Imager’s Battalion (30 page)

“What? The stream?”

“It looks like it was once a canal. It might be left from the time of Naedara. This part of the road, too.” Quaeryt almost smiled because he’d been able to figure that out.

“You’re the scholar. If they could build this, whatever happened to the Naedarans?”

“In some ways,” replied Quaeryt, “we’re their descendants. They were the first to worship the Nameless. There are still buildings in Ruile that they built, and supposedly they settled most of the larger towns south of here.”

“So what happened to them?”

“No one really knows. Some think it was because the Red Death wiped out most of the people in their towns, and then the Bovarians finished them off. Others claim that…” Quaeryt paused, because he thought he heard hoofs moving more quickly, as if someone was riding quickly along the shoulder of the road. He looked back, then saw Major Calkoran riding toward them, almost at a gallop, on the river—or canal—side of the road.

“What is it?” asked Skarpa.

“Major Calkoran’s riding hard to catch us.”

In only a few moments, the Khellan officer pulled in beside Quaeryt, just as first company drew abreast of a stand of shorter trees that grew almost to the edge of the far side of the old canal. Quaeryt looked past Calkoran to the isle. Something about the trees …

“Subcommander!”

“Major…” Quaeryt wasn’t certain what the Khellan officer had in mind.

“Subcommander, Commander! You must turn south, off the road. Now!”

“Why
must
we turn?” asked Skarpa.

Calkoran gestured toward the canal. “Those are not trees. They are—”

At that moment, a sound like rolling thunder swept across the column, and Quaeryt was rocked sideways in his saddle from impacts on his shields. Even as he struggled to right himself, he expanded the shields to cover those around him, hopefully the imager undercaptains as well.

“All companies! To the south! Off the road!” ordered Skarpa.

Quaeryt looked to the canal. Where there had been trees was a company of musketeers, each one with a heavy musket on a stand, with an assistant beside him.

Another volley followed, with smoke billowing up from the line of Bovarians.

“Imagers! Smoke and pepper into musketeers!” called Quaeryt. “Make it acrid and foul and thick!”

Quaeryt pulled the mare onto the canal side shoulder of the road, and began to image iron darts at the musketeers, one after the other.

“Threkhyl, Shaelyt, Voltyr! Image iron darts into the second line of musketeers!”

Another volley from the musketeers tore into Quaeryt’s shields, and he had to grab the front of the saddle to stay on the mare. He could feel himself getting light-headed, and he paused for a moment from imaging darts and grabbed for his lager-filled water bottle. Several swallows later, after the impact of another volley of musketry, he thrust it back into the holder and looked around, discovering that he and the imager undercaptains remained alone on the road.

You should have thought about that.

“Keep imaging at the musketeers! Don’t let a one survive!”

The fourth volley from the Bovarians was ragged, and Quaeryt could see a good half company of the remaining musketeers withdrawing into the taller trees. Others hurried forward, keeping low, to drag the musketeers wounded by the imagers’ iron darts back into the trees.

Quaeryt kept imaging his own iron darts at any musketeer he could see, trying to ignore the incipient light-headedness.

There was no fifth volley from the musketeers because there were none in sight. Quaeryt thought he might have killed or wounded close to thirty of the Bovarians, and the other imagers together might have accounted for almost as many.

Quaeryt watched for a moment, grabbing his water bottle and taking several swallows as he did, to make certain that the musketeers had indeed withdrawn. Then he turned in the saddle and looked toward the undercaptains.

“Sir! Akoryt took a musket ball!” Voltytr called. “There’s blood everywhere.”

Quaeryt rode over to where Voltyr had eased his mount in beside Akoryt. As Quaeryt moved his mount to the other side of the wounded undercaptain, he could see immediately that the musket ball had hit Akoryt in the upper right side of his chest. There was considerable blood, but it wasn’t spurting. Akoryt’s eyes were open, if glazed, and his breathing was labored.

What can you do?

