Imager’s Battalion

we’ve done already?”

Unless Deucalon or Skarpa can come up with a better plan.

“We’ll just have to see.” Quaeryt forced a grin he didn’t feel. “We haven’t done too badly so far.”

Horan and Threkhyl exchanged looks, expressions that were more than slightly dubious.

Rather than say more, Quaeryt turned to Lhandor. “Would you see if you could find Major Zhelan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Quaeryt nodded and slipped back outside the cot behind Lhandor.

He needed to think. Threkhyl was right, in a way. What he’d been doing with his imaging wasn’t likely to be enough. At Ferravyl … and even at Extela, he’d been able to use some source of heat-hot rain and hot lava-to increase the power of his imaging.

Could you have used the heat of exploding powder? He shook his head. By the time there was enough heat, his shields had already taken too much punishment. What about water? Even cold water had to have some heat because it got even colder when it froze … and the battle site wasn’t that far from the River Aluse.

He nodded slowly. He’d have to try things out, but he could walk to the lake south of the encampment and see what might be possible.

“Sir!”

Quaeryt looked up to see Lhandor hurrying back.

“The major will be right with you.”

“Thank you.” First, he’d have to brief Zhelan and then finish letting the imager captains know. Then … maybe after that he could find time to work on a more reliable way of putting greater strength into his imaging.

He shook his head, thinking about the Naedarans and their “old ones.” More power was dangerous to everyone. Is that why you’ve been leery of trying greater and greater imaging? Or just a certain amount of fear that it might be that extra effort that kills you?

Yet … what choice did he have but to try?

78

Lundi came and went with no word from the marshal. That gave Quaeryt time to walk to the lake to try new imaging techniques, but his progress was slow, especially with the time spent trying to improve techniques among all the imagers.

Finally, on Mardi, late in the day, well after the fourth glass of the afternoon, Skarpa received a dispatch announcing that Lord Bhayar and the marshal’s forces would arrive by midday on Meredi. Even so, it was more like the first glass of Meredi afternoon when the vanguard neared the encampment. By third glass, troopers and horses were everywhere, and the hamlet had been transformed into a welter of tents, wagons, and men that seemed to stretch for a mille to the north and from the forest to the river road.

All commanders and subcommanders were summoned to a briefing at sixth glass, on a knoll on the lake’s east side. Quaeryt had assumed that the briefing would be outside because there were no cots or outbuildings in the hamlet that could hold the more than thirty senior officers summoned by the marshal. When he and Skarpa arrived, followed by Meinyt and Khaern, all four having walked close to half a mille, Quaeryt discovered a tent some ten yards by ten had been erected. Once inside, Quaeryt saw a low platform at one end, and ten commanders and a few subcommanders waiting before the platform. The only officer who looked in their direction was Commander Pulaskyr, but he’d known Skarpa and Quaeryt in Tilbor.

“They didn’t provide you with a tent like this,” murmured Quaeryt to Skarpa.

“No tent at all,” said Meinyt.

“Wouldn’t know what to do with it,” said Skarpa, with a short laugh.

Another group of commanders entered the tent through a flap beside the platform. With them was Submarshal Myskyl. He did not so much as glance in Quaeryt’s direction.

A burly major stepped onto the platform and announced, “Marshal Deucalon!”

The officers had barely stiffened when Deucalon appeared on the raised platform and said, “As you were,” his voice filling the tent, seemingly without effort on his part. “Good evening. You’ve traveled hundreds of milles. You’ve fought and won battles all along the way. None of those victories will mean anything if we don’t defeat the Bovarians here. We can do this, but it won’t be easy. Not at all.” Deucalon surveyed the officers in the dim light of the tent.

“The Bovarians have assembled the largest army in the history of Lydar. The largest, but not the best. You’re the best. Commander Skarpa’s scouts have provided very thorough reports. So have the scouts we have dispatched to reconnoiter Bovarian positions on both sides of the river. We believe that by tomorrow and certainly by Vendrei, Kharst’s commanders will have more than forty regiments in position between us and Kharst’s chateau. Half are foot…”

While we have maybe five regiments of foot troopers, thought Quaeryt, and who knows how good they are?

“We cannot determine with certainty the exact number of musketeers,” the marshal continued, “but it appears that there are the equivalent of two regiments. These are in addition to the more than two regiments of musketeers already destroyed by Commander Skarpa’s forces. The number of cannon is unknown, but the emplacements the scouts have seen could hold between fifty and a hundred…”

Enough to destroy all of our imagers, thought Quaeryt.

“… Kharst has left at least three regiments, if not more, guarding the east river road into Variana. It is possible that more Bovarian regiments will arrive, but that appears unlikely for a number of reasons I will not address at the moment. At the very least, our arrival has forced Rex Kharst to tear up his rather large hunting park and private grounds to dig trenches and throw up earthworks…” Deucalon smiled, and murmurs of low laughter ran through the tent.

It also suggests that he’s confident enough that he believes he can defeat us easily and wants to be able to chase down survivors, reflected Quaeryt, which he couldn’t do if his troops were actually inside the city or even within his chateau.

“… the comparative openness of the terrain will allow us greater opportunity to maneuver at will and to concentrate our forces as necessary as well as to move quickly enough that we do not suffer significant casualties from cannon fire…”

Deucalon continued to talk in generalities for almost another quint before he finally said, “Please convey this to your battalion and company officers. Unless matters change suddenly, there will be another briefing for all of you, here, tomorrow evening at the same time.” Deucalon stepped back, and a major Quaeryt did not recognize stepped forward.

“That is all, sirs.”

By the time the major had delivered those few words, the marshal had vanished from the tent. In moments, Myskyl and the commanders around him were also gone.

Skarpa said nothing until he and his three subcommanders were well away from the briefing tent. Then he looked to Quaeryt. “What do you think?”

“He didn’t mention who will lead the attack.”

“He didn’t, did he?” Skarpa smiled sardonically. “What do you think that means?”

“That we will,” growled Meinyt from behind Quaeryt. “He’s not saying because he doesn’t want anyone to notice that we keep getting thrown into the fire.”

“Or that he doesn’t want the Bovarians to know,” suggested Quaeryt.

“How would that…” Meinyt stopped abruptly. “You don’t think…?”

“I don’t know what to think, except it’s more than a little unusual that our forces are much smaller and yet the only musket and cannon attacks have been against us.”

“Even Myskyl wouldn’t do that,” Meinyt admitted.

“Exactly,” said Skarpa. “I doubt any of the senior officers would, either, but with over a hundred majors … the marshal might not want to say anything yet. He didn’t tell us anything that the Bovarians wouldn’t already