Princeps

slight angle. The impact of the shields threw back the footmen enough, Quaeryt thought, that the rest of the company could press forward.

After riding some fifty yards, as the mare slowed, he turned her back downslope, again at an angle. By the time he pulled back from the front edge of the fighting, he could barely see, but he could sense that Zhelan and Third Battalion had broken through the foot and were attacking the rear of the main Bovarian body … and they had the higher ground.

Quaeryt just pulled up in an open space, holding on to his shields, hoping he didn’t have to use them more, barely able to hang on to the half-staff.

After another quint or so, gradually and then in a rush, the remaining Bovarians broke, fleeing westward into and through the marshy ground to reach the river, struggling in various ways to cross. More than a few drowned, Quaeryt judged, although he could barely see at all by that time, between the throbbing pain in his head, and the flashes of fire in his eyes.

Shouldn’t be making a habit of this.

In the end, Quaeryt remained reined up on the middle of the slope of the southern hill, hardly noting the squad of Zhelan’s troopers that surrounded him. Every so often, he could see enough to determine that the Bovarian casualties had been enormous, with bodies everywhere, horses standing as if shocked in places and other horses sidling out of the way of Telaryn riders.

Sometime later, how much Quaeryt couldn’t tell, Meinyt reined up beside Quaeryt, who was bent over, his head practically against the mare’s neck and mane.

“Sir?”

Quaeryt straightened slowly. “Yes, Meinyt?”

“The Bovarians never saw us, did they? The first ones, I mean.”

“They didn’t seem to. I hoped they wouldn’t. I’d appreciate it if we could leave it like that.”

Meinyt smiled. “I can do that, sir. So long as you ask for Third Battalion if you can.”

“I can do that.” I certainly can. Quaeryt forced a smile, not that he didn’t appreciate Meinyt’s words, but his head throbbed, and he could barely see. “Thank you.”

“Our thanks to you, sir. I think the commander would like to see you, sir.”

Quaeryt rode slowly downhill, through the dead and dying, the mare avoiding fallen men and mounts.

Skarpa was waiting on the road. He waved the two imager undercaptains away and rode over beside Quaeryt, then reined up almost stirrup to stirrup.

“How did you manage that?”

“Manage … what?” Quaeryt replied, his mouth so dry he could hardly speak. Belatedly, he realized he should drink something, and he was about to reach for his water bottle when he realized he still held the bloody half-staff in his left hand. Slowly, he replaced it in the leathers and then extracted the water bottle, taking a long but slow swallow of the watered lager.

The flashes across his eyes lessened slightly, as did the pounding in his skull, and he finally looked at Skarpa.

“You broke the entire flank by yourself.”

“No. I just gave them a little space so that they could attack.”

“That’s the same thing,” snorted the commander.

“How many did we lose, do you think?”

“More than I’d like, but less than anyone would believe. Probably three hundred, at a guess, another couple hundred wounded. Some of those won’t make it.” After a pause he added, “The Bovarians had about as many survivors as we had casualties.”

“That’s a victory, isn’t it?”

Skarpa nodded. “Meinyt said you managed to get them close enough that the first regiment was completely surprised.”

“We were fortunate.”

“No. The only fortune involved was that you were with us.”

Quaeryt took another swallow of the watered lager. It tasted better than he recalled.

Skarpa smiled. “At least, I won’t have to explain how you got yourself killed.” Another pause followed. “Or why you didn’t when anyone else would have.”

Just don’t ask.

Skarpa didn’t. Instead, he turned in the saddle and looked to Shaelyt and Desyrk. “Undercaptains, you’d best escort the subcommander to his company.”

“Thank you,” murmured Quaeryt.

Skarpa just nodded.

75

By the seventh glass on Vendrei morning, Third Regiment was riding back northward on the river road. Skarpa had left the most seriously wounded in the only small town, barely more than a large hamlet, commandeering what passed for an inn to take care of those men for whom travel would be a death sentence. At the rear of the column marched 150 Bovarians, half of whom were wounded. Just behind the company acting as vanguard rode Quaeryt and Skarpa, with the imager undercaptains and Quaeryt’s command immediately following.

Quaeryt had felt tired most of the previous afternoon, but after even the passage of a few glasses and more than a little watered lager, he’d been left with only a vague headache. When he had awakened on Vendrei, even after sleeping on straw in a barn, he’d felt remarkably fit. That in itself surprised him, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune.

Like Jeudi, Vendrei had dawned hot and sticky, but as he rode he could see clouds to the northwest, and usually clouds foretold cooler weather.

Cooler … and wetter … and then hotter and stickier in summertime.

After a time Skarpa turned in the saddle. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, again, Quaeryt, just how you managed to get an entire battalion so close to the Bovarians yesterday without them noticing. I asked Major Meinyt, and all he’d say was that he was too busy following orders to notice that.” Skarpa looked hard at Quaeryt.

“We took the back lane, just as your scouts said. I asked Major Meinyt if he could move into a line of attack from a four abreast formation. He asked for five abreast. I agreed. When we reached the part of the lane close to the back of the hill, I ordered silent riding, and the men were very good. The Bovarians started yelling that they could hear us, but they didn’t immediately form up. By the time they realized how close we were, most of them couldn’t get prepared enough.”

“That sounds like what some of Meinyt’s captains said.” Skarpa frowned. “Several of the captives kept saying that you and Third Battalion appeared from nowhere.”

“It certainly didn’t seem like nowhere to me. I was worried the whole time we were riding up toward them.” And that had certainly been true enough, reflected Quaeryt.

“Then there was…” Skarpa shook his head. “There are some things a commander just shouldn’t look into too closely, I suppose. It’s just that, around you, that gets hard to do. I think Gauswn had the right idea. He thought you had a special relationship with the Nameless.”

“You know that I’m not even certain that the Nameless exists. How can I have a special relationship with a being whose existence I doubt?”

“What you believe doesn’t matter. Gauswn pointed that out to me before he left the regiment. You’re the one who turned him from a good officer into a chorister, you know?”

“He always wanted to be one. He was a good officer, but he’s already a better chorister.”

“The same could be said about you. You’re a good scholar, but you’re a better officer.”

Quaeryt was the one to shake his head.

“You do things that are impossible, and the men follow you.”