L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

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.

The two regiments and Quaeryt’s battalion made good progress on the rest of Meredi, despite the narrow rough road. They ran across only one other area where the crops had been torched-apparently even before the fires Quaeryt had attempted to prevent, because the fields farther west were black, without a trace of smoke or embers. Other than that, they saw no more signs of Bovarians.