Imager’s Battalion (58 page)

Why a square on this side of the river and not on the other?
Quaeryt pushed that thought aside. A second glance revealed that in the center of the far side of the square was a low stone barricade no more than fifty yards long, behind which crouched troopers. What looked to be a low brown earthen berm crossed the square some ten yards in front of the stone barricade.

Then from the two streets leading from the square arched hundreds of arrows, some directed at Quaeryt’s column, the remainder toward the western column where Shaelyt led the riders into the far side of the square. Quaeryt barely felt the shafts impact on his shields. He kept riding forward, down into the square. Behind him Fifth Battalion’s first and second companies began to spread out. He glanced to his left, where third and fourth companies were already doing the same behind Shaelyt, forming up side by side with a five-man front.

There have to be more defenders! Where are they?

He looked beyond the low barricade at the featureless gray stone front of the line of buildings.

Featureless? How could the buildings have no windows or doors?

Just as that thought crossed his mind, the far side of the square exploded, and Quaeryt felt as though his shields had been compressed into an iron jacket that instantly slammed thousands of spear-points into his chest, upper body, forehead, and face. He contracted his personal shield to cover just himself as he struggled to stay upright in the saddle. He did manage to see hundreds of musketeers revealed from behind gray drapes just in front of the buildings at the end of the square.

A quick horn triplet followed, and what Quaeryt had thought was a berm turned out to be pikemen huddled under brown cloth as they struggled to throw off the cloth and take their positions, trying to raise pikes against the oncoming Telaryn troopers.

“Fifth Battalion! Charge!” ordered Zhelan.

Quaeryt let the troopers surge past him, knowing that there was little he could do at the moment … or perhaps for some time. Again, he was grateful for Zhelan. He did manage to pull to the side, out of the way of troopers coming off the bridge and to order, “Undercaptains! On me!”

While he was anything but content to let others charge while he remained stationary behind what remained of his shields, he doubted that he could even have lifted his staff, let alone used it in any meaningful way.

Should you have tried?

He almost snorted. His shields wouldn’t have held, and with his stiffness and inability to move or ride well, he’d likely have lost his staff at the first contact and become more of a liability than a help. Again, he was lucky that he had Zhelan as a second in command, and even more fortunate that Skarpa understood that.

In what seemed moments, Fifth Battalion was reinforced by the lead companies of Third Regiment, then by the rest of Skarpa’s regiment, and by Eleventh Regiment. From what Quaeryt could see, Fifth Regiment poured into the square from the western span.

In less than two quints, Quaeryt, the undercaptains, and a squad from first company detailed to protect them were almost alone in the square, except for the dying and the wounded of both Telaryn and Bovaria. Quaeryt had taken some time to drink a little lager from his water bottle, but reaching for it had been painful.

Desyrk had guided Shaelyt and Lhandor over to join the group. Shaelyt was slumped in the saddle, and Quaeryt could see red marks across his face and neck. He had no doubts that they were everywhere, as they likely were on his own body.

Quaeryt swallowed, then asked Desyrk, “Did Shaelyt’s shields take the brunt of the muskets?”

“I … think so, sir. No one seemed wounded by the volley, but he nearlike fell out of the saddle. I … we.. caught him. He’s hurt … maybe … bad…”

“He’s bruised all over,” Quaeryt said.

Desyrk looked at Quaeryt. “Like you, sir?”

“The same reason. I’m a little stronger than he is.”

“You took much more fire,” said Khalis from beside Quaeryt. “I saw it. You saved hundreds.”

“Some. Probably not hundreds.” Quaeryt looked out over the fallen lying across the square, but most of those wore blue-gray, rather than the faded green of Telaryn, and there were pikes lying everywhere.

The shields must have helped.
He hoped so, because every one of his ribs hurt, and sharp pains stabbed across his chest with every movement he made. But what had also helped the Telaryn forces was that the musketeers hadn’t been able to fire a second volley without doing in their own pikemen, and the pikemen hadn’t been able to properly form up and set their pikes before Zhelan had charged them. The defense had been too complex, but it had revealed the weakness in Quaeryt’s plan.
Too complicated, and too much reliance on imagers doing too many things.

