Scholar: A Novel in the Imager Portfolio (68 page)

Another wave of defenders advanced downhill, taking a position some fifty yards behind the lowest line of armsmen, the last of whom were slowly being separated and cut down or wounded. Abruptly, at the sound of a tattoo on a bass drum, the remaining defenders on the lower part of the hill all turned and turned and ran uphill, but at an angle, toward one end of the new defense formation or the other.

Fifth and Sixth Battalion, as well as Fourth, and then Eighth, continued uphill toward the secondary line of defense. Quaeryt thought there were almost as many new defenders as there had been in the last line.

How many armsmen does Zorlyn have?

Quaeryt had the feeling that they’d already faced more than two thousand … and that meant that Zorlyn had more troops than the old Khanars had mustered. No wonder the Khanars and High Holders hadn’t wanted to press the hill holders that much.

Regardless of what he wanted, the press of riders was carrying him toward the next formation of defenders, and to try to fight his way clear would make him far too obvious. Yet he was breathing heavily, and his head was throbbing. He compromised by riding with the others, but not pressing to get to the front.

Once more, the defenders attempted to cut mounts down, and the attacking Telaryn troopers tried to cut down the men attacking them, rather than the mounts, before lower-down defenders could get to the mounts. Most of the time, the riders were the more successful … but not always, as a mount went down in front of Quaeryt.

The mare stumbled, but caught her balance and danced to the left, where Quaeryt used the staff to good effect on a defender trying to slash at her forelegs, and then on his partner. He ended up using the staff to block blows from hitting his shields, because every time a blade struck the shields it hurt, and he felt as though his ability to hold shields was draining away, quint by quint, if not moment by moment.

He kept warding off blows, but saw that they were coming less frequently, and that Sixth Battalion and the other battalions had turned the tide and were beginning once more to thin the defenders to the point where they would have to either break or be slaughtered where they stood.

A massive bass drumroll echoed down the hillside.

Quaeryt couldn’t help but look up. Yet another set of fighters, all in black, rode into sight at the top of the hill—under a banner with a black “Z” encircled in gold. Quaeryt swallowed. There had to be almost the equivalent of more than another battalion in that group, over five hundred riders. He glanced downhill. Surrounded by Seventh Battalion, Rescalyn and his command group had ridden through where the main gates had been—Quaeryt hadn’t even known that the engineers had gotten them open or removed them—and uphill toward the battle.

Clearly the governor felt he needed to commit every man to meet the latest wave of defenders, but Quaeryt couldn’t help but worry.
What if Zorlyn has even more defenders concealed somewhere else?

As Zorlyn’s elite force—if that was what they were—swept downhill, Quaeryt noted that all wore helms, breastplates, and greaves, and that their sabres were curved somewhat.
Heavy cavalry.
Where that phrase came from he didn’t know. He also saw that there was one man, in the center, whose breastplate bore a “Z.” Zorlyn himself? Or his eldest son?

Quaeryt would have wagered that that it was Zorlyn himself, but who would know until the battle was decided one way or another?

At the sounds of the bass drum, the center of the defenders parted, and the heavy cavalry knifed toward the center of the Telaryn forces.

At that moment, flights of arrows arched into the heavy cavalry.

Quaeryt glanced around, and finally located the company of Telaryn archers to the side of the slope, where they had apparently been for a time. The arrows cut into the heavy cavalry, cutting down scores and slowing the charge until the rebel riders were within yards of the Telaryn forces.

Even so, the rebel riders pushed back the Telaryn forces for some thirty yards before slowing to little more than a walk, and then less than that, as Seventh Battalion reached the edges of the center.

For the next half quint, blades battled blades, and Quaeryt just tried to protect the mare and to keep from getting struck directly by either footmen or the handfuls of heavy cavalry that had moved out of the center of the heaviest fighting.

Then, again, from the top of the hill came the sound of hoofs. Quaeryt glanced up, fearing to see more riders in black. Instead, he beheld the ensign of Telaryn and at least three more battalions of riders as they charged down on the rear of Zorlyn’s forces.

Commander Zirkyl’s forces … held in reserve and coming in from the north when Zorlyn had committed everything.

