Imager’s Battalion ip-6

by L. E. Modesitt

  “Ah … sir.”

  Quaeryt turned at the sound of Zhelan’s voice.

  “As you suggested, sir, we’ve taken over the stable owner’s kitchen and spaces,” said Zhelan. “It will take a bit longer to feed everyone, but…”

  Quaeryt had suggested no such thing, but he appreciated, again, Zhelan’s tact. “Thank you. I’m glad you were able to work that out.” You shouldn’t have said anything until you knew what was happening. But then he wasn’t thinking well, not on as little sleep as he’d had. That was just another reason he had no business being a subcommander. He should have been up earlier to take care of things, but he didn’t have the years of training and experience to be able to know what to do without having to think about it. And … he’d forgotten how much imaging took out of him. He turned back to the squad leader. “If you would let the commander know I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once the squad leader had left, Quaeryt turned to Zhelan and gestured for the major to follow him along the dried mud beside the stable for several yards, until they were well away from the troopers. “Thank you.”

  “Sir … that’s what I’m here for.”

  To Quaeryt’s ears, Zhelan didn’t sound condescending, patronizing, but just matter-of-fact, and not in the resigned way he’d heard too often in Bhayar’s court. “That may be, but I appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Zhelan paused. “We lost four more men this morning. I think the rest of the wounded stand a good chance of pulling through.”

  “What’s the town like? And the Khellans?”

  “They followed your orders. There were even wounded Bovarians where they fought.”

  Thank the Nameless. Even as that thought came to mind, Quaeryt almost smiled at the incongruity of his offering thanks, however inadvertently, to a deity he wasn’t even certain existed. “That’s good. Very good.”

  “Sir … the commander…”

  “Oh … thank you.”

  Quaeryt pulled himself together, then headed in the direction that the squad leader had pointed, finding himself accompanied by a pair of troopers. Smiling wryly at that, he also checked his shields, holding only the lighter trigger shields, which weren’t any effort to speak of, as he walked northward.

  The River Inn was actually a solid three-story building, with a half squad of troopers stationed on the covered front porch.

  “Good morning, sir,” offered the squad leader as Quaeryt stepped onto the solid planks of the porch. “The commander is in the public room, the first arch on the right.”

  “Good morning, and thank you.” He had just stepped through the doorway when he couldn’t help but hear a few words behind him.

  “… must have taken out half score himself with that staff of his … protecting the imagers…”

  Had he? Did everyone watch him? Not many did, only those who weren’t preoccupied with their own survival, but a few had, and they’d seen the overt physical things. That would change as the other imagers became more able and there were more imagers to watch. He pushed those thoughts aside and made his way into the public room where Skarpa sat alone at a circular table. In fact, except for a serving woman standing by the door to the kitchen, he was the only one in the room.

  Quaeryt slid into the chair across from the commander. “I overslept this morning…”

  “It’s not quite seventh glass,” replied Skarpa mildly. “That’s not all that late.”

  “For a subcommander of a battalion? I told you I wasn’t meant to be an officer … and after that mess last night…” Quaeryt started to shake his head, but even beginning the gesture hurt. Instead, he reached for the mug of lager than Skarpa had waiting for him. After a swallow, he went on. “Zhelan kept me from making a fool out of myself this morning.”

  “There are times when everyone has to do that. You’ve done it for me, whether you know it or not.”

  When? Quaeryt couldn’t think of a time when he could have done that.

  Skarpa motioned to the server. “Breakfast for the subcommander.”

  The woman nodded and hurried into the kitchen.

  “Zhelan understands something you don’t,” Skarpa said.

  Quaeryt took another swallow of the lager, then waited for the other boot to come down.

  “You can’t do everything. Last night, what you and the imagers did saved hundreds of our troopers. I told him to make sure you weren’t disturbed.”

  “But then I shouldn’t be a subcommander.”

