L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

A glass later, as they passed a marsh that looked to be drying out, Skarpa turned in the saddle and cleared his throat. “There’s another matter we need to discuss.”

“Yes?” replied Quaeryt warily.

“We’ve had quite a few weeks without proper services, Subcommander.” Skarpa snorted. “Not even improper services. After everything today … well, tomorrow is Solayi…”

“I’d be happy to conduct services.” Quaeryt wasn’t about to argue, even though he had no idea what he might offer as a homily. Still … he had a day to think about it.

As the afternoon neared fourth glass, Quaeryt saw plumes of smoke ahead, at least two milles ahead, and possibly three. “I wonder if the Bovarians are burning more crops.”

“Something’s burning,” replied Skarpa. “We’ll know what when the scouts return.”

Quaeryt nodded. So far, the tracks of the attackers had followed the river road westward. From all indications Skarpa and his forces were following close to a battalion of Bovarians toward Villerive. “You think they’ll rejoin a larger force before we get to Ralaes?”

The commander shrugged. “They’ve got to have more troopers ahead. The ones that tried to surprise us are setting a good pace. That means they don’t have to delay us.”

“And they would if there weren’t reinforcements waiting?”

“That’s my guess.” Skarpa laughed humorously. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

Not often when it comes to battles and fighting, thought Quaeryt.

Less than a quint passed before Quaeryt could smell smoke, but the plumes had largely dissipated. What remained was an acrid miasma that did not rise much above the treetops, but created a spreading haze over fields and meadows. The few cots they passed looked vacant, with shutters tightly fastened, sheds closed, and no livestock visible anywhere.

Then two scouts from the squad sent out earlier rode back toward the head of the column, where they turned and rode along beside Skarpa.

“Sir … the Bovarians burned the hamlet ahead. Every last dwelling and shed. They drove out the livestock … and more.”

“Do you see any Bovarians?”

“No, sir. They must have fired the place a while ago. It’s mostly burned out now.”

Skarpa nodded. “Report back to your squad leader. He’s to make certain that no Bovarian troopers are within two milles of the hamlet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Once the two had galloped off back down the road and northwest around the bend, Quaeryt asked, “You intend to set up an encampment there?”

“It’s too far to reach Ralaes. Be even a stretch tomorrow. We need an open area that’s not swamp or muddy fields.” Skarpa gestured toward the gray clouds to the north. “We’ll likely get rain, and the hamlet’s on higher ground.”

Left unspoken was the fact that going significantly farther, to another hamlet, risked putting the regiments in unfamiliar territory in fading light.

Once around the bend, with the road less than a hundred yards from the river and once more heading west, Quaeryt’s eyes burned more with smoke that was markedly stronger and more acrid. Ahead, on the left side of the road, was the blackened shell of a small cot, no more than five yards by four, with the burned-out remnants of a shed behind it. A hundred yards beyond the first ruined cot were two others, one on each side of the road. Before Quaeryt and Skarpa reached them, an outrider gestured to the left side of the road. A heap of bodies lay there, mostly men, able-bodied, but all at least partly gray-haired, and one white-haired woman. Quaeryt counted quickly-eleven bodies, most with blood across their heads.

“Looks like some of the villagers didn’t like the idea of having everything burned,” said Skarpa.

“They probably protested, and the Bovarians made an example of them,” suggested Quaeryt. “That seems to be the way Kharst works … or the local commander decided that was the best way to slow us down and deny us supplies.”

“Something like that.” Skarpa’s voice held a trace of skepticism.

Quaeryt glanced ahead, toward a small stand of trees, an orchard in fact. The closer he rode, the more puzzled he was. “That’s an apple orchard, and most of the fruit is ripe, or close to it. Why wouldn’t they burn it?”

“Ah … sir…” came a voice from behind Quaeryt. “You can torch a cot real quick. Takes a real fire to put a green tree to flame in spring, summer, or harvest. There’s no wind, either, and those trees aren’t that close together. That small shed, there, the one that’s burned. It’s not close enough to the trees. Might have had a cider press there. Lots of apples in the grass, though. They probably rode through and smashed what they could.”

Quaeryt turned, realizing that Ghaelyn was the one who had spoken. “Thank you. They must have been in a hurry.” But why? We weren’t that close to them.

“Might have orders to fall back to Villerive.” After a moment Skarpa raised his arm. “Column! Halt!”

The order echoed back along the long line of riders.

“Subcommander,” Skarpa ordered Quaeryt, “have your companies patrol an area out to a mille in an arc around the hamlet. Have them check for tracks, any sign of the enemy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll do the best we can here, for the night.”

“Imagers, two undercaptains each with second, third, and fourth companies…” Quaeryt went on to organize the perimeter patrol.

Fifth Battalion settled into another apple orchard besides the one Quaeryt had first spied as a form of shelter. He slept uneasily on Samedi night, and not just because there was a brief shower a glass or so past sunset. The light rain barely wet the leaves or the ground, not even enough to dampen the dust, and no one attempted a night attack on Skarpa’s force.

Quaeryt woke at the first hint of light, both stiff and puzzled. He pulled himself together and went to look for Zhelan, meeting him near the front of the orchard where a rutted lane ran from beside the trees and then joined the river road.

“Sir?”

“No problems last night?”

“No, sir. I thought there would be.”

“So did I.”

“Every company looks to be ready … or they will be shortly.”

“What do you think about this?” Quaeryt gestured toward the nearest burned cot.

“I can’t say I know what to make of it, sir. Unless it was to slow us down, but we wouldn’t have pushed on last night anyway.”

“They might not know that.”

“If we’re facing the less experienced Bovarians, they might not.”

“You think the better Bovarian troopers are on the north side of the river?”

“Be my guess, sir. More of them, too.”

“You might be right. But if we’re not … however it’s come about, it bothers me.”

Zhelan offered a crooked smile. “Me, too, sir.”

More than two glasses passed before the troopers were fed, gear was stowed, and the column rode out of the unnamed hamlet, with Fifth Battalion riding behind Third Regiment, the supply wagons following fourth company, and Fifth Regiment in the rear. While the day was overcast, the clouds were not dark, nor were they particularly low. That didn’t matter, because they’d been riding for perhaps two quints when a gust of wind whipped over them, and rain began to patter down on the troopers, not enough to be considered a downpour, but enough that, if it continued, the road would turn to muddy slop.

Quaeryt was riding with Major Arion and fourth company, and since he couldn’t do much about the rain, he turned to Arion, riding beside him. “You’ve fought against Bovarians, Major. Did you see anything like what we saw yesterday?”