Imager’s Battalion

9

Meredi morning dawned early and warm, promising to be even hotter and damper than the previous two days. The south river road had not narrowed, but it had become more and more rutted with each mille traveled toward Rivecote. The local people were mostly croppers and peasants, from what Quaeryt saw of their fields and cots, for not a person was visible when the regiments rode by dwellings or through hamlets. Nor was any livestock, and while he saw a few dogs, they were at a distance. He couldn’t blame the locals.

Although there were no signs of Bovarians, Quaeryt continued to carry full imaging shields, rather than the lighter shields that triggered full shields, as part of his efforts to rebuild his imaging endurance. Just before eighth glass, Quaeryt was riding with Major Zhael, who had obviously talked with Calkoran, since Zhael asked no questions about Quaeryt’s background.

“What did the Bovarians do that you did not expect them to do?” asked Quaeryt.

“We thought they would do their worst, and they did.”

“What sorts of things?”

Zhael offered a sour smile. “They burned the grasslands so the forage for our horses was less. They burned every dwelling beside any road they traveled. When they could not burn crops they rode their horses through the fields and broke the plants.”

“Did they offer any reasons?”

“They did. They told those who survived that the destruction was because they had not accepted the merciful offers of Rex Kharst.” Zhael spat away from Quaeryt. “We know the mercy of the Bovarians. A generation ago all the Pharsi in Kherseilles had their shops and their lands taken after the Rex invaded. They were marched into the barrens north of Mantes and told to rebuild there. Many fled to Khel. Rex Kharst’s father demanded their return. Our High Council refused. The rex did not want them back. He wanted a reason to attack us. He did. We defeated his best, and sent them back to Variana with their tails between their legs, those that even had tails remaining, and we re-took Kherseilles.”

“What was different this time?”

“The Red Death. Some say that Kharst loosed sick rodents from merchant ships he had hired. Others say he worked the pus from victims into cheap woolens. The plague started in Eshtora, Ouestan, and Pointe Neiman. Almost half the young men in Khelgror died … and many of the young women.”

Quaeryt had known of the plague that had ravaged the west of Lydar five years previously, and Vaelora had mentioned the deaths in Khelgror. But half the young men?

“I see your doubt. Most great illnesses take the old and the children. This one did not. It took all ages, but mostly the young and hale.”

“Why do you think Kharst was to blame?”

“He had his armies ready in the spring after the cold of winter. We almost threw them back, but we had too few troopers. Even the women fought. They suffered horribly if they were captured. Most would not let themselves be taken.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Quaeryt didn’t know what else to say.

“You could not have known.” Zhael shrugged fatalistically. “Few who were not there would believe.”

Quaeryt understood more why the Khellans were so determined to fight against Kharst. But can you keep their rage limited to the Bovarian fighting men?

They rode quietly for a time, Quaeryt blotting his forehead now and again, continually readjusting his visor cap, wondering how much hotter it would get, and knowing that it would.

Then, more than a mille ahead, above the trees on the south side of the road, Quaeryt saw smoke, more than was likely from a hamlet’s chimneys in summer. “Excuse me, Major, I need to see what the scouts have reported.”

“The smoke?” Zhael shook his head. “It may be crops burning. Kharst would not hesitate to burn his own people’s yields.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

Zhael lifted his eyebrows.

Quaeryt guided the mare onto the shoulder of the road and urged her into a faster pace. Even so, more than half a quint passed before he reached Skarpa at the head of the column.

“What is it?” he asked as he eased the mare beside the commander.

“Crops burning. Winter wheat corn.”

“Where?”

“To the south of the river road. The road’s clear.”

“The Bovarians aren’t even trying to stop us, but burning the crops of their own people? What’s the point of that?” Quaeryt shook his head. “We can’t harvest it yet, and all that does is beggar the people.”

“That’s Kharst for you. If he can’t have it, neither will we.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Do you have something in mind?”

“I’d like to look into it. It might not hurt if we could get rid of the Bovarians firing the fields.”

“They may be counting on that,” Skarpa pointed out. “Just don’t hazard your troops unnecessarily, and don’t pursue for very long.”

“I’ll just take first company.”

Skarpa nodded.

Quaeryt rode back to Fifth Battalion where he explained the situation to Zhelan. Then he went on, gesturing to the southwest. “The fields are there. The Bovarians won’t come this way, and they probably won’t take the river road back west. That means that they have to move south or hole up. Let’s see if we can find them. Just first company. I’ll accompany them, but the imagers will stay with you and the rest of the battalion.”

