L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Quaeryt slid into the chair across from the commander. “I overslept this morning…”

“It’s not quite seventh glass,” replied Skarpa mildly. “That’s not all that late.”

“For a subcommander of a battalion? I told you I wasn’t meant to be an officer … and after that mess last night…” Quaeryt started to shake his head, but even beginning the gesture hurt. Instead, he reached for the mug of lager than Skarpa had waiting for him. After a swallow, he went on. “Zhelan kept me from making a fool out of myself this morning.”

“There are times when everyone has to do that. You’ve done it for me, whether you know it or not.”

When? Quaeryt couldn’t think of a time when he could have done that.

Skarpa motioned to the server. “Breakfast for the subcommander.”

The woman nodded and hurried into the kitchen.

“Zhelan understands something you don’t,” Skarpa said.

Quaeryt took another swallow of the lager, then waited for the other boot to come down.

“You can’t do everything. Last night, what you and the imagers did saved hundreds of our troopers. I told him to make sure you weren’t disturbed.”

“But then I shouldn’t be a subcommander.”

“You have to be, or you won’t have the authority to do what you need to do.” Skarpa snorted. “There’s not a man in your first company that doesn’t know you’ll put your life on the line to do what needs to be done. If you don’t lead every charge, they all know it’s because you’re doing something else, and it’s usually something that saves their ass. If the Khellans don’t know it already, they will before long.” He stopped as the server returned and set down a platter heaped with a mixture of rice fries and scrambled cheesed eggs, with a small loaf of dark bread.

Once the server moved back to the kitchen door, Skarpa went on. “Now … eat and stop worrying. I need you with a clear head so that you can get to work making sure that the patrols I set up are doing what they should. I told them to do what they did in Rivecote Sud. We also need to go over supplies.” The commander shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ll be here for a time.”

“Have you heard from the marshal?” Quaeryt took a bite of the warm rice fries, surprisingly good, but that might have been because he was indeed hungry.

“No, but he’s not likely to be able to move as fast as we have.”

“Do they have a ferry here?”

“They’ve got slips, but no boats. Not exactly surprising, when you think about it.”

“What have you learned from the Antiagons?”

“They were sent to join the attack on Ferravyl, but Aliaro sent them by way of Variana.” Skarpa laughed softly.

“What? That sounds like he was stalling.”

“My thought as well. Then, on the way down the Aluse, their commander found that the Bovarians weren’t too friendly on the north side of the river, and they took the bridge at Villerive. They were told to wait here for a Bovarian regiment from someplace called Asseroiles. By the time that regiment arrived, they’d learned of the defeat at Ferravyl, so they were ordered to hold Caernyn against any attackers.”

“What did their commander say?”

“He didn’t. He was killed when you and your imagers exploded that Antiagon Fire in their trench. One of his majors-the only one who survived-told me. He’s got a broken leg. He was very upset. Apparently, when they use Antiagon Fire, everyone flees, and they just mop up the survivors. He can’t understand what happened.”

“We still lost too many.”

“We always lose too many. That’s war. We can only make sure the Bovarians lose a lot more. Now get back to eating so that we can get on with the day. Oh … and by the way, we’re making better arrangements for all the troopers and officers while we’re here in Caernyn. The officers will all be billeted here, and we’ve taken all the inns and the like for the regiments and your battalion.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank you for keeping the damage from that Antiagon Fire to a minimum.”

“I’ve got some ideas for handling it better. After we get the patrolling settled, I’m going to work with the imagers.”

“Good. Eat,” ordered Skarpa.

Quaeryt took another swallow of lager, a mouthful of cheesed eggs and more rice fries.

After finishing with Skarpa, Quaeryt then had to deal with Meinyt and the companies from his regiment assigned to patrol duty in Caernyn. In the end, it was early afternoon before Quaeryt gathered the imager undercaptains and several engineer rankers together, and they walked toward the battlefield. Quaeryt had earlier sent one of the engineer rankers to confirm that at least one of the Antiagon catapults looked to be in working order. The other rankers carried baskets holding various empty fired-clay containers. One carried a small spade.

As they reached the top of the hill above the stone walls, Quaeryt could see that below the walls, Bovarian and Antiagon prisoners were still digging graves and carrying bodies to them, although a number of the formerly trapped and staked pits on the slope were already being used as communal graves. He recognized the mounted undercaptain overseeing the work on the northeast side of the slope-Sengh, from Skarpa’s first battalion.

“Undercaptain … we need to use one of the catapults for training. Will that be a problem?”

“I wouldn’t think so, sir. We’ve already cleared out the area behind the walls. I’ll just send word over to Captain Moragh. He’s in charge of the other side. That’s where the catapults are.”

“I’d appreciate it. How are the prisoners taking it?”

“They’re not happy, especially the Antiagons. They think we should have at least given their dead a common pyre. The commander said that if they wanted to burn they should have used their own fire when they had the chance.” Sengh smiled wryly. “Funny how folks don’t like the idea of taking their own poison.”

“That’s true of most of us.” Quaeryt nodded. “Thank you. If you’d have your man tell Captain Moragh that we’ll be flinging things toward the woods…”

“Yes, sir.”

As Quaeryt led the way across the top of the hill toward the southwestern end of the walls, he couldn’t help but think about the Antiagon attitude toward burial. Does it really matter whether your corpse is buried or burned after you’re dead? While Quaeryt frankly thought it more sanitary to be burned, he knew that there had been great debates over death and the dead. According to some choristers, Rholan had claimed that excessive attention to the body was a form of Naming. Although Quaeryt didn’t recall anything offhand, he wondered, absently, if there were any passages in the little book about what Rholan had really thought about burial or burning, not that Quaeryt had had time or energy or light in which to read in the past days. If he ever got a chance, it might be interesting to see.

When they reached the end of the walls, beyond the area where the worst of the deflected Antiagon Fire had seared men and earth and everything else, the odor of burned vegetation and even burned flesh remained, if not so overpoweringly as it had been the night before.

Quaeryt swallowed, then turned to the engineer rankers. “Undercaptain Vaelt said you could operate the catapults.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the hard-faced older trooper. “Might take a bit to make sure we get it right.” After a brief pause, he added, “You just want us to throw these pots?”

“We’ll start with them empty. Then I’d like them filled with dirt or sand. That’s why the spade.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go to it, and let me know when you’re ready.” Quaeryt turned to the imagers. “You all did the best you could last night, and Commander Skarpa was pleased that you were able to keep the damage from the fire grenades to as little as it was. So was I.” He paused. “I’d still like you to be able to do better in the future. If we encounter more than one Antiagon regiment, or one that’s better equipped, you’ll be overwhelmed. Given how you did last night, with a little practice, all of you can do better.”