33
Late on Lundi afternoon Skarpa received scout reports that the Bovarians had invested the approach to Ralaes with revetments and trenches. He called a halt to the advance at a small, nameless, and hastily abandoned hamlet some four milles from the approach to the town. While the company officers and men of the regiments and Fifth Battalion were making camp, setting up picket lines, and taking care of mounts, among other matters, and the cooks were preparing an evening meal, Skarpa called Quaeryt and Meinyt to meet with him on the covered front porch of one of the larger dwellings in the hamlet, and one with a view of the river and a breeze off the water. For the breeze alone, Quaeryt was grateful. He’d made the ride to the hamlet in a painful semidaze, not to mention being hot and sweaty.
Skarpa had found a small table that he’d set in the middle of the narrow porch and some stools. He’d also spread a map on the table, weighted on the corners with stones. As Quaeryt listened, he tried not to squirm too much on the stool, but he was feeling more aches than he had thought he would, and there were bruises in more than a few places he couldn’t see.
“… the ground to the south of the town is low and swampy, with thick underbrush and mud holes and uneven ground. There are also extensive false olive thickets on the higher ground. We’d have to ride more than twenty milles to get around it…”
“What about that other road?” asked Meinyt. “The one the musketeers took?”
“It joins the river road about a mille toward Raelaes from here,” replied Skarpa.
“Too bad we didn’t know that.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to take it, not the part heading west from the paved road.” Skarpa cleared his throat. “The scouts found two abandoned wagons-both with broken axles.”
“They just left them?” Meinyt frowned.
“Apparently they were worried about Quaeryt’s third company catching them.” Skarpa smiled.
“After the way Zhael’s men ripped through their troopers,” said Quaeryt, “they were right to be worried.”
Meinyt and Skarpa exchanged a quick glance, one that Quaeryt ignored.
“Anyway…” continued Skarpa, “there’s about two milles of open ground east of the town, between that jungle and the river. They’ve thrown up revetments across most of the last mille, with ditches in other places. Most of the ditches are wide enough that a horse can’t jump them, and they’re filled with sharpened stakes and who knows what else…”
“Filthy water and mud, most likely,” added Meinyt.
“… it’s hard to tell how many men they’ve got, but it looks like they’ve got at least three, maybe four, regiments of foot behind those earthworks.”
“At least some muskets, too,” said Quaeryt. “Where they’ve got a clear path of fire.”
Skarpa continued using the map to point out what he’d learned from the scouts for another half quint before he finally said, “That’s what we know now. I’m in no hurry to attack. Not for a day or so, anyway. The men could use some rest-and so could you and the imagers, Subcommander. We need to feel out where their strong points are and see if there’s somewhere we can break through and then wheel and pin them against their own earthworks.” Skarpa looked at Quaeryt. “Tomorrow, when you’re rested, I’d like you to ride closer and see what you think.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get some food and sleep. Leave everything else to Zhelan. That’s what he’s there for.”
Quaeryt nodded, not trying even to smile pleasantly.
Skarpa stood. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”
For all that Skarpa said, it would be a while before the cooks had rations ready. While Quaeryt was sore and tired, he wasn’t sleepy. So he made his way to the eastern end of the hamlet, where Fifth Battalion was settling in around cots abandoned by their owners or tenants.
Zhelan was the first to catch sight of him. “Sir … the first cot there … there’s space for you and the imagers.”
“Thank you. You’ve told them?”
“Yes, sir.” Zhelan stood waiting.
Quaeryt knew Zhelan wanted to know what Skarpa had said, but wouldn’t ask. So he said quietly, “The Bovarians have thrown up earthworks and trenches across all the approaches to Ralaes…” He went on to summarize Skarpa’s words, then ended with, “We need to see that the men get rest, but that they’re ready in case the Bovarians try another surprise attack.”
“Do you think they will?”
“They very well might. We’re getting close to Villerive, and they can retreat behind all those earthworks after they try a strike.”
“A few extra sentries might be in order … posted farther out.”
Quaeryt nodded, then added, “Perhaps mounts already saddled for a squad … or two?”
Zhelan offered a faint smile. “I’d thought that, sir.”
After he talked over matters with the major, Quaeryt started toward the cot that Zhelan had pointed out. He was still some twenty yards away when Voltyr approached from where he had been standing under a small maple.
“Sir?”
“What is it, Voltyr?”
“I hoped I could talk over a few things with you.”
Quaeryt nodded, wondering if he could evade the thrust of the undercaptain’s inquiries, or if he should, for he had no doubt questions were on Voltyr’s mind.
“There have been times when we should have suffered from arrows. Those around us did. This morning, those closest to you were not injured by the first musket attack, while many farther away were. This afternoon, those near you were not injured.” The undercaptain paused. “You can extend shields some distance, can you not?”
“Until now,” said Voltyr quietly. “That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it? You’ve been pushing us as fast as you thought we could learn.”
“It wasn’t fast enough for Akoryt,” Quaeryt said quietly.
“He wasn’t strong enough yet. Shaelyt and I can barely hold shields for a fraction of a quint.” Voltyr stopped as Shaelyt walked around the end of the cot and then toward them.
“Good afternoon,” offered Quaeryt.
“The same to you, sir.” Shaelyt’s eyes went to Voltyr.
The older undercaptain smiled. “I was telling the subcommander how it seemed more than fortuitous that anyone close to him suffered fewer, if any, wounds from arrows or musket balls, and that suggested shielding beyond just himself.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Shaelyt, “but none of the undercaptains thinks it’s fortune. Nor does most of Fifth Battalion. Wharyn told Shaelyt that you were not a lost one. He said you were the son of Erion. He said you rode down twenty-one musketeers, and their iron musket stands. Only two of those you struck survived. They counted twice.”
“What do you two suggest I say, then?” Quaeryt kept his voice humorous. “No matter what Captain Wharyn says, I can’t claim I’m a son of Erion. I’m not, and claiming such wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“It might not hurt to let the rest of the undercaptains know you’re an imager, sir,” suggested Voltyr. “Quietly, of course.”
Quaeryt nodded. “You’re probably right that the time for that has come. I’ll let them know after morning muster. I’d like to let them have the day to think it over.”