Quaeryt swallowed, then leaned toward the injured man, concentrating on imaging out the ball, and immediately imaging into the gaping wound something like soft clean cotton. Then he glanced around. “Shaelyt. Get him to the surgeon. That way…” He gestured toward the south. “I got the musket ball out, and his wound is packed with clean cotton. Make sure the surgeon knows that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt turned the mare and looked across the ancient canal, but there was no sign of the Bovarian musketeers. He urged the mare southward toward where the others were re-forming. In moments, he reined up beside Zhelan. “They’ve already cleared the isle, it appears. Every musket stand is gone. Do you know our casualties?”

“Thirteen men are dead, ten wounded,” replied Zhelan, “most from first company.”

“Make that eleven wounded. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball in the chest.”

Zhelan glanced at Quaeryt almost in disbelief.

“Imagers aren’t invulnerable, especially less experienced ones,” said Quaeryt.

“How badly is he hurt?”

“Badly. I don’t know how severely, but he was having trouble breathing.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

Quaeryt finally caught sight of Skarpa. “I’ll see what the commander wants, but keep them well back from the canal. The Bovarians might fire from the trees.”

“Yes, sir.” After a moment Zhelan began to issue orders to move the battalion farther south.

Quaeryt rode toward Skarpa and reined up.

“Fifth Battalion took most of the fire, Subcommander. How bad was it?”

“Thirteen dead, eleven wounded, including Undercaptain Akoryt. He looks to be in a bad way.”

“I had a feeling about today.”

Quaeryt forbore to mention that Skarpa had had a bad feeling for the last several days.

Skarpa shook his head. “Musketeers, no less.”

“The imagers took out almost half a company of them,” Quaeryt said.

“How did they do that?”

“Imaged iron darts into them.”

“Ha! Good for your imagers. Might give them second thoughts. Except it won’t. They’ll still fear Kharst more than us.”

Quaeryt had no doubts about that.
But isn’t it somehow terrible that fear of one’s leader is greater than the fear of death at the hands of the enemy?
That suggested, in another fashion, just how important it was for Bhayar and Telaryn to succeed.

“We’ll see what the scouts discover, but I’d wager that the musketeers are withdrawing by boat already.”

“You think so, sir?”

“Be most surprised if they weren’t. Muskets and musketeers are too valuable to leave unguarded and outnumbered. They’ll pull them back and use them against us again.”

And again,
thought Quaeryt.

“If that’s so, we’ll form up and keep moving.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell my officers.” Quaeryt slowly rode back toward Fifth Battalion, but caught sight of the red banner that marked the surgeon, and turned his mount that way.

When he neared the banner, he saw Voltyr and Shaelyt. Both looked pale as he reined up beside where they stood holding the reins to their mounts.

“How is he?” asked Quaeryt.

Voltyr shook his head. “The surgeon—he’s really a senior squad leader who’s a field surgeon—said you’d stopped the bleeding, sir. Mostly … but that wasn’t enough. Something with the lungs. He stopped breathing.”

“He just gasped and gasped,” said Shaelyt. “Then he didn’t anymore.”

Quaeryt didn’t hide the wince.
Yet what else could you have done?
After a moment he said, “We’ll need to form up again. The commander wants to keep moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Quaeryt turned the mare back toward Fifth Battalion, he couldn’t help thinking,
Should you have started training all of them on shields earlier?
But that wouldn’t have helped Akoryt, because he couldn’t have developed enough strength as an imager to hold shields all the time, and the attack had come without warning.
Almost without warning.

With that thought, he turned his mount toward second company and Major Calkoran.

The major was waiting for him.

“Subcommander, sir … your imagers … they kept us from greater casualties.”

“They did. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball. He died.”

“I am sorry for him … and for us. He will be missed.”

For a moment Quaeryt was stunned by Calkoran’s coolness. He had to remind himself that the major had suffered incredible losses and seen far greater slaughter, and that the death of less than a score of men and a young officer could not compare to what Calkoran had experienced. “Major … how did you know they had musketeers on that island?”

“I saw those strange trees. Except they are not real trees. Each is a … screen … around the musket stand. The Bovarians used them to hide their musketeers in Khel,” said Calkoran, adding, “Or something like them. The muskets … do not fire accurately, either uphill or downslope. They are terrible when they can be fired in mass across a level ground, and where they cannot be charged quickly.”

