Antiagon Fire (54 page)

Quaeryt had read about oil nut trees, but he’d never seen them, nor had he realized how fiercely they might burn. He turned to Zhelan. “The fire’s spreading, and it’s hot. There’s no way we can track down or capture the Antiagons who fled. We need to finish re-forming and head back to Southern Army.”

“We’re ready to go, sir.” Zhelan paused. “We don’t know if the rest of Southern Army was attacked, do we?”

Quaeryt appreciated the gentle reminder that they had no idea what they might be heading back toward. “Once we leave here, I’ll try to hold concealment shields until we have a better idea of what to expect.”

“Yes, sir.” The major turned in the saddle. “Head out! On the commander!”

Quaeryt eased the mare forward.

Even after he’d ridden several hundred yards east, he could feel the heat from the burning oil trees on his back, and he had no doubt that the troopers in fourth squad and the prisoners they were marching with felt it even more strongly.

Once first company began to circle back toward the road, Quaeryt asked Zhelan, “Do you have any idea of our casualties?”

“Five wounded, maybe a few more. No deaths so far. The archers were the problem, and the imagers’ shields protected most of the men.”

“I can’t believe the oil nut trees.”

“They use the oil for lamps. Must work well,” said Zhelan blandly.

Quaeryt couldn’t help smiling, but he kept looking at other hilltops and at the road. The section of road to the west of where Southern Army had been was clear, although there were small craters on both sides of the road and places in the road itself where the cannonballs had hit and left shattered stone and small depressions.

Southern Army was largely formed up by the time first company reached the section of the main road east of where Quaeryt had been when the initial cannon fire had begun. Quaeryt saw bodies in maroon and white everywhere. Most of the fallen looked either too young or too old to be proper troopers. Leaving first company in the vanguard position for the continued advance on Barna, Quaeryt rode back to meet Skarpa.

The submarshal gestured toward the raging fire on the hilltop to the west. “What did you do?”

“We blew up the cannon. The fire happened because they were hidden in an oil nut tree plantation. I’d wager that’s why all those hilltops with the trees that have golden green leaves are surrounded by pastures and meadows. What happened here?”

“They sent a mounted regiment against us.” Skarpa offered a wry smile. “I did tell you that they’d find out we were heading toward Liantiago no matter what we did.”

“You were right.”

“In a way.” Skarpa shook his head. “They were barely trained. They lost over a thousand troopers before the rest broke and fled. There wasn’t any point in trying to chase them down. They’re scattered all over the countryside.”

“And Southern Army?”

“We lost fifty or so, but we’ve got another hundred fifty, maybe two hundred wounded. The whole thing was designed to see how much they could bleed us without risking really trained troopers, or likely even their best gunners or cannon. Terrible waste of men.” The submarshal frowned. “Unless they intend to keep doing the same thing all the way to Liantiago.”

“That could be a problem,” admitted Quaeryt, “but I can’t believe they have that many troops to spare.” After a moment he asked, “Did you run into any musketeers?”

“No. Did you?”

“Not a one. A company of archers, but no musketeers.”

“Cannon, but no musketeers. That’s strange,” mused Skarpa. “Can’t be because muskets are too heavy, not if they’re lugging cannon up on hilltops.”

“You think it could be because they don’t use muskets on their ships?”

“I have no idea, but it bothers me. I don’t want to be surprised the way we were in Bovaria.”

Neither did Quaeryt, and he had to admit to himself that it bothered him as well, but there were more than a few aspects to Antiago that were troubling—and they’d likely become even more troubling if he and Skarpa were successful in removing Aliaro and controlling Liantiago.

58

Southern Army found the small city of Barna both like and unlike Suemyran. Unlike Suemyran, Barna was split into two sections, one on each side of the Arnio River, a very modest and comparatively shallow watercourse, and had a much greater proportion of two-storied and large dwellings than did Suemyran, not to mention far more villas on the surrounding hills. Quaeryt did notice that none of the villas were located near stands of oil nut trees. As in Suemyran, the inhabitants made no protests upon the entry of Southern Army. The dwellings were finished in stucco of various off-white shades … but all, even those in the poorest quarters, were reasonably well maintained. The main streets were all paved, and the paving stones were in good repair.

