L. Modesitt - Scholar

“The hill types protest with bows, blades, and crossbows.” Meinyt turned in the saddle. “From here on, keep your eyes open, and don’t hesitate to flatten yourself against your mount.”

“I won’t.” Quaeryt mounted, then brought the mare alongside Meinyt’s horse. He raised what he thought of as shields, hoping that they would even work. He needed more practice, and he needed more time holding them to build up his strength.

“Company! Forward!” ordered Meinyt.

Quaeryt rode less than half a mille when he saw a stone pillar on the left side of the road. At one time, it had clearly been higher, possibly with a capstone or something on the top, but someone had battered off the top stones, and they lay in the weeds and grass around the base of the column.

The boundary marker for High Holder Dymaetyn’s land? Vandalized by Waerfyl’s men?

He didn’t ask, because it made little difference. Not at the moment.

“There’s the lane,” Meinyt said. “The tracks are fresher here, and they’ve taken a wagon. It’s not loaded. Not yet.”

What the captain called a lane was more like a path less than four yards wide.

“First squad! Positions!”

Before the command was finished, the troopers in first squad split into two files and turned from the narrow road right into the trees on each side of the lane.

“Second squad!”

The second squad began a quick trot down the lane.

Quaeryt heard a sound like the patter of rain. Meinyt flattened himself against his mount’s neck. Before Quaeryt could follow that example, something ripped through his thoughts-that was what it felt like-and then slammed into his upper chest near his left shoulder. He looked down to see what looked like a short arrow protruding from his jacket, then hugged the mare’s neck, if to one side because he’d done nothing about the quarrel in his shoulder.

“Namer-sows are in the trees-the big oak there and the spreading pine!” someone yelled.

Another pattering sound followed.

Quaeryt kept himself flattened against the mare, who had stopped short. He urged her toward the trees. He certainly didn’t want to stay out in the open.

Once he was off the road and so close to a pine he and his mount were partly concealed, Quaeryt straightened, concentrated, and imaged clear spirits into the wound, even as he tested how firm the quarrel was. His eyes watered, and he wanted to scream, except his head was spinning so much that all he could do was to stay in the saddle.

When his head settled somewhat, he forced himself to image the head of the quarrel away. The rest of the quarrel came out, if not easily, without too much effort. Then he puked, barely able to keep the vomit off himself and the mare, and let the remainder of the quarrel fall to the pine needles.

After a time, he straightened and slowly looked around. From what he could tell, he was practically alone, except for a nearby mount that was riderless. He heard yells from the direction of the lane, but those quickly subsided.

He eased the mare toward the riderless mount, and managed to grab the reins, then transferred them to his left hand, hoping the horse didn’t try to run. Even holding the reins hurt his shoulder. Then he saw its rider, one of the rankers, barely old enough to be a soldier. He lay on his back on the road. Only the fletched end of the quarrel that had gone through his chest was visible. Even as Quaeryt watched, before he could do anything, the young man tried to open his mouth, then shuddered, and was still.

Quaeryt glanced around, not knowing which way to go, and was about to follow first squad when he heard hoofs. He turned his head, wincing, to see a squad leader he didn’t know riding up, followed by a full squad.

“Scholar, sir?”

“They had crossbows. The lead squads went after them.” What else could he say?

“Yes, sir. We know.” The squad leader rode closer. “You’re bleeding, sir. There’s a fair amount on you. Best you hold a cloth or something against the wound.” He frowned. “What…?”

“Crossbow quarrel. I managed to get it out.” Quaeryt fumbled and took out the clean kerchief he hadn’t even used, wadded it, then eased it inside the rents in his jacket and brown shirt. The off-white cloth began to turn pink. Quaeryt put more pressure on it.

“That’s it. Just stay here. We’ve cleared out this area, and it won’t be long before the captain is back.” He turned in the saddle. “Guylart, you and Curyn strap Zaen onto his mount.”

Quaeryt relinquished the reins of the other mount to the ranker who rode up. Then he concentrated on trying to stop the bleeding from his shoulder. He seemed to have some success, because the kerchief wasn’t getting bloodier, and blood wasn’t seeping out from the edges. He almost didn’t notice when Meinyt returned.

“How are you doing, scholar?”

“I’m surviving, I think. The bolt wasn’t too deep, and I got it out without ripping myself up any more. I’ve got most of the bleeding stopped.”

The captain frowned. “You got it out alone?”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt blinked. A wave of dizziness passed over him. “What happened?”

“There were five of them in the trees,” said Meinyt. “Each one had two crossbows. There were riders, too, but they didn’t stay around.”

“Did you catch any of them?” Quaeryt continued to hold the cloth against the wound.

“We got three of the bowmen. Two of them are dead. One’s in worse shape than you are.” Meinyt glanced back down the lane.

“You need to do what you need to do, Captain,” Quaeryt said.

“You’ll have to go back with the other wounded and half of fifth squad. We need to follow the survivors. Can you ride all the way back to Boralieu?”

“I think so,” said Quaeryt, although the throbbing in his shoulder worried him. The wound had felt better before he’d flooded it with clear spirits. So had his head. Yet he knew that the spirits helped. He also knew that sometimes they didn’t help enough.

But the shield he’d raised had helped.

“Good. Best of fortune.” Meinyt turned his mount.

“The rest of the wounded are back this way, sir,” offered the squad leader. “But before you start back, we need to get a field dressing on that wound. Otherwise, you’ll bleed out.”

Quaeryt winced as he eased the mare around. The ride back was likely to be far longer than the ride out had been. Far longer.

Quaeryt had been right. The ride back to Boralieu took slightly more than three glasses, and along the way, another ranker collapsed over his saddle, and the one captive, a broad-faced youth in brown leathers, died.

Since he was one of the least badly wounded, Quaeryt waited another glass in the anteroom to the surgery. One of the aides to the surgeon checked the field dressing on his wound and cleaned the edges while he waited along with a white-faced older ranker with a broken arm.

He had a chance to think while he waited, and the princeps’s words-those from his first meeting with Straesyr-came back to him. He’d wondered about archers, and now, unhappily, he understood. The brigands had been out of sight the entire time of the attack. Archers with the company would indeed have been useless. He wanted to shake his head, but feared even that would increase the pain.

After a time, the ranker looked at Quaeryt. “Sir … you took a bolt in the chest, didn’t you?”

“That’s where it hit.”

“You worked it out, the squad leader said. Most men die if they do that. The flanges on those bolts are back-barbed tools of the Namer.”

“I didn’t know that. I didn’t know what to do.” That’s certainly true.

“You must be stronger than you look. Sometimes, it takes two men to get one of those out-but that’s after whoever’s hit is dead.” The young ranker winced as he moved.