Princeps: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (65 page)

69

Clang! Clang! Clang!

In the grayness after dawn and before sunrise, Quaeryt had just pulled his boots on when he heard the alarm. He immediately hurried down to the courtyard, looking for Skarpa. He found the commander with the battalion majors gathered around him … and listened as Skarpa issued orders.

“Barges are loaded up at Cleblois. They’re likely heading toward the point. Maybe beyond. Form up your battalions on the road, spaced at quint-mille intervals. First Battalion, take position just south of the south wall. Second Battalion…”

Quaeryt listened as Skarpa gave his directions for spacing out the battalions, then looked to Quaeryt. “Subcommander, take action as you see fit, so long as you don’t put your men directly between the enemy and a battalion about to engage the enemy.”

“Yes, sir.” Quaeryt turned and hurried to a less crowded section of the courtyard where he image-projected his voice. “Imagers! On the double! Mount up and form on me!”

Zhelan appeared even before Quaeryt’s words died away.

“Sir?”

“The imagers will be moving to the bluff on the south side of the post. For now, form up just on the side of the road toward the river to let the other battalions move into place. Once I get the imagers mustered, we’ll see what we can do with the enemy barges.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Imagers aren’t used to discipline, and I haven’t had enough time to make it clear.”
Except you should have set up procedures for where to muster if an alarm were sounded and told them what to do.
Quaeryt realized that he’d taken for granted all the procedures he’d learned with the regiment, and that he hadn’t instilled all of them in the imager undercaptains.
I just hope I survive learning yet another thing I should have thought out earlier.

As he waited impatiently, about to head for the officers’ quarters to roust out the imagers, if they did not appear momentarily, another thought came to him. He couldn’t help but appreciate the irony that, after all the time and effort he’d spent trying to instill and improve skills, they might not even be able to use them because he’d forgotten the elementary point of telling them when to muster and where.

At that moment Shaelyt appeared, still pulling on his uniform shirt as he ran from the junior officers’ quarters, followed by Voltyr and then Desyrk, then the others, although Threkhyl was bringing up the rear.

“Get your horses and mount up right here, as fast as you can! Any time an alarm sounds, this is where we assemble.”

When Shaelyt returned almost immediately and mounted up, Quaeryt was relieved—the ostlers had obviously saddled the imagers’ mounts, for which he was grateful. He made a mental note to thank them personally.

While it seemed as though a glass had passed, little more than a quint after the alarm had sounded, Quaeryt and the six imager undercaptains reined up on the flat just above where Quaeryt had prostrated himself on Solayi. Still in the saddle, Quaeryt peered through the grayness. The barges were still tied at the piers, except for a pilot boat with a guide rope back to the piers. Where had they come from? A stream entering the Ferrean River upstream … or from somewhere concealed even farther north?

From what Quaeryt could determine, the barges contained heavy foot, with spears, since he could see more than a few spear shafts and points protruding above the high sides of the nearer barges. The pilot boat moved slowly toward the middle of the river, propelled by a good twelve men at long oars that resembled sweeps more than oars. The boat then appeared to halt, holding position against the current, as if it had dropped anchor, and the men at the oars stopped stroking.

Why are they waiting? They’ve already lost time for surprise.
At the thought of time, Quaeryt stiffened for a moment, then looked to the undercaptains. “Imagers!”

“Sir?”

“At my command, when I call out the word ‘Image!’ you all concentrate on putting holes in the hull of that boat in the middle of the river. Make sure you put the holes in the part of the hull below the water. They need it as a guide of some sort. If it sinks, then they’ll be delayed. Stand by … Image!”

As he gave the command, Quaeryt concentrated on putting a pair of holes in the pilot boat, one fore and one aft. Possibly because the boat was closer, or because the hull was thinner than the bollard, or because he was feeling stronger, he did not get a headache or pains in his eyes, and not even a momentary feeling of light-headedness.

