L. Modesitt: Imager’s Battalion

Is there any doubt? “We’ll do what we can, sir.”

“I know. You always do.”

After Skarpa rode off, Quaeryt looked into the night sky, where Erion was nearly overhead, seeming redder than usual, although that might have been his state of mind. So much for Erion favoring the lost ones of the Pharsi.

He took a long slow deep breath, still looking in the direction of the lake he could not see, with the acrid scents of exploded powder and wood smoke burning his nostrils and his eyes. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, not yet, not after brooding about Shaelyt. The young imager had shown such dedication, such promise, and then … he was gone, and not even in a major battle.

Even by seventh glass on Lundi morning, Skarpa had issued no orders to break camp and to proceed, and for a time Quaeryt wondered why … until he realized that they were most likely far less than ten milles from the outskirts of Variana. That was confirmed when he overheard one of the scouts saying that once over the rise to the north, there were cots and small holdings stretching to the north and west as far as the eye could see.

So he and Zhelan wrote up the papers dealing with the death of Shaelyt and the few others from fourth company who’d been killed. When Quaeryt finished signing them, he went outside the cot he’d taken and looked northward. The sky was still hazy with a few high thin clouds, and the faintest hint of a breeze out of the northeast.

He’d been standing there, thinking about Shaelyt, when a squad leader rode up and halted his mount.

“Subcommander, sir, the commander requests that all subcommanders join him outside the large cot with the hedge on the south side,” said the squad leader, pointing. “That way, sir. It’s about a hundred yards.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Once the trooper had ridden off, Quaeryt began to walk in the direction he had indicated. As he neared the next cot, he caught sight, if but for a moment, of a small gray cat in the calf-high grass at the side of the cot. Then it was gone, possibly under the dwelling.

Even the cats are wary of us.

As he neared the only cot with a hedge, Quaeryt saw Skarpa standing on the small square side porch, talking to his four battalion commanders and punctuating his words with quick sharp gestures. Rather than interrupt or distract Skarpa, Quaeryt stopped and eased close to a bush, one that he belatedly recognized as a black raspberry, although most of the berries had been long since picked.

He didn’t have to wait long before the majors departed and he could approach Skarpa.

“Good morning, sir,” offered Quaeryt as he walked up to the side porch.

“Good morning. I’ve just received the marshal’s latest orders, but something else came with them. It’s for you.” Skarpa handed an envelope to Quaeryt as he stepped onto the porch.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt took the envelope. Only his name was written on it, in a hand he didn’t recognize, but he thought he felt another envelope inside. He thought about opening it, but then paused as he saw Khaern and Meinyt riding up. Instead, he tucked it inside his jacket.

Skarpa waited until the last two officers arrived. “We won’t be riding out today, but I do want full-squad patrols sent out in all directions, even back along the river road. We’re so close to Variana that the Bovarians could attack from any direction. The marshal has decided that we are to remain where we are for today, and perhaps tomorrow, when the main body will rejoin us. Then we will lead the advance on Variana. As some of you already know, we are less than five milles from the earthworks the Bovarians have thrown up just south of the city…”

“Aren’t there any city walls?” asked Khaern.

“Why would there be? No one’s ever attacked Variana. Until now.”

“What about cannon?” asked Meinyt.

“There are emplacements that could hold cannon. Quite a number, but the scouts weren’t able to approach close enough to determine the numbers. The earthworks run more than a mille, and there are two lines of them with the cannon emplacements on higher ground behind the second line.”

“Could we flank them?”

Skarpa laughed. “Anything’s possible, but the earthworks form an arc around Kharst’s personal grounds and his chateau. The ground is hillier to the north, especially along the river, and there are earthworks there as well. There are also at least thirty regiments, from the regimental banners. I’d wager there will be more once Kharst confirms that all our forces are on this side of the river. Now, we need to talk about patrol schedules…”

Since Fifth Battalion wasn’t included in the patrols, for which Quaeryt was grateful, he just listened as the other three discussed the schedule, which took another quint.

“That’s all,” concluded Skarpa. “I’ll let you all know when I hear more from the scouts or from the marshal.”

Once he had left Skarpa and had walked enough to be alone, Quaeryt opened the outer envelope to reveal a second one, addressed to him in Vaelora’s handwriting. While Quaeryt could not tell, he suspected the outer envelope had most likely come from Bhayar, although there were no markings indicating that. Before he returned to Fifth Battalion to relay Skarpa’s orders to Zhelan, the company officers, and the imager undercaptains, Quaeryt quickly read through Vaelora’s missive.

My dearest,

I have another letter from you, but it takes so long for them to reach me that I have no idea where you are or what has happened to you recently. I can but guess that you must be nearing Variana …

Good guess … or farsight? Either way, she was right.

… and making ready for that which will change the present and the future of all Lydar, one way or the other, although I pray most fervently that the outcome is the one for which you have striven.

I know nothing of matters military, nothing of arms, and who should attack what and how. Nor do I know about the glory of victory or the pain and suffering of defeat, although it seems to me that either engenders great suffering for both the one who is hailed as victor and the one who is derided and disgraced as the vanquished. I have also read and heard tales of those battles in which the outcome balanced on the blade of a knife, and for years thereafter resentments and rebellions simmered, much as what you witnessed in Tilbor. As in Tilbor, it would seem to me, frail woman that I am …

Frail? Hardly. Quaeryt almost snorted.

… conquests that never end bleed both the victor and the vanquished until neither prospers, and that all would be better for a victory so absolute that none would dispute it for years. Such a victory, alas, is usually beyond the power of those who contend …

In short, if you have the opportunity, don’t hesitate to repeat what you did at Ferravyl.

… Even when such a victory is within the victor’s power, often he will offer ill-considered mercy before it is clear that the defeated is truly vanquished …

That might well have been the problem in Tilbor.

Quaeryt smiled bitterly. It was well that a battle did not appear likely at the moment. In the mood that possessed him, he scarcely felt anywhere close to merciful, but the warmer lines with which Vaelora concluded the letter did lift his spirits somewhat.

As Quaeryt neared the cot that had sheltered the imagers the night before, he slipped the letter into his jacket, then saw Khalis beside the door. “How’s Threkhyl? Do you know?”

“He ate some this morning, sir. He has bruises. Not so bad as the worse you had, sir, I’d wager. I made some willow-bark tea for him. He complained, but it helped.”