L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Quaeryt managed a laugh. “Trying to gather up the Khellans?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go…”

Less than half a quint after Zhelan vanished into the lurid gloom and smoke, Skarpa rode over to Quaeryt and reined up. “A good third of the survivors, it looks, have run down into those woods. Those who are left.”

“You don’t want to send troopers in there in the dark?”

“Would you?”

Quaeryt wouldn’t. “Are there any of their catapults intact? Or any fire grenades left? That’s about the only thing you might do. You might see if you could use their catapults and drop the Antiagon Fire grenades into the woods. There’s enough open ground between where the trees end and the town proper. Then have the men wait for them to come out.”

“The fire could still spread to the town, and we might lose men trying to figure out how to use them.”

“It could,” said Quaeryt. “And you could lose more men in the woods. Or you could post men around the woods and wait.”

“And we could wait for days or weeks.”

Quaeryt nodded. “Or you could just let them hide and slip away. Just post a company or two between the woods and the town.”

“Your imagers can’t do anything?”

“They’re spent.”

“I’d rather not endanger the town. We may be here for a while. And I’d rather not burn the survivors out. Would you?”

“No. It’s one thing in battle, another afterward.” Quaeryt snorted. “Not that Kharst would see the difference or care.” The wind swirled around him, blowing past him from the northeast. He glanced at the meadow and the fires still burning in front of the stone walls, then said, “You may not have a choice if the wind continues.”

Skarpa shook his head. “Rather not have that happen. If they surrender, we’ll have a few days to work out something.” He paused, then said, “Even in the dark, you look like something the Namer dragged in.”

Quaeryt laughed hoarsely, then blotted his eyes with his sleeve.

“Once you’ve got your battalion back together, why don’t you see if you can find quarters or the like for them.” Skarpa’s last words were not a question.

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt couldn’t disagree. Every moment was an effort. He watched as the commander rode toward the slightly higher ground behind the devastation around the stone walls. He just hoped the Khellans hadn’t gotten too out of hand, but in the smoke and darkness there was no way he was going to be able to track them down.

He could only deal with it later-if they had exceeded his orders-after the fact, because he was in no shape to do anything else.

That bothered him as well.

Somehow, in the seeming chaos that followed the battle, if it could be called that, Quaeryt and Zhelan managed to muster Fifth Battalion, but it was well after the first glass past midnight by then, because while only some of the woods had burned, that had been enough to force out many of those defenders who had fled, and dealing with them had taken more time. Second glass had almost passed before they located a livery stable and adjoining sheds on the southeast side of Caernyn. The quarters, if they could be called such, were cramped, but he hadn’t wanted to try to roust out locals in the middle of the night, not with the potential chaos and additional deaths such an effort might have caused. What with one thing and another, it had been after third glass before Quaeryt had collapsed on a pile of hay in the livery stable, his legs shaking so much he could barely stand, and his head pounding.

When he struggled awake in the grayness of Lundi morning, his lungs burned. He felt as though the smoke from the previous day had all settled in his nose, throat, and chest. He slowly rose and then staggered as much as walked, because his bad leg was giving him trouble, as it often did when he was overly tired, to the door of the stable where a pair of troopers stood guard.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning.” Looking out over the trampled mud of what passed for a courtyard, all he could see was gray. A grayish sky, with haze and smoke still everywhere … and the stench of burned wood and flesh. He had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat.

“Sir…” A junior squad leader hurried toward Quaeryt. “The commander would like you to meet him for breakfast at the River Inn. It’s three blocks that way.” He pointed.

“What about the men?”

The squad leader looked puzzled.

“I need to make sure they’re fed, first.” Quaeryt tried to sound calm and pleasant, even though his head still throbbed, and the burning sensation in his throat and lungs had not completely subsided.

“Ah … sir.”

Quaeryt turned at the sound of Zhelan’s voice.

“As you suggested, sir, we’ve taken over the stable owner’s kitchen and spaces,” said Zhelan. “It will take a bit longer to feed everyone, but…”

Quaeryt had suggested no such thing, but he appreciated, again, Zhelan’s tact. “Thank you. I’m glad you were able to work that out.” You shouldn’t have said anything until you knew what was happening. But then he wasn’t thinking well, not on as little sleep as he’d had. That was just another reason he had no business being a subcommander. He should have been up earlier to take care of things, but he didn’t have the years of training and experience to be able to know what to do without having to think about it. And … he’d forgotten how much imaging took out of him. He turned back to the squad leader. “If you would let the commander know I’ll be there shortly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the squad leader had left, Quaeryt turned to Zhelan and gestured for the major to follow him along the dried mud beside the stable for several yards, until they were well away from the troopers. “Thank you.”

“Sir … that’s what I’m here for.”

To Quaeryt’s ears, Zhelan didn’t sound condescending, patronizing, but just matter-of-fact, and not in the resigned way he’d heard too often in Bhayar’s court. “That may be, but I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, sir.” Zhelan paused. “We lost four more men this morning. I think the rest of the wounded stand a good chance of pulling through.”

“What’s the town like? And the Khellans?”

“They followed your orders. There were even wounded Bovarians where they fought.”

Thank the Nameless. Even as that thought came to mind, Quaeryt almost smiled at the incongruity of his offering thanks, however inadvertently, to a deity he wasn’t even certain existed. “That’s good. Very good.”

“Sir … the commander…”

“Oh … thank you.”

Quaeryt pulled himself together, then headed in the direction that the squad leader had pointed, finding himself accompanied by a pair of troopers. Smiling wryly at that, he also checked his shields, holding only the lighter trigger shields, which weren’t any effort to speak of, as he walked northward.

The River Inn was actually a solid three-story building, with a half squad of troopers stationed on the covered front porch.

“Good morning, sir,” offered the squad leader as Quaeryt stepped onto the solid planks of the porch. “The commander is in the public room, the first arch on the right.”

“Good morning, and thank you.” He had just stepped through the doorway when he couldn’t help but hear a few words behind him.

“… must have taken out half score himself with that staff of his … protecting the imagers…”

Had he? Did everyone watch him? Not many did, only those who weren’t preoccupied with their own survival, but a few had, and they’d seen the overt physical things. That would change as the other imagers became more able and there were more imagers to watch. He pushed those thoughts aside and made his way into the public room where Skarpa sat alone at a circular table. In fact, except for a serving woman standing by the door to the kitchen, he was the only one in the room.