Once more Skarpa had commandeered the inns and the larger dwellings, and on Lundi evening, after all the troopers had been fed and the officers had eaten, while Telaryn squads patrolled the streets, he and Quaeryt sat in the gaming room in The Inn Bountiful, an expansive structure built as a rectangle around a central garden courtyard.

“All the warehouses are empty,” Skarpa said. “They had to have moved everything days before we arrived.”

“Nineteenth Regiment has gathered some from the storehouses of the villas out in the hills. They didn’t expect us to show up,” said Quaeryt.

“I’d wager that they were quietly offended,” commented Skarpa.

“They were. Very quietly though, as if to say that matters weren’t done that way.”
As if regiments, even those of the Autarch, do not bother the stores of the Shahibs.
“Most of them were still more than half empty…”

“Most of the larger dwellings are empty, too. The owners departed well before we arrived, but the crafters and shopkeepers are still here.”

“They’re the ones who fear that they’ll lose everything if they abandon their shops.”

“Good thing we’re not staying here. If we were, we’d have to start foraging off the people,” Skarpa observed.

“I wonder where they sent all the provisions in the city storehouses. We didn’t find many wagons accompanying that regiment.”

“Back to Liantiago, I’d wager. They had to know that they might need them.”

“They also had to know that the attack on us would fail.”

“I don’t know that I believe that,” said Skarpa.

“Did we capture any officers?”

Skarpa frowned. “No … now that I think about it. Some squad leaders, and we found several undercaptains who were killed, but no senior officers.”

“They didn’t use any Fire, and there wasn’t a catapult anywhere in sight. That, along with their performance, suggests barely trained men, as you pointed out. In turn, that means…”

“They expected the assault to fail, and the officers knew it, and rode off,” finished Skarpa. “Then why make the attack at all?”

“So the Autarch could see what casualties they could inflict without using their best troopers? To make us overconfident? To be able to tell the Shahibs and Shahibas that he was making every effort to stop the invaders?” Quaeryt shrugged. “Any answer we come up with is just a guess.”
And even if we win—when we win—we still may never know.

After discussing the plans for leaving Barna on the next morning, Quaeryt left the gaming chamber and waited in the back hall until he caught sight of the innkeeper. Mhario was a tall, thin, but muscular figure of a man with a lightly tanned face.

“Innkeeper?”

“Yes, Shahib Commander?”

“Is not your inn, The Inn Bountiful, the most renowned in all of Barna?”

“It is well regarded, Shahib.”

“Do not some of the most influential people in the city dine here upon occasion?”

“That has been known to happen.”

“And have they not talked of many things?”

“Many people talk of many things. That is true.”

“Did some not talk about the fact that we might be occupying the city?”

“I could not say, sir.”

“How long did the Antiagon regiment stay in Barna before it marched out to fight?”

“I could not say, Shahib. A few days, perhaps.”

“Did any of the officers dine here?”

“They may have. I cannot recall everyone who dines here, you understand.” The innkeeper smiled apologetically.

“Have the prices of goods gone up recently, the things you buy for the inn and the public room?”

“I could not…” The innkeeper paused, as if realizing that what seemed to be a standard reply was hardly credible. “They have not so far. I fear that they will, from inquiries I have made.”

“When did you find out about the Autarch’s decision to strip the warehouses here and send all the provisions to Liantiago?”

“Honored Shahib … I know nothing of that.”

“Surely, you must have heard something.” Quaeryt projected friendliness and concern.

“All I know, honored sir, is that provisions will be hard to come by.”

For all that Quaeryt tried over the next quint, even with image projection, to obtain more information, in the end, he knew little more than he had after the first few questions.

So he made his way out to the stables, where he looked over where the mare was stabled, checking her manger and her feed bag, just hoping that one of the stable boys or the ostler would show up. Before long, one did, a boy who couldn’t have been much older than ten.

“Nice mare, she is, sir.”

“She’s a good mount, and she’s been more than good to me.” Quaeryt offered a copper. “I’d appreciate it if you’d see to her properly.”

