Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (63 page)

Quaeryt’s lips quirked. Clearly, Skarpa hadn’t forgotten his last meeting with the late holder Waerfyl.

82

As Quaeryt rode past where the natural stone gateposts had been, well before sunrise on Samedi morning, all he saw was a pile of rubble and stone. Behind them, he knew, they had left the smoldering ruins of Waerfyl’s hold, with every building burned and leveled, and all stores either taken or destroyed, but with several wagons commandeered and filled with food, grain, and other fodder. When he saw the gateposts destroyed as well, he shivered. Rescalyn was making it very plain what the cost was for attacking Telaryn.

But how much of that is to make the point not to cross him personally?

The road that the regiment took angled to the northeast and was one that Quaeryt had never seen before. Sixth Battalion now rode as the first full battalion back from the vanguard and directly behind Rescalyn and the command group, with Meinyt’s company leading the battalion. For that reason, Quaeryt rode with both Skarpa and Meinyt, since Skarpa usually rode at the head of his battalion. Quaeryt also had refrained from wearing the overlarge green shirt, since he could occasionally see the governor, and that meant Rescalyn could see him.

A good glass after riding out, and just as the sun was beginning to rise, Quaeryt said, “I haven’t been on this road before. Where are we headed?”

“This is the direct back road to Saentaryn’s,” replied Meinyt. “In a few glasses, we’ll join the road where we dealt with the coal wagons.”

“And where from there? After Saentaryn?”

Meinyt shrugged. “No one’s told me, but the next closest hill hold belongs to Demotyl.…”

“Are all the holders who signed that message neighbors of Waerfyl?”

“What message?” demanded Skarpa.

“Oh … I thought you knew. Waerfyl and some other hill holders sent a missive saying they’d had enough of Telaryn interference. It was signed by Waerfyl, Demotyl, Huisfyl, and Saentaryn.”

“Demotyl and Saentaryn adjoin Waerfyl’s lands. Huisfyl’s are farther into the hills, and then you get to one of the biggest holdings. That’s Zorlyn’s.” Skarpa frowned. “How did you know about the message?”

”The governor told me before he sent me to Sixth Battalion,” admitted Quaeryt.

“That’s good to know. The governor hasn’t told me, or any of the battalion commanders. Not in our meetings, anyway.”

“We’re likely to reach Saentaryn’s hold by right after midday, aren’t we?” asked Quaeryt.

“That’s likely.”

“Will we attack this afternoon?”

“That’s up to the governor. I would. Men and mounts will be a bit tired, but Saentaryn won’t expect it that soon.” Skarpa shrugged. “Then I’d give the regiment a day to recover before moving on. More if the men need it.”

“Demotyl’s holding is more than twenty milles north,” added Meinyt. “No way anyone could get there and then get back to attack in less than a day and a half, maybe more. Any other hill holding’s more than twice that far.”

Slightly past midmorning, the horn signal for an attack was sounded from the rear, but the column never even slowed, and several quints later, word reached Skarpa that only a small group of attackers had appeared, and that they’d been driven off with minimal casualties.

“Most of the survivors from Waerfyl’s hold likely retreated deeper into the hills,” observed the major. “Saentaryn’s likely on his own.”

“Wasn’t Waerfyl?” asked Quaeryt.

“He was, but he’s always had more lands and men,” said Meinyt. “That was one reason, I’d guess, Saentaryn raided the coal mine. They couldn’t cut enough timber for the winter.”

“Or they hadn’t, and realized it too late,” added Skarpa dryly.

Less than a glass later, a volley of arrows arched from the trees toward the command group, but two squads from the vanguard charged out even as the shafts were falling, and no more were fired. But the squads didn’t find anyone, either.

“Less than a mille to the gates,” said Meinyt.

“They won’t let us much past there,” predicted Skarpa.

The major was right.

Before the regiment was even out of the trees beyond the gates, attackers swarmed toward the column from all sides, again, both those mounted and those on foot. The initial numbers seemed so great to Quaeryt that he couldn’t help wondering who’d thought that Saentaryn had fewer fighters.

