L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

Quaeryt nodded, not trying even to smile pleasantly.

Skarpa stood. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”

For all that Skarpa said, it would be a while before the cooks had rations ready. While Quaeryt was sore and tired, he wasn’t sleepy. So he made his way to the eastern end of the hamlet, where Fifth Battalion was settling in around cots abandoned by their owners or tenants.

Zhelan was the first to catch sight of him. “Sir … the first cot there … there’s space for you and the imagers.”

“Thank you. You’ve told them?”

“Yes, sir.” Zhelan stood waiting.

Quaeryt knew Zhelan wanted to know what Skarpa had said, but wouldn’t ask. So he said quietly, “The Bovarians have thrown up earthworks and trenches across all the approaches to Ralaes…” He went on to summarize Skarpa’s words, then ended with, “We need to see that the men get rest, but that they’re ready in case the Bovarians try another surprise attack.”

“Do you think they will?”

“They very well might. We’re getting close to Villerive, and they can retreat behind all those earthworks after they try a strike.”

“A few extra sentries might be in order … posted farther out.”

Quaeryt nodded, then added, “Perhaps mounts already saddled for a squad … or two?”

Zhelan offered a faint smile. “I’d thought that, sir.”

After he talked over matters with the major, Quaeryt started toward the cot that Zhelan had pointed out. He was still some twenty yards away when Voltyr approached from where he had been standing under a small maple.

“Sir?”

“What is it, Voltyr?”

“I hoped I could talk over a few things with you.”

Quaeryt nodded, wondering if he could evade the thrust of the undercaptain’s inquiries, or if he should, for he had no doubt questions were on Voltyr’s mind. How could they not be after all that’s happened in the last day or so?

“There have been times when we should have suffered from arrows. Those around us did. This morning, those closest to you were not injured by the first musket attack, while many farther away were. This afternoon, those near you were not injured.” The undercaptain paused. “You can extend shields some distance, can you not?”

What do you say to that? “Learning shielding, from what I know, is difficult, but I’ve tried to give all of you instruction in imaging … as best I could. It takes time to learn and strengthen abilities, and there’s never been any imager who lived long enough or who worked with others enough to develop a way of teaching imagers. Not that I know.”

“Until now,” said Voltyr quietly. “That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it? You’ve been pushing us as fast as you thought we could learn.”

“It wasn’t fast enough for Akoryt,” Quaeryt said quietly.

“He wasn’t strong enough yet. Shaelyt and I can barely hold shields for a fraction of a quint.” Voltyr stopped as Shaelyt walked around the end of the cot and then toward them.

“Good afternoon,” offered Quaeryt.

“The same to you, sir.” Shaelyt’s eyes went to Voltyr.

The older undercaptain smiled. “I was telling the subcommander how it seemed more than fortuitous that anyone close to him suffered fewer, if any, wounds from arrows or musket balls, and that suggested shielding beyond just himself.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Shaelyt, “but none of the undercaptains thinks it’s fortune. Nor does most of Fifth Battalion. Wharyn told Shaelyt that you were not a lost one. He said you were the son of Erion. He said you rode down twenty-one musketeers, and their iron musket stands. Only two of those you struck survived. They counted twice.”

“What do you two suggest I say, then?” Quaeryt kept his voice humorous. “No matter what Captain Wharyn says, I can’t claim I’m a son of Erion. I’m not, and claiming such wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“It might not hurt to let the rest of the undercaptains know you’re an imager, sir,” suggested Voltyr. “Quietly, of course.”

Quaeryt nodded. “You’re probably right that the time for that has come. I’ll let them know after morning muster. I’d like to let them have the day to think it over.”

“I have another question, sir,” ventured Shaelyt.

“Yes?”

“Many times when you have done what others would claim is not possible … you have been injured. Yet nothing has struck you. You are moving with great care even now…”

“I don’t deny it. I’m a bit sore. You want to know why?”

Both undercaptains nodded.

“Beyond a certain point … I’ve learned from experience … when there are too many impacts on shields, the force of those impacts are born by the body.” Quaeryt paused for a moment. “It’s like a physical shield. If a sabre hits a shield that’s properly held, the shield-holder doesn’t feel much. If a horse rears and its hooves and a battle ax hit the shield, the man holding the shield is likely to have many broken bones, if he survives.”

“You’ve survived worse than that with no bones broken,” Shaelyt pointed out.

“At times that’s been true. But not at other times. You saw what happened to me at Ferravyl. And I was bruised all over when I came to Ferravyl because I’d used shields against explosives in a wagon. The more you work on shields the stronger they get-but there’s always a breaking point. I had shields, probably like yours, when I went to Tilbor. They weren’t enough to protect me against a crossbow bolt fired at close range. They slowed the bolt enough that it didn’t break my collarbone or go deep enough into my chest to kill me. But it was more than a month before I rode again. In the last battle in Tilbor, I wore myself out and was flattened by a heavy cavalryman. That broke my arm and tore up a few muscles.”

The two exchanged glances again.

“So … you’ve continued to fight when you knew…” Voltyr let his words break off.

“When necessary,” Quaeryt admitted. “Sometimes you have no choice. Just as sometimes troopers and their commanders have no choice.” No good choices … there are always choices …

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll go over this with the others in the morning.” Quaeryt nodded and turned.

As he walked back toward the central cot near where rations were being prepared, Quaeryt could feel their eyes on his back. Did you say enough? Too much? Did you make it clear enough?

He could only hope so.

Quaeryt woke in the darkness to an off-key trumpet and the insistent clangor of a bell, followed by shouted commands, and then by the muffled sounds of weapons. For a moment he had no idea where he was, not until the undercaptains around him began to stir. Then he sat up on the thin pallet he’d covered with his single blanket and yanked on his boots and put on the uniform shirt he’d folded and laid aside to sleep in the too-warm night.

“Imagers! Muster out front!” Quaeryt stood and hurried toward the door.

When he reached the narrow porch of the cot, he glanced around, but while he heard sounds, they did not come from the river road to the west, but more from the southwest. That made sense. The Bovarians wouldn’t have attacked along the road if they wanted to surprise Skarpa’s forces.

Both moons were but thin crescents. Neither shed much light, and in the near darkness, all he could see were the shadowy figures of troopers forming up.

What can you do that will be most effective? As soon as he asked himself the question, he realized how stupid it was, since he had only a general idea of from where the Bovarian attack was coming … and none about what Telaryn forces were responding and how.