Zhelan offered a concerned look, but said nothing.

“The Bovarians can’t have that many troopers here, not after Ferravyl and not on this side of the river, and you’ve told me that Undercaptain Ghaelyn is very experienced.”

“That’s true, sir.”

“The entire battalion can’t move that quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt smiled. “We’ll be all right. We might not even find anyone.”

“I’m not certain the Bovarians have enough sense to flee. When there’s a fight, there’s always a chance…”

“I know. I will be careful.” Just not in the way you think.

Zhelan gestured behind him, and Ghaelyn rode forward.

“Undercaptain, the subcommander has a mission for first company. He’ll direct you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Undercaptain,” said Quaeryt. “We need to keep the Bovarians from burning crops. More crops. That means we need to get about two milles to the southwest, and not by the river road, so that we can get behind the Bovarian raiders who seem to be firing the fields of the local peasants.”

“Well, sir … there was a clear track south a few hundred yards back.”

“We might as well try it,” replied Quaeryt.

Almost half a quint later, Ghaelyn and Quaeryt followed the scouts and three outriders down a dusty dirt track that headed south. After less than a mille, the track curved to the southeast around a pond surrounded by rushes and cattails. On the far side of the pond was a meadow or pasture, with a cot and a large shed, not quite big enough to be a barn, set farther back on a low rise. Behind the buildings was a stand of trees, possibly a woodlot.

Beyond the trees, Quaeryt thought he saw another smoke trail, and he gestured to Ghaelyn. “See that?”

“It looks like they might be burning another field or two.”

“Can we swing south and then west?” Quaeryt stood in the stirrups and looked for a path or a trail.

“There looks to be a narrow way over there.” Ghaelyn pointed.

“Call in the scouts,” ordered Quaeryt. “Until they’re just fifty yards or so ahead. Then have them lead the way.”

The undercaptain frowned.

“Go ahead. I don’t want to give the Bovarians much warning.”

Quaeryt waited until the outriders and scouts repositioned themselves, then nodded to Ghaelyn. “Quiet riding from here on.”

“Quiet riding. Pass it back.”

Quaeryt extended a concealment across the company, including the scouts. He could feel a definite strain, and dropped his personal shields to the lightest of triggered shields. He’d promised Vaelora never to ride without shields. You didn’t say how strong a shield. Still, he hated the idea that he wasn’t following exactly what she’d meant.

The narrow path barely allowed two mounts abreast, and riders’ trousers and boots continually brushed the bushes and vegetation.

Abruptly the path came out of the brush and trees and passed between a gap in a low stone wall that marked the eastern edge of two wheat fields split by the continuation of the path. A line of fire was burning across the field to the north.

Quaeryt glanced to the southern field, where three men with torches were on foot, trying to ignite the golden winter wheat close to harvest. Four others were mounted, three of them holding the reins of the mounts of the men on foot. All wore the gray-blue uniforms of Bovarian troopers.

“They haven’t seen us,” murmured Ghaelyn. “Again.” He looked quizzically at Quaeryt.

“Get ready to order a charge with first squad,” said Quaeryt.

After several moments, when first squad was clear of the woods, he turned to the undercaptain. “Now!”

“First squad! Ready arms! Charge!”

Quaeryt held the concealment until the troopers reached the outriders, then dropped it and raised his own full shields.

The Bovarians looked up, startled at the muted thunder of hooves. The three men with torches started to run. One stopped and thrust his torch at the nearest Telaryn trooper, who avoided the flaming brand and then back-cut with his sabre. A second trooper cut down the Bovarian. The other two tried to mount the horses left for them.

Two of the Bovarians tried to fight from horseback but were run down. The other two wheeled their mounts and spurred them across the field to the west of the one just beginning to burn.

“We don’t want to chase them, sir,” said Ghaelyn quietly, just so Quaeryt could hear him.

“No, we don’t.”

Quaeryt imaged away the saddle girths of the closer of the two fleeing Bovarians. The Bovarian tried to grab his mount’s mane as the saddle slipped under him, but after several moments, with his boots dragging the side of the path, he lost his grip and tumbled to the dirt.

“Second squad! Bring him in!” ordered the undercaptain.

While the troopers rode toward the dazed Bovarian in his ripped and soiled uniform, Quaeryt glanced to his right, where the fire continued to race across the golden stalks of wheat corn. No clouds in the sky … nothing you can do.

