Antiagon Fire ip-7

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  In that time he obviously missed some grenades because lines of the crimson-greenish-yellow flames continued to explode against imager shields-at least Quaeryt hoped that happened to be the case.

  He kept trying to intercept and redirect more of the grenades-and then they stopped. A wave of crimson-greenish-yellow flame rose from an entire section of the lower hill where Quaeryt thought the Antiagon catapults were. Only then did he call a halt to the company and re-form the troopers, ready to make a sweep of the hill, if necessary.

  As they watched, in perhaps half a quint, an oval of woods vanished in flame-and not a single Antiagon fled the woods at the base of the hill, not from what he could see.

  Quaeryt turned to Zhelan. “How badly were we hurt?”

  “You and the imagers kept most of the men from severe burns. A few in fifth squad have splotches in various places. Nothing more.”

  That was a relief of sorts, but he knew that some of the fire grenades had likely impacted Third Regiment.

  “Here comes the submarshal,” said Zhelan quietly.

  Quaeryt turned in the saddle and watched as Skarpa rode over and reined up beside him.

  “Why didn’t everything go up in flames, the way the cannon emplacement did?” asked the submarshal.

  “These are hardwoods,” said Quaeryt. “Maybe they’re harder to burn, or the Antiagon Fire might have consumed everything so quickly that it didn’t have a chance to spread. It’s also been cooler and damper.” He shrugged. “Other than that … I just don’t know.”

  Skarpa laughed. “You don’t like to admit you don’t know, do you?”

  “How did you ever guess that?” replied Quaeryt dryly.

  “I have watched you upon occasion.”

  “Once the fire up there dies out totally, I’d like to take a look,” said Quaeryt.

  “You think you can find out something after everything’s burned out?”

  “I’d like to look. Besides, I don’t think it would hurt to have the scouts really look over the next few milles before we proceed.”

  “I’ve already dispatched them.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was more than a glass later before Quaeryt and Skarpa rode through the still-smoldering woods on the south side of the hill, accompanied by a squad from Third Regiment. When they reined up at the edge of the cleared area, Quaeryt could see the charred and collapsed remnants of four catapults.

  “Shouldn’t they have burned to nothing?” asked Skarpa.

  “I’d have thought so, but…” Quaeryt looked more closely across the clearing. He thought he could make out the forms of at least ten bodies. His eyes went to the charred framework of the first catapult, then to the second and finally to the third and fourth. All had been burned and partly collapsed in the same fashion.

  “What is it?” asked Skarpa.

  “You were asking about imagers, remember? These catapults were imaged, I’m fairly sure. I’m guessing that they brought one of them out here, along with some imagers, and used the one as a model for the others. They were imaged out of some kind of wood that’s resistant to fire. They likely imaged the Antiagon Fire grenades into being as well.”

  “Could your imagers-”

  “Not without knowing what’s inside of them. You might recall that imaging even something as simple as a wheel takes observation and knowledge.”

  “I still … if they can do that…”

  “I’ve been able to try different forms of imaging for a little more than a year. From what I can tell, the autarchs have been using imagers for a lot longer.”

  Skarpa sighed. “I suppose that’s true, but…”

  “I know. The more we find out, the more there is to find out.”

  “I still don’t see how the scouts missed their tracks,” said Skarpa. “And we didn’t see any traces on the way up, either.”

  “If they had an imager with them, he could have imaged away all sign of tracks, and even imaged an extra tree or some underbrush in place.” Or he could have used concealment shields, but Quaeryt wasn’t about to admit that possibility publicly, especially not if word might get to Kharllon and Meurn.

  When they finally headed back down toward the main road, Quaeryt asked, “What sort of casualties did we take-besides those in first company?”

  “Less than fifty, mostly in Third Regiment, and most of those were in the first company.”

  Quaeryt feared that some of those might well have resulted from grenades deflected from fifth squad, but that was unavoidable, and the casualties would have been far higher without first company and the imagers leading the way.

  62

  Skarpa called a halt at fourth glass of Lundi afternoon, at a group of older villas just shy of the short stretch of rugged hills leading down to the lower lands that formed an arc around the bay on which Liantiago was located. Then he called a meeting of all the regimental commanders in the dining room of the largest villa, which held nothing but a long battered table and even more battered straight-backed chairs gathered from various places in the largely stripped villa. Once all seven regimental commanders and Quaeryt were present, from the head of the table Skarpa began, “We have several milles of hills ahead, five or six. At the west end, they drop steeply down to the lands around the bay. The mist is thickening, and it’s already hard to see anything in the hills. The scouts haven’t had time to cover more than a mille ahead. After what happened earlier today, I’d like to give the scouts plenty of time to scour those hills.”

  “Do you think that will give the Antiagons more time to form their defenses?” asked Commander Kharllon.

  “If they don’t have them already in place, I’d be astonished,” replied Skarpa. “A little caution on our part won’t give them that much more time, and it could save us quite a few troopers.” He smiled politely. “I believe that Marshal Deucalon made that observation a number of times when he was commanding Northern Army on the advance up the Aluse.”

