L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“I didn’t,” Quaeryt admitted. “I just knew that every time that there’s been a perfect place for an ambush by musketeers in the past few weeks … there has been. So when I saw all those trees and all that flat land and, most likely, a place where we couldn’t charge them without scores of horses breaking their legs, I thought it was more than likely.”

Skarpa nodded. “Said you’d make a good commander.”

“Only because I’m an imager.”

The commander shook his head. “Every man has his strengths. The best know how to use them. The worst don’t know what they are. It’s the ability to use your strengths that makes you a good officer.”

Quaeryt couldn’t help but think about all the small details he hadn’t known. “Is that why you assigned Zhelan?”

Skarpa laughed. “I didn’t assign him. Myskyl did. He’s feared you ever since Rescalyn’s death. So he gave you a senior junior officer who knew squad-level combat, procedures, and discipline and not much more. He hoped the two of you would bungle things. He didn’t understand that Zhelan knew what you didn’t. You’ve both learned from each other, and he could command a battalion now.”

“He already does,” said Quaeryt dryly. Some of the time, if not more.

Skarpa shook his head. “You command. You delegate, but you still command. Don’t forget it.”

Although the last words were spoken as evenly as those which preceded them, Quaeryt recognized them as a command, not a suggestion. “I won’t.”

“We’re little more than sixty milles from Variana. How much opposition do you think we’ll face tomorrow or the next day?”

“Who knows? They’re not defending the way I would or you would. After today, I’d be a bit surprised, but not astonished, if we faced more than delaying attacks tomorrow. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we faced a stronger attack on Vendrei.” Quaeryt laughed softly. “And that probably means we’ll get a heavy attack tomorrow and delaying harassment on Vendrei.”

Skarpa smiled. “I still think you’re right about Kharst wanting to draw us in and crush us. The question is where … and how-in one blow or two.”

“And how the marshal will attempt to have us take the brunt of it,” added Quaeryt.

“How can you believe that of our most illustrious leader?”

“Ignorance, I suppose,” said Quaeryt dryly. “I must not know him well enough.”

“I won’t comment on that, but I will observe that he doesn’t know you well enough, and it’s best that way.” Skarpa untied his mount.

After the commander mounted and departed, Quaeryt walked around the section of Byun that held Fifth Battalion, checking with each company commander. He didn’t discover anything he didn’t already know, but as he was about to leave Arion, the major said quietly, in Bovarian, as always, “Had you been with us in Khel, the Bovarians would not have defeated us, outnumbered as we were. Their musketeers made the difference.”

“You didn’t mention this before.”

Arion offered a slightly embarrassed smile. “We have found that none who have not seen what the muskets could do would believe their power.”

“Lord Bhayar has worried about the muskets for some time. How many more do you think they have … waiting for us at Variana?”

Arion shrugged. “I cannot say. They had more than a thousand at Khelgror. You have destroyed almost half that many.”

But it’s been more than a few years since the battle of Khelgror, and Kharst has to have forged more muskets and trained more musketeers.

Quaeryt frowned, remembering the meeting he’d had in Solis with Bhayar more than a year before when Bhayar had been asking about whether imagers would be able to image musket parts with enough precision. Had he known about Quaeryt’s abilities then … and been probing?

Unless you ask, you’ll never know. He smiled. Even if he did, he’d likely not get a conclusive answer, and it made little difference now … although the Bovarian muskets well might, especially if Kharst had more than a regiment and used the musketeers as a massed unit.

Still … from what he knew, muskets could not be cast, not yet, at least, but had to be forged, and that took time and trained armorer-smiths.

“Could we use the muskets you captured?” asked Arion.

“We have several hundred captured muskets, but we don’t have much of the proper powder nor musket balls…” Quaeryt shrugged. “I believe Lord Bhayar had men working on this, but he did not expect war with Bovaria to come quite so quickly.”

“Then it will come to whether you and your imagers or Kharst’s musketeers will triumph.”

“And how badly we are outnumbered,” suggested Quaeryt.

“So long as you stand, we are not outnumbered.”

“No…” replied Quaeryt, with a slight smile, “so long as the imagers stand.” Because either most of us will stand, or none of us will survive either Kharst or Myskyl, if not both.

“Some of the others are now more powerful. That I can see. But are they strong enough without you?”

“The young Pharsi imagers could be very strong. They’re already able to do more than I could do two years ago.” Even if that was partly because you feared trying until you had no choice.

“They will support you. They will never surpass you.”

Quaeryt laughed, if softly. “You never know.”

Arion shook his head. “I do not know, but Erion does, and I can see his words.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to argue about that. “I’ll leave it to him, then.”

Arion nodded. “As you should, sir.”

After Quaeryt left Arion and began to walk back toward the dwelling that held the imager undercaptains, he glanced at the eastern sky, where Erion was definitely taking on a clear reddish cast. Then he shook his head and laughed softly. For all the superstitions, in the end it came down to who accomplished what and how, not which moon hung overhead. Didn’t it?

Despite Quaeryt’s worries, none of Skarpa’s forces encountered any opposition or even caught sight of any Bovarian forces on Meredi, nor on Jeudi morning … until ninth glass when the scouts rode back to report that a vast shallow lake covered the road ahead. Skarpa immediately called a halt, and Quaeryt and Fifth Battalion rode forward another two milles. There Quaeryt reined up and studied what lay before him.

Muddy water covered the road and the lower ground on each side, extending a half mille ahead and two hundred yards north to the raised bank of the River Aluse, but more than a mille to the south. Immediately before Quaeryt, the water was barely a few fingers deep, and he doubted that in the middle of the shallow lake created by the Bovarians the water was more than a yard or so deep, although it was difficult to tell under the high but comparatively thick gray clouds that had not reduced the harvest heat and only made the air seem stickier and damper.

There were no cots or buildings rising out of the muddy water, although Quaeryt could see wooden fences and a low hedgerow to the south, suggesting that the area might well have flooded often. But you don’t know really how deep it is, not for certain, and you don’t know what else the water conceals. After a moment a second thought occurred to him. That couldn’t have happened with a Naedaran road. They kept their roads on higher ground.

There was something about the newly formed lake. He glanced to the north, then realized that the land covered by water was higher than the river itself. The water couldn’t have come directly from the river. He looked westward again, noting the gradual slope of the land upward in the distance.