  “You have to be, or you won’t have the authority to do what you need to do.” Skarpa snorted. “There’s not a man in your first company that doesn’t know you’ll put your life on the line to do what needs to be done. If you don’t lead every charge, they all know it’s because you’re doing something else, and it’s usually something that saves their ass. If the Khellans don’t know it already, they will before long.” He stopped as the server returned and set down a platter heaped with a mixture of rice fries and scrambled cheesed eggs, with a small loaf of dark bread.

  Once the server moved back to the kitchen door, Skarpa went on. “Now … eat and stop worrying. I need you with a clear head so that you can get to work making sure that the patrols I set up are doing what they should. I told them to do what they did in Rivecote Sud. We also need to go over supplies.” The commander shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll be here for a time.”

  “Have you heard from the marshal?” Quaeryt took a bite of the warm rice fries, surprisingly good, but that might have been because he was indeed hungry.

  “No, but he’s not likely to be able to move as fast as we have.”

  “Do they have a ferry here?”

  “They’ve got slips, but no boats. Not exactly surprising, when you think about it.”

  “What have you learned from the Antiagons?”

  “They were sent to join the attack on Ferravyl, but Aliaro sent them by way of Variana.” Skarpa laughed softly.

  “What? That sounds like he was stalling.”

  “My thought as well. Then, on the way down the Aluse, their commander found that the Bovarians weren’t too friendly on the north side of the river, and they took the bridge at Villerive. They were told to wait here for a Bovarian regiment from someplace called Asseroiles. By the time that regiment arrived, they’d learned of the defeat at Ferravyl, so they were ordered to hold Caernyn against any attackers.”

  “What did their commander say?”

  “He didn’t. He was killed when you and your imagers exploded that Antiagon Fire in their trench. One of his majors-the only one who survived-told me. He’s got a broken leg. He was very upset. Apparently, when they use Antiagon Fire, everyone flees, and they just mop up the survivors. He can’t understand what happened.”

  “We still lost too many.”

  “We always lose too many. That’s war. We can only make sure the Bovarians lose a lot more. Now get back to eating so that we can get on with the day. Oh … and by the way, we’re making better arrangements for all the troopers and officers while we’re here in Caernyn. The officers will all be billeted here, and we’ve taken all the inns and the like for the regiments and your battalion.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank you for keeping the damage from that Antiagon Fire to a minimum.”

  “I’ve got some ideas for handling it better. After we get the patrolling settled, I’m going to work with the imagers.”

  “Good. Eat,” ordered Skarpa.

  Quaeryt took another swallow of lager, a mouthful of cheesed eggs and more rice fries.

  22

  After finishing with Skarpa, Quaeryt then had to deal with Meinyt and the companies from his regiment assigned to patrol duty in Caernyn. In the end, it was early afternoon before Quaeryt gathered the imager undercaptains and several engineer rankers together, and they walked toward the battlefield. Quaeryt had earlier sent one of the engineer rankers to confirm that at least one of the Antiagon catap
ults looked to be in working order. The other rankers carried baskets holding various empty fired-clay containers. One carried a small spade.

  As they reached the top of the hill above the stone walls, Quaeryt could see that below the walls, Bovarian and Antiagon prisoners were still digging graves and carrying bodies to them, although a number of the formerly trapped and staked pits on the slope were already being used as communal graves. He recognized the mounted undercaptain overseeing the work on the northeast side of the slope-Sengh, from Skarpa’s first battalion.

  “Undercaptain … we need to use one of the catapults for training. Will that be a problem?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, sir. We’ve already cleared out the area behind the walls. I’ll just send word over to Captain Moragh. He’s in charge of the other side. That’s where the catapults are.”

  “I’d appreciate it. How are the prisoners taking it?”

  “They’re not happy, especially the Antiagons. They think we should have at least given their dead a common pyre. The commander said that if they wanted to burn they should have used their own fire when they had the chance.” Sengh smiled wryly. “Funny how folks don’t like the idea of taking their own poison.”