Two riders surged through a gap between squads and charged Quaeryt. He braced the staff against the saddle pommel, so that it extended on each side, then ducked, urged the mare forward, and angled the staff until the forward tip slammed into the gut of the man on the right. The momentum of the impact twisted the staff so that the left side crashed into the back of the shoulder of the other attacker, whose blade had glanced off Quaeryt’s shields at an angle.

He’d barely straightened in the saddle when a slender figure on foot appeared from nowhere with a sharp and bloody blade, bringing it up as if to gut the mare.

Quaeryt struck down with all the force he could muster, the iron-tipped end of the staff cracking into the temple of the attacker. Even with the din and shouts around him, he could hear and feel the crunch of breaking bone. As he pulled the staff back, trying to recover his balance, an edge ripped of the attacker’s leather cap-like helm, and a cascade of dark hair revealed that the attacker he’d killed was a young woman.

He had little time to think about that, not when another rider charged him, swinging one of the overlarge blades that the hill riders seemed to prefer. He tried to slide the blade with the staff, but its weight and the momentum of the rider almost ripped the staff out of his hands, and the blade came down on his shielded shoulder—and shattered.

That scarcely helped Quaeryt, because the impact rattled him inside the shields like a dried pea in a cup, so that he could barely stay on the mare and hang on to the staff. Another ranker to his left took on the disarmed rebel, and Quaeryt tried to keep moving and gather himself together.

After that, he jabbed, thrust, swung, and tried to avoid getting hit too many times, but by the time the field, such as it was, cleared, his head was throbbing, and he was having trouble seeing, although he did catch sight of men in leathers riding out, trying to shield others on foot from pursuing squads. But, following Rescalyn’s orders, the troopers did not follow far into the woods, only enough to assure that those they had pursued were truly fleeing.

Quaeryt was exhausted, bruised in more places than he wanted to count, and grateful to be alive—and that was using imaging shields. Without them, he’d have been long since dead. He was definitely no warrior, and his respect for the rankers and officers continued to increase.

This time, Rescalyn had not ordered the engineers to bombard the dwellings, not that he’d had the time or the ground to allow that before the initial attacks. Once the area around the building was secured, two squads from Seventh Battalion went through the structures, one at a time. They emerged without wounds, and without captives.

Quaeryt waited, still mounted, with Meinyt’s company, surveying the edge of the trees and the open ground beyond, well short of the holding buildings, where much of the fighting had taken place. His eyes dropped to his sleeves, and he realized that he’d never put on the green shirt, and that the browns barely showed the blood splatters. He looked up again, forcing his eyes to look at individual bodies. During the attack, he’d felt as though there were thousands, yet there were probably less than two hundred bodies, and many, he suspected, were youths and women, some of whom had fought with little more than knives. He swallowed, trying to keep the bile down.

Yet … what else can any ruler do with holders who continually flount authority?

Finally, Skarpa relayed the order to dismount and deal with what needed to be done immediately … tending to the wounded, checking mounts, cleaning weapons.

After meeting briefly with the governor and the other battalion commanders, Skarpa returned and summoned his officers. Quaeryt joined them and listened.

“We’ll be able to use the buildings and some of the supplies. That’ll be good, especially if there’s rain tonight. Some provisions are gone. Not that many, but the best. There’s plenty of fodder and grain for the horses. They didn’t have time or the wagons to move much. We’ll be able to give the men decent cooked meals. It’ll take time, but we have that. We won’t be moving out until Lundi. But it’ll be early Lundi. Now … see to your men.”

Quaeryt had to admit that Rescalyn had been correct in his decision as to when to attack. But then, Quaeryt had considerable regard for the governor’s tactical and strategic abilities, just as he had significant suspicions about Rescalyn’s ambitions.

83

Quaeryt was so tired that, when he woke up in the small shed with most of Meinyt’s company on Solayi, he had no idea at first where he was or how he’d gotten there. When he tried to move, he was reminded instantly. He just lay there on a pile of pine branches that was better than bare ground, but not much, thinking.

Solayi … the day of rest.… Rest from what? Killing?

He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but he was almost afraid that, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. So he rolled over and struggled to his feet.

“That leg bothering you, again, sir?” asked a ranker.

