Imager’s Battalion

21

Somehow, in the seeming chaos that followed the battle, if it could be called that, Quaeryt and Zhelan managed to muster Fifth Battalion, but it was well after the first glass past midnight by then, because while only some of the woods had burned, that had been enough to force out many of those defenders who had fled, and dealing with them had taken more time. Second glass had almost passed before they located a livery stable and adjoining sheds on the southeast side of Caernyn. The quarters, if they could be called such, were cramped, but he hadn’t wanted to try to roust out locals in the middle of the night, not with the potential chaos and additional deaths such an effort might have caused. What with one thing and another, it had been after third glass before Quaeryt had collapsed on a pile of hay in the livery stable, his legs shaking so much he could barely stand, and his head pounding.

When he struggled awake in the grayness of Lundi morning, his lungs burned. He felt as though the smoke from the previous day had all settled in his nose, throat, and chest. He slowly rose and then staggered as much as walked, because his bad leg was giving him trouble, as it often did when he was overly tired, to the door of the stable where a pair of troopers stood guard.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.” Looking out over the trampled mud of what passed for a courtyard, all he could see was gray. A grayish sky, with haze and smoke still everywhere … and the stench of burned wood and flesh. He had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat.

“Sir…” A junior squad leader hurried toward Quaeryt. “The commander would like you to meet him for breakfast at the River Inn. It’s three blocks that way.” He pointed.

“What about the men?”

The squad leader looked puzzled.

“I need to make sure they’re fed, first.” Quaeryt tried to sound calm and pleasant, even though his head still throbbed, and the burning sensation in his throat and lungs had not completely subsided.

“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.