didn’t find anyone, either.
“Less than a mille to the gates,” said Meinyt.
“They won’t let us much past there,” predicted Skarpa.
The major was right.
Before the regiment was even out of the trees beyond the gates, attackers swarmed toward the column from all sides, again, both those mounted and those on foot. The initial numbers seemed so great to Quaeryt that he couldn’t help wondering who’d thought that Saentaryn had fewer fighters.
Two riders surged through a gap between squads and charged Quaeryt. He braced the staff against the saddle pommel, so that it extended on each side, then ducked, urged the mare forward, and angled the staff until the forward tip slammed into the gut of the man on the right. The momentum of the impact twisted the staff so that the left side crashed into the back of the shoulder of the other attacker, whose blade had glanced off Quaeryt’s shields at an angle.
He’d barely straightened in the saddle when a slender figure on foot appeared from nowhere with a sharp and bloody blade, bringing it up as if to gut the mare.
Quaeryt struck down with all the force he could muster, the iron-tipped end of the staff cracking into the temple of the attacker. Even with the din and shouts around him, he could hear and feel the crunch of breaking bone. As he pulled the staff back, trying to recover his balance, an edge ripped of the attacker’s leather cap-like helm, and a cascade of dark hair revealed that the attacker he’d killed was a young woman.
He had little time to think about that, not when another rider charged him, swinging one of the overlarge blades that the hill riders seemed to prefer. He tried to slide the blade with the staff, but its weight and the momentum of the rider almost ripped the staff out of his hands, and the blade came down on his shielded shoulder-and shattered.
That scarcely helped Quaeryt, because the impact rattled him inside the shields like a dried pea in a cup, so that he could barely stay on the mare and hang on to the staff. Another ranker to his left took on the disarmed rebel, and Quaeryt tried to keep moving and gather himself together.
After that, he jabbed, thrust, swung, and tried to avoid getting hit too many times, but by the time the field, such as it was, cleared, his head was throbbing, and he was having trouble seeing, although he did catch sight of men in leathers riding out, trying to shield others on foot from pursuing squads. But, following Rescalyn’s orders, the troopers did not follow far into the woods, only enough to assure that those they had pursued were truly fleeing.
Quaeryt was exhausted, bruised in more places than he wanted to count, and grateful to be alive-and that was using imaging shields. Without them, he’d have been long since dead. He was definitely no warrior, and his respect for the rankers and officers continued to increase.
This time, Rescalyn had not ordered the engineers to bombard the dwellings, not that he’d had the time or the ground to allow that before the initial attacks. Once the area around the building was secured, two squads from Seventh Battalion went through the structures, one at a time. They emerged without wounds, and without captives.
Quaeryt waited, still mounted, with Meinyt’s company, surveying the edge of the trees and the open ground beyond, well short of the holding buildings, where much of the fighting had taken place. His eyes dropped to his sleeves, and he realized that he’d never put on the green shirt, and that the browns barely showed the blood splatters. He looked up again, forcing his eyes to look at individual bodies. During the attack, he’d felt as though there were thousands, yet there were probably less than two hundred bodies, and many, he suspected, were youths and women, some of whom had fought with little more than knives. He swallowed, trying to keep the bile down.
Finally, Skarpa relayed the order to dismount and deal with what needed to be done immediately … tending to the wounded, checking mounts, cleaning weapons.
After meeting briefly with the governor and the other battalion commanders, Skarpa returned and summoned his officers. Quaeryt joined them and listened.
“We’ll be able to use the buildings and some of the supplies. That’ll be good, especially if there’s rain tonight. Some provisions are gone. Not that many, but the best. There’s plenty of fodder and grain for the horses. They didn’t have time or the wagons to move much. We’ll be able to give the men decent cooked meals. It’ll take time, but we have that. We won’t be moving out until Lundi. But it’ll be early Lundi. Now … see to your men.”
Quaeryt had to admit that Rescalyn had been correct in his decision as to when to attack. But then, Quaeryt had considerable regard for the governor’s tactical and strategic abilities, just as he had significant suspicions about Rescalyn’s ambitions.
83
Quaeryt was so tired that, when he woke up in the small shed with most of Meinyt’s company on Solayi, he had no idea at first where he was or how he’d gotten there. When he tried to move, he was reminded instantly. He just lay there on a pile of pine branches that was better than bare ground, but not much, thinking.
He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all, but he was almost afraid that, if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. So he rolled over and struggled to his feet.
“That leg bothering you, again, sir?” asked a ranker.
“It does more in the morning. I’ll be all right in a bit.” He didn’t bother rolling up his gear, not when they’d be there one more night. He walked out of the shed into a grayish morning. While it was still early, the gray was because of the featureless clouds that had rolled in, not because it was before dawn. He made his way toward one of the cookfires, where he saw Skarpa talking with another major.
By the time he reached the cookfires, the two had walked away, deep in conversation, and Quaeryt didn’t follow them. After a breakfast of egg and mutton hash inside a rolled flatcake, accompanied by some very bad ale-likely the dregs from Saentaryn’s stores-that he had to pour into his own water bottle, Quaeryt still had a headache and was still sore and stiff. He went to check the mare, but she looked and acted better than he felt.
He’d no sooner returned to the area that held Sixth Battalion than a ranker hurried toward him. Quaeryt had the feeling he knew who was seeking him.
“The governor would like to see you, scholar.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s inside, in the main hall of the hold.”
Quaeryt nodded and walked toward the hold building, not dawdling, but not rushing, not with the way his leg felt. When he got there, two guards blocked the open double doors. “Not yet, sir.”
After more than a quint, one of the guards called, “Sir, the governor will see you now.”
Quaeryt stepped through the open double doors into a large foyer, although the ceiling was not raised above normal height or open to the upper level. The floor was wooden, and oiled, but showed the marks of years of wear, and the grain suggested it was oak. The walls were oak-paneled, and lighter oblongs suggested that paintings had hung there and been removed, either by Saentaryn’s retainers earlier or at Rescalyn’s direction later. Quaeryt wasn’t about to ask which.
“Sir … the governor’s that way.” A squad leader pointed to the square archway to the left. “He’s expecting you.”
The large hall-obviously a dining hall-had been roughly cleared, with the long tables and benches pushed against the walls. A shorter table stood before the natural stone hearth and chimney, but well out from the stonework. Rescalyn sat behind the table.
He motioned to Quaeryt.
Quaeryt approached and bowed slightly. “Sir.”
“Scholar, I understand you give a passable homily … and that Undercaptain Gauswn knows the service fairly