He looked over at Shaelyt again. The Pharsi undercaptain was no longer slumped, but he was pale, and clearly in great pain. Quaeryt eased his mount over beside Shaelyt. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not … much.” After a long pause, Shaelyt said slowly, “Your shields … hurt like this?”

“They hurt,” Quaeryt admitted. “It’s hard to move.”

Shaelyt looked as if he wanted to shake his head, but decided against it.

“That’s why I don’t want any of us getting into the habit of shielding troopers. You and I just covered the front. What would have happened if you’d tried to shield them all?”

“I … wouldn’t be … here?”

“No. You’d be dead. So would I, if I’d tried that.” Quaeryt winced. He’d spoken too forcefully, and his body had let him know. “Drink some lager or ale, whatever’s in your bottle. It will help.”

“Yes, sir.” Shaelyt moved slowly, reaching for his water bottle.

Quaeryt understood all too well how the undercaptain felt.

After a glass or so had passed, Major Arion returned to the square with fourth company, reining up before Quaeryt. “Subcommander, sir … You’re wounded!”

“In a way. Bruised all over. So is Undercaptain Shaelyt.”

“You … stopped the musket balls?”

“We did … many of them, anyway. We weren’t able to follow the charge. What happened?”

“They did not expect us to charge so quickly. They are all fleeing. There were not that many. Two or three regiments at most … and the musketeers. Already, there are no more in Nordeau … except those who are hiding. We killed many of them. Commander Skarpa says that as many as a regiment may have escaped. Marshal Deucalon—his forces are nowhere near.” Arion’s face screwed up into an expression of disgust.

Deucalon’s absence did not surprise Quaeryt.

“When it is certain that all are vanquished, Fifth Battalion is to return to the south shore and hold it. Eleventh Regiment will join us.”

“Do you know if Subcommander Khaern has a surgeon?”

“Sir?”

“If he does, I’d like him to look at Undercaptain Shaelyt.”

“I do not know. If he does, he should look at you as well, sir.”

Quaeryt surveyed the square, trying to ignore some of the moans from the fallen men. He gestured. “Some of them need help more than we do. We’ll survive.”
For now.
“We’ll wait here for Fifth Battalion to finish up. Then we’ll join them for the return to the south shore.”

“Yes, sir. I will be leaving another squad with you. It is best that way.”

Quaeryt managed a smile. “I won’t argue with you over that, Major.”

He watched as Arion and fourth company headed out again, this time taking the eastern avenue from the square.

For the next two glasses, the imager undercaptains and the two squads guarded the square. Two of the troopers, who had some knowledge of wounds, did what they could for the fallen. At least, Quaeryt reflected, they kept the locals from scavenging and doing worse to the wounded who still might survive.

It was well after second glass when Zhelan returned with Fifth Battalion, and news that Eleventh Regiment would follow later. From what Quaeryt could see, the battalion’s casualties had not been heavy.

As he rode back over the rebuilt stone bridge and past the abandoned isle fort, Quaeryt could not help thinking,
You can’t do this again.
That, he knew, because the next time they faced the Bovarians, he had no doubt that there would be even more musketeers.
Especially if someone noticed what happened here and escaped.

He also wondered who might be the greater enemy for him—Myskyl and Deucalon or Rex Kharst?

62

When Quaeryt finally reached the Stone’s Rest, he could barely dismount, and he had to request that someone else unsaddle and stable the mare. He hated asking for that, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle the saddle. He almost tripped twice climbing the stairs to the third floor, and he was uncomfortable sitting in the desk chair and worried that he wouldn’t be able to move if he lay down.

He did anyway, but he hurt too much to sleep, and he kept thinking about what had happened at the square. He’d been prepared for muskets. He just hadn’t been prepared for hundreds of them all firing at him—or the front of the column. Had the Bovarians known that Skarpa would have the imagers near the front? Or had the attack in the square just been designed to catch the Telaryn forces off guard?

