Antiagon Fire (55 page)

Another explosion—this one on the south side of the road and less than ten yards east of the middle of first company—sprayed more mud, dirt, gravel, and debris across the troopers—and Quaeryt’s shields and those of the imager undercaptains—he hoped. The next cannonball exploded well behind first company, but when Quaeryt glanced back, it seemed as though the entire road and the road shoulders as well were a mass of explosions.

He looked to the east and could make out, just barely, what he thought was a flash of orange from a distant hilltop, possibly a good mille or more away. He could see that there was no way that he and first company could reach the gun emplacement through the rain and over wet ground with any speed, not before the heavy bombardment wreaked havoc on Southern Army. The warm drizzle had made the ground even softer and more treacherous than a colder rain might have.

Behind him, more explosions wracked the road, and he could hear men yelling, and the screams of at least one horse.

Warm rain … heat. Do you dare? The whole invasion was your idea. How can you not try?

Trying to draw strength and warmth from the rain and the clouds, Quaeryt concentrated on sending thousands of tiny red-hot iron needles to the area where he had seen the drizzle-cloaked cannon smoke.

Instantly he was cloaked in ice, cold and so imprisoning that he could not breathe. He tried to escape and found that neither his arms nor his legs could move. Nor could he move anything else, no matter how hard he tried. Then, just as suddenly, the ice shattered, and he rocked forward in the saddle gasping for breath.

Two thunderclaps rocked him—one a distant explosion and the other a white hammering slashing impact that rocked his skull, then slashed his vision into tattered shards before another hammer pummeled him into darkness.

When the darkness lifted, Quaeryt was lying on his back, shivering, even though someone had wrapped a blanket around him.

“Sir … can you see me?”

Quaeryt blinked, trying to make out who was speaking. Finally, he saw a face. “Khalis … that you?”

“Yes, sir. Can you sit up and drink? It’ll be cold, but it will help.”

“Yes … I think…” Quaeryt managed, with the undercaptain’s help, to get to a sitting position, but his hands were shaking so much that Khalis had to help him hold the water bottle as he sat on a second blanket. After several swallows, his vision began to clear, but the shaking continued, despite his riding jacket and the blanket around him. From where he sat, he could see, intermittently, that a light dusting of snow covered the ground for almost half a mille. Beyond that, the ground was brown and wet. The clouds overhead looked lighter in color, but those farther east were still thick and gray.

“The cannon … did … get them…?”

“Yes, sir. The whole hilltop exploded.” There was a slight pause. “It was more than a mille away. You imaged hot iron that far?”

“I … tried.”

“You succeeded, sir. The scouts reported that there’s nothing left except shattered bronze … and ashes. They couldn’t get too close.”

“They put the cannon … in another oil nut tree orchard?”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt frowned. “How long has it been?”

“Sir?”

“Since the Antiagons started shelling us.”

“Two glasses or so.”

Two glasses?
Quaeryt sat there for several moments without speaking.

“You might drink some more lager, sir.”

Quaeryt did.

He finally stopped shaking and was able to stand when Skarpa rode up from whatever he had been doing, dismounted, and walked over to Quaeryt.

He’s been totaling the casualties, no doubt.
Quaeryt waited.

“It’s good to see you on your feet, Commander. Even if you look as white as deep winter ice.”

“I’m glad to be on my feet.”

“You know I don’t like it when the only thing that saves us from huge losses is something you do that almost kills you.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Someday, you’ll do too much.”

“It didn’t kill me.”

“It would have if Zhelan hadn’t smashed you out of that ice coffin you created for yourself … and then kept you from falling out of the saddle.” The submarshal gave a nod to Zhelan, who had edged closer to the three.

Quaeryt didn’t want to dwell on his idiocy in getting himself frozen in ice. “Were there any Antiagon troopers that attacked?”

“No. We didn’t see any, and the scouts haven’t found any tracks. This time they were relying on cannon. They had the entire road ranged, it looks like.”

“How many did we lose?” Quaeryt found he was holding his breath.

