Imager’s Battalion

“You need to keep working every day, and you might pass that on to Voltyr.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all for now. You need to get ready to move out.”

Once Shaelyt had hurried off, Quaeryt made his way out to the west courtyard for morning muster. After that, while the companies were readying to head out, he returned to the hold house study to meet with Skarpa and Meinyt.

The commander’s first words were to the point. “The scouts I had out early this morning have discovered more Bovarians. Another regiment, half foot, is marching toward Villerive.”

“Where did they come from if they’re on this side of the river and marching away from us?” asked Meinyt.

“I’d guess they were stationed along the eastern end of the Bovarian border with Antiago. That dispatch indicated every regiment in Bovaria was being called in.”

“They had to have left before the battle at Ferravyl,” said Quaeryt. “If they came from there, they had to cover twice as much ground as we have to reach Villerive.”

“That could be. It doesn’t change anything. It’s another regiment we’ll have to fight. There’s no telling when they might stop and take a stand, either.”

“Not before Ralaes,” offered Meinyt. “They’ll need a day or longer to recover.”

“That’s only if they’ve traveled from the border,” Skarpa pointed out. “For all we know, they could have been much closer. They could be waiting four milles west of here.”

“What formation do you want this morning?” asked Quaeryt.

“The one with Fifth Battalion as the van.”

After receiving quick status reports from the two subcommanders, Skarpa dismissed them to make ready for immediate departure. Quaeryt reclaimed his kit from the bedchamber he’d used and hurried out to meet with Zhelan and the company commanders to let them know that Fifth Battalion would again take the lead in departing Laesheld.

Two quints later, when Quaeryt rode out through the weathered limestone gates and onto the river road once more, he felt that the air was slightly cooler, most likely because of the scattered rains of the previous days, but the crystal clear skies suggested that the day might end up as hot, if not hotter, than the previous days. He glanced ahead where the second of the squads dispatched as scouting parties disappeared over the crest of one of the low rolling hills that flanked the River Aluse, although with each mille they rode westward, the hills had become less steep, and now resembled gentle rises.

From what Quaeryt recalled of geography studied years previously, the midlands of Bovaria, stretching from the hills that ran from Kephria to the western end of the Sud Swamp northward almost to the eastern end of the Montagnes D’Glace, were largely flat and fertile, and the River Aluse ran through the midsection of that fertile area.

Fifth Battalion had barely covered a mille when Skarpa rode forward and joined Quaeryt.

“Have you seen anything? Have the scouts reported?”

“No, sir.”

“The Bovarians won’t let us ride into Villerive.”

“I’d think not, but who knows where they’ll take a stand?”

Skarpa shook his head and said nothing more.

Quaeryt listened to the undercaptains riding behind them, trying to hear what they were saying. For a time, the talk was about the rain and the strangeness of Laesheld. Then the comments drifted more onto the campaign.

“… seems like the Bovarians are letting us get too close to Variana…”

“… want to draw us in…”

“… commander and subcommander must know…”

“… subcommander knows more than he says…”

“What’s he done lately?”

That was Threkhyl’s voice, louder than it should be, as always, Quaeryt reflected.

“Besides keeping a score of troopers from getting hurt with all those traps, you mean?” asked Voltyr cuttingly.

“… not that special…” muttered the ginger-haired undercaptain.

“… and some imagers aren’t that bright, either.”

The last comment was murmured in such a low voice that Quaeryt barely heard it, but after that, for a time, none of the undercaptains spoke, not loudly enough for Quaeryt to overhear.

Another glass passed. While the day warmed, Quaeryt had to admit that so far it remained pleasant. Ahead, the road turned to the left, paralleling a narrow strip of water upstream of where it entered the River Aluse. Right after the turn, the dirt road was replaced by narrow stone paving, if ancient and worn. The waterway was so narrow that it had to be a canal, although it now appeared abandoned. The canal separated the river road from a wooded island or peninsula. Quaeryt couldn’t tell which yet. There was only a narrow strip of brush in front of the line of shorter trees just ahead on the south side of the island. The land north of the canal and the ground where the river road ran once had to have been joined, Quaeryt felt, because they were almost the same level, and the first trees were less than a hundred yards from the right shoulder of the road. The slopes down to the almost stagnant water on each side of the ancient canal were steep, and Quaeryt could see the remaining riprap that still faced the slopes in places between the bushes and grass.

Why was there a canal here? With a paved road? He pulled out his map, but there was nothing that showed either the island or the canal.

“There’s nothing on the map that shows this,” he said to Skarpa, riding to his left. As he spoke, his eyes took in the area to the south on the map, and after a moment he nodded.

“What? The stream?”

“It looks like it was once a canal. It might be left from the time of Naedara. This part of the road, too.” Quaeryt almost smiled because he’d been able to figure that out.

“You’re the scholar. If they could build this, whatever happened to the Naedarans?”

“In some ways,” replied Quaeryt, “we’re their descendants. They were the first to worship the Nameless. There are still buildings in Ruile that they built, and supposedly they settled most of the larger towns south of here.”

“So what happened to them?”

“No one really knows. Some think it was because the Red Death wiped out most of the people in their towns, and then the Bovarians finished them off. Others claim that…” Quaeryt paused, because he thought he heard hoofs moving more quickly, as if someone was riding quickly along the shoulder of the road. He looked back, then saw Major Calkoran riding toward them, almost at a gallop, on the river-or canal-side of the road.

“What is it?” asked Skarpa.

“Major Calkoran’s riding hard to catch us.”

In only a few moments, the Khellan officer pulled in beside Quaeryt, just as first company drew abreast of a stand of shorter trees that grew almost to the edge of the far side of the old canal. Quaeryt looked past Calkoran to the isle. Something about the trees …

“Subcommander!”

“Major…” Quaeryt wasn’t certain what the Khellan officer had in mind.

“Subcommander, Commander! You must turn south, off the road. Now!”

“Why must we turn?” asked Skarpa.

Calkoran gestured toward the canal. “Those are not trees. They are-”

At that moment, a sound like rolling thunder swept across the column, and Quaeryt was rocked sideways in his saddle from impacts on his shields. Even as he struggled to right himself, he expanded the shields to cover those around him, hopefully the imager undercaptains as well.

“All companies! To the south! Off the road!” ordered Skarpa.

Quaeryt looked to the canal. Where there had been trees was a company of musketeers, each one with a heavy musket on a stand, with an assistant beside him.

Another volley followed, with smoke billowing up from the line of Bovarians.