Terrible … Quaeryt could see that. Four volleys into first and second company, and in a fraction of a quint, thirteen men were dead, and another eleven were wounded.
Fourteen dead, now, with Akoryt.

Without the imagers—again—the results could have been much worse.

But the question of shields lingered in the back of his mind.

After he finished with Calkoran, Quaeryt rode to the front of first company, his eyes going to the trees on the north side of the road and the canal, not quite seeing either.
You tried to protect them … you just didn’t think about muskets in a side volley.
He shook his head again.

No matter how much he told himself that in the few weeks he’d had the imagers he couldn’t have taught them what it had taken him well over a year to learn and develop, he had the feeling that Akoryt’s death … and perhaps those of others … would haunt him.

But he did need to give the others a better chance.
They might surprise you.

One way or the other …

He glanced northward again, for a moment.

32

Just slightly after midday, Skarpa ordered resumption of the advance toward Ralaes, leaving Fifth Battalion as vanguard. He also sent out two squads of scouts and remained at the head of the column with Quaeryt as they rode alongside the ancient canal.

A mille or so past the spot where the Bovarians had attacked, the canal turned southward. Quaeryt couldn’t help but study what the Naedarans had done. The far side of the canal was clearly a stone wall, backed by an earthen levee. On the far side of the levee was a marsh that extended northwest and joined the River Aluse. An ancient stone bridge—repaired in more recent times—crossed the canal, and on the far side of the bridge, the ancient stone road swung west to again parallel the river.

As he adjusted the visor cap and blotted the sweat off his forehead in the early afternoon heat, Quaeryt’s eyes followed the canal.
Why isn’t it swamp? There has to be water flowing from somewhere or it would have long since filled itself in.
Quickly taking out his map, he located where he thought they were. While the canal wasn’t shown on the map, nor the bridge, the isle was. So was a large lake to the south, with a town called Chelaes located along the western side of the unnamed lake.
Chelaes must have been important for Naedara.

“What are you thinking about? You’ve got that expression,” said Skarpa.

“The canal and why it was built.”

“It was built to get boats to the river. That was a long time back. Right now, the Bovarians used the canal wall to get off that isle. They have carts or wagons and they’re moving west at a good clip.”

“So they can set up another ambush or withdraw to meet their main body,” suggested Quaeryt.

“Most likely both,” replied Skarpa dryly.

Another glass passed before one of the scouts rode up beside the commander.

“What did you find?”

“The wagons that carried the musketeers and their muskets took another road just ahead. It’s headed south. The millestones say that there’s a place called Chelaes eleven milles south.”

“It’s on a lake, according to the map,” added Quaeryt.

“They won’t go that far. They need to get to Villerive.” Skarpa shook his head. “We’ll have to leave a company where the roads split … at least for a glass or so after we pass. I don’t want them circling back and following us. Not too close, anyway.”

“Maybe there’s a back road that parallels the river road that will get them to Ralaes or Villerive sooner,” suggested Quaeryt.

“That could be. The river swings north and then back south. Might be faster to cut across. But we don’t know. Don’t want to take any chances, though.”

Quaeryt could understand that all too well.

“I’m going to ride back and talk to Meinyt. You see anything out of sorts … call a halt.”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt understood what Skarpa hadn’t said—that he’d better be alert to something “out of sorts” early enough to avoid another ambush.

Skarpa looked to the scout. “You keep the reports coming to the subcommander.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the scout headed back westward and Skarpa rode toward the rear of the column, Quaeryt made an effort to study the terrain on both sides of the road—carefully, forcing his eyes to take in each area, from the scraggly weeds just beyond the shoulder of the road, to the sagging split rail fence of the small stead ahead and the lack of smoke from the chimney of the small cot.

Quaeryt kept watching.

Finally, a quint or so later, they reached the spot where the road to the south split off the river road, except it was a gentle turn, and the paved road was the one heading south, while the river road returned to being packed clay. Quaeryt studied the river road carefully, but there were no heavy wheel tracks and only a few hoofprints, likely those of the Telaryn scouts, heading west along the river. He could discern no attempts to blur prints or tracks on the river road, nor did he see any evidence of a concealed return to the river road as he and Fifth Battalion rode on.