“A hundred and fifty outright, another sixty, seventy with wounds.”

Quaeryt let his breath out slowly. “That’s all?”

“That was all they had time for. You took them out of action in a fraction of a quint. At the rate they were firing they might have had twenty cannon. They could have taken out an entire regiment before long.” Skarpa paused. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Nothing seems to be broken. I’m sore all over, and it’s hard to see, but that’s happened before.”

Skarpa looked to Khalis. “Try to keep him from doing anything else for a while.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Skarpa had mounted and ridden off, Quaeryt looked to Zhelan. “Thank you. I know I wouldn’t be here—”

“Lots of men wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done what you did.”

“How bad was it for first company?”

“Four men in third squad have shrapnel wounds.”

“How serious?”

“Cuts and bruises except for one. A rock broke his arm. It’s shattered. He’ll likely lose it.”

Quaeryt couldn’t help but wince, but the wince brought on another wave of pain so agonizing that he couldn’t see for a time.

“You need to be careful for a while, sir,” interjected Khalis.

“That’s … clear.”

“The scouts have located some villas a few milles ahead. We’ll be taking quarters there until the weather clears.”

That was fine with Quaeryt.

Later, as he rode slowly eastward, he wondered why the ice hadn’t happened before. He hadn’t been encased in ice at Ferravyl or at the battle at Variana.
Except you made an effort to hold shields against it both times.
This time, he’d been so worried about the casualties to Southern Army that he hadn’t even thought about strengthening his shields.
Anything you do without thinking it through …
He didn’t need to finish the thought.

60

The drizzle turned into freezing rain on Jeudi and was gone by Vendrei morning, when Southern Army resumed its progress toward Liantiago under a cool sun and clear skies. By that afternoon, it was clear that everyone knew the Telaryn forces were coming. Every village and town along the road was largely deserted, with barred doors and shutters fastened tight.

By Samedi morning much of Quaeryt’s soreness had subsided, and he only had a faint headache, but he was still wearing his riding jacket fastened shut because he still felt chill, even in full sunlight that was as warm as fall in Tilbor. As he rode through seemingly empty hamlet after hamlet, town after town, Quaeryt couldn’t help but wonder why the people closer to Liantiago seemed more worried or concerned than those farther away had been.
Or is it because they’re more worried about Aliaro and the Shahibs than about Southern Army?
Then again, his thoughts along that line might just be wishful thinking, but how could he tell?

Solayi morning, after Southern Army had been on the road for a glass or so, Skarpa eased his mount in beside Quaeryt and his mare. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fairly well … a little chill at times. Otherwise…” Quaeryt shrugged.

“A little chill isn’t bad after almost being frozen to death. I still wish—”

“That I wouldn’t do things like that?” Quaeryt laughed. “I wish I could think of better ways to deal with matters.”

“You can when you deliver homilies,” Skarpa pointed out.

“That’s because I have time to think about them. When something unexpected happens in the field, I don’t have that time.” Quaeryt looked quizzically at Skarpa. “You think that it would be useful for the army to have services? Is that it?”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” replied Skarpa with a grin. “I had hoped. Some of the officers, especially the junior officers…”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“You always do. That’s why I keep saying that you’ll end up high in Bhayar’s councils.”

“I may be listened to, but I doubt I’ll ever hold a rank or position higher than this.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re a commander.”

“And you’re a submarshal.”

“Only because of you.” Skarpa paused. “Don’t think Kharllon and Meurn haven’t alluded to that.”

“And they’re where they are because of Deucalon and Myskyl.”

“Myskyl, I think. He seems to have a way of persuading people.”

“I can’t say I’ve found him very persuasive,” said Quaeryt dryly.

“You’re one of the few. Bhayar might find him persuasive as well, except for you. Don’t think Myskyl doesn’t know it.”

“I wonder how he likes the frozen north.”

“He’s either avoided it or settled himself into a high holding with a compliant widow.”

“If not both.”

