Imager’s Battalion

destroys you, he destroys himself. He may not know that, but it is so. Did not his sister seek you out?”

“She wrote me,” Quaeryt admitted. “How did you know that?”

“I saw her.” Arion smiled. “Actually, I heard she rode to find you when you had fallen, and I made certain I saw her. She did not see me. She has the sight.”

Quaeryt frowned. How can he know that?

“My grandmere had the sight, and there is a way, a certain … I cannot describe it, but your wife is the only woman beside my grandmere I have ever seen who is like that.” The major sighed softly. “Grandmere saw the Red Death. She warned the High Council against trade with Bovarian merchanters, but the coastal clans sought the Bovarian golds. Golds always speak louder than sight or wisdom.”

“I’ve seen that more than once.”

“That is good that you have. You will see it again … and again.”

“Then how does wisdom prevail?” countered Quaeryt.

“Only when those who are wise know when to use force and what force to use.”

Does it always come down to that? Brute force? Except … did it have to be brute force? Was there a way to apply force without the devastation of a battle such as that at Ferravyl?

He was still pondering that when he realized that Arion had slipped away, back into the gloom of the shed.

As Quaeryt stood in the dimness of a rainy twilight fading into a cold, wet, and dark night, he couldn’t help but wonder: For all your unbelief in the Nameless, in any deity, how can you know whether you chart your own course? And, for all your thought, whether it is truly the right course.

11

Quaeryt did not sleep well on Jeudi night, and not because of the damp and the crowded conditions in the shed he shared with others. The conversation with Major Arion had disturbed him more than he would have believed.

It wasn’t that Arion had predicted victory. He hadn’t. He’d as much as said that Bhayar would fail without Quaeryt, but that didn’t mean Bhayar would succeed, either. By implication, Arion’s words declared that Quaeryt was a tool and would not accomplish what he wanted by himself. Quaeryt had known that. It was the major’s preternatural knowing that had disconcerted Quaeryt. And yet, from the bearing and the reactions of the other two Khellan majors, it seemed clear to Quaeryt that Arion had not told them. Why not?

Quaeryt didn’t have an answer for that question. Nor did he feel comfortable asking Arion, although he could not have said why, and he didn’t want to press the matter until he could figure out the reason for his own unease.

While the skies were clearing on Vendrei morning, mud was everywhere, and getting the wagons on the road took an extra glass. The air was cooler than the day before, but Quaeryt had no doubts that by afternoon it would be even steamier than on Jeudi.

Because Fifth Battalion had no engineers and needed fewer supplies than a regiment, it had fewer wagons, and those wagons carried little beside spare sabres and food. Before long Quaeryt and Zhelan were at the head of the slow-moving column, behind the outriders and a vanguard of one company from Third Regiment. Quaeryt rode on one side of Skarpa, Zhelan on the other, with the imager undercaptains directly behind them.

They had covered two milles, and the road looked to be getting firmer when a scout came riding around the curve in the road ahead, making straight for Skarpa.

Even before he reached the commander, he called out, “Sir, there’s a barge coming downriver. It looks to be filled with Bovarian troopers.”

“How many?”

“Two squads of foot, it looks like, sir. They’re packed in tight.” The trooper pulled up beside Zhelan and looked across at Skarpa.

“Do they look to be seeking a landing nearby?”

“I wouldn’t think so, sir. They’re keeping well to the middle of the river.”

Skarpa turned to Quaeryt. “They want to land a force behind us to cause trouble and force us to leave men behind … or slow us down.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” Quaeryt glanced to his right, but the road had turned southward around a low hill covered with trees and brush, and immediately behind them was a wide stretch of swampy ground between the road and the river. “We’ll have to ride back east to get closer to the water.” Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Imagers! On me. Single file. We’re riding back east.” He guided the mare onto the shoulder of the road. While her hooves sank somewhat into the wet ground, the shoulder wasn’t as sloppy as the road itself, although it certainly would have been had the entire battalion been riding there.

As he rode, he glanced back and spoke. “There’s a barge filled with Bovarian troops. We need to get to where we can sink it. Pass it back.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Voltyr, riding directly behind Quaeryt as they headed back past the companies of Fifth Battalion.

“We’re headed to sink a barge filled with Bovarian troopers…”

The grassy slope that Quaeryt recalled was farther east than he’d thought, because he rode for close to a quint before he saw it, and another half quint before he reined up, moving past the troopers of Fifth Regiment, headed westward, who glanced curiously at the imagers who joined Quaeryt on the grassy and muddy patch barely large enough for all seven of them.

Quaeryt scanned the river for several moments before he caught sight of the craft, still upstream of where he was, but by only a hundred yards, if that. The river stretched perhaps seventy yards from shore to shore, and the single craft near the middle wasn’t a barge, but more like a flatboat, except that what would have been the stem on a ship was flat across the front, but angled forward like a ship’s prow. For grounding where there aren’t wharves? It also had a pilothouse in the rear with a long sweep rudder extending from the stern.

“Threkhyl! Forward!” Quaeryt ordered.

The ginger-haired undercaptain pulled his mount up beside Quaeryt.

“We need some holes in the front hull of the barge. Now.”

“Front hull?”

“It’s got a flat front. More water will go in a hole there.”

Threkhyl concentrated.

“Shaelyt, Voltytr! Holes in the side hull! Desyrk, Akoryt! You two as well.”

Quaeryt also imaged what he hoped was a large gap in the front of the boat, then watched.

For several moments nothing happened, then a man in gray, likely a crewman rather than a trooper, threw a bucket toward the troopers packed in the forward part of the barge. The tillerman leaned forward through the opening in the pilothouse and yelled something, pointing toward the imagers.

Quaeryt held his shields ready, but none of the troopers lifted a bow. Instead, the flatboat-like craft slowly turned toward the north bank of the river, if sluggishly.

The closer the barge got to the bank, the lower and lower in the water it appeared to be. Then … some fifteen yards from the swampy area that formed the bank, it lurched to a stop.

“What was that?” asked one of the imagers.

Quaeryt didn’t immediately recognize the voice, but thought it might have been Akoryt. “Sandbank or mud bar. It didn’t hit that hard, and that’s going to be a problem for them.”

“Sir?” asked Shaelyt.

“It hit at an angle. It’s still sinking, but the current’s going to swing the stern downstream and back toward the deeper water. It might pull it off the sandbar, and then they’ll be sinking in deeper water.”

Bovarians began to scramble out of the barge as the stern swung outward and toward the middle of the river. Those closest to the swampy area moved a yard or two, their feet on the bar, then stepped into deeper water, most of them flailing and not expecting the sudden change in water depth. Quaeryt couldn’t help but wince as he