  “That’s true of most of us.” Quaeryt nodded. “Thank you. If you’d have your man tell Captain Moragh that we’ll be flinging things toward the woods…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Quaeryt led the way across the top of the hill toward the southwestern end of the walls, he couldn’t help but think about the Antiagon attitude toward burial. Does it really matter whether your corpse is buried or burned after you’re dead? While Quaeryt frankly thought it more sanitary to be burned, he knew that there had been great debates over death and the dead. According to some choristers, Rholan had claimed that excessive attention to the body was a form of Naming. Although Quaeryt didn’t recall anything offhand, he wondered, absently, if there were any passages in the little book about what Rholan had really thought about burial or burning, not that Quaeryt had had time or energy or light in which to read in the past days. If he ever got a chance, it might be interesting to see.

  When they reached the end of the walls, beyond the area where the worst of the deflected Antiagon Fire had seared men and earth and everything else, the odor of burned vegetation and even burned flesh remained, if not so overpoweringly as it had been the night before.

  Quaeryt swallowed, then turned to the engineer rankers. “Undercaptain Vaelt said you could operate the catapults.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the hard-faced older trooper. “Might take a bit to make sure we get it right.” After a brief pause, he added, “You just want us to throw these pots?”

  “We’ll start with them empty. Then I’d like them filled with dirt or sand. That’s why the spade.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go to it, and let me know when you’re ready.” Quaeryt turned to the imagers. “You all did the best you could last night, and Commander Skarpa was pleased that you were able to keep the damage from the fire grenades to as little as it was. So was I.” He paused. “I’d still like you to be able to do better in the future. If we encounter more than one Antiagon regiment, or one that’s better equipped, you’ll be overwhelmed. Given how you did last night, with a little practice, all of you can do better.”

  Quaeryt could sense the silent protest that they were all tired. He smiled and went on. “I know you’re tired, but one of the things that makes you better and stronger is trying things when you’re rested, but still tired. If you’ll recall, every one of you has gotten more accomplished each time you’ve stretched yourself. Now … once the engineers have the catapult working, they’re going to fling pots toward the woods over there. We’ll walk downhill before they start. Each of you, in turn, will image something into one of those pots with enough force to break it. The idea is to break it before it passes over the wall.” He paused and studied the faces. “Tell me why, Undercaptain Threkhyl.”

  “So it won’t get to our troops.”

  “That’s half right. What’s the other half, Shaelyt?”

  “If we do it quick enough, it might explode on their own men?”

  “Exactly. And if we can do that, they might not be so eager to try using it. Either way…” His words got nods from Desyrk, Voltyr, and Shaelyt, and he turned back to the engineer rankers. “How long before you’ll be ready to start?”

  “Half a quint, sir, if nothing breaks. Might be a bit longer.”

  “We’ll be walking down the slope, but we’ll be away from the trees. Give me a hail when you’re ready. When I tell you to start, I want you to send off six, but not in regular intervals. Vary the time between each.”

  “Yes, sir. We might have to try a few first.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Quaeryt motioned to the undercaptains, then walked to the end of the stone wall, around the still warmish pile of charred wood and other items that had been pushed or shoved there, then past a matted and trampled area of grass and brush, and around a long earthen mound that had likely been a staked pit dug to protect the corner of the stonework, but which had clearly been turned into a burial mound. Something rustled, and he turned to see what he thought was a rat, scurrying into deeper grass. Scavengers always are quick to show up, even among the animals. He kept walking.

  Fifty yards below the end of the stone wall and some twenty yards from where the woods began, Quaeryt stopped and waited for the undercaptains to join him. “We’ll start here. Once the engineers signal they’re ready, I’ll call out which of you I want to try to destroy the pot coming off the catapult. Try to get it before it crosses the wall, but don’t stop trying until you do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Not all the imagers murmured affirmation, but Quaeryt ignored that.

  Almost a full quint passed, along with several objects flung toward the woods, before one of the rankers peered over the wall and called down, “We’re ready, sir!”

  “Begin launching!”