For several moments, nothing happened. The pilot boat remained stationary in the middle of the Ferrean River, the current rippling by it. Then, abruptly one of the rowers dropped his oar and began to bail with a small bucket. The others began to row, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pilot boat turned toward the southwest heading toward the western shore and the marshy land there. Even after moving less than a score of yards, the boat was noticeably lower in the water, and moved less with each sweep of the oars. Before long, the gunwales were awash, and several rowers jumped from the craft, trying to stay afloat and swim toward a marshy spit of land. The remaining rowers clung desperately to the largely submerged hulk that the current carried southward past the marshes and toward the point where the smaller Ferrean joined the mighty Aluse.

Quaeryt managed not to frown, for he hadn’t seen any ice on the river.
Because it wasn’t as far and the wood was softer?
Those kinds of questions would have to wait.

“Imagers!”

The undercaptains stiffened in the saddle.

“This time, I want holes in those barges at the piers. Again, at my command. Ready … image!” Quaeryt concentrated on the lead barge, imaging what he hoped was a line of holes across one side.

Light flashed across his eyes, but his head didn’t throb, and there was none of the pain that had accompanied either of his efforts on recent days involving the Cleblois piers. He squinted at the piers once more, then looked to the undercaptains. Baelthm was swaying in his saddle, and Akoryt appeared pale. Threkhyl, Voltyr, and Shaelyt had sheens of perspiration on their foreheads. Desyrk was massaging his forehead with the hand that didn’t hold the reins to his mount.

Quaeryt had no idea how much the others had contributed, or if any of them had been able to reach the piers at Cleblois and put holes in the barges there, but for the moment, that didn’t matter. He could only hope that the effort improved their skills, and that they’d be able to offer more before long.

Again … there seemed to be no motion around the barges, save for one or two dockworkers walking back and forth and doing seemingly meaningless acts with the hawsers tying the barges to the piers. Despite his headache, Quaeryt frowned. There was something about the hawsers …

Then he noticed something even stranger. The lead barge was sinking, and not slowly. But no one leapt out. The barge just went under, and the bow hawser ripped away the entire forward cleat.

“Look at that!”

“… didn’t know we could do that…”

“… did we … really…?”

Quaeryt understood immediately—and wished he had even earlier. Certainly the signs were there. “Captain Zhelan! To me!”

Zhelan trotted over and reined up. “Sir?”

“Send a courier to Commander Skarpa. The barges and the pilot boat were decoys. The Bovarians may already have crossed the Ferrean to the north, or they may have something else in mind, but those barges were flimsy copies of real barges. That’s why they didn’t move, and we could sink the one at the piers so quickly and why no troops tried to swim away. There weren’t any.”

As Zhelan rode off to relay the message, Quaeryt turned his eyes back to the river. The waterlogged hulk that had been the pilot boat was out of sight, and the dockhands on the barge piers had moved another barge dummy forward, as if they hoped no one had noticed. Looking closely, Quaeryt could see that the dummy rode higher and that the “hull” was far from as battered as any real barge would be.

In less than a third of a quint, Zhelan and a courier rode toward Quaeryt.

“The commander requests your presence, Subcommander,” announced the captain.

Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Imagers! Hold your position here. Undercaptain Voltyr is in command until I return. Voltyr, you’re to take orders from Captain Zhelan, as necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Voltyr.

Quaeryt eased the mare around, then followed the courier back to the post and to the river side of the post, where he could see Skarpa standing just back of the ramparts, surveying the river.

Quaeryt reined up, handed the mare’s reins to the courier, then dismounted. “I shouldn’t be long.” He hurried up the ancient stone steps to the upper level of the wall.

“Good work,” said Skarpa as Quaeryt approached. “You’ve probably gained us a bit of time. I’ve sent a message to Lord Bhayar and to Marshal Deucalon. The question is whether the diversion was to keep us here while the Bovarians attack somewhere to the south, or whether they’ll be attempting a crossing in force farther north. Or if they’ll attempt both.” Skarpa paused. “What do you think?”

“You have much more experience than I do, sir, but … I’d wager that there’s a crossing to the north, of some sort. It might only be a company or a battalion, but they’ll want to do something to keep you and some of the regiments away from Ferravyl itself. Preferably far away.”

