Meinyt looked to Quaeryt.
“I’ll send Zhelan wherever you need him. The imagers will follow.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be with them.”
“In the van, no doubt.”
“Close, but not in the first line.”
Meinyt nodded, but Quaeryt knew what he was thinking, and he couldn’t help thinking,
More time passed, and then the Bovarians advanced once more, stopping less than three hundred yards from the Telaryn position.
“Let’s see if they’ll come to us,” said Meinyt quietly.
Yet another quint passed before the scout returned.
“Sir, the Bovarian mounted company is preparing a flank attack. They’re at the base of the ridge, just out of sight.”
No sooner had the scout reported than the main body of the Bovarians began to move, with several mounted companies forming a wedge flanked on each side by the foot.
“Where do you think we’d be most effective?” asked Quaeryt, although he had his own ideas.
“If you can swing and hit them from the north…”
“We’ll see what we can do.” With that, Quaeryt turned the mare and rode to the north of the first two companies.
The two concealed companies were already moving out of the woods by the time Quaeryt reached Zhelan.
“Sir?” asked the captain as Quaeryt rode up beside him.
“Hold them back just a bit. Let the other company join up with the battalion. There’s a Bovarian mounted company coming. We’ll take their rear and then move downhill and north of their main body. The men aren’t to stop when we hit the first company. We’re to do what damage we can in passing. Then at the bottom of the slope, we’ll re-form and try to smash the rear of the main body. Pass that to your squad leaders.” Quaeryt slipped the half-staff from its leathers.
“Yes, sir.”
While Zhelan barked commands, Quaeryt watched. Two squads peeled off from the north side of the battalion to meet the oncoming Bovarian mounted. Quaeryt waited until the Bovarian cavalry was well engaged, then nodded to Zhelan. “Now!”
“Charge!”
Urging the mare forward, Quaeryt strengthened his shields, but extended them only slightly from himself to cover his mount.
Less than a squad of the mounted Bovarians saw and reacted to Quaeryt’s attack, and more than half of the riders in the rearmost squad went down as Zhelan and Quaeryt swept across the side of the hill.
Quaeryt edged the mare closer to the captain. He could see where the Bovarian foot was bunching up near the rear of the main body, too close to several mounted companies. He used a touch of image-projection to strengthen his voice. “Zhelan … the second standard-the gray and red one? Charge them right there. You take two squads after we hit there and swing more to the west before coming south. I’ll take three squads and push them into the force that’s fighting the rest of the battalion.” Quaeryt slipped the half-staff from its leathers.
Zhelan turned in the saddle. “Squads three, four, and five, on the subcommander! One and two on me! Charge!”
Most of the Bovarian foot did not see or hear Quaeryt’s force until the Telaryn mounts were within a score of yards. A handful turned, and then yelled. Others turned, but by then the three squads were almost upon them. With the momentum of the mare behind them, Quaeryt’s shields flung several men sideways into others before he contracted them close to his body so that he could use the half-staff.
A footman threw up a shield, more like large buckler in size, against Quaeryt’s staff, but Quaeryt just went over the top and slammed his staff into the man’s skull below the back of the helmet. Then he reversed the staff and braced it against his own shields to use it as a lance on the next footman, who went down.
For the next quint or so, the battle was at close quarters, but the charge had packed the Bovarian foot against the rear of the mounted Bovarians, who were being pressed from the front by Meinyt’s force.
Suddenly, the fight became a slaughter as the invaders found themselves with less and less space to move, surrounded on all sides, except the river, and being backed downhill and to the south toward the water.
Scores broke and ran for the river, flinging away shields and helmets. They were likely the fortunate ones, thought Quaeryt as he continued to wield the staff against any Bovarian within reach.
A good glass more passed before Quaeryt pulled the mare away from the continuing slaughter and rode back to the road where a squad had re-formed around the imager undercaptains.
Shaelyt’s eyes were wide as he studied Quaeryt.
The subcommander could lip-read the murmured words-or most of them. “… lost one … covered in the blood of his enemies … son of Erion…” Quaeryt just didn’t believe them, but it didn’t suit his needs or purposes to dispute them.
“All right! Did any of you image against the Bovarians?”
“Yes, sir.” Every undercaptain nodded.
Quaeryt couldn’t see any overt deception. “Good. Hold here. Take out any stragglers who try to escape in this direction.” He turned and rode in the direction of the Third Battalion standard, where he hoped Meinyt was-and that the major was uninjured.
As he passed the grouped imagers, he heard another comment.
“… didn’t even look back to us,” muttered Threkhyl. “Could have died, for all he cared…”
Voltyr and Desyrk glared at the ginger-bearded imager. Shaelyt shook his head, almost sadly.
Threkhyl closed his mouth.
Still holding a staff he realized was streaked with blood, Quaeryt said nothing as he rode past them and toward the standard, guiding the mare around the Bovarian bodies that seemed to be everywhere.
Meinyt and a half squad held a position on the road overlooking the slope where the troopers were now largely disarming the Bovarian survivors-of whom there looked to be only a few hundred. Quaeryt glanced to the river, where he saw the heads of scores of swimmers either letting themselves be carried downstream or trying to reach the western shore.
Quaeryt had no more than reined up beside the major than Meinyt announced, “We need to return to North Post. The battalions we fought weren’t that good. Some of the survivors say they’d only been conscripted and trained in the last few months. They were sent out to keep us occupied while the main attack goes on somewhere else.”
“What were our casualties?”
“A score or two killed in the battalion. Don’t know about your company. Less than a hundred wounded. We’ll lose some of those. That’s not bad for this kind of mess.” Meinyt shook his head. “The scouts can’t find any sign of any other Bovarian troops anywhere on this side of the river. Not within milles.”
“So they’ll be attacking Ferravyl from somewhere else now?”
“I’d guess that right after we left there was an attack on south Ferravyl, on the far side of the Aluse.”
“Anything to keep us spread out.”
“That’s my guess.”
“I’ll have my company ready to go.” Quaeryt paused. “Is there anything else I should know?”
“Only that this is going to be a bloody mess. But you already knew that.”
Quaeryt did, as did every man and officer that had come out of the Tilboran revolt.
71
Third Battalion-and some three hundred Bovarian captives-reached the gates of North Post just before
