L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Just ten casualties? That seemed terribly low. “What about the Bovarians?”

“More than fifty. They are not used to experiencing a charge when their muskets are not effective. We have eleven prisoners. Most will not live, I think.”

“Are there any captive musketeers?”

“There are two, sir,” answered Zhael, his voice subdued. “The others…”

“What happened to the others?”

“You killed them, sir. Their necks, their bones … Most of them. One or two ran into the woods. We did not chase them far … as you ordered.”

“I just charged them with my staff so they wouldn’t shoot any more of us.”

“They will not do that.” Zhael did not quite meet Quaeryt’s eyes.

After a long moment Quaeryt said, “If you’d have some of your men collect the muskets and pile them by the side of the road for the wagons to pick up. I don’t want the Bovarians to come back and collect them.” Quaeryt massaged his forehead again. It didn’t seem to help the throbbing in his skull. “Oh … and if you’d dispatch a trooper to tell Major Zhelan that Fifth Battalion can join us.”

“Yes, sir.” Zhael rode off.

Quaeryt didn’t take in what happened, because his vision kept blurring with the pain in his eyes and head. He drank more water, then fumbled out several dry biscuits and methodically started chewing one. By the time he’d finished the second one, the pain had subsided from sheer agony to extreme discomfort, but he could see more clearly … for a few moments, if he squinted. He also realized that he was sore across his thighs and abdomen … and on his backside. Very sore.

He took another long swallow of the watered lager, then replaced the bottle in its holder, just as Zhael reined up beside him.

“You are wounded in another way, are you not, sir?”

“You might say that,” Quaeryt admitted. “I’ll recover.” If we aren’t attacked again soon.

“The Bovarians-the ones remaining-are long gone.”

“For the moment I have to say I’m glad.”

Zhael nodded.

Quaeryt reached up and massaged his forehead and neck again.

Almost two quints passed before Quaeryt and Zhael, waiting beside the pile of muskets, saw Fifth Battalion approach. Then Skarpa rode out along the shoulder of the road toward them. Major Zhael eased his mount away as Skarpa reined up.

“I understand you had a little action here.” The commander glanced down at the muskets stacked on the shoulder of the road.

“Another musket attack.”

“How many did you lose?”

“Two killed, eight wounded, not seriously, according to Major Zhael.”

“What were their casualties? Do you know?”

“Some fifty dead, eleven captives, mostly wounded.”

Skarpa’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t have led the attack on them, would you?”

“They attacked us, sir.”

Skarpa snorted. “I’ll rephrase that. You wouldn’t have led the counterattack, would you?”

“Only against the musketeers. Major Zhael commanded the attack against the Bovarian cavalry.”

“So you took out the musketeers … and they destroyed the Bovarians. Exactly how did that happen?”

“The major said the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who charged into musket fire.”

“I suspect that the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who were able to charge through it.”

Quaeryt managed a grin, but even that hurt. “We were fortunate.”

“Didn’t I tell you that I was already suspicious of that explanation?”

“What can I say, sir? We were.”

“How many muskets are there in that pile?”

“Forty-one, sir.”

“Did you kill all of the men who used them?”

“No, sir. I don’t know how many I might have injured. I just charged their stands from the side, and they couldn’t turn their weapons fast enough.”

“Just?”

“Muskets are like pikes, in a way. They’re awkward.”

“Have you ever been attacked by muskets before this campaign, Subcommander?”

“No.”

Skarpa nodded. “You can rejoin Fifth Battalion. We’ll take a break here and bring Third Regiment forward. Fifth Battalion will take the middle of the column, before the wagons.”

Quaeryt didn’t protest. He just nodded.

Late on Lundi afternoon Skarpa received scout reports that the Bovarians had invested the approach to Ralaes with revetments and trenches. He called a halt to the advance at a small, nameless, and hastily abandoned hamlet some four milles from the approach to the town. While the company officers and men of the regiments and Fifth Battalion were making camp, setting up picket lines, and taking care of mounts, among other matters, and the cooks were preparing an evening meal, Skarpa called Quaeryt and Meinyt to meet with him on the covered front porch of one of the larger dwellings in the hamlet, and one with a view of the river and a breeze off the water. For the breeze alone, Quaeryt was grateful. He’d made the ride to the hamlet in a painful semidaze, not to mention being hot and sweaty.

Skarpa had found a small table that he’d set in the middle of the narrow porch and some stools. He’d also spread a map on the table, weighted on the corners with stones. As Quaeryt listened, he tried not to squirm too much on the stool, but he was feeling more aches than he had thought he would, and there were bruises in more than a few places he couldn’t see.

“… the ground to the south of the town is low and swampy, with thick underbrush and mud holes and uneven ground. There are also extensive false olive thickets on the higher ground. We’d have to ride more than twenty milles to get around it…”

“What about that other road?” asked Meinyt. “The one the musketeers took?”

“It joins the river road about a mille toward Raelaes from here,” replied Skarpa.

“Too bad we didn’t know that.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to take it, not the part heading west from the paved road.” Skarpa cleared his throat. “The scouts found two abandoned wagons-both with broken axles.”

“They just left them?” Meinyt frowned.

“Apparently they were worried about Quaeryt’s third company catching them.” Skarpa smiled.

“After the way Zhael’s men ripped through their troopers,” said Quaeryt, “they were right to be worried.”

Meinyt and Skarpa exchanged a quick glance, one that Quaeryt ignored.

“Anyway…” continued Skarpa, “there’s about two milles of open ground east of the town, between that jungle and the river. They’ve thrown up revetments across most of the last mille, with ditches in other places. Most of the ditches are wide enough that a horse can’t jump them, and they’re filled with sharpened stakes and who knows what else…”

“Filthy water and mud, most likely,” added Meinyt.

“… it’s hard to tell how many men they’ve got, but it looks like they’ve got at least three, maybe four, regiments of foot behind those earthworks.”

“At least some muskets, too,” said Quaeryt. “Where they’ve got a clear path of fire.”

Skarpa continued using the map to point out what he’d learned from the scouts for another half quint before he finally said, “That’s what we know now. I’m in no hurry to attack. Not for a day or so, anyway. The men could use some rest-and so could you and the imagers, Subcommander. We need to feel out where their strong points are and see if there’s somewhere we can break through and then wheel and pin them against their own earthworks.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Tomorrow, when you’re rested, I’d like you to ride closer and see what you think.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get some food and sleep. Leave everything else to Zhelan. That’s what he’s there for.”