“It does more in the morning. I’ll be all right in a bit.” He didn’t bother rolling up his gear, not when they’d be there one more night. He walked out of the shed into a grayish morning. While it was still early, the gray was because of the featureless clouds that had rolled in, not because it was before dawn. He made his way toward one of the cookfires, where he saw Skarpa talking with another major.

By the time he reached the cookfires, the two had walked away, deep in conversation, and Quaeryt didn’t follow them. After a breakfast of egg and mutton hash inside a rolled flatcake, accompanied by some very bad ale—likely the dregs from Saentaryn’s stores—that he had to pour into his own water bottle, Quaeryt still had a headache and was still sore and stiff. He went to check the mare, but she looked and acted better than he felt.

He’d no sooner returned to the area that held Sixth Battalion than a ranker hurried toward him. Quaeryt had the feeling he knew who was seeking him.

“The governor would like to see you, scholar.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s inside, in the main hall of the hold.”

Quaeryt nodded and walked toward the hold building, not dawdling, but not rushing, not with the way his leg felt. When he got there, two guards blocked the open double doors. “Not yet, sir.”

After more than a quint, one of the guards called, “Sir, the governor will see you now.”

Quaeryt stepped through the open double doors into a large foyer, although the ceiling was not raised above normal height or open to the upper level. The floor was wooden, and oiled, but showed the marks of years of wear, and the grain suggested it was oak. The walls were oak-paneled, and lighter oblongs suggested that paintings had hung there and been removed, either by Saentaryn’s retainers earlier or at Rescalyn’s direction later. Quaeryt wasn’t about to ask which.

“Sir … the governor’s that way.” A squad leader pointed to the square archway to the left. “He’s expecting you.”

The large hall—obviously a dining hall—had been roughly cleared, with the long tables and benches pushed against the walls. A shorter table stood before the natural stone hearth and chimney, but well out from the stonework. Rescalyn sat behind the table.

He motioned to Quaeryt.

Quaeryt approached and bowed slightly. “Sir.”

“Scholar, I understand you give a passable homily … and that Undercaptain Gauswn knows the service fairly well.”

“I’m no chorister, sir, but I can speak to some of the teachings of Rholan and the Nameless. From what I’ve observed, Undercaptain Gauswn is quite familiar with the order of the service.”

“Good. I will leave the arrangements for this evening’s service to the two of you. I do trust that the subject of the homily will be appropriate.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is all, scholar.”

Quaeryt inclined his head, turned, and departed.

Once he was outside the hold, he moved to the south end and kept walking until he could step into a space between two junipers. There he raised a concealment shield and slowly and carefully made his way back to the hold entrance, where, after a time, he slipped past the ranker guards and into the foyer, and then into the hall.

It was empty, but the papers left on the table suggested that Rescalyn would return.

Quaeryt waited almost two quints, standing beside the massive stone hearth and chimney, before the governor returned, accompanied by Commander Myskyl.

For a time, the talk centered on logistics, including three wagons the engineers had found in the wagon shed and were inspecting to see how usable they might be. Eventually, the two began to discuss subjects of greater interest to Quaeryt.

“… should be able to get to the staging point on that flat ridge a good glass before sunset if we leave at dawn tomorrow.”

“If it doesn’t rain, that shouldn’t be a problem, sir.”

“The clouds are still high. If we do get rain, it won’t be more than a light drizzle for the next few days. After that, it won’t matter as much.”

“A few prayers to the Nameless wouldn’t hurt,” replied Myskyl ironically.

“Speaking of the Nameless, what you do think of the scholar?”

“I’ve asked around, as you requested. Quietly.” Myskyl paused. “He’s careful. He’s also courageous. The officers and the men respect him.”

“How does he handle that staff?”

“Like a seaman, mostly.”

Rescalyn shook his head. “He’s never what he says he isn’t … but that doesn’t mean he’s not more than he is.”

“You know he’s Lord Bhayar’s man.”

“It’s too bad, really. We’ll just have to see, though. We’ll put Sixth Battalion in the center when we face Demotyl’s retainers … and later at Zorlyn’s … if it comes to that.”

“Will it?”

“I’ll offer terms to Zorlyn to appear magnanimous, because he didn’t sign their declaration, but he won’t accept. Besides, it will take Zorlyn’s fall to convince those in the south. Do we have any word from the north?”