  Quaeryt pointed. “Akoryt!”

  He’d barely gotten the name out when a dark pot flew over the wall toward the woods.

  Akoryt never did manage to image anything into it.

  “Shaelyt!”

  The youngest undercaptain managed to hit the pot some thirty yards from the wall.

  “Baelthm!”

  Surprisingly, Baelthm imaged something into the jar almost when it crossed the stone rampart, but whatever it was happened to be so small that the jar just broke in two and both halves flew into the woods.

  “Good aim,” called Quaeryt, “but you’ll need something a little bigger. Desyrk!”

  Desyrk exploded his pot just before it reached the woods.

  “Threkhyl!”

  Not surprisingly, Threkhyl destroyed a larger pot less than five yards from the ramparts, with little more than small fragments remaining and cascading down.

  “Good!”

  “Voltyr!”

  Voltyr was almost as accurate as Baelthm, but more forceful, so that some of the shards actually dropped onto the stone of the rampart.

  “Excellent!” Quaeryt paused, then said, “We’ll try another round here, and then we’ll move downhill.”

  During the second round, Quaeryt imaged a rough shard of hot iron into the pot meant for Akoryt when it was almost over the trees, so that it looked like it had hit a tree. That was because he wanted to see if he could do it himself.

  Then they walked downhill another fifty yards and repeated the exercise. After that, they retreated another fifty yards. All in all, by the time Quaeryt had finished with the exercises, he and the undercaptains were exhausted and dripping sweat. He’d had to remove his cap several times and blot his forehead to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He was as tired as they were because he’d imaged objects into the pots the imagers had been unable to destroy at the moment they were about to strike the trees. At the end, when they were more than three hundred yards downhill, that meant he was imaging
three times as often as Threkhyl, Shaelyt, and Voltyr. Although he’d had to send one of the engineer rankers back for more crockery and other objects, Quaeryt wasn’t displeased with the results. Even Baelthm had managed to destroy pots up to a distance of a hundred yards.

  The sun hung low over the buildings on the west side of Caernyn by the time Quaeryt and the imagers started back up the hill toward the town.

  As they neared the edge of Caernyn, Quaeryt could hear Desyrk whispering to Shaelyt.

  “How does he know all this … must be more than an imager…”

  “You’d have to ask him,” replied Shaelyt in a low voice, “but the lost ones always know things that no others know.”

  “… these lost ones so powerful…” added Threkhyl in a louder voice, “… why aren’t they the lords and rulers?”

  “… part of the curse Erion laid on them … to be powerful and wise enough to rule … and never be able to do so…”

  Quaeryt almost stumbled as he heard those words. Why hadn’t Shaelyt told him that? After a moment he smiled. The young undercaptain just had, because he’d spoken more clearly and loud enough for Quaeryt to hear. Then Quaeryt frowned. Had Shaelyt created that myth on the spot … and if he hadn’t, why hadn’t he told Quaeryt earlier?

  At the moment it didn’t matter, but he did need to talk to Shaelyt about it. He also needed to work in some sort of training about shields for Shaelyt and Voltyr.

  23

  Quaeryt knew that he needed to visit the High Holders in the area, but after working with the imager undercaptains on Lundi afternoon, it was far too late to set out. Instead, he arranged for fourth company to accompany him and the imagers on Mardi. Then he made inquiries of shopkeepers and others along the main street of Caernyn to find out more about the local holders, discovering that there was only one located close to the town itself, three milles west on the higher ground that he still thought might have once been an island in the River Aluse.

  High Holder Haeryn owned and controlled the river docks below the town, situated at the south end of comparatively deep waters that amounted to a bay of sorts, sheltered by two points of higher ground that did not look entirely natural to Quaeryt, much as the locals assured him that the river harbor had not changed much in generations. Haeryn also owned the taproom and the two inns nearest to the river docks, as well as two large warehouses on the higher ground above the docks. Quaeryt suspected the High Holder owned far more than that, but more indirectly.