A thunderous roar swept across him, with multiple impacts on his shields nearly tearing him out of his saddle. As he struggled to regain his seat, his eyes went to the left of the road, from where the impacts had come. For a moment he saw nothing out of the ordinary, before he saw the slits in the “haystacks” that were nothing of the sort.
He didn’t have much time to consider more, because a wave of riders charged out of the woods behind the recently harvested field-and past the haystacks that were screens covered with hay, concealing musketeers-toward Quaeryt and third company.
“Third company!” he commanded, in Bovarian. “On me! Charge!”
He wasn’t certain he’d been heard, but then caught the words of Major Zhael, but not their meaning, as he turned the mare toward the oncoming riders, and narrowed his shields, if only slightly. Then he managed to ease the half-staff from its leathers and brace it across the front of the saddle as he guided the mare into the field.
Quaeryt sensed rather than heard another volley from the muskets, less thunderous than the first, but could feel no impacts on his shields.
“Zhael! Charge ahead! Not on me!” he ordered as he neared the first line of “haystacks.” He could see musketeers and the loaders ducking behind the cloth- and hay-covered frames of their stands. Abruptly he turned the mare to the right at an angle and raced along the haystacks with his shields extended, using the shields as a weapon to flatten the Bovarians. By the time he’d reached the end of the musket screens, his head was splitting, and it was getting hard to see. Still …
Concentrating through the growing haze of blinding light and what felt like blows to his head, he wheeled the mare and started back along the second line. With each haystack he passed, the pain intensified.
Ahead of him and to his right, third company slashed into the Bovarians, shredding the ambushing company.
Quaeryt let the mare slow as he passed the last haystack/musket stand, so that by the time he rejoined the main body of the company, more than half the Bovarians were down, cut out of their saddles, and the remainder were fleeing back through the woods.
Then he reined up, gasping, trying to massage his forehead with one hand, leaving the staff across the front of the saddle.
Perhaps a quint later-Quaeryt wasn’t sure-Zhael rode back and reined up beside Quaeryt.
“Sir … are you wounded?”
“I’ll … be all right … in a while.” Quaeryt fumbled out the water bottle and took a swallow, then another. “You and your men did well.”
“You led us well.”
Quaeryt wanted to laugh. “No, Major. I did my best to distract the musketeers. You led third company. I hope you didn’t lose too many men.” He had trouble focusing his eyes on Zhael.
“No, sir. Just two. Another eight have small wounds.”
“More than fifty. They are not used to experiencing a charge when their muskets are not effective. We have eleven prisoners. Most will not live, I think.”
“Are there any captive musketeers?”
“There are two, sir,” answered Zhael, his voice subdued. “The others…”
“What happened to the others?”
“You killed them, sir. Their necks, their bones … Most of them. One or two ran into the woods. We did not chase them far … as you ordered.”
“I just charged them with my staff so they wouldn’t shoot any more of us.”
“They will not do that.” Zhael did not quite meet Quaeryt’s eyes.
After a long moment Quaeryt said, “If you’d have some of your men collect the muskets and pile them by the side of the road for the wagons to pick up. I don’t want the Bovarians to come back and collect them.” Quaeryt massaged his forehead again. It didn’t seem to help the throbbing in his skull. “Oh … and if you’d dispatch a trooper to tell Major Zhelan that Fifth Battalion can join us.”
“Yes, sir.” Zhael rode off.
Quaeryt didn’t take in what happened, because his vision kept blurring with the pain in his eyes and head. He drank more water, then fumbled out several dry biscuits and methodically started chewing one. By the time he’d finished the second one, the pain had subsided from sheer agony to extreme discomfort, but he could see more clearly … for a few moments, if he squinted. He also realized that he was sore across his thighs and abdomen … and on his backside. Very sore.
He took another long swallow of the watered lager, then replaced the bottle in its holder, just as Zhael reined up beside him.
“You are wounded in another way, are you not, sir?”
“You might say that,” Quaeryt admitted. “I’ll recover.”
“The Bovarians-the ones remaining-are long gone.”
“For the moment I have to say I’m glad.”
Zhael nodded.
Quaeryt reached up and massaged his forehead and neck again.
Almost two quints passed before Quaeryt and Zhael, waiting beside the pile of muskets, saw Fifth Battalion approach. Then Skarpa rode out along the shoulder of the road toward them. Major Zhael eased his mount away as Skarpa reined up.
“I understand you had a little action here.” The commander glanced down at the muskets stacked on the shoulder of the road.
“Another musket attack.”
“How many did you lose?”
“Two killed, eight wounded, not seriously, according to Major Zhael.”
“What were their casualties? Do you know?”
“Some fifty dead, eleven captives, mostly wounded.”
Skarpa’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t have led the attack on them, would you?”
“They attacked us, sir.”
Skarpa snorted. “I’ll rephrase that. You wouldn’t have led the counterattack, would you?”
“Only against the musketeers. Major Zhael commanded the attack against the Bovarian cavalry.”
“So you took out the musketeers … and they destroyed the Bovarians. Exactly how did that happen?”
“The major said the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who charged into musket fire.”
“I suspect that the Bovarians weren’t used to enemies who were able to charge through it.”
Quaeryt managed a grin, but even that hurt. “We were fortunate.”
“Didn’t I tell you that I was already suspicious of that explanation?”
“What can I say, sir? We were.”
“How many muskets are there in that pile?”
“Forty-one, sir.”
“Did you kill all of the men who used them?”
“No, sir. I don’t know how many I might have injured. I just charged their stands from the side, and they couldn’t turn their weapons fast enough.”
“Just?”
“Muskets are like pikes, in a way. They’re awkward.”
“Have you ever been attacked by muskets before this campaign, Subcommander?”
“No.”
Skarpa nodded. “You can rejoin Fifth Battalion. We’ll take a break here and bring Third Regiment forward. Fifth Battalion will take the middle of the column, before the wagons.”
Quaeryt didn’t protest. He just nodded.