After thinking it over, Quaeryt still didn’t know. The comparatively small number of Bovarian defenders suggested that they’d been told to deliver enough of an attack to slow the Telaryn advance and then withdraw. Yet the defenders’ battle plan had been well thought out, and especially effective at minimizing the impact that the imagers otherwise might have had. Had it been an inspired plan designed by a junior commander who knew something about imagers and who’d seen their effect in the battle for the southern part of Nordeau? Or had it been planned by a senior commander who knew too much about Bhayar’s forces?

But even if any of those possibilities were so, why had the Bovarians risked—and lost—so many musketeers? Especially when there had been comparatively so few foot or cavalry to support them?

To Quaeryt that made little sense, and yet the planning of the defenders’ tactics showed considerable thought—although the sloppy execution had made matters less disastrous for Skarpa’s forces than otherwise might have been the case.

Quaeryt lay on the bed for several glasses, thinking, semidozing … and failing to come up with answers that satisfied him, only yet another question that he should have considered earlier. Why hadn’t he seen any cannon? The Bovarians had powder; the exploding barges had proved that. They had muskets, and plenty of those, and they had used those for years. Cannon had been used at sea for several decades, but nowhere had the Telaryn forces faced cannon.

Because they’re heavy and hard to move quickly, and Kharst didn’t expect to use them inside Bovaria?

He could think of no other answer, but the fact he couldn’t satisfied him not at all, because that suggested he hadn’t considered all the possibilities.

In time, he rose and struggled down to the public room to eat with the other officers, all of whom were polite enough—or tired enough—not to comment on his appearance and stiffness. He did indulge in having two mugs of lager, and that seemed to make the climb back up the stairs somewhat less painful.

Khaern’s combat surgeon, a squad leader, did not return to the south side of Nordeau until after seventh glass, and there were deep circles under his eyes and blood splatters all over his sleeves. Even so, he winced as he looked at the welts and incipient bruises across Quaeryt’s body … and the slight black eyes that were also forming.

“You’ve got a lot of bruises here, Subcommander, and I’d say you came as close as possible to fracturing at least one of your ribs, maybe all of them. Your whole chest is going to hurt for weeks, maybe longer. Your eyes might even swell shut. You shouldn’t be doing much.”

“I still need to ride before long.”

“We can wrap your chest with some stays, but if you get hit again like you did here, you could break a rib or two. If it’s a bad break…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t even count your eyes…”

Quaeryt understood all too well. He also understood that Myskyl or Deucalon would likely want to put him in that position again.
And you can’t let them.
“Wrap me up. I’ll have a few days to recover. After that, I’ll try to avoid getting hit.” He paused. “How about Undercaptain Shaelyt?”

“He’s better off than you. Not much.” The squad leader and field surgeon paused. “If I might ask, sir…”

“We were leading the charge. We … got pounded pretty hard.”

“You’d better let someone else lead for a while, Subcommander, or you won’t be leading again.” He paused. “I’ll bring by some canvas tomorrow, and we’ll figure out the best way to brace you and the undercaptain.”

“Thank you.”

After the combat surgeon left, Quaeryt eased out of the rest of his uniform and returned to the bed. He had absolutely no doubt that he faced a long and painful night.

63

When the first gray light of Mardi morning oozed through the shutters of his room at the Stone’s Rest, Quaeryt tried to turn away from the window, except his neck was so stiff that his head barely moved. Eventually, he did manage to sit up. After an even longer time, he stood and tottered to the washroom where he viewed himself in the mirror.

Most of his forehead was turning bluish, as was the skin and flesh over his cheekbones, and he definitely had two bloodshot and black eyes. About the only parts of his body that didn’t ache were his legs below the knees and his feet. Washing up was painful and time-consuming.

Getting downstairs to eat felt as though it took more than a quint for the two flights of stone steps. Fortunately, the field surgeon did return with canvas and some bone stays, and the wrapping helped immobilize his ribs and chest, but even so, taking a deep breath shot pains through his entire chest.

Quaeryt was sitting in the public room, sipping on a lager, not wishing to climb steps or anything else, debating whether to try to make his way to see Skarpa when the commander arrived at the Stone’s Rest and slipped into the chair opposite Quaeryt, who had made no move to rise, although he would have, had he felt more able to move easily.