“That would be my thought. I’m sending you and the imagers north with Meinyt and Third Battalion. I don’t know what you can do, but Meinyt will need any aid you can give. The Bovarian objective has to be Ferravyl and the destruction of the bridge and its fortifications and the capture of the city, and I can’t hazard more than a battalion until I know where the bulk of the attack is likely to be.”

That made sense to Quaeryt.

“There’s one other thing. You outrank Meinyt,” Skarpa said.

“I don’t have his experience, and I don’t intend to override him.”

“That’s for the best, but … if anything does happen to him, you will have to take over the battalion. I’ve already informed him of that.”

“You’re sending him, rather than another major, because of me.” Quaeryt offered the words as a statement, not a question.

“You’ve ridden with him before. He understands what you can do better than do the other battalion commanders. You’ve worked well together before.” Skarpa offered a barking laugh. “He’s almost ready to go. Have your men prepared for a week.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Quaeryt hurried back down the stone steps of the old post, he couldn’t help but worry about what awaited them to the north—and how he could best use his scarcely trained imagers. But because he also needed to thank the ostlers and their assistants, he headed for the stables first.

70

By midday on Lundi, riding with Meinyt some ten milles north of the post, Quaeryt was sweating heavily under a hot sun that reminded him too clearly that it was indeed full summer … and no longer spring.

“How far north do you think they are?” asked the major.

Quaeryt looked at the low hills beginning less than a mille ahead, hills that were especially rugged where the Ferrean had cut through them over the ages. “I’d guess another few milles at least.”

Meinyt nodded, then looked at the long gentle slope from the road down to the river. “Good time and place to take a break, water the mounts, and let the scouts see what more they can find.” He turned in the saddle. “Battalion! Halt!”

As the battalion came to a stop, Quaeryt rode back past Jusaph’s first company, serving as vanguard, to the imagers’ company, where he reined up before the undercaptains and Zhelan. “We’re taking a break here to rest and water both men and mounts—and officers. Undercaptains, we’ll wait until first company and Captain Zhelan have their squads watered.” Quaeryt nodded to Zhelan.

“First squad! Lead off on watering!”

“Imagers, dismount. Form a circle holding your mounts.” Quaeryt turned to Desyrk, who’d shown far more horsemanship than the others. “If you’d hold my mare as well, Undercaptain. That way you all can see and hear what I have to say.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quaeryt waited until the six had formed a rough circle, then said, “We’re likely to run into Bovarian forces in the next glass or so. Major Meinyt has sent out additional scouts, and I’ll let you all know once I do.”

“What do you expect we can do?” demanded Threkhyl.

“Well…” said Quaeryt, drawing out the word, “you can certainly image holes in Bovarians if they get close enough. Soldiers aren’t as tough as those boards you put holes in. I’d rather have you be able to do things like that from a greater distance, but in a war you don’t always get what you want, and when you do, you’re just as likely to discover that getting your wish is often worse than not getting it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir…” offered Desyrk, “but why are we here, then?”

Quaeryt smiled. “There are a number of answers to your question, Undercaptain. The first and most important is very simple. Because Commander Skarpa is in charge, and he ordered us to be here. The second is because no one knows what we can do, and the commander wants to find out before we get into a massive battle. The third is to give you all some understanding of what happens in a fight, because for most of you, it’s not like you thought it would be.”

Desyrk nodded.

“Any other questions?” Quaeryt glanced around.

None of the undercaptains spoke.

“Then stand by.” Quaeryt walked past Desyrk and the mare and to the river side of the road, where he surveyed the troopers walking their mounts to the water. Upstream from where the horses were being watered a detail was filling water bottles. Quaeryt wasn’t about to fill his water bottle with river water. Instead, he’d imaged watered lager into it. Admittedly, what he had imaged was still poor lager, but it was better than his first attempts and far cleaner than river water.

The river itself was far narrower—less than fifty yards wide—and deeper than it was in the stretch between Cleblois and North Post, and the water ran more swiftly. That suggested to Quaeryt that the Bovarians had to have made a crossing, assuming that they had, even farther north, and perhaps even a day or two earlier.