L. Modesitt: Scholar

The next thing Quaeryt remembered was lying somewhere while someone did something to his arm. That created so much pain that sounds and sights blurred into a haze. When that blurred haze finally began to fade, he was surrounded by darkness, lying on blankets with a heavy weight on his chest. That weight, he realized, was his left arm, encased in something. Slowly, he managed to sit up, but every movement caused pain somewhere, especially when he moved his arm.

“The scholar’s awake. Tell the major,” said someone.

Quaeryt couldn’t tell who spoke because it was dark and because his vision remained somewhat blurred.

After a time, a figure approached. “You’re finally back with us.” Skarpa sat on a stool that he’d dragged from somewhere.

“I’ve been here. I just didn’t know I was. Where are we? What happened?” Quaeryt’s voice was hoarse and cracked now and again. He hoped he hadn’t been yelling or screaming.

“We’ve got a barn. Maybe it was a sheep shed. Better than some barracks the men have had at times. Zorlyn-his place is better than some High Holders’ estates. Maybe better than any of them.”

“It looked that way. How bad … did we lose too many?”

“More than a battalion’s worth. There’ll be more that won’t make it. Sixth Battalion … we took it pretty heavy. Well over a hundred-a hundred eight at last count, with five who’ll be fortunate to pull through, and another thirty with wounds that should. Like you.”

Quaeryt looked down at the heavy wooden splint bound in strips of cloth.

“The surgeon said you were easy. He said it was a clean break, and that might heal before all the bruises you’ve got.”

His arm might have suffered a clean break, but it felt as though the Namer was jabbing red-hot pokers into his arm. You don’t believe in the Namer.… Maybe not, but that was the way it felt.

“The last thing I remember, I was trying to block the attack of one of the black riders. I didn’t do it very well. Zorlyn was still fighting, but there weren’t many of his personal guards left. What happened after that?”

Skarpa snorted. “It was mostly over by then, even if we didn’t know it. Both Gauswn and Meinyt saw you go down. There was some sort of flash around you, Gauswn said. He was seeing things. No one else did, but that happens. He fought through some of those black-clad guards to get you.” Skarpa snorted. “That was when Zorlyn and his guards almost broke free. Might have, too, except Gauswn’s company got in the way. It wasn’t what the governor planned-I think he wanted to capture the bastard-but they broke through the guards. Gauswn actually killed Zorlyn. He said he had to … or they would have trampled you.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to say anything. That wasn’t quite what he’d anticipated.

“Everything was a mess, then, but Myskyl and Zirkyl took over and settled things down.”

“They took over?” asked Quaeryt, trying to sound confused.

“You didn’t know? Oh … how would you? One of their last archers put a shaft right through Rescalyn’s chest. A quarrel, really. I didn’t see any crossbowmen, but it was the same kind of quarrel they’ve been using all along. That’s what the commander said.”

“You might recall that I’m familiar with those quarrels,” Quaeryt said.

“One of them got you in the chest. You were more fortunate than the governor. He died right there. Didn’t even get to see that everything worked out the way he planned it.”

“He planned well. I couldn’t believe those wagons that turned into ramps.”

“There were two on the north side, too.”

A ranker appeared with a large mug. “Here’s the ale for the scholar, sir.”

“You need to drink this and rest,” said Skarpa. “We won’t be doing much else for a while, anyway, It’s snowing again, already almost boot-deep. Good thing the larders here are full. Zorlyn didn’t think he’d ever lose.”

“The hill holders never did before.” Not until now.

“First time for everything.” Skarpa rose.

Quaeryt took the mug in his good hand and began to sip. He appreciated Skarpa’s sending for the ale. He wasn’t sure he could have walked any distance at all, let alone gotten to his feet. He didn’t even care that it was ale and not lager.

The snow lasted for only another day and tapered off near late afternoon on Jeudi. The sun returned on Vendrei, warmer than in days, and began to melt away everything that had accumulated. Vendrei afternoon, Quaeryt received a summons to meet with Myskyl, who was acting marshal for the regiment-or what remained of it.

The scholar limped up the hill, slowly following his escort, because his bad leg was worse, and his “good” leg was bruised in places all the way down from hip to just above the ankle. There were bruises across his chest and thighs as well, already turning yellow-purple, and others in places he couldn’t see but certainly could feel.

When he reached what could only be called a manor house or mansion, even a small palace, he was escorted into the study by a junior squad leader, a study every bit as large as the one the governor had used at the Telaryn Palace, and at least as lavishly appointed, with dark paneled walls, and deep green hangings.

Myskyl turned from where he had been looking out the bay window overlooking the walled garden and walked back to the ornately carved goldenwood desk. “Please be seated, scholar.” He sat behind the desk and waited for Quaeryt to ease himself into the cushioned wooden armchair before speaking. “I’m not an envoy or a courtier, scholar. I’m a soldier. I don’t pretend to be anything else. I speak what I think. You present a puzzle. You’re as brave and as resourceful as any junior officer I have, more so than most. Your courage is unquestioned. You’ve saved countless other officers and men. Yet … the governor was troubled by you. So am I. I’m also disturbed by the fact that he was killed by a crossbow quarrel at the end of the battle when no one saw any archers. No one has yet found a crossbow anywhere on the field. I’m even more troubled because that quarrel went straight through the plate the governor wore under his shirt and jacket. That can happen. It did happen. But it has to happen at close range.”

I imaged the quarrel through plate? No wonder I lost shields … a wonder I’m alive. “I don’t know what to say, sir. You seem to think I might know something about his death. Major Skarpa can tell you that I did not even know that the governor had died when I finally could think and talk again.”

“Strange things happen around you, scholar. Tell me why you are here. I know you told the governor. But tell me.”

“It’s no secret I was sent by Lord Bhayar. It’s no secret that Lord Bhayar is concerned about the costs and the numbers of soldiers required to keep order in Tilbor. It’s no secret that Lord Bhayar believed that Governor Rescalyn was an outstanding commander and a good governor. The way he planned and conducted the campaign against the hill holders proves that point. I reported all that. Well … I did, except for the last part of the campaign, but that’s exactly what I will report.”

“The governor said something to the effect that you were always everything you said you were, but that you were more than that. What else are you?” Myskyl’s voice was cool.

“I am what I am, sir. Many men are more than what they say they are. Governor Rescalyn was more than he said he was. You know that. I am truly sorry he was killed. He was a great commander, and that is how he will be remembered. It is also how he should be remembered.” Quaeryt smiled faintly. “Don’t you think so?”