“The entire battalion can’t move that quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt smiled. “We’ll be all right. We might not even find anyone.”
“I’m not certain the Bovarians have enough sense to flee. When there’s a fight, there’s always a chance…”
“I know. I will be careful.”
Zhelan gestured behind him, and Ghaelyn rode forward.
“Undercaptain, the subcommander has a mission for first company. He’ll direct you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Undercaptain,” said Quaeryt. “We need to keep the Bovarians from burning crops. More crops. That means we need to get about two milles to the southwest, and not by the river road, so that we can get behind the Bovarian raiders who seem to be firing the fields of the local peasants.”
“Well, sir … there was a clear track south a few hundred yards back.”
“We might as well try it,” replied Quaeryt.
Almost half a quint later, Ghaelyn and Quaeryt followed the scouts and three outriders down a dusty dirt track that headed south. After less than a mille, the track curved to the southeast around a pond surrounded by rushes and cattails. On the far side of the pond was a meadow or pasture, with a cot and a large shed, not quite big enough to be a barn, set farther back on a low rise. Behind the buildings was a stand of trees, possibly a woodlot.
Beyond the trees, Quaeryt thought he saw another smoke trail, and he gestured to Ghaelyn. “See that?”
“It looks like they might be burning another field or two.”
“Can we swing south and then west?” Quaeryt stood in the stirrups and looked for a path or a trail.
“There looks to be a narrow way over there.” Ghaelyn pointed.
“Call in the scouts,” ordered Quaeryt. “Until they’re just fifty yards or so ahead. Then have them lead the way.”
The undercaptain frowned.
“Go ahead. I don’t want to give the Bovarians much warning.”
Quaeryt waited until the outriders and scouts repositioned themselves, then nodded to Ghaelyn. “Quiet riding from here on.”
“Quiet riding. Pass it back.”
Quaeryt extended a concealment across the company, including the scouts. He could feel a definite strain, and dropped his personal shields to the lightest of triggered shields. He’d promised Vaelora never to ride without shields.
The narrow path barely allowed two mounts abreast, and riders’ trousers and boots continually brushed the bushes and vegetation.
Abruptly the path came out of the brush and trees and passed between a gap in a low stone wall that marked the eastern edge of two wheat fields split by the continuation of the path. A line of fire was burning across the field to the north.
Quaeryt glanced to the southern field, where three men with torches were on foot, trying to ignite the golden winter wheat close to harvest. Four others were mounted, three of them holding the reins of the mounts of the men on foot. All wore the gray-blue uniforms of Bovarian troopers.
“They haven’t seen us,” murmured Ghaelyn. “Again.” He looked quizzically at Quaeryt.
“Get ready to order a charge with first squad,” said Quaeryt.
After several moments, when first squad was clear of the woods, he turned to the undercaptain. “Now!”
“First squad! Ready arms! Charge!”
Quaeryt held the concealment until the troopers reached the outriders, then dropped it and raised his own full shields.
The Bovarians looked up, startled at the muted thunder of hooves. The three men with torches started to run. One stopped and thrust his torch at the nearest Telaryn trooper, who avoided the flaming brand and then back-cut with his sabre. A second trooper cut down the Bovarian. The other two tried to mount the horses left for them.
Two of the Bovarians tried to fight from horseback but were run down. The other two wheeled their mounts and spurred them across the field to the west of the one just beginning to burn.
“We don’t want to chase them, sir,” said Ghaelyn quietly, just so Quaeryt could hear him.
“No, we don’t.”
Quaeryt imaged away the saddle girths of the closer of the two fleeing Bovarians. The Bovarian tried to grab his mount’s mane as the saddle slipped under him, but after several moments, with his boots dragging the side of the path, he lost his grip and tumbled to the dirt.
“Second squad! Bring him in!” ordered the undercaptain.
While the troopers rode toward the dazed Bovarian in his ripped and soiled uniform, Quaeryt glanced to his right, where the fire continued to race across the golden stalks of wheat corn.
Then he looked to where first squad had run down the others. Three Bovarians were facedown on the ground. Another remained mounted, but blood stained his right sleeve, and he was cradling his injured arm. Another was still fighting, but as Quaeryt watched, one of the troopers clouted him on the back of the head with the flat of a sabre, and he slumped in the saddle.
Quaeryt counted. Besides the one who had fled immediately, another Bovarian had to have escaped. Quaeryt shook his head and waited for the troopers to bring back the Bovarian he’d unhorsed with his imaging.
“Only eight of them,” said Ghaelyn.
“Only eight here. I hate to think how many others there are torching other fields.” Quaeryt pointed to the smoke rising into the sky farther west, adding to the summer heat haze.
“Wouldn’t think they’d have too many.”
“Neither would I, but it doesn’t take many.”
Both watched as first squad returned.
“Here’s the one who tried to get away,” announced the squad leader.
Two of the rankers had dismounted and held the Bovarian, whose hands were tied behind his back.
Quaeryt looked down at the sullen-faced man, older than he had expected. “Where were you supposed to meet when you finished torching the fields?” asked Quaeryt in Bovarian.
The ranker’s eyes widened slightly, presumably at being addressed in his own tongue, but he remained silent.
“Once more, where were you supposed to meet?”
Quaeryt image-projected authority and the sense that if the man didn’t answer, he’d be staked out on the ground and burned, slowly, limb by limb.
The Bovarian ranker shuddered, turned white, and crumpled in the arms of the two Telaryn rankers holding him, both of whom also paled.
“Throw water on his face,” Quaeryt said dryly.
When the Bovarian regained his senses, Quaeryt just looked at him. “Where were you supposed to meet?”
The man swallowed … finally stuttering. “West … a mille, by the tumbledown barn … in back.”
“Tie him up and leave him for the locals to deal with.”
The captive turned pale again.
“They’re your people,” Quaeryt pointed out. He turned to Ghaelyn. “Tie him up to that small tree over there. Quickly. Do the same with the others who are alive. Then we’ll see if the remaining Bovarians try to meet at the barn.”
Quaeryt could sense Ghaelyn’s disapproval, but he said nothing until the company was riding westward again.
“Undercaptain … I’d rather not be fighting, but they started this war. I don’t believe in violence against people who aren’t fighting. Burning these poor people’s fields wouldn’t help the Bovarians. Those crops wouldn’t
