L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“It’s on a lake, according to the map,” added Quaeryt.

“They won’t go that far. They need to get to Villerive.” Skarpa shook his head. “We’ll have to leave a company where the roads split … at least for a glass or so after we pass. I don’t want them circling back and following us. Not too close, anyway.”

“Maybe there’s a back road that parallels the river road that will get them to Ralaes or Villerive sooner,” suggested Quaeryt.

“That could be. The river swings north and then back south. Might be faster to cut across. But we don’t know. Don’t want to take any chances, though.”

Quaeryt could understand that all too well.

“I’m going to ride back and talk to Meinyt. You see anything out of sorts … call a halt.”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt understood what Skarpa hadn’t said-that he’d better be alert to something “out of sorts” early enough to avoid another ambush.

Skarpa looked to the scout. “You keep the reports coming to the subcommander.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the scout headed back westward and Skarpa rode toward the rear of the column, Quaeryt made an effort to study the terrain on both sides of the road-carefully, forcing his eyes to take in each area, from the scraggly weeds just beyond the shoulder of the road, to the sagging split rail fence of the small stead ahead and the lack of smoke from the chimney of the small cot.

Quaeryt kept watching.

Finally, a quint or so later, they reached the spot where the road to the south split off the river road, except it was a gentle turn, and the paved road was the one heading south, while the river road returned to being packed clay. Quaeryt studied the river road carefully, but there were no heavy wheel tracks and only a few hoofprints, likely those of the Telaryn scouts, heading west along the river. He could discern no attempts to blur prints or tracks on the river road, nor did he see any evidence of a concealed return to the river road as he and Fifth Battalion rode on.

Shortly, another scout rode back eastward and swung his mount in beside Quaeryt.

“There are tracks on the road ahead, sir, just past some fields that have been harvested. That’d be a mille or so ahead.”

“What crop?”

“Looks to be hay, sir. They got those funny haystacks in the field, and the stubble’s short.”

“There’s no one hiding behind those stacks, is there?”

“No, sir. Hardly big enough to hide a single man and mount.”

Quaeryt recalled what Calkoran had said about muskets … and flat areas. “What’s the ground like just ahead, between here and there?”

“You can see, sir. Pretty much the same as here.”

That meant fields and small steads on the south, and a narrow strip of brush, bushes, and occasional trees between the river road and the River Aluse.

“Column! Halt! Third company! Forward! Pass it back!” Quaeryt couldn’t quite have said why he had reacted so quickly, but there was something about the scout’s report that bothered him, even if he couldn’t have said what. He turned to Zhelan. “I don’t like the scout’s report. So I’m going to move ahead with third company. Keep Fifth Battalion at the ready.”

“Yes, sir. Are you certain that you don’t want the whole battalion?”

“If it’s that bad, I’ll let you know.”

In less than half a quint, Major Zhael reined up, third company behind him on the shoulder of the road. “Sir?”

“We’re going to look and see about something, Major.” Quaeryt offered a smile. “I thought you and your men could keep me company.” He eased his mount around to the south, so that Zhael would be riding on the river side of the road. Then he nodded to the scout. “Lead the way.”

For the next half mille, Quaeryt could see nothing out of the ordinary. While the fields had been recently harvested, there were no haystacks or even enough grain or maize for gleaning. Then they rode past a cot set back some fifty yards from the road, with a weathered split rail fence some thirty yards to the west of the cot. Beyond the fence began another series of fields, beginning with a green plant that covered everything and stood a little over knee-high. Beyond that was the harvested grain field dotted with small haystacks.

As they rode past the fence, Quaeryt studied the green field, clearly something being raised for winter fodder for livestock, but he could see no sign that anyone had walked or ridden through the comparatively low plants. The haystacks beyond did indeed look strange, seemingly with hay bundled into pyramids and encircled with cord. But there was something about the haystacks.

There aren’t any in the fifty yards closest to the road.

“Third company! To arms!” Even as he spoke, Quaeryt tried to extend his shields more and at an angle.

A thunderous roar swept across him, with multiple impacts on his shields nearly tearing him out of his saddle. As he struggled to regain his seat, his eyes went to the left of the road, from where the impacts had come. For a moment he saw nothing out of the ordinary, before he saw the slits in the “haystacks” that were nothing of the sort.

He didn’t have much time to consider more, because a wave of riders charged out of the woods behind the recently harvested field-and past the haystacks that were screens covered with hay, concealing musketeers-toward Quaeryt and third company.

“Third company!” he commanded, in Bovarian. “On me! Charge!”

He wasn’t certain he’d been heard, but then caught the words of Major Zhael, but not their meaning, as he turned the mare toward the oncoming riders, and narrowed his shields, if only slightly. Then he managed to ease the half-staff from its leathers and brace it across the front of the saddle as he guided the mare into the field.

Quaeryt sensed rather than heard another volley from the muskets, less thunderous than the first, but could feel no impacts on his shields.

“Zhael! Charge ahead! Not on me!” he ordered as he neared the first line of “haystacks.” He could see musketeers and the loaders ducking behind the cloth- and hay-covered frames of their stands. Abruptly he turned the mare to the right at an angle and raced along the haystacks with his shields extended, using the shields as a weapon to flatten the Bovarians. By the time he’d reached the end of the musket screens, his head was splitting, and it was getting hard to see. Still …

You can’t let them keep shooting troopers down …

Concentrating through the growing haze of blinding light and what felt like blows to his head, he wheeled the mare and started back along the second line. With each haystack he passed, the pain intensified.

Ahead of him and to his right, third company slashed into the Bovarians, shredding the ambushing company.

Quaeryt let the mare slow as he passed the last haystack/musket stand, so that by the time he rejoined the main body of the company, more than half the Bovarians were down, cut out of their saddles, and the remainder were fleeing back through the woods.

Then he reined up, gasping, trying to massage his forehead with one hand, leaving the staff across the front of the saddle.

Perhaps a quint later-Quaeryt wasn’t sure-Zhael rode back and reined up beside Quaeryt.

“Sir … are you wounded?”

“I’ll … be all right … in a while.” Quaeryt fumbled out the water bottle and took a swallow, then another. “You and your men did well.”

“You led us well.”

Quaeryt wanted to laugh. “No, Major. I did my best to distract the musketeers. You led third company. I hope you didn’t lose too many men.” He had trouble focusing his eyes on Zhael.

“No, sir. Just two. Another eight have small wounds.”