Then he looked to where first squad had run down the others. Three Bovarians were facedown on the ground. Another remained mounted, but blood stained his right sleeve, and he was cradling his injured arm. Another was still fighting, but as Quaeryt watched, one of the troopers clouted him on the back of the head with the flat of a sabre, and he slumped in the saddle.

Quaeryt counted. Besides the one who had fled immediately, another Bovarian had to have escaped. Quaeryt shook his head and waited for the troopers to bring back the Bovarian he’d unhorsed with his imaging.

“Only eight of them,” said Ghaelyn.

“Only eight here. I hate to think how many others there are torching other fields.” Quaeryt pointed to the smoke rising into the sky farther west, adding to the summer heat haze.

“Wouldn’t think they’d have too many.”

“Neither would I, but it doesn’t take many.”

Both watched as first squad returned.

“Here’s the one who tried to get away,” announced the squad leader.

Two of the rankers had dismounted and held the Bovarian, whose hands were tied behind his back.

Quaeryt looked down at the sullen-faced man, older than he had expected. “Where were you supposed to meet when you finished torching the fields?” asked Quaeryt in Bovarian.

The ranker’s eyes widened slightly, presumably at being addressed in his own tongue, but he remained silent.

“Once more, where were you supposed to meet?”

Quaeryt image-projected authority and the sense that if the man didn’t answer, he’d be staked out on the ground and burned, slowly, limb by limb.

The Bovarian ranker shuddered, turned white, and crumpled in the arms of the two Telaryn rankers holding him, both of whom also paled.

“Throw water on his face,” Quaeryt said dryly.

When the Bovarian regained his senses, Quaeryt just looked at him. “Where were you supposed to meet?”

The man swallowed … finally stuttering. “West … a mille, by the tumbledown barn … in back.”

“Tie him up and leave him for the locals to deal with.”

The captive turned pale again.

“They’re your people,” Quaeryt pointed out. He turned to Ghaelyn. “Tie him up to that small tree over there. Quickly. Do the same with the others who are alive. Then we’ll see if the remaining Bovarians try to meet at the barn.”

Quaeryt could sense Ghaelyn’s disapproval, but he said nothing until the company was riding westward again.

“Undercaptain … I’d rather not be fighting, but they started this war. I don’t believe in violence against people who aren’t fighting. Burning these poor people’s fields wouldn’t help the Bovarians. Those crops wouldn’t help us anyway. We don’t have time to wait for harvest. All it does is harm people who have nothing to do with the fighting. And I won’t have that-whether it’s by our men or theirs. You can pass that on. If someone lifts a weapon, even a pitchfork against a trooper, then he’s an enemy, and they can cut him down. But we’re not here to destroy people’s lives, just to prove we can. Do you understand?” Quaeryt looked sidewise at Ghaelyn. He thought the undercaptain understood. “Besides, I don’t think the peasants and small growers really care who wins so long as they aren’t hurt. They’ll be a lot easier to govern if they aren’t starving and angry.” You hope so, anyway.

“Yes, sir.”

The ride to the tumbled-down barn was fruitless. Although there were tracks around the collapsed structure, the Bovarians had hurried off.

Quaeryt studied the horizon in all directions. He didn’t see any more smoke, but all that meant was that they’d stopped some burning for at least a while. Still, there couldn’t be that many Bovarians around, could there?

Two glasses later, with first company returned to the main body, Quaeryt rode to report to Skarpa.

“I see the locals didn’t come out to thank you,” observed the commander dryly as Quaeryt rode up beside him.

“I didn’t think they would.”

“How many did you capture?”

“We didn’t,” Quaeryt said. “Some fled. Of the rest, those we didn’t kill outright in the fighting were all wounded, and I left them with the locals.”

“They may not fare well…”

“That’s their problem. I don’t like troopers who burn the crops of their own people, and it’s only fair that I left them with their own people.”

Skarpa’s mouth opened, then closed.

“You might talk to the Pharsi officers about how Kharst took Khel. Or think about the fact that as soon as Kharst found out that Extela had been devastated by an eruption he was massing troops for an attack on Ferravyl.”

“Aren’t you acting like him?” asked Skarpa.

“No. I kept my troopers from touching or hurting the locals, and I did my best to save their crops. But when troopers don’t even care for their own people, and when they kill anyone who doesn’t immediately surrender, I tend to lose patience.”

“Do you think the Bovarian people will understand that difference?”

Quaeryt smiled tiredly. “I think it will become clear before long.” At least you hope so. But he was all too conscious that such might well not be the case.