Seventh Battalion—and Rescalyn—continued to fight uphill toward the center of Zorlyn’s forces—and the “Z” banner, and Zorlyn himself.

Quaeryt forced himself to concentrate on where he was—just in time to see two riders with breastplates bearing down on Meinyt, who was defending himself against three men on foot.

Quaeryt urged the mare forward at an angle to the hill rider closest to Meinyt, bracing the staff against the pommel and turning it at the last moment. The one attacker swayed back in his saddle, and Quaeryt jabbed at the second one, not hitting him squarely, but hard enough that he was past Meinyt before he regained full control of his blade.

Quaeryt turned the mare, catching sight of the center of the hillside field, where the forces around Zorlyn surged inward, and horseman by horseman, the defenders fell. Yet the black-clad riders fought as though they faced the Namer and his demons.

And they probably believe that.

Did Quaeryt dare? Did he dare not?

Quaeryt urged the mare downhill slightly and then tried to make his way eastward toward the remaining thick of the battle.

Ahead and uphill of him, the “Z” banner waved and dipped, then rose again, as if it had been handed to another ensign carrier. The knot of black-clad riders around it was getting smaller, perhaps as few as fifty.

Another black-clad rider charged Quaeryt. The scholar barely got his staff up to block the vicious slash … but the rider handled the sabre so well that the staff seemed to bend in Quaeryt’s hands and he barely could hold it in hands that felt numb as his attacker rode past. For a moment, Quaeryt was in a space where he was almost alone.

Where was Rescalyn? Quaeryt found that he could barely see … that he was squinting to make out where the governor was. He concentrated and squinted harder. He finally made out the Seventh Battalion banner, and well back of it, the muscular figure of the governor, well protected by his personal guard.

Quaeryt tried to shift his attention to the “Z” banner, where only a handful of black-clad riders surrounded Zorlyn, if indeed he was the rider with the marked breastplate.

Was the outcome certain? Did he dare wait any longer?

His mouth was so dry that he couldn’t even swallow, and pain jabbed through his eyes like needles
Where is Rescalyn?
He struggled to find the governor, but his eyes wouldn’t focus.

You have to find him. Otherwise …

His eyes fixed on the Seventh Battalion banner, then slowly moved to the well-guarded governor.

Quaeryt focused all his energy into what he had to do.

As he imaged the quarrel toward its target, his shields vanished, and he felt as though the mightiest sabre he’d ever tried to block had shattered them, and turned his concentration into jelly. He swayed in the saddle, just trying to hold his seat.

Then another black-clad rider plunged out of the contracting mass around Zorlyn and aimed himself directly at Quaeryt, his sabre flashing toward the scholar.

Quaeryt threw up the staff, feeling that he was too late … too slow …

The sabre caught the staff, ripped it backward … and Quaeryt with it … and he felt himself being hurled backward off the mare.

He heard someone yelling, but though he knew the words, they were unintelligible.

Then … he felt nothing.

91

The next thing Quaeryt remembered was lying somewhere while someone did something to his arm. That created so much pain that sounds and sights blurred into a haze. When that blurred haze finally began to fade, he was surrounded by darkness, lying on blankets with a heavy weight on his chest. That weight, he realized, was his left arm, encased in something. Slowly, he managed to sit up, but every movement caused pain somewhere, especially when he moved his arm.

“The scholar’s awake. Tell the major,” said someone.

Quaeryt couldn’t tell who spoke because it was dark and because his vision remained somewhat blurred.

After a time, a figure approached. “You’re finally back with us.” Skarpa sat on a stool that he’d dragged from somewhere.

“I’ve been here. I just didn’t know I was. Where are we? What happened?” Quaeryt’s voice was hoarse and cracked now and again. He hoped he hadn’t been yelling or screaming.

“We’ve got a barn. Maybe it was a sheep shed. Better than some barracks the men have had at times. Zorlyn—his place is better than some High Holders’ estates. Maybe better than any of them.”

“It looked that way. How bad … did we lose too many?”

“More than a battalion’s worth. There’ll be more that won’t make it. Sixth Battalion … we took it pretty heavy. Well over a hundred—a hundred eight at last count, with five who’ll be fortunate to pull through, and another thirty with wounds that should. Like you.”

