Imager’s Battalion

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank you for keeping the damage from that Antiagon Fire to a minimum.”

“I’ve got some ideas for handling it better. After we get the patrolling settled, I’m going to work with the imagers.”

“Good. Eat,” ordered Skarpa.

Quaeryt took another swallow of lager, a mouthful of cheesed eggs and more rice fries.

22

After finishing with Skarpa, Quaeryt then had to deal with Meinyt and the companies from his regiment assigned to patrol duty in Caernyn. In the end, it was early afternoon before Quaeryt gathered the imager undercaptains and several engineer rankers together, and they walked toward the battlefield. Quaeryt had earlier sent one of the engineer rankers to confirm that at least one of the Antiagon catapults looked to be in working order. The other rankers carried baskets holding various empty fired-clay containers. One carried a small spade.

As they reached the top of the hill above the stone walls, Quaeryt could see that below the walls, Bovarian and Antiagon prisoners were still digging graves and carrying bodies to them, although a number of the formerly trapped and staked pits on the slope were already being used as communal graves. He recognized the mounted undercaptain overseeing the work on the northeast side of the slope-Sengh, from Skarpa’s first battalion.

“Undercaptain … we need to use one of the catapults for training. Will that be a problem?”

“I wouldn’t think so, sir. We’ve already cleared out the area behind the walls. I’ll just send word over to Captain Moragh. He’s in charge of the other side. That’s where the catapults are.”

“I’d appreciate it. How are the prisoners taking it?”

“They’re not happy, especially the Antiagons. They think we should have at least given their dead a common pyre. The commander said that if they wanted to burn they should have used their own fire when they had the chance.” Sengh smiled wryly. “Funny how folks don’t like the idea of taking their own poison.”

“That’s true of most of us.” Quaeryt nodded. “Thank you. If you’d have your man tell Captain Moragh that we’ll be flinging things toward the woods…”

“Yes, sir.”

As Quaeryt led the way across the top of the hill toward the southwestern end of the walls, he couldn’t help but think about the Antiagon attitude toward burial. Does it really matter whether your corpse is buried or burned after you’re dead? While Quaeryt frankly thought it more sanitary to be burned, he knew that there had been great debates over death and the dead. According to some choristers, Rholan had claimed that excessive attention to the body was a form of Naming. Although Quaeryt didn’t recall anything offhand, he wondered, absently, if there were any passages in the little book about what Rholan had really thought about burial or burning, not that Quaeryt had had time or energy or light in which to read in the past days. If he ever got a chance, it might be interesting to see.

When they reached the end of the walls, beyond the area where the worst of the deflected Antiagon Fire had seared men and earth and everything else, the odor of burned vegetation and even burned flesh remained, if not so overpoweringly as it had been the night before.

Quaeryt swallowed, then turned to the engineer rankers. “Undercaptain Vaelt said you could operate the catapults.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the hard-faced older trooper. “Might take a bit to make sure we get it right.” After a brief pause, he added, “You just want us to throw these pots?”

“We’ll start with them empty. Then I’d like them filled with dirt or sand. That’s why the spade.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go to it, and let me know when you’re ready.” Quaeryt turned to the imagers. “You all did the best you could last night, and Commander Skarpa was pleased that you were able to keep the damage from the fire grenades to as little as it was. So was I.” He paused. “I’d still like you to be able to do better in the future. If we encounter more than one Antiagon regiment, or one that’s better equipped, you’ll be overwhelmed. Given how you did last night, with a little practice, all of you can do better.”

Quaeryt could sense the silent protest that they were all tired. He smiled and went on. “I know you’re tired, but one of the things that makes you better and stronger is trying things when you’re rested, but still tired. If you’ll recall, every one of you has gotten more accomplished each time you’ve stretched yourself. Now … once the engineers have the catapult working, they’re going to fling pots toward the woods over there. We’ll walk downhill before they start. Each of you, in turn, will image something into one of those pots with enough force to break it. The idea is to break it before it passes over the wall.” He paused and studied the faces. “Tell me why, Undercaptain Threkhyl.”

“So it won’t get to our troops.”

“That’s half right. What’s the other half, Shaelyt?”

“If we do it quick enough, it might explode on their own men?”

“Exactly. And if we can do that, they might not be so eager to try using it. Either way…” His words got nods from Desyrk, Voltyr, and Shaelyt, and he turned back to the engineer rankers. “How long before you’ll be ready to start?”

“Half a quint, sir, if nothing breaks. Might be a bit longer.”

“We’ll be walking down the slope, but we’ll be away from the trees. Give me a hail when you’re ready. When I tell you to start, I want you to send off six, but not in regular intervals. Vary the time between each.”

“Yes, sir. We might have to try a few first.”

“That’s fine.”

Quaeryt motioned to the undercaptains, then walked to the end of the stone wall, around the still warmish pile of charred wood and other items that had been pushed or shoved there, then past a matted and trampled area of grass and brush, and around a long earthen mound that had likely been a staked pit dug to protect the corner of the stonework, but which had clearly been turned into a burial mound. Something rustled, and he turned to see what he thought was a rat, scurrying into deeper grass. Scavengers always are quick to show up, even among the animals. He kept walking.

Fifty yards below the end of the stone wall and some twenty yards from where the woods began, Quaeryt stopped and waited for the undercaptains to join him. “We’ll start here. Once the engineers signal they’re ready, I’ll call out which of you I want to try to destroy the pot coming off the catapult. Try to get it before it crosses the wall, but don’t stop trying until you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Not all the imagers murmured affirmation, but Quaeryt ignored that.

Almost a full quint passed, along with several objects flung toward the woods, before one of the rankers peered over the wall and called down, “We’re ready, sir!”

“Begin launching!”

Quaeryt pointed. “Akoryt!”

He’d barely gotten the name out when a dark pot flew over the wall toward the woods.

Akoryt never did manage to image anything into it.

“Shaelyt!”

The youngest undercaptain managed to hit the pot some thirty yards from the wall.

“Baelthm!”

Surprisingly, Baelthm imaged something into the jar almost when it crossed the stone rampart, but whatever it was happened to be so small that the jar just broke in two and both halves flew into the woods.

“Good aim,” called Quaeryt, “but you’ll need something a little bigger. Desyrk!”

Desyrk exploded his pot just before it reached the woods.

“Threkhyl!”

Not surprisingly, Threkhyl destroyed a larger pot less than five yards from the ramparts, with little more than small fragments remaining and cascading down.