L. Modesitt - Scholar

But doesn’t everyone with a mission believe their goals are worthwhile? Doesn’t Rescalyn?

He knew the answers to those questions, and they didn’t offer much comfort.

All too soon the rest of the afternoon and supper passed, and Quaeryt and Gauswn stood on the flat space north of the hold house, facing several hundred men and officers. Gauswn handled the invocation and confession, and skipped the offertory, then turned to Quaeryt.

“Under the Nameless … all evenings are good,” Quaeryt began. “But we all know that some are better than others.” He’d hoped the dryness of the way he delivered those words would get at least a few smiles … and he saw some. “We’ve all been through some long days lately, and there might be a few questions about how it all came to this. Well … I can’t claim any insight into what the Nameless might think, but I have seen, now and again, as have most of you, what happens when people, even rulers, think that they don’t have to abide by the laws and rules of a land … when they think they’re above those rules. In an important way, acting as though you’re above the laws is no different from Naming. It’s just another way of claiming that you’re better than anyone else.…”

Quaeryt paused and gestured toward the hold house. “Holder Saentaryn didn’t want to pay his tariffs like other holders. He stole coal from other holders and killed hardworking miners … and what was his reward for his Naming? Who will remember his name or his evil … or even any good he may have done? I can’t say whether it’s exactly the will of the Nameless, but those who attempt to exalt their names through evil and greed and reaching beyond their true abilities … well … all too often, it doesn’t go well for them.

“Now … it’s easy to look at someone in power, especially one who has fallen from power or someone evil, and say they deserve what happens, but we can fall into that trap in our day-to-day life, to justify weighted bones in gaming with a comrade who’s not quite so sharp … or just tired, or to bet more than he can cover … or even … you all know the little tricks that those who don’t care enough about their comrades can come up with. But there’s a problem with this sort of little Naming, just as there is with big Naming. In fights and battles, we all need each other. If any of you have been shorting your comrades, one way or another, can you be certain they’ll make every effort to protect your back? Even if they’re honorable, and almost everyone is, will that worry hamper you when things get tight?…” Quaeryt went on to strengthen those points, trying to stress how the values of the Nameless strengthened the regiment and benefited each and every man and officer.

After the benediction, Rescalyn appeared and walked toward Quaeryt. “Most appropriate, scholar. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

As the rest of the men and officers slipped away, Gauswn turned to Quaeryt. “I still say you’d make an excellent chorister, sir.”

“Thank you … but I think both the Nameless and I would be happier if I weren’t, Undercaptain. I have too many doubts to be a good chorister, much as I believe in the values for which the Nameless stands.”

“We all have doubts, sir. What matters is what we do, given those doubts.”

Quaeryt couldn’t have agreed more, but he worried a great deal about whether his own actions met those standards … and whether they would in the days and weeks ahead.

The regiment left the smoking ruins of Saentaryn’s holding slightly before sunrise on Lundi. Everything that could not be used or transported immediately had been put to the torch or otherwise destroyed shortly after dawn. While there were no attacks on the column during the morning, scouts did report seeing mounted figures in the trees by late in the afternoon.

“Why no attacks now?” Quaeryt had asked.

“Those who are Saentaryn’s see no point. Not now. Those who serve others are saving every man to defend the hold,” replied Skarpa.

And every woman and youth. Quaeryt kept that thought to himself.

For whatever reason, either that expressed by Skarpa, or for some other, there were no attacks on the regiment during the ride. The column drew up and camped on a flat less than two milles from the approach to Demotyl’s holding, presumably the same flat that Myskyl and Rescalyn had discussed the day before. That night, there were no attacks, either, although scouts verified that there was activity at the holding, and a gathering of forces there.

Well before true dawn, the regiment moved through a misty fog that was almost a drizzle toward the heights to the east of Demotyl’s holding. Unlike at Waerfyl’s hold, all the buildings were of stone, with split-slate roofs, and there was a low wall on the south edge of the flat ridge on which the structures were set, a wall overlooking terraced fields that had been harvested days or weeks earlier.

As the Sixth Battalion drew up in the trees in the center of the wedge, a good half mille from the main hold house, and positioned so that the battalion didn’t have to deal with the southern wall, Quaeryt glanced upward at the thickening clouds, barely visible through the drizzling mist. He shook his head.

“You’re asking why now, scholar?” Meinyt offered a crooked grin. “Because the rain will really come down later, and everything will be slop for days. The governor wants to take the place before it does and hole up there while things dry out.”

“… and we’ll get the holes, and he’ll dry out,” came a murmur from the ranks behind.

Meinyt glanced back sharply, if but for a moment. There were no more comments, low-voiced or otherwise.

The attack began with two squads from another battalion-Quaeryt didn’t know which-riding to one of the outlying barns and breaking down the doors and loosing the horses that had been herded inside. But no one emerged from any of the buildings.

“They’re going to play turtle,” predicted Meinyt. “It’ll cost them dear.”

No matter what they do, it will cost them dearly. Quaeryt did not voice the thought.

For a time, the only sounds were those of horses, the air so chill that their breath was sometimes a hot fog that drifted upward from their nostrils before dissipating. Then a team pulled in an engineers’ wagon, and the engineers unloaded various lengths of wood and other items. Before long, they had positioned a bombard less than a hundred yards from the north end of the main hold building. Shortly, the weapon began to hurl moderate-sized boulders, no more than two or three stones in weight, at the shuttered upper window. Not all hit the shutters, and those that didn’t merely bounced off the thick stone walls, but after a half glass or so, the shutters were gone and the narrow window gaped open. Then came the crocks of flaming bitumen.

To the east just below Sixth Battalion, another bombard attacked the center lower window. As the bitumen crocks began to fly at that open window, two things happened. Cold rain began to pelt down, and every door in the holding opened-side doors, barn doors, cellar doors-and armed figures swarmed toward the bombards. The engineers retreated in full run, and the horn sounded the charge.

Once more, Quaeryt followed Meinyt, his staff out and ready, as Sixth Battalion crossed the open ground from the trees and swept toward the defenders.

The holders had a definite strategy, because they came at the cavalry in pairs, one man with a long spear or something resembling a pike, and the other with a shorter blade or ax, with each pair targeting a given horseman.

“Beware the pikes! ’Ware the pikes!” came an order, but at least one or two leading riders ended up with their mounts brought down, and several horses screamed.