Quaeryt looked down at the heavy wooden splint bound in strips of cloth.

“The surgeon said you were easy. He said it was a clean break, and that might heal before all the bruises you’ve got.”

His arm might have suffered a clean break, but it felt as though the Namer was jabbing red-hot pokers into his arm.
You don’t believe in the Namer.…
Maybe not, but that was the way it felt.

“The last thing I remember, I was trying to block the attack of one of the black riders. I didn’t do it very well. Zorlyn was still fighting, but there weren’t many of his personal guards left. What happened after that?”

Skarpa snorted. “It was mostly over by then, even if we didn’t know it. Both Gauswn and Meinyt saw you go down. There was some sort of flash around you, Gauswn said. He was seeing things. No one else did, but that happens. He fought through some of those black-clad guards to get you.” Skarpa snorted. “That was when Zorlyn and his guards almost broke free. Might have, too, except Gauswn’s company got in the way. It wasn’t what the governor planned—I think he wanted to capture the bastard—but they broke through the guards. Gauswn actually killed Zorlyn. He said he had to … or they would have trampled you.”

Quaeryt wasn’t about to say anything. That wasn’t quite what he’d anticipated.

“Everything was a mess, then, but Myskyl and Zirkyl took over and settled things down.”

“They took over?” asked Quaeryt, trying to sound confused.

“You didn’t know? Oh … how would you? One of their last archers put a shaft right through Rescalyn’s chest. A quarrel, really. I didn’t see any crossbowmen, but it was the same kind of quarrel they’ve been using all along. That’s what the commander said.”

“You might recall that I’m familiar with those quarrels,” Quaeryt said.

“One of them got you in the chest. You were more fortunate than the governor. He died right there. Didn’t even get to see that everything worked out the way he planned it.”

“He planned well. I couldn’t believe those wagons that turned into ramps.”

“There were two on the north side, too.”

A ranker appeared with a large mug. “Here’s the ale for the scholar, sir.”

“You need to drink this and rest,” said Skarpa. “We won’t be doing much else for a while, anyway, It’s snowing again, already almost boot-deep. Good thing the larders here are full. Zorlyn didn’t think he’d ever lose.”

“The hill holders never did before.”
Not until now.

“First time for everything.” Skarpa rose.

Quaeryt took the mug in his good hand and began to sip. He appreciated Skarpa’s sending for the ale. He wasn’t sure he could have walked any distance at all, let alone gotten to his feet. He didn’t even care that it was ale and not lager.

92

The snow lasted for only another day and tapered off near late afternoon on Jeudi. The sun returned on Vendrei, warmer than in days, and began to melt away everything that had accumulated. Vendrei afternoon, Quaeryt received a summons to meet with Myskyl, who was acting marshal for the regiment—or what remained of it.

The scholar limped up the hill, slowly following his escort, because his bad leg was worse, and his “good” leg was bruised in places all the way down from hip to just above the ankle. There were bruises across his chest and thighs as well, already turning yellow-purple, and others in places he couldn’t see but certainly could feel.

When he reached what could only be called a manor house or mansion, even a small palace, he was escorted into the study by a junior squad leader, a study every bit as large as the one the governor had used at the Telaryn Palace, and at least as lavishly appointed, with dark paneled walls, and deep green hangings.

Myskyl turned from where he had been looking out the bay window overlooking the walled garden and walked back to the ornately carved goldenwood desk. “Please be seated, scholar.” He sat behind the desk and waited for Quaeryt to ease himself into the cushioned wooden armchair before speaking. “I’m not an envoy or a courtier, scholar. I’m a soldier. I don’t pretend to be anything else. I speak what I think. You present a puzzle. You’re as brave and as resourceful as any junior officer I have, more so than most. Your courage is unquestioned. You’ve saved countless other officers and men. Yet … the governor was troubled by you. So am I. I’m also disturbed by the fact that he was killed by a crossbow quarrel at the end of the battle when no one saw any archers. No one has yet found a crossbow anywhere on the field. I’m even more troubled because that quarrel went straight through the plate the governor wore under his shirt and jacket. That can happen. It did happen. But it has to happen at close range.”