Why was there a canal here? With a paved road? He pulled out his map, but there was nothing that showed either the island or the canal.
“There’s nothing on the map that shows this,” he said to Skarpa, riding to his left. As he spoke, his eyes took in the area to the south on the map, and after a moment he nodded.
“What? The stream?”
“It looks like it was once a canal. It might be left from the time of Naedara. This part of the road, too.” Quaeryt almost smiled because he’d been able to figure that out.
“You’re the scholar. If they could build this, whatever happened to the Naedarans?”
“In some ways,” replied Quaeryt, “we’re their descendants. They were the first to worship the Nameless. There are still buildings in Ruile that they built, and supposedly they settled most of the larger towns south of here.”
“So what happened to them?”
“No one really knows. Some think it was because the Red Death wiped out most of the people in their towns, and then the Bovarians finished them off. Others claim that…” Quaeryt paused, because he thought he heard hoofs moving more quickly, as if someone was riding quickly along the shoulder of the road. He looked back, then saw Major Calkoran riding toward them, almost at a gallop, on the river-or canal-side of the road.
“What is it?” asked Skarpa.
“Major Calkoran’s riding hard to catch us.”
In only a few moments, the Khellan officer pulled in beside Quaeryt, just as first company drew abreast of a stand of shorter trees that grew almost to the edge of the far side of the old canal. Quaeryt looked past Calkoran to the isle. Something about the trees …
“Subcommander!”
“Major…” Quaeryt wasn’t certain what the Khellan officer had in mind.
“Subcommander, Commander! You must turn south, off the road. Now!”
“Why must we turn?” asked Skarpa.
Calkoran gestured toward the canal. “Those are not trees. They are-”
At that moment, a sound like rolling thunder swept across the column, and Quaeryt was rocked sideways in his saddle from impacts on his shields. Even as he struggled to right himself, he expanded the shields to cover those around him, hopefully the imager undercaptains as well.
“All companies! To the south! Off the road!” ordered Skarpa.
Quaeryt looked to the canal. Where there had been trees was a company of musketeers, each one with a heavy musket on a stand, with an assistant beside him.
Another volley followed, with smoke billowing up from the line of Bovarians.
“Imagers! Smoke and pepper into musketeers!” called Quaeryt. “Make it acrid and foul and thick!”
Quaeryt pulled the mare onto the canal side shoulder of the road, and began to image iron darts at the musketeers, one after the other.
“Threkhyl, Shaelyt, Voltyr! Image iron darts into the second line of musketeers!”
Another volley from the musketeers tore into Quaeryt’s shields, and he had to grab the front of the saddle to stay on the mare. He could feel himself getting light-headed, and he paused for a moment from imaging darts and grabbed for his lager-filled water bottle. Several swallows later, after the impact of another volley of musketry, he thrust it back into the holder and looked around, discovering that he and the imager undercaptains remained alone on the road.
You should have thought about that.
“Keep imaging at the musketeers! Don’t let a one survive!”
The fourth volley from the Bovarians was ragged, and Quaeryt could see a good half company of the remaining musketeers withdrawing into the taller trees. Others hurried forward, keeping low, to drag the musketeers wounded by the imagers’ iron darts back into the trees.
Quaeryt kept imaging his own iron darts at any musketeer he could see, trying to ignore the incipient light-headedness.
There was no fifth volley from the musketeers because there were none in sight. Quaeryt thought he might have killed or wounded close to thirty of the Bovarians, and the other imagers together might have accounted for almost as many.
Quaeryt watched for a moment, grabbing his water bottle and taking several swallows as he did, to make certain that the musketeers had indeed withdrawn. Then he turned in the saddle and looked toward the undercaptains.
“Sir! Akoryt took a musket ball!” Voltytr called. “There’s blood everywhere.”
Quaeryt rode over to where Voltyr had eased his mount in beside Akoryt. As Quaeryt moved his mount to the other side of the wounded undercaptain, he could see immediately that the musket ball had hit Akoryt in the upper right side of his chest. There was considerable blood, but it wasn’t spurting. Akoryt’s eyes were open, if glazed, and his breathing was labored.
What can you do?
Quaeryt swallowed, then leaned toward the injured man, concentrating on imaging out the ball, and immediately imaging into the gaping wound something like soft clean cotton. Then he glanced around. “Shaelyt. Get him to the surgeon. That way…” He gestured toward the south. “I got the musket ball out, and his wound is packed with clean cotton. Make sure the surgeon knows that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quaeryt turned the mare and looked across the ancient canal, but there was no sign of the Bovarian musketeers. He urged the mare southward toward where the others were re-forming. In moments, he reined up beside Zhelan. “They’ve already cleared the isle, it appears. Every musket stand is gone. Do you know our casualties?”
“Thirteen men are dead, ten wounded,” replied Zhelan, “most from first company.”
“Make that eleven wounded. Undercaptain Akoryt took a musket ball in the chest.”
Zhelan glanced at Quaeryt almost in disbelief.
“Imagers aren’t invulnerable, especially less experienced ones,” said Quaeryt.
“How badly is he hurt?”
“Badly. I don’t know how severely, but he was having trouble breathing.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Quaeryt finally caught sight of Skarpa. “I’ll see what the commander wants, but keep them well back from the canal. The Bovarians might fire from the trees.”
“Yes, sir.” After a moment Zhelan began to issue orders to move the battalion farther south.
Quaeryt rode toward Skarpa and reined up.
“Fifth Battalion took most of the fire, Subcommander. How bad was it?”
“Thirteen dead, eleven wounded, including Undercaptain Akoryt. He looks to be in a bad way.”
“I had a feeling about today.”
Quaeryt forbore to mention that Skarpa had had a bad feeling for the last several days.
Skarpa shook his head. “Musketeers, no less.”
“The imagers took out almost half a company of them,” Quaeryt said.
“How did they do that?”
“Imaged iron darts into them.”
“Ha! Good for your imagers. Might give them second thoughts. Except it won’t. They’ll still fear Kharst more than us.”
Quaeryt had no doubts about that. But isn’t it somehow terrible that fear of one’s leader is greater than the fear of death at the hands of the enemy? That suggested, in another fashion, just how important it was for Bhayar and Telaryn to succeed.
“We’ll see what the scouts discover, but I’d wager that the musketeers are withdrawing by boat already.”
“You think so, sir?”
“Be most surprised if they weren’t. Muskets and musketeers are too valuable to leave unguarded and outnumbered. They’ll pull them back and use them against us again.”
And again, thought Quaeryt.
“If that’s so, we’ll form up and keep moving.”