Princeps

Deucalon sent mounted companies to stop the foot. Even as Quaeryt recognized the situation, a mounted battalion moved out from the west end of the Telaryn line and charged the Bovarian foot.

In turn, the foot companies split, half moving toward the pikes on the east and half toward those on the west, while a mass of Bovarian mounted charged forward to meet the Telaryn cavalry battalion. At that moment, flights of arrows arched from the rear of the Telaryn forces down into the Bovarian mounted, while the Bovarian archers targeted the pikemen on each end of the Telaryn forces.

Before long, Quaeryt suspected, the entire slope would be a confused mass.

“We may need to attack those foot,” Skarpa said.

Both looked to their right as an undercaptain rode toward them.

“Commander! The Bovarian forces on the triangle have split. Half are moving to engage the bridge defenses. The other half are moving toward our rear. You’re to take Third Regiment and stop those moving to our rear.”

“Third Regiment!..” Skarpa began to issue orders.

In moments, or so it seemed to Quaeryt, the entire regiment had reversed itself and was riding northward. Quaeryt and his company rode slightly behind and between Second and Third Battalion, close enough so that Quaeryt, after a fashion, could see Skarpa’s command group.

He glanced up. While the clouds had continued to thicken overhead, the raindrops falling remained scattered and intermittent. For now.

Before long, Quaeryt could see the dull gray-blue uniforms of the Bovarians-all mounted-as they charged up the back of the ridge. The riders of First Battalion ended up meeting the charge almost two-thirds of the way up the slope. Second Battalion attacked the middle of the Bovarian charge, and it appeared as though Major Aluin’s men would leave the leading Bovarian units isolated.

At that moment another Bovarian unit rode uphill, directly toward Quaeryt’s force.

“Sir!?” asked Zhelan.

“Charge them!” replied Quaeryt. One thing he had learned was that standing still in the middle of a battle was usually the prelude to a disaster.

Zhelan’s company moved downhill, and although Quaeryt rode with them, he let others lead the charge, which in less than half a quint had stalled into a mass of hand-to-hand fighting.

Quaeryt used his staff as necessary, trying to save his shields and energy until imaging might produce some results, but there were so many men and mounts that he didn’t see much point in trying anything except in using the shields for self-defense.

At some point, the Bovarians withdrew to the east, re-forming on the river road, but facing the ridge. Skarpa ordered, chivvied, and pushed Third Regiment back into formation on the east end of the ridge.

Quaeryt stood in the stirrups and tried to get a sense of what had happened as the rain began to fall more steadily, with large warm droplets splatting on his exposed skin. The Telaryn forces formed a unified front from the bridge approach across the ridge. The Bovarians began to form into a wide wedge.

Quaeryt looked farther south, where he could see yet another Bovarian foot regiment, possibly two, marching northward to join the massed Bovarian forces.

Where did that regiment come from? How many regiments do they have?

Quaeryt eased the mare forward, until he was positioned at the front edge of the defenders, then turned, “Shaelyt, Desyrk!”

Neither imager undercaptain looked particularly pleased, but both rode up beside him.

The rain began to fall even more strongly, still remaining warm.

Quaeryt looked to the road below, a narrow stone-paved strip in the middle of what was turning into a sea of mud. The weather is going to turn this against us, and we’re outnumbered. The frigging rain, hot warm rain.

He stiffened in the saddle, as the words of Vaelora’s letter came to him.… the warmest rain can turn to ice, and ice can imprison the unwary … Warm rain turning to ice? Was that what she had foreseen?

Could he and the other two imagers imprison the Bovarians in ice? But he couldn’t very well just image ice. The ice came as a result of imaging something else, something massive.

“Desyrk, Shaelyt … you need to image a stone bridge, from the lower ground south of the point of the triangle over to the far side of the Vyl.”

“What?”

“Don’t argue with me. Not now. We need a stone bridge over the Vyl. Make it two spans with a single central pier. I want you to concentrate on that when I give you the command. Do you understand?”

Shaelyt nodded. After a moment, Desyrk nodded, although his eyes held confusion and puzzlement.

“Desyrk … when I tell you, just image the stone for the bridge, as much as you can.”

He looked again at the massed Bovarians. Do you dare to try? Should you?

A horn call echoed through the rain, and as one, the Bovarians began to advance.

Quaeryt cleared his throat, extended his shields to encompass Desyrk and Shaelyt, then called, “Image the bridge! Now!”

He visualized the structure he imagined, with high slight arches to a central pier, and knowing he needed power, he didn’t limit himself to just the rain. So he attempted to draw warmth from the Bovarian mounts, with thin tendrils of thought, and from the river itself-it had to have heat somewhere because when it didn’t the water froze into ice. He even tried to link to the imagers who weren’t near them … somehow.

From everywhere came lances of pain, strikes like cold lightning.

In instants, the clouds darkened from thick gray to black masses … and liquid ice poured down like sheets in an arc around him.

Quaeryt could feel that pervasive chill trying to suck heat from himself, yet being blocked by his shields, but that intense cold impacting his shields, even though they were not against his skin, made him feel as though ice were building all around him and the other two imagers.

Brilliant lines of white ice-lightning flared through his skull, and his tears seemed to freeze for an instant on his cheeks, and white fog billowed below him …

… and icy whiteness froze him into stillness.

77

Hot rain swirled around Quaeryt, and he shivered, even as lightnings of jagged ice cut him, and blood dripped into scarlet icicles hanging from his face and arms and legs … and when he turned and looked into the fog, a stone span receded and vanished … and ice flowed over him once more …

Quaeryt shivered … and slowly opened his eyes.

He was lying in a wide bed. Quilts covered him, but he could feel sweat beginning to form on his forehead. He tried to push back the quilts, but his arms did not seem to want to move. He tried again. Every muscle in his arms quivered, and lines of pain flared from shoulder to fingertip. Slowly … oh, so slowly, he pushed back the covers, barely enough that he did not feel as though he were being roasted alive.

Then he turned his head, although the movement sent lightning through his skull, to see a young man sitting on a chair lean forward, his mouth opening-Shaelyt.

“You’re awake!”

“I … am,” Quaeryt attempted to say, but the words were muddled. He wanted to sit up, but wondered if he even could.

“No one knew…”

“Knew what?” His lips were stiff and chapped, and each word was an effort.

“When they found you in the middle of the ice … you were warm … but no one could rouse you, sir.”

“Help me … sit up.” Quaeryt hated to ask, but his body was anything but cooperative.

“Yes, sir.” Shaelyt stood and leaned forward, easing pillows behind Quaeryt and steadying him.

Quaeryt just leaned back against the pillows for several moments, not that he had any choice, weak as he was. “What … about … you … the others?” He found himself still unable to speak clearly because his mouth was