“Yes, sir.” The copper vanished. The urchin-like boy pushed back raggedly cut hair and grinned.

“You must have stabled a few mounts belonging to the officers of that regiment that passed through here.”

“Nhallio wouldn’t let me. He wanted their coin.” The stable boy shook his head. “They didn’t give him any. Hard men they were.”

“Sometimes, the officers who get power too young are the hardest.”

“None of the ones who came here were young. All of ’em older than you, sir.”

“I imagine innkeeper Mhario was most polite to them.”

“Had to be. He sent the girls off when he heard they were coming. Bessya almost didn’t make it. She had to hide in the loft. Should have seen her shake when she snuck out. Mhario told me to stay out of sight.”

“You did, I hope.”

“Right that I did.”

“Did you see them loading provisions?”

“Nah … the nearest storehouse is down on the river, two blocks over. Jaeklo said they took everything, even the old mule.”

“They say where it was all going?”

“Nope…” After a moment the boy added, “They all took the west road, though. No place else to go but Liantiago. The drivers were real teamsters, too. Not troopers.”

“The officers say anything about fighting or the like?”

“Not so as I could hear.” The youth frowned. “One of ’em said something was a bloody waste. Couldn’t hear what. Another … he said there’d be a lot of dead heroes.” There was a pause. “There were, weren’t there?”

“The troopers they sent against us weren’t very good. They shouldn’t have been fighting.” Quaeryt shook his head, then handed over another copper. “Keep them safe.”

“That I will, sir.”

Then the boy slipped away into the dimness.

Quaeryt smiled, sadly, then gave the mare a solid pat, before turning and making his way from the stable.

He would have liked to have written to Vaelora, or even better to have received a missive from her, but there was little point in using troopers as dispatch riders … at least not until Liantiago was securely in Telaryn hands.
Will it ever be?

He pushed that thought away as he walked across the side courtyard back to the inn.

59

Meredi dawned hazy, and by midmorning thick gray clouds rolled in from the west, promising the first rain since before Southern Army had taken Kephria. By noon a warm but light drizzle was falling, but the rain’s warmth seemed to vanish when the droplets struck men, mounts, or the road and the ground, creating a knee-high mist and a dampish chill that settled over the land, cloaking the sheep that had earlier seemed ubiquitous … if always at a goodly distance from the stone-paved road that stretched westward through the endless low rolling hills.

“Looks like this will last for days,” observed Zhelan, who rode beside Quaeryt while Skarpa was headed back along the column to check with his regimental commanders. “Reminds me of the fall in Cheva. The mist and rain would come in right after harvest and stay until it snowed. Sometimes, the mist turned to an ice fog and stayed.”

“You make it sound pretty dismal,” said Quaeryt.

“It was. That was when I joined up. Late fall when I was seventeen. I told my father I couldn’t take another cold damp year. He said I’d take it and like it. I walked off and joined the old Ninth Regiment—that was one place I knew he couldn’t get me.”

“Did he try?”

“No idea. We rode off to deal with Tilbor, and I never went back.”

“You didn’t write?”

“Wasn’t much point in it. What would I have said? That I didn’t miss the beatings? Or Ma crying when she didn’t think anyone saw? Besides, he couldn’t read. She couldn’t either. I barely knew my letters. Learned more when I saw that those who could read and write got promoted.”

“Those who could read and write
and
fight?” suggested Quaeryt.

“Anyone can fight. Fighting smarter is harder—”

Crumptt!
The shoulder of the road ahead of Quaeryt exploded, and gobbets of mud and wet grass struck his shields and splattered everywhere.

The mist and drizzle were just heavy enough that at the moment Quaeryt had no idea from where the Antiagons were firing, only that it had to be from somewhere to the east of Southern Army, and most likely not too far from the road.

“First company! Left! On me!” Quaeryt had no reason to head left, but that decision was as much as because the last time he’d led first company to the right. He urged the mare off the pavement and across the shoulder, through a shallow stretch of water that had pooled in a depression below the shoulder, and then up onto the grassy expanse that stretched southward for a good half mille.