Once Skarpa rode off, Quaeryt began to split his attention between the road ahead and the hills flanking it, because he didn’t want to be caught in another cannonade, and possible ideas for a homily. Since he had left
Rholan and the Nameless
with Vaelora, he wasn’t going to be able to page through that volume for ideas. As the glasses passed, though, there were no more cannon attacks, and not even a trace of Antiagon forces.

Why? Why not more attacks as we near Liantiago?

The only idea that Quaeryt had was that Aliaro’s forces were limited, and that he was saving them for the defense of Liantiago. In a way, that made perfect sense, because, given the way Antiago was governed, it was clear that without taking the capital city and capturing or removing Aliaro and his ministers and high officials, the entire Southern Army campaign would end up as an almost useless exercise.
Not to mention undercutting everything you and Vaelora tried to accomplish in Khel.

After pushing that line of thought away—for the moment—Quaeryt tried to concentrate once more coming up with an idea for a decent homily.

By the fourth glass of the afternoon, Southern Army was settled into camp—a group of villas in the hills some ten milles from the outskirts of Liantiago—if both the maps and the millestones were to be believed. Unsurprisingly, the buildings had been largely stripped … except of common items such as heavy kitchen tables and common bedsteads and mattresses—and there were absolutely no supplies.

In the late twilight at sixth glass, those who wanted to attend services gathered on the slope below the main villa, where Quaeryt stood on the terrace. By image-projecting his voice, he made his way through the opening and invocation, a hymn, and the confession—and that had always disturbed him, but the men and officers seemed to need it. Before he knew it, he was beginning the homily.

“… and, as are all evenings under the Nameless, it is a good evening. If you don’t think so, you might recall that there are still several yards of snow covering Tilbor at the moment, and most likely a cold and drizzling rain is cloaking Solis right now, while the ground around Variana is either frozen solid or icy mud … and it’s no longer drizzling here … and no one is firing cannon at us.” Quaeryt paused for a moment. “All those examples could give you reasons for thinking it is a good evening. Whether for thinking it’s a good evening or one not so good, all of us have reasons for why we think matters are the way they are. When we left Suemyran for Barna, I kept wondering why these stands of trees with gold-tinged leaves were only planted on hilltops and why nothing except low grass was planted around them. When some cannon powder exploded, those of us in first company found out the reason why those trees were planted where they were. When they catch fire, they burn hot and fast.” Quaeryt did his best to image-project a sense of wry humor.

“But there’s a problem with reasons and reasoning. We assume that there must be a reason for everything, and we tend to assume that other people reason in the same way and with the same motives as we do. When we discover that they do not, we often decide that such people are tools of the Namer or that they are not so bright as we are. Yet who is to say that those people are not in turn looking at us and thinking that we are tools of the Namer?

“Why do I say this? Because reasoning is a tool. It is a tool of the mind, but like any tool it can be used for good or ill. An advocate who is skilled with words might well be able to reason well enough to convince any listener that Rholan the Unnamer was the Namer and the Namer was really the Nameless. The tool is only so good as the man who wields it, and there are two parts involved in using any tool. The first is how well it is used, and the second is the purpose for which it is used …

“If the purpose for which reason is used is to distort what is and has been or if a man uses reason to persuade others to do that which is evil, then reason is no more than Naming through the use of clever words and logic…”

His concluding words were simple enough. “… When we reason, let us strive to seek what is and not what we would wish to be, for reason in pursuit of passion, rather than in seeking truth, is Naming merely raised to a higher level of deception.”

Once the officers and men had dispersed, Quaeryt walked toward the end of an outbuilding to the west of the others. There he stopped, and under the stars, and the nearly full orb of Artiema, he looked down the long slope toward the ribbon of road he could barely see. That line of gray stretched east and west across the rolling hills. Aware of someone approaching, he glanced up to see Commander Kharllon stopping several yards away.

“It’s a long and narrow road,” said Kharllon, gesturing toward the road below.

“But well paved,” replied Quaeryt noncommitally.

“I’d heard that you had been a chorister,” offered Commander Kharllon. “It does show.”