Imager’s Battalion

33

Late on Lundi afternoon Skarpa received scout reports that the Bovarians had invested the approach to Ralaes with revetments and trenches. He called a halt to the advance at a small, nameless, and hastily abandoned hamlet some four milles from the approach to the town. While the company officers and men of the regiments and Fifth Battalion were making camp, setting up picket lines, and taking care of mounts, among other matters, and the cooks were preparing an evening meal, Skarpa called Quaeryt and Meinyt to meet with him on the covered front porch of one of the larger dwellings in the hamlet, and one with a view of the river and a breeze off the water. For the breeze alone, Quaeryt was grateful. He’d made the ride to the hamlet in a painful semidaze, not to mention being hot and sweaty.

Skarpa had found a small table that he’d set in the middle of the narrow porch and some stools. He’d also spread a map on the table, weighted on the corners with stones. As Quaeryt listened, he tried not to squirm too much on the stool, but he was feeling more aches than he had thought he would, and there were bruises in more than a few places he couldn’t see.

“… the ground to the south of the town is low and swampy, with thick underbrush and mud holes and uneven ground. There are also extensive false olive thickets on the higher ground. We’d have to ride more than twenty milles to get around it…”

“What about that other road?” asked Meinyt. “The one the musketeers took?”

“It joins the river road about a mille toward Raelaes from here,” replied Skarpa.

“Too bad we didn’t know that.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to take it, not the part heading west from the paved road.” Skarpa cleared his throat. “The scouts found two abandoned wagons-both with broken axles.”

“They just left them?” Meinyt frowned.

“Apparently they were worried about Quaeryt’s third company catching them.” Skarpa smiled.

“After the way Zhael’s men ripped through their troopers,” said Quaeryt, “they were right to be worried.”

Meinyt and Skarpa exchanged a quick glance, one that Quaeryt ignored.

“Anyway…” continued Skarpa, “there’s about two milles of open ground east of the town, between that jungle and the river. They’ve thrown up revetments across most of the last mille, with ditches in other places. Most of the ditches are wide enough that a horse can’t jump them, and they’re filled with sharpened stakes and who knows what else…”

“Filthy water and mud, most likely,” added Meinyt.

“… it’s hard to tell how many men they’ve got, but it looks like they’ve got at least three, maybe four, regiments of foot behind those earthworks.”

“At least some muskets, too,” said Quaeryt. “Where they’ve got a clear path of fire.”

Skarpa continued using the map to point out what he’d learned from the scouts for another half quint before he finally said, “That’s what we know now. I’m in no hurry to attack. Not for a day or so, anyway. The men could use some rest-and so could you and the imagers, Subcommander. We need to feel out where their strong points are and see if there’s somewhere we can break through and then wheel and pin them against their own earthworks.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Tomorrow, when you’re rested, I’d like you to ride closer and see what you think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get some food and sleep. Leave everything else to Zhelan. That’s what he’s there for.”

Quaeryt nodded, not trying even to smile pleasantly.

Skarpa stood. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”

For all that Skarpa said, it would be a while before the cooks had rations ready. While Quaeryt was sore and tired, he wasn’t sleepy. So he made his way to the eastern end of the hamlet, where Fifth Battalion was settling in around cots abandoned by their owners or tenants.

Zhelan was the first to catch sight of him. “Sir … the first cot there … there’s space for you and the imagers.”

“Thank you. You’ve told them?”

“Yes, sir.” Zhelan stood waiting.

Quaeryt knew Zhelan wanted to know what Skarpa had said, but wouldn’t ask. So he said quietly, “The Bovarians have thrown up earthworks and trenches across all the approaches to Ralaes…” He went on to summarize Skarpa’s words, then ended with, “We need to see that the men get rest, but that they’re ready in case the Bovarians try another surprise attack.”

“Do you think they will?”

“They very well might. We’re getting close to Villerive, and they can retreat behind all those earthworks after they try a strike.”

“A few extra sentries might be in order … posted farther out.”

Quaeryt nodded, then added, “Perhaps mounts already saddled for a squad … or two?”

Zhelan offered a faint smile. “I’d thought that, sir.”

