Imager’s Battalion

“Imagers! Smoke and pepper into musketeers!” called Quaeryt. “Make it acrid and foul and thick!”

Quaeryt pulled the mare onto the canal side shoulder of the road, and began to image iron darts at the musketeers, one after the other.

“Threkhyl, Shaelyt, Voltyr! Image iron darts into the second line of musketeers!”

Another volley from the musketeers tore into Quaeryt’s shields, and he had to grab the front of the saddle to stay on the mare. He could feel himself getting light-headed, and he paused for a moment from imaging darts and grabbed for his lager-filled water bottle. Several swallows later, after the impact of another volley of musketry, he thrust it back into the holder and looked around, discovering that he and the imager undercaptains remained alone on the road.

You should have thought about that.

“Keep imaging at the musketeers! Don’t let a one survive!”

The fourth volley from the Bovarians was ragged, and Quaeryt could see a good half company of the remaining musketeers withdrawing into the taller trees. Others hurried forward, keeping low, to drag the musketeers wounded by the imagers’ iron darts back into the trees.

Quaeryt kept imaging his own iron darts at any musketeer he could see, trying to ignore the incipient light- headedness.

There was no fifth volley from the musketeers because there were none in sight. Quaeryt thought he might have killed or wounded close to thirty of the Bovarians, and the other imagers together might have accounted for almost as many.

Quaeryt watched for a moment, grabbing his water bottle and taking several swallows as he did, to make certain that the musketeers had indeed withdrawn. Then he turned in the saddle and looked toward the undercaptains.

“Sir! Akoryt took a musket ball!” Voltytr called. “There’s blood everywhere.”

Quaeryt rode over to where Voltyr had eased his mount in beside Akoryt. As Quaeryt moved his mount to the other side of the wounded undercaptain, he could see immediately that the musket ball had hit Akoryt in the upper right side of his chest. There was considerable blood, but it wasn’t spurting. Akoryt’s eyes were open, if glazed, and his breathing was labored.

What can you do?

Quaeryt swallowed, then leaned toward the injured man, concentrating on imaging out the ball, and immediately imaging into the gaping wound something like soft clean cotton. Then he glanced around. “Shaelyt. Get him to the surgeon. That way…” He gestured toward the south. “I got the musket ball out, and his wound is packed with clean cotton. Make sure the surgeon knows that.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt turned the mare and looked across the ancient canal, but there was no sign of the Bovarian musketeers. He urged the mare southward toward where the others were re-forming. In moments, he reined up beside Zhelan. “They’ve already cleared the isle, it appears. Every musket stand is gone. Do you know our casualties?”

“Thirteen men are dead, ten wounded,” replied Zhelan, “most from first company.”

“Make that eleven wounded. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball in the chest.”

Zhelan glanced at Quaeryt almost in disbelief.

“Imagers aren’t invulnerable, especially less experienced ones,” said Quaeryt.

“How badly is he hurt?”

“Badly. I don’t know how severely, but he was having trouble breathing.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

Quaeryt finally caught sight of Skarpa. “I’ll see what the commander wants, but keep them well back from the canal. The Bovarians might fire from the trees.”

“Yes, sir.” After a moment Zhelan began to issue orders to move the battalion farther south.

Quaeryt rode toward Skarpa and reined up.

“Fifth Battalion took most of the fire, Subcommander. How bad was it?”

“Thirteen dead, eleven wounded, including Undercaptain Akoryt. He looks to be in a bad way.”

“I had a feeling about today.”

Quaeryt forbore to mention that Skarpa had had a bad feeling for the last several days.

Skarpa shook his head. “Musketeers, no less.”

“The imagers took out almost half a company of them,” Quaeryt said.

“How did they do that?”

“Imaged iron darts into them.”

“Ha! Good for your imagers. Might give them second thoughts. Except it won’t. They’ll still fear Kharst more than us.”

Quaeryt had no doubts about that. But isn’t it somehow terrible that fear of one’s leader is greater than the fear of death at the hands of the enemy? That suggested, in another fashion, just how important it was for Bhayar and Telaryn to succeed.

“We’ll see what the scouts discover, but I’d wager that the musketeers are withdrawing by boat already.”

“You think so, sir?”

“Be most surprised if they weren’t. Muskets and musketeers are too valuable to leave unguarded and outnumbered. They’ll pull them back and use them against us again.”

And again, thought Quaeryt.

“If that’s so, we’ll form up and keep moving.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell my officers.” Quaeryt slowly rode back toward Fifth Battalion, but caught sight of the red banner that marked the surgeon, and turned his mount that way.

When he neared the banner, he saw Voltyr and Shaelyt. Both looked pale as he reined up beside where they stood holding the reins to their mounts.

“How is he?” asked Quaeryt.

Voltyr shook his head. “The surgeon-he’s really a senior squad leader who’s a field surgeon-said you’d stopped the bleeding, sir. Mostly … but that wasn’t enough. Something with the lungs. He stopped breathing.”

“He just gasped and gasped,” said Shaelyt. “Then he didn’t anymore.”

Quaeryt didn’t hide the wince. Yet what else could you have done? After a moment he said, “We’ll need to form up again. The commander wants to keep moving.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Quaeryt turned the mare back toward Fifth Battalion, he couldn’t help thinking, Should you have started training all of them on shields earlier? But that wouldn’t have helped Akoryt, because he couldn’t have developed enough strength as an imager to hold shields all the time, and the attack had come without warning. Almost without warning.

With that thought, he turned his mount toward second company and Major Calkoran.

The major was waiting for him.

“Subcommander, sir … your imagers … they kept us from greater casualties.”

“They did. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball. He died.”

“I am sorry for him … and for us. He will be missed.”

For a moment Quaeryt was stunned by Calkoran’s coolness. He had to remind himself that the major had suffered incredible losses and seen far greater slaughter, and that the death of less than a score of men and a young officer could not compare to what Calkoran had experienced. “Major … how did you know they had musketeers on that island?”

“I saw those strange trees. Except they are not real trees. Each is a … screen … around the musket stand. The Bovarians used them to hide their musketeers in Khel,” said Calkoran, adding, “Or something like them. The muskets … do not fire accurately, either uphill or downslope. They are terrible when they can be fired in mass across a level ground, and where they cannot be charged quickly.”

Terrible … Quaeryt could see that. Four volleys into first and second company, and in a fraction of a quint, thirteen men were dead, and another eleven were wounded. Fourteen dead, now, with Akoryt.