quaeryt’s command immediately following.
Quaeryt had felt tired most of the previous afternoon, but after even the passage of a few glasses and more than a little watered lager, he’d been left with only a vague headache. When he had awakened on Vendrei, even after sleeping on straw in a barn, he’d felt remarkably fit. That in itself surprised him, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune.
Like Jeudi, Vendrei had dawned hot and sticky, but as he rode he could see clouds to the northwest, and usually clouds foretold cooler weather.
Cooler … and wetter … and then hotter and stickier in summertime.
After a time Skarpa turned in the saddle. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, again, Quaeryt, just how you managed to get an entire battalion so close to the Bovarians yesterday without them noticing. I asked Major Meinyt, and all he’d say was that he was too busy following orders to notice that.” Skarpa looked hard at Quaeryt.
“We took the back lane, just as your scouts said. I asked Major Meinyt if he could move into a line of attack from a four abreast formation. He asked for five abreast. I agreed. When we reached the part of the lane close to the back of the hill, I ordered silent riding, and the men were very good. The Bovarians started yelling that they could hear us, but they didn’t immediately form up. By the time they realized how close we were, most of them couldn’t get prepared enough.”
“That sounds like what some of Meinyt’s captains said.” Skarpa frowned. “Several of the captives kept saying that you and Third Battalion appeared from nowhere.”
“It certainly didn’t seem like nowhere to me. I was worried the whole time we were riding up toward them.” And that had certainly been true enough, reflected Quaeryt.
“Then there was…” Skarpa shook his head. “There are some things a commander just shouldn’t look into too closely, I suppose. It’s just that, around you, that gets hard to do. I think Gauswn had the right idea. He thought you had a special relationship with the Nameless.”
“You know that I’m not even certain that the Nameless exists. How can I have a special relationship with a being whose existence I doubt?”
“What you believe doesn’t matter. Gauswn pointed that out to me before he left the regiment. You’re the one who turned him from a good officer into a chorister, you know?”
“He always wanted to be one. He was a good officer, but he’s already a better chorister.”
“The same could be said about you. You’re a good scholar, but you’re a better officer.”
Quaeryt was the one to shake his head.
“You do things that are impossible, and the men follow you.”
“They only look impossible. No one else is stupid enough to try them, and sooner or later, I’m going to attempt something that is truly impossible … and men will be hurt and die.” In retrospect, politically some of what he’d attempted in Extela had also been impossible … and he and Vaelora had paid the consequences.
“You worry about that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s also the mark of a good officer. Good officers always push their officers and men beyond what seems possible, but they never stop worrying about the costs to those they lead. Sometimes, they push too far. It happens. But I’ve seen, and heard, about how many more men are lost through excessive caution. If you lead a regiment through three hard-fought battles and push through to victory, and lose a third of your force, ministers in the capital will claim you’re a terrible commander. Yet they’ll praise a commander who only loses a hundred or so men in ten smaller battles, and never realize that he’s lost half his force. Lord Chayar understood that. I can only hope his son does as well.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Do you really know? His replacing you in Extela doesn’t fit what Skarpa would like, but political battles aren’t the same as military ones. That he’d discovered as governor. But will there be other political constraints that will cause the same kinds of problems in the end?
Quaeryt didn’t have an answer to his own question. Only time and events would answer it. “Bhayar said that the Bovarians had at least six regiments around Ferravyl. Does anyone really know?”
“We fought half a regiment up north and two down here. Seems to me that Kharst wouldn’t have sent two up the Vyl with only four left to try to take the city. I’d wager on eight.”
Quaeryt nodded. “So would I.”
“And I’d not be surprised if we don’t see them right soon, late this afternoon, certainly by tomorrow. They’d want to attack before we got back and before Bhayar gets all the other troops from the east.”
“How many more has he called in?”
“I don’t know. Deucalon and Myksyl wouldn’t say. If he stripped all the garrisons, I’d judge another eight regiments. Maybe ten. They say he started building regiments as soon as he left Tilbor at Year-Turn.”
That was something Quaeryt hadn’t heard.
“Right now … we need to worry about dealing with the Bovarians with what we’ve got.”
Quaeryt couldn’t argue with that, either.
76
At less than a quint past ninth glass Quaeryt caught sight of a Telaryn courier, flanked by two rankers, riding hard toward Third Regiment. The three were not riding down the road, but approaching through the plots of small growers from the northeast.
Skarpa looked to Quaeryt. “Thought something like this might happen.”
“I said I wouldn’t wager against you.” Quaeryt blotted his forehead, then glanced northward. The heavy gray clouds had moved far enough south that they covered more than a third of the sky, but had not reached the sun, and the air felt damper and more muggy than ever. He looked at the approaching riders again. “That’s an undercaptain.”
“Frig!” muttered Skarpa. “More trouble. Sow’s belly worth and more.” He did not slow the regiment, but waved for the undercaptain to join them.
The junior officer eased his mount up beside Skarpa. “Commander, sir … Marshal Deucalon requests that you move forward with deliberate speed. There are six or seven Bovarian regiments about to attack.” He handed Skarpa what looked to be a quickly sketched map. “You can see here, sir. Submarshal Myskyl is holding the approach to the bridge with two regiments. Marshal Deucalon holds this ridge with three regiments. The Bovarians have a regiment or more on the triangle, but their main body is to the south of Marshal Deucalon’s force. Your attack on the rear of the main Bovarian force would trap them between you and Marshal Deuc
alon.”
“Where is Commander Pulaskyr?” asked Skarpa, passing the map to Quaeryt.
“Commander Pulaskyr and Commander Claeph are engaged to the north against several other Bovarian regiments.”
Skarpa almost uttered something, then clamped his mouth shut.
Quaeryt scanned the map. He could guess what had happened. Deucalon had learned of the approach of the Bovarian main body from the south, and had positioned his main force on the ridge a mille south of the bridge, so as to hold the higher ground. He’d left Myskyl and two regiments as a rear guard at the bridge, but once Deucalon had moved to the ridge, somehow the Bovarians had barged troops across the Vyl onto the triangle. If Deucalon moved against the Bovarian main body, that would allow the Bovarians on the triangle to use the river road to attack Myskyl and threaten the bridge and city. Myskyl couldn’t move to reinforce Deucalon-or to attack the Bovarians on the triangle without abandoning the bridge approach, and it appeared that the Bovarians might have enough troops in the main body to split out and send a regiment or more east and then due north to take the bridge. Also the Bovarians on the triangle had the option of attacking Deucalon’s rear.
Was the use of all the barges against the bridge also to give the impression that Kharst didn’t have enough left to carry troops over the Vyl? After a moment Quaeryt answered himself. More than likely.
Quaeryt could see why Skarpa had wanted to swear … and then some.
“How far are we from the rear of the Bovarians?” asked the commander.
“Near-on a mille and a half. They’re just beyond that low rise.”
“So they likely can already see us?”
“Most likely, sir.”
“Tell the marshal that we’ll do what we can,” Skarpa finally said.
“Yes, sir. I’ll convey that.”
Once the undercaptain headed back northeast, Skarpa turned in the saddle to Quaeryt. “I know what I think. What about you?”
“Deucalon has to be outnumbered,” Quaeryt said. “If we just attack the rear of the Bovarians, we’ll be swallowed.”
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