  “At times he did.” Kharllon smiled in return.

  Quaeryt could almost hear the words left unspoken-“but not in a case like this.” He was about to say something when Alazyn cleared his throat.

  “I’m one of the most junior here, but it seems to me that the submarshal will get the blame if anything goes wrong. Or have I missed something? It also seems to me that the submarshal’s old regiment and Commander Quaeryt’s first company have been taking the lead-and the brunt of the attacks. Now … I don’t decide any of that. I just follow orders, but it does seem a little strange to me when those who’ve been shielded are the ones urging against caution and a prudent advance.”

  For a moment there was silence around the table. Then Kharllon looked at Alazyn, his eyes hard. Meurn looked aghast, but Quaeryt could see that Fhaen was having trouble concealing a smile. Both Fhaasn and Dulaek looked to Paedn, the senior subcommander. No one looked directly at Quaeryt.

  Quaeryt thought he knew why Skarpa did not immediately reply, and he kept a pleasant expression on his face and waited.

  Paedn laughed, warmly. “A subcommander not afraid to offer the obvious. Don’t look so astonished, Meurn. It does happen, now and again.” The senior subcommander looked to Kharllon. “You asked a good question, and you got a good answer. At least, I thought it was a good one, especially coming from a commander known to move far more quickly than the marshal. Why do you have reservations?”

  “It seems to me that the Antiagons are unprepared. I’d prefer to keep them that way,” replied Kharllon, his voice open and pleasant.

  “So would we all, I think, but the hills ahead are the last place from where they can mount a surprise attack. We escaped major casualties in the attack earlier today, but I wouldn’t be surprised if fending off those fire grenades left our imagers somewhat … depleted.” Paedn looked to Quaeryt.

  “Several of them would not be able to offer the same level of imaging,” replied Quaeryt.

  “After any battle, some troopers would like to claim that,” said K
harllon dryly.

  “The submarshal has six imager undercaptains,” replied Quaeryt. “There are six regiments. If one or two of your regiments were at half strength, you’d likely be more cautious.” He paused just slightly, before adding, “I’d like to think you would be.”

  Fhaen smothered a grin.

  “As always,” replied Kharllon, “that would depend on the circumstances.”

  “As it does here,” said Skarpa firmly. “Do any of you have any special needs or circumstances of which I should be aware?”

  “We could use some boots or a bootmaker before long,” said Meurn. “Or even tanned leather for boot soles.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Skarpa.

  “Would you like some fatted steers, too?” murmured someone, but Quaeryt didn’t see who it was, although he suspected Alazyn.

  Once Skarpa dealt with other questions involving supplies, set the duty and standby regiments for the evening, and dismissed the senior officers, Quaeryt walked outside and nodded for Alazyn to join him.

  “I know, sir. I shouldn’t have said anything, even in Northern Army he was like that. Always saying things without saying them. No one would say anything.”

  “That might have been because he’s one of the marshal’s favorites.”

  “That’s why he’s here, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, but no one told me anything like that, and they didn’t tell the submarshal, either.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I never expected to make subcommander, and I’ll be Namer-fired if I’ll scrape and bow to a commander who hides behind other regiments.”

  “Don’t scrape and bow. Smile warmly and politely to him from now on. That will upset him more than anything, now.”

  Alazyn grinned. “I can do that.”

  After a few more moments with Alazyn, Quaeryt watched as the dark-haired officer hurried back to his regiment. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind that Alazyn had worked his way up through the ranks-and would probably have spent the rest of his time in service as a permanent undercaptain or captain if Kharst hadn’t attacked Ferravyl. But then, you’d probably have rotted away as a princeps somewhere … with a very unhappy wife. He couldn’t help but smile at the irony in that observation, since two years earlier he would have been astonished to have been named a princeps.

  He shook his head and made his way to the small building that would serve first company, where he summoned the imager undercaptains. After relaying what Skarpa had in mind, he then looked at Horan. “Have you ever imaged leather?”

  The middle-aged imager laughed. “More than once. Wasn’t much of a cobbler or bootmaker, but leather I could do.”

  “One of the foot regiments needs boot leather. Is that possible?”

  “Should be. Let’s see what I can do. Be a welcome change from what we’ve been doing.”

  More than a glass later, just before the cooks were about to begin feeding the troopers, Quaeryt made his way back to the villa Skarpa was using, and then to the study.

  The submarshal looked up from the maps on the table too small to be a proper desk. “I haven’t heard yet.”

  “Oh … it’s not about that. We have a wagon filled with tanned boot leather out here. I thought you might like to let Subcommander Meurn know about it.”

  “One of your imagers?” Skarpa brushed hair that was more gray than Quaeryt remembered back off his forehead, then looked directly at the commander.

  “He used to be a trapper and lived out from others. The leather looks to be good and sturdy.”

  “Leave the wagon here. I’ll send word. Meurn won’t like it.”

  Quaeryt nodded.

  “How do you expect me to deal with Kharllon after what happened?” asked Skarpa, half humorously.

