L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

“We should go inside,” suggested Skarpa.

Quaeryt followed the commander back to a corner of the empty public room, where the two sat.

Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Falossn didn’t get that much out of the assassins. That was because they didn’t know that much. There are several Bovarian companies that specialize in assassinating enemy commanders. That’s why the small crossbows. They infiltrate towns and wait. Their orders were specific. They were ordered to target those who are subcommanders and higher. Preferably higher, much higher.” Skarpa shook his head. “Another thing we’ll have to keep an eye out for.”

“They were after you because you’ve been more effective?”

“Who knows?” Skarpa smiled sardonically. “Falossn asked if they had other duties … such as dealing with those who gave Rex Kharst … difficulty. They do … but only High Holders.”

Quaeryt nodded.

“You don’t look that surprised.”

“It makes sense. You can’t train assassins in a few weeks. They knew what they were doing. It also explains the actions of some of the High Holders we’ve encountered.”

“They would have been effective here, except for you. After what happened this morning, I’ve been thinking. Then I saw your drill outside.” Skarpa gestured in the direction of the east courtyard. “You were working on something like that with your imagers, weren’t you?”

“We’ve just started on that in the last week or so. Right now … none of them can do it for long or even with enough strength to protect themselves except briefly. As I mentioned earlier today, doing that takes great strength, not to mention skill. Second, it doesn’t always work. If the imager is tired, he can’t do it. Second, most imagers can’t hold even weak shields. Some can’t at all. It’s basically a skill that might allow some of them greater personal protection so that they can do what else they need to do.”

“If they get stronger, they could protect others…”

“Then they become almost useless,” said Quaeryt. “If they even can do shielding, they can’t do things like image iron darts into musketeers. And their shields are small. If they try a larger shield, it’s good only for moments, a faction of a quint at best. If they had been far enough along to raise shields against musket attacks, you’d have lost two or three times as many troopers as you did because they wouldn’t have been able to attack the musketeers or image smoke and pepper.”

“I still don’t see why they can’t do both…”

“Why don’t your troopers carry large iron shields?” asked Quaeryt. “Large shields would certainly protect them … wouldn’t they?”

Skarpa frowned, then smiled and shook his head. “I think I see.” Then he frowned again. “But why teach them that at all?”

“So that they can survive long enough to do what is most useful for you.” Should you hint at more? “If they can protect even themselves, then they can image smoke, pepper, iron darts. Holding a shield for a quint-and that’s something none of them can do yet-would render them useless for the rest of a skirmish or battle. There are reasons why I’ve kept them close to me or away from the worst of battles, but I cannot be everywhere. I would like to send imagers out with other companies. Without being able to shield themselves, they risk dying-like Akoryt did. And there are too few of them to risk them unnecessarily. I wish we had more.” For more than one reason.

“You can do that for longer.”

Quaeryt nodded. “I have my limits, too. You’ve seen that.”

“I’ve seen you go beyond them.”

“And there I’ve been most fortunate. Twice, at least, I could have died.”

Skarpa grinned. “More like four or five times.” The grin faded. “I understand. Try not to risk that much again. I’ll talk to Meinyt about it as well.” He rose from the table.

“Thank you.” Quaeryt stifled a yawn as he stood. It had been a long day, indeed.

“You look like you need some sleep.”

“Don’t we all?” replied Quaeryt wryly.

Skarpa chuckled, then turned and strode out of the public room.

Quaeryt had thought to go to bed early on Jeudi evening, after supper, and making a final round of the battalion and checking once more with the imager undercaptains and with Zhelan. That didn’t happen, because he ended up working out patrol schedules for the town with Meinyt and Skarpa, so that it was after eighth glass when he collapsed on the bed in his room at the South River Inn.

Quaeryt jolted awake with sheets of warm rain gusting through the gaps in the inn shutters, plastering his underclothes to his skin. Outside was pitch-dark except for the rolling thunder and an occasional flash of lightning so close that the entire inn seemed to shudder under the force of the storm.

He sat up, then, at the creaking of his door, turned to see it swing open.

Didn’t you bar it?

Two thumps followed and, ridiculously, sitting in the doorway was a black rabbit, staring fixedly at Quaeryt. But before he could even stand, a musketeer filled the doorway, leveling a dark musket directly at him. Quaeryt immediately raised full shields, but as the musket ball struck the barrier, ice formed everywhere.

Because of the warm rain?

The cold was so intense that he immediately began to shiver … and then the ice that coated everything shattered, and chill rivulets covered Quaeryt. His head felt as though it would burst.

His skin was like ice …

… and he found himself lying on his back in bed, once more, covered in shards of ice that were melting into his underdrawers and undershirt.

Slowly he sat up in the darkness, his eyes traveling to the door, still barred, to the window, its shutters still fastened, and to the floor, covered, as was the bed, with slivers and shards of clear ice. His breath steamed in the cold air of the small chamber.

He stood, wincing as one bare foot came down on a fragment of ice, and then made his way to the windows, where he opened the shutters and let the moist warm night air flow into the room. Where the breeze from the window met the frigid air of the chamber, droplets of water pattered to the plank floor for several moments as he stood there.

What was that all about?

He’d imaged in his sleep. That was clear enough from the ice shards around the small chamber and the throbbing in his skull. But what did the black rabbit and the musketeer have to do with anything? The dream of the musketeer, that he could understand after having been fired upon so often in recent weeks, but the black rabbit? The idea that black rabbits were a harbinger of doom was strictly a belief of people who lived in the southern parts of Lydar.

They’re not even your myths or superstitions.

He pulled off his undershirt and hung it on a wall peg, then bent and brushed the remaining fragments of ice off the bed. After a moment he concentrated on imaging away water droplets. At least that small imaging didn’t worsen his headache, although it did leave the sheets chill. But then, warm as the air from outside was, that wasn’t exactly a problem.

Finally, he closed the shutters again and lay back down on the bed, hoping he could drop off to sleep again. While he did drift off into an uneasy slumber, he woke slightly before dawn, sore and groggy, but not feeling as tired as he might have. After cleaning up and dressing he made his way down to the public room, where he found Skarpa and Meinyt eating breakfast.

He’d no sooner seated himself than the blond serving girl hurried over with a mug of lager and plate of eggs and half a loaf of dark bread for him.

“Thank you,” he said warmly.