After he talked over matters with the major, Quaeryt started toward the cot that Zhelan had pointed out. He was still some twenty yards away when Voltyr approached from where he had been standing under a small maple.

“Sir?”

“What is it, Voltyr?”

“I hoped I could talk over a few things with you.”

Quaeryt nodded, wondering if he could evade the thrust of the undercaptain’s inquiries, or if he should, for he had no doubt questions were on Voltyr’s mind. How could they not be after all that’s happened in the last day or so?

“There have been times when we should have suffered from arrows. Those around us did. This morning, those closest to you were not injured by the first musket attack, while many farther away were. This afternoon, those near you were not injured.” The undercaptain paused. “You can extend shields some distance, can you not?”

What do you say to that? “Learning shielding, from what I know, is difficult, but I’ve tried to give all of you instruction in imaging … as best I could. It takes time to learn and strengthen abilities, and there’s never been any imager who lived long enough or who worked with others enough to develop a way of teaching imagers. Not that I know.”

“Until now,” said Voltyr quietly. “That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it? You’ve been pushing us as fast as you thought we could learn.”

“It wasn’t fast enough for Akoryt,” Quaeryt said quietly.

“He wasn’t strong enough yet. Shaelyt and I can barely hold shields for a fraction of a quint.” Voltyr stopped as Shaelyt walked around the end of the cot and then toward them.

“Good afternoon,” offered Quaeryt.

“The same to you, sir.” Shaelyt’s eyes went to Voltyr.

The older undercaptain smiled. “I was telling the subcommander how it seemed more than fortuitous that anyone close to him suffered fewer, if any, wounds from arrows or musket balls, and that suggested shielding beyond just himself.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Shaelyt, “but none of the undercaptains thinks it’s fortune. Nor does most of Fifth Battalion. Wharyn told Shaelyt that you were not a lost one. He said you were the son of Erion. He said you rode down twenty-one musketeers, and their iron musket stands. Only two of those you struck survived. They counted twice.”

“What do you two suggest I say, then?” Quaeryt kept his voice humorous. “No matter what Captain Wharyn says, I can’t claim I’m a son of Erion. I’m not, and claiming such wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“It might not hurt to let the rest of the undercaptains know you’re an imager, sir,” suggested Voltyr. “Quietly, of course.”

Quaeryt nodded. “You’re probably right that the time for that has come. I’ll let them know after morning muster. I’d like to let them have the day to think it over.”

“I have another question, sir,” ventured Shaelyt.

“Yes?”

“Many times when you have done what others would claim is not possible … you have been injured. Yet nothing has struck you. You are moving with great care even now…”

“I don’t deny it. I’m a bit sore. You want to know why?”

Both undercaptains nodded.

“Beyond a certain point … I’ve learned from experience … when there are too many impacts on shields, the force of those impacts are born by the body.” Quaeryt paused for a moment. “It’s like a physical shield. If a sabre hits a shield that’s properly held, the shield-holder doesn’t feel much. If a horse rears and its hooves and a battle ax hit the shield, the man holding the shield is likely to have many broken bones, if he survives.”

“You’ve survived worse than that with no bones broken,” Shaelyt pointed out.

“At times that’s been true. But not at other times. You saw what happened to me at Ferravyl. And I was bruised all over when I came to Ferravyl because I’d used shields against explosives in a wagon. The more you work on shields the stronger they get-but there’s always a breaking point. I had shields, probably like yours, when I went to Tilbor. They weren’t enough to protect me against a crossbow bolt fired at close range. They slowed the bolt enough that it didn’t break my collarbone or go deep enough into my chest to kill me. But it was more than a month before I rode again. In the last battle in Tilbor, I wore myself out and was flattened by a heavy cavalryman. That broke my arm and tore up a few muscles.”

The two exchanged glances again.

“So … you’ve continued to fight when you knew…” Voltyr let his words break off.

“When necessary,” Quaeryt admitted. “Sometimes you have no choice. Just as sometimes troopers and their commanders have no choice.” No good choices … there are always choices …

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll go over this with the others in the morning.” Quaeryt nodded and turned.

As he walked back toward the central cot near where rations were being prepared, Quaeryt could feel their eyes on his back. Did you say enough? Too much? Did you make it clear enough?

He could only hope so.