  “Keep him in reserve until we reach Liantiago. Then have Fourteenth Regiment lead an attack.” Quaeryt’s tone was ironically dry.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “It doesn’t hurt to have a heroic senior officer now and again.”

  “I would ask, wouldn’t I?”

  “You’re in charge.”

  “I wonder, at times, if any of us are truly in control. Or are we playthings in a vast game between the Namer and the Nameless?”

  “Rholan wondered that as well. At least, he said that professing a great destiny was inviting the Namer and the Nameless to make one a plaque in a game.”

  “Is that why you disclaim everything?” asked Skarpa.

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  “Most would not believe that what I seek is possible. Too many of the few who could see it is possible would do anything they could to stop it.”

  “And what do you seek that is so dangerous?”

  “Among other things, a fairer and more just world for those without power and privilege.”

  “You’re right,” said Skarpa with a bark of laughter. “If the High Holders of Lydar believed you could bring that about, they’d line up with cannon and Antiagon Fire … for both you and Bhayar.”

  And that’s just part of what I seek. “So I don’t say much, except that I’m a loyal supporter of Lord Bhayar.”

  “What does Lord Bhayar think?”

  “He knows I’m absolutely loyal.”

  Skarpa nodded slowly. “Another reason why you gather enemies.”

  “If it weren’t that, it’d be something else. There’s always something.”

  “There is. Speaking of that, you might also suggest to Alazyn that Kharllon does carry grudges.”

  “I already talked to him.”

  “Good. How many attacks do you think the Antiagons will make before we reach the city?”

  “As many as they think they can without great losses. I’d expect something tomorrow, from the hills, and maybe even a fortified position somewhere short of the city. The fortified position might be long on walls and Antiagon Fire and short on troopers.”

  “To see what losses they can inflict without taking too many casualties.”

  “That’s my thought. Has Kharllon offered any observations?”

  “Of course not. He’s just expressed the utmost confidence in my ability to direct an attack on a city that’s supposedly never even been threatened, let alone taken.”

  “Oh?”

  “By his quiet silence and his obedience … not by anything else.” Skarpa snorted.

  “I assume you want first company in the van tomorrow.”

  “Where else?”

  “We’ll be ready.” With a nod, Quaeryt slipped away, leaving Skarpa and his maps.

  63

  A quint past seventh glass on Mardi morning saw first company riding down the lane from the old and tired villas toward the gray stone of the road leading westward to the rugged hills-and Liantiago beyond. The sky was clearer than it had been in days, and a brisk and chill wind blew out of the northeast.

  Just before first company turned onto the main road, Skarpa rode up and eased his mount in beside Quaeryt’s mare. “The scouts haven’t found any tracks at all.”

  “None? Not on the road or on the shoulders or the side lanes?”

  “No.” Skarpa offered a crooked smile. “They say that there’s not even a place where the Antiagons could make an attack. I’d say that means an attack. They’ve removed all tracks, and a road without any tracks suggests it held many. I’d like to know just how many.”

  “That’s what they don’t want us to know. Is there any place where it’s more obvious that the road has been swept clean or the shoulders smoothed?”

  “The scouts didn’t see any signs of that.”

  “That means that they’ve kept everyone off the road, at least for the last day or so.” That suggested something to Quaeryt … something … but he couldn’t pin it down.

  “Just keep your eyes open and your imagers ready,” said Skarpa, before turning his mount back to rejoin Third Regiment.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The morning was still a
s first company rode eastward past the first of the irregular hills of a reddish sandstone, where, in places, small evergreens clung precariously to crevices in the stone. Those hills stood several hundred yards from the roadbed, but over the next half mille, the road curved and began to descend toward a pass apparently between two taller and more rugged sandstone hills.

  As first company neared that gap, Quaeryt could see that the road descended straight into a gorge that had been widened, the reddish stone walls cut back at a forty-five degree angle and smoothly finished. On each side of the roadway was a comparatively wide shoulder, a good twenty yards between the low stone rain gutters at the edge of the pavement and the base of the sandstone slope that angled upward and for a good two hundred yards, although the rugged top of the hill was less than 150 yards above the roadbed and likely that far back from the road. The part of the road that followed the cut through the hillside was not that long, certainly no more than four hundred yards before the road reached a wider and more open valley descending toward the lowlands.

  “Do you see anyone or anything?” he asked Zhelan, riding beside him.

  “No, sir. I can’t even see where anyone could hide.”

  Neither could Quaeryt, but the narrow section between the two stone slopes worried him, even though he couldn’t see any place for an attacker to hide, especially given the steepness and openness of the flattened and smoothed sandstone walls.

  As he rode closer and closer to the beginning of the gorge, Quaeryt kept glancing toward the upper side of the road cut on the south side, just ahead. He couldn’t see anyone … or even any shadows. No shadows! There have to be shadows with the sun to the south.

  “Company halt!”

  Quaeryt concentrated, trying to image out a section of the slope below the area that held no shadows. Abruptly the smooth slope vanished, to reveal men and catapults stationed on a ledge cut behind a chest-high wall of the same sandstone. Immediately above was another shorter ledge and wall, behind which stood archers.