L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“I can’t really insist that a subcommander … but … the officers and men…”

“All right … but no offerings and no blessings.”

“I thought you might see it that way.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“No. That’s because you’re an honest man, and you worry about your officers and men.”

“And you’re a persuasive scoundrel,” countered Quaeryt.

“Of course. That’s why I’m a commander. In wartime, anyway.”

As he rode down the south half of the bridge, Quaeryt looked out at the triangle of land between the Aluse River and the Vyl River, and then at the stone bridge that he and the imagers had created. Two weeks before, the ground had been covered with ice and frozen bodies. Despite the comparative pleasantness of the morning, he shivered for a moment.

Two long mounded berms of freshly packed earth now crossed the triangle comprising the bluff above where the rivers met. The mounds were the final resting place of more than twelve thousand Bovarians. A smaller pyramidal mound with a stone before it was located to the north and east. For the Telaryn dead.

“You’d never believe what this looked like two weeks ago.” Quaeryt felt he had to say something.

“Lord Bhayar ordered every man in every regiment to spend time dealing with the dead,” replied Skarpa.

That was another thing Quaeryt hadn’t known, although he had seen hundreds toiling when, barely able to ride, he had been escorted to Nordruil. “How did they take it?”

“They complained when they thought no officers were listening. What else? Of course, many of them ended up with better weapons or a few more coins. But it was better than letting them just strip the dead and leave them. Had to do something, and do it quickly. That’s the problem with fighting in summer near a city.”

Quaeryt nodded.

As they rode along the road beside the berms and neared the imager-built bridge, Quaeryt could see wagon ruts in the still-soft ground. “The locals haven’t wasted much time in using the bridge.”

“Not at all.” Skarpa snorted. “Except the local ferryman wrote a complaint to the marshal. Said the bridge had destroyed his livelihood.”

There’s always someone. “All he has to do is move ten milles upriver. There aren’t any bridges there, and most people won’t travel ten milles downstream and then back to take a bridge if there’s a ferry.” Quaeryt paused, as a thought struck him. “But there’s likely already a ferryman there.”

“The same thing would have happened sooner or later. If Bhayar wins, he’d have built a bridge. Same thing if Kharst had won. Just would have taken longer.”

As the mare carried Quaeryt onto the bridge, he could see that it was not quite as large as he had thought from a distance, although it was wide enough for two farm wagons side by side-if with little space to spare. The side walls were low, only a little more than a yard high, but the paving stones were smooth and well fitted.

Skarpa looked to Quaeryt. “We’d best win this war, or this bridge will work against us.”

“We could explode it,” joked Quaeryt.

“After all the death around it, I’d hate to do that. Better just to conquer Bovaria. Might even be better for the Bovarians.”

“I’ve never heard much good about Rex Kharst.”

“Has anyone?” countered Skarpa. “He keeps everyone in line by killing anyone who disagrees. It works, but…”

“How does he keep the High Holders in line?”

“That’s what he used his troopers for … and his imagers. Among other things, I’ve heard.”

“Oh…”

Skarpa nodded. “That’s another problem you might have to face. If it comes to that, and after what you did at Ferravyl, it probably will.”

As if you needed another one. “At least, if that’s true, his imagers were killing High Holders and not merchants and the common people.”

Skarpa frowned. “That’s better?”

“How many High Holders who support Kharst is Bhayar likely to allow to retain their lands? You can’t punish every factor and merchant in Bovaria, but you could…” Quaeryt paused, then shut his mouth.

“Could what?”

“I was going to say that Bhayar could replace most of the High Holders, but he can’t. Not unless he wants chaos.”

This time, Skarpa was the one to shake his head-again.

Once the entire column was clear of the bridge, Quaeryt cleared his throat. “Sir … if you don’t mind…”

Skarpa smiled. “Go.”

After a nod, Quaeryt turned the mare and rode down the shoulder of the narrow dirt road that was barely wide enough for a single wagon. He finally eased the mare in beside Major Calkoran.

“Sir?” The Khellan officer did not conceal his surprise at Quaeryt’s presence.

“It will be some time before we encounter any Bovarians. You fought them for a long time.” Quaeryt kept his Bovarian as precise as he could.

“On the borders for years. Almost a year after they invaded. We almost broke them at Khelgror. There were too many of them.”

“You have seen how they fight. You know what they do well … and what they do not. I have fought the Tilborans, but not the Bovarians. I would like to hear what you can tell me about the Bovarians.”

“You know we do not trust any of the rulers in Lydar.”

“I do.” Quaeryt laughed softly. “One must take care with all rulers, but I believe Lord Bhayar to be the best of those who remain.”

“So it is said.” Calkoran shrugged. “Why do you think so?”

“His father punished those who attacked Pharsi women in Tilbor. The son upheld the same values in Extela.”

“The word is that you upheld those values and were removed.” Calkoran fixed his dark eyes on the subcommander.

Quaeryt shook his head. “I was removed because I angered the merchants and the High Holders. I would not let them charge too much for flour after the eruption in Extela. I supported the Pharsi who stopped a soldier from violating a girl, and Lord Bhayar supported me in that.” That was close enough to the truth, although the reality had been more complex.

“Did you take any golds?”

“No.”

“Not a one?”

“Only what I was paid as governor.”

“That is what the major who is paymaster said.” Calkoran laughed. “You must be the only governor who did not fill his purse.”

Quaeryt shrugged.

“Why?”

Quaeryt decided to tell the truth behind it all. “I would not be content with golds. My dreams are larger. I want a land where Pharsi, scholars, and imagers can all be what they will, under the same laws as everyone else.”

Calkoran looked at him, then said quietly, “You are either mad … or a lost one.”

“Is there any difference?”

The major smiled and shook his head. “Let me tell you what I know about the Bovarians. They follow their officers, but most follow like they are sheep … They attack in mass formations…”

That was what they did at Ferravyl …

“… they try to split your forces and then butcher any who are cut off … They ask for surrender. If one does not surrender, they show no mercy … not to men or women…”

Quaeryt continued to listen as he rode beside the major under a clear sky and a morning sun that was already hot and threatened to be sweltering by midday and intolerable by midafternoon.

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.