L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“Were you a healer or apprenticed to one?”

“My grandmere is. She taught me some things. The willow-bark tea is easy. I’ve set bones. That’s harder. I wouldn’t want to try that unless no one else could.”

“Let’s hope you don’t have to.” Quaeryt offered a smile, then stepped into the cot and the main room.

Threkhyl sat on an old straight-backed chair. He looked to Quaeryt but did not speak.

“I hear you’re a bit sore,” Quaeryt said.

“Don’t think there’s anything doesn’t hurt…” mumbled the ginger-bearded undercaptain. “Tell me you’ve been bruised worse.” The words were almost a challenge.

“I likely was, but I didn’t feel anything for days. That was after what happened in Ferravyl.”

“Oh … leastwise you weren’t awake.”

“No, but everything was yellow and purple when I did. Hopefully, it won’t be that bad for you.”

“Hope so.” After a moment Threkhyl asked, “When do we have to ride out?”

“Not today. Probably not tomorrow. After that … it’s up to the marshal.”

“The Bovarians got more cannon at Variana?”

“Hundreds, it looks like.”

“Frig,” muttered Threkhyl.

Quaeryt agreed. “We’ll just have to see what we can do.”

“Rather not do that again. Wager you wouldn’t, either, sir.”

“No, I wouldn’t, but we’ll have to do what’s necessary if we don’t want Rex Kharst as our ruler.”

“That bad?” asked Horan from where he stood at the side of the room.

“I’d expect he’ll have forty regiments, if not more, and at least a thousand musketeers.” Those were guesses, but Quaeryt would have wagered they were, if anything, low, given what he’d seen so far and what the scouts had reported. “That doesn’t count the cannon.”

“What if we just stand back away from the cannon?” asked Smaethyl. “They can’t feed all those troopers forever.”

“Neither can we,” said Lhandor. “Can we, sir?”

“Food will be a problem for both sides, but if a stalemate lasts until late fall or winter, we’ll likely fare worse.”

“So we imagers have to find a way to defeat the Bovarians … is that it?” asked Threkhyl. “Even after all we’ve done already?”

Unless Deucalon or Skarpa can come up with a better plan.

“We’ll just have to see.” Quaeryt forced a grin he didn’t feel. “We haven’t done too badly so far.”

Horan and Threkhyl exchanged looks, expressions that were more than slightly dubious.

Rather than say more, Quaeryt turned to Lhandor. “Would you see if you could find Major Zhelan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded and slipped back outside the cot behind Lhandor.

He needed to think. Threkhyl was right, in a way. What he’d been doing with his imaging wasn’t likely to be enough. At Ferravyl … and even at Extela, he’d been able to use some source of heat-hot rain and hot lava-to increase the power of his imaging.

Could you have used the heat of exploding powder? He shook his head. By the time there was enough heat, his shields had already taken too much punishment. What about water? Even cold water had to have some heat because it got even colder when it froze … and the battle site wasn’t that far from the River Aluse.

He nodded slowly. He’d have to try things out, but he could walk to the lake south of the encampment and see what might be possible.

“Sir!”

Quaeryt looked up to see Lhandor hurrying back.

“The major will be right with you.”

“Thank you.” First, he’d have to brief Zhelan and then finish letting the imager captains know. Then … maybe after that he could find time to work on a more reliable way of putting greater strength into his imaging.

He shook his head, thinking about the Naedarans and their “old ones.” More power was dangerous to everyone. Is that why you’ve been leery of trying greater and greater imaging? Or just a certain amount of fear that it might be that extra effort that kills you?

Yet … what choice did he have but to try?

Lundi came and went with no word from the marshal. That gave Quaeryt time to walk to the lake to try new imaging techniques, but his progress was slow, especially with the time spent trying to improve techniques among all the imagers.

Finally, on Mardi, late in the day, well after the fourth glass of the afternoon, Skarpa received a dispatch announcing that Lord Bhayar and the marshal’s forces would arrive by midday on Meredi. Even so, it was more like the first glass of Meredi afternoon when the vanguard neared the encampment. By third glass, troopers and horses were everywhere, and the hamlet had been transformed into a welter of tents, wagons, and men that seemed to stretch for a mille to the north and from the forest to the river road.

All commanders and subcommanders were summoned to a briefing at sixth glass, on a knoll on the lake’s east side. Quaeryt had assumed that the briefing would be outside because there were no cots or outbuildings in the hamlet that could hold the more than thirty senior officers summoned by the marshal. When he and Skarpa arrived, followed by Meinyt and Khaern, all four having walked close to half a mille, Quaeryt discovered a tent some ten yards by ten had been erected. Once inside, Quaeryt saw a low platform at one end, and ten commanders and a few subcommanders waiting before the platform. The only officer who looked in their direction was Commander Pulaskyr, but he’d known Skarpa and Quaeryt in Tilbor.

“They didn’t provide you with a tent like this,” murmured Quaeryt to Skarpa.

“No tent at all,” said Meinyt.

“Wouldn’t know what to do with it,” said Skarpa, with a short laugh.

Another group of commanders entered the tent through a flap beside the platform. With them was Submarshal Myskyl. He did not so much as glance in Quaeryt’s direction.

A burly major stepped onto the platform and announced, “Marshal Deucalon!”

The officers had barely stiffened when Deucalon appeared on the raised platform and said, “As you were,” his voice filling the tent, seemingly without effort on his part. “Good evening. You’ve traveled hundreds of milles. You’ve fought and won battles all along the way. None of those victories will mean anything if we don’t defeat the Bovarians here. We can do this, but it won’t be easy. Not at all.” Deucalon surveyed the officers in the dim light of the tent.

“The Bovarians have assembled the largest army in the history of Lydar. The largest, but not the best. You’re the best. Commander Skarpa’s scouts have provided very thorough reports. So have the scouts we have dispatched to reconnoiter Bovarian positions on both sides of the river. We believe that by tomorrow and certainly by Vendrei, Kharst’s commanders will have more than forty regiments in position between us and Kharst’s chateau. Half are foot…”

While we have maybe five regiments of foot troopers, thought Quaeryt, and who knows how good they are?

“We cannot determine with certainty the exact number of musketeers,” the marshal continued, “but it appears that there are the equivalent of two regiments. These are in addition to the more than two regiments of musketeers already destroyed by Commander Skarpa’s forces. The number of cannon is unknown, but the emplacements the scouts have seen could hold between fifty and a hundred…”

Enough to destroy all of our imagers, thought Quaeryt.

“… Kharst has left at least three regiments, if not more, guarding the east river road into Variana. It is possible that more Bovarian regiments will arrive, but that appears unlikely for a number of reasons I will not address at the moment. At the very least, our arrival has forced Rex Kharst to tear up his rather large hunting park and private grounds to dig trenches and throw up earthworks…” Deucalon smiled, and murmurs of low laughter ran through the tent.