“Figures.” Skarpa snorted.
“How did the imager undercaptains do?” asked Quaeryt.
Skarpa nodded to Khaern.
“They got us a narrow ramp, and one most of the way down inside the walls. We got some cover from the arrows, but we were on our own inside the walls. Not too bad. We lost maybe fifty troopers, and another hundred wounded.”
Meinyt cleared his throat. “They kept the arrows off us, but we had to follow them through the gates. They couldn’t do much once we were inside. Didn’t have to, though. They killed a good company of defenders near the gates. Froze some and got a bunch with iron darts.”
“The two you sent with me did the ramp all right,” said Skarpa. “Broad and wide. Even cut away a yard of the top of the walls and some buildings on the other side.”
“But?” asked Quaeryt, sensing Skarpa wasn’t totally pleased.
“They couldn’t do anything after that. The newer one could barely ride. We lost almost a hundred troopers to archers.”
“I was afraid of that. I gave you the ones I knew could give you the best access, but they’re not that good with stopping arrows.”
Skarpa laughed roughly. “Better than I thought. Anytime you can take a walled city without siege gear and only lose a few hundred men … Have to say I was worried, but we took most of the casualties on the ride to and up the ramp. Almost nothing after that.”
Most likely because any defender close to the walls and ramp was frozen solid, and the archers fled. Quaeryt nodded. “I haven’t seen much of the city. We’ve been holding the bridge. I didn’t want to leave it and have them attack again.”
“No one was living in the dwellings directly behind the walls. Most were either sealed up or used to store goods,” said Khaern.
“There weren’t that many people living here on the south side of the river, except for the troopers in the barracks and garrison,” added Skarpa. “None of the locals we saw looked that prosperous, either.”
“There were more people on the avenue leading to the bridge,” Quaeryt pointed out. “There are shops there.”
“Still the poor side of town,” said Meinyt.
“It’s almost like it was all a garrison,” mused Skarpa. “This side of the river, anyway.”
Quaeryt stopped and looked back south. Everywhere he looked the walls were stone, the windows narrow, with inside shutters. The streets were all of gray stone. The roofs were primarily of grayish tile, although there were replacement tiles of yellowish rose, and on some roofs there were far more replacement tiles than gray ones. “I think it was. I think … it was a Naedaran garrison.”
“But…” Khaern protested, “they’ve been dead and gone for hundreds of years.”
“Good stonework lasts almost forever,” said Skarpa.
“Or longer,” said Quaeryt dryly. Especially if it’s imaged in place. He wasn’t about to point that out.
Meinyt frowned. “There’s something else. There aren’t any marks on the stone. No names or initials cut or scratched into it. Not anywhere. If this part of Nordeau is that old…”
“Why aren’t there any marks?” asked Skarpa. “Because the frigging stone is hard. One of the troopers tried to cut down a Bovarian. He didn’t realize just how close he was to a dwelling, and his sabre hit the stone and shattered. Didn’t leave a mark on that gray stone. If a blade wielded by a strong man doesn’t leave a mark, there won’t be many. Enough of that. We’ve got another problem.” His eyes went to Quaeryt. “How wide is that gap to the isle fortress?”
“Not that wide. Ten yards, perhaps a bit farther.”
“Can your imagers build a stone span across it?” asked Skarpa.
“We likely can,” replied Quaeryt, massaging his forehead. “But not today. Perhaps not tomorrow. From what I’ve heard and seen, none of them could now, and probably not today.”
Meinyt and Skarpa nodded. A look of puzzlement crossed Khaern’s face.
“It’s a matter of strength,” Quaeryt explained. “Imaging takes great effort. If an imager tries to do too much when he’s exhausted, it can kill him. I don’t see any point in killing people when there’s not that much to be gained, especially if it means Commander Skarpa won’t have imagers when we get to Variana.”
“No one ever mentioned that,” replied Khaern.
“That’s because no one’s ever studied imaging before,” said Quaeryt.
Khaern looked more closely at Quaeryt’s greenish brown shirt. “Oh … that’s why…”
“One of the reasons,” Quaeryt agreed.
“I’ll send a dispatch to the marshal, telling him that we can probably take the isle fort…” Skarpa paused. “I’d wager they’ve got another pull-away bridge on the other side.”
“We can likely do two spans,” said Quaeryt.
“I’ll let him know and see what he has in mind.”
Quaeryt doubted that Deucalon would be all that pleased, no matter what.
58
The south side of Nordeau was quiet by the first glass of the afternoon, with patrols riding the stone streets, the sound of hooves clattering off the stone buildings, the echoes reverberating with a hollow sound that offered at least one hint why the old section of the city was a less favored place for domicile and business. Two companies, rotated every two glasses, were guarding the bridge, with a battalion ready to reinforce them at a moment’s notice, should the Bovarians start to extend the bridge from the isle fort.
Quaeryt had arranged for the imager undercaptains and company officers to be billeted in one of the handful of inns-Stone’s Rest-and quartered the rest of the battalion in both the inn and various buildings nearby. He determined that all the inns and taverns south of the River Aluse catered almost entirely to travelers and traders. Once again, he’d also discovered that the locals didn’t seen to care who was in charge, so long as they weren’t hurt and they received some recompense, not that they’d get all that much.
Then, he slipped into the public room of the Stone’s Rest, with a concealment shield, to see what he could overhear from the imagers who were seated or half slumped around a long table. The rest of the chamber was empty, except for a serving girl.
Horan held his head in his hands, massaging his forehead.
“It’s not that bad,” muttered Smaethyl.
“… speak for yourself…” replied the older imager. “Head like to split.”
“What did you do? Threkhyl did the ramp.”
“Who’d you think was imaging iron darts when we went down over the wall? All that iron hurts. Don’t see how the subcommander does it…” Horan raised his head and looked at Lhandor. “Not another word about his being a son of Erion…”
Lhandor and Khalis exchanged glances, but neither spoke.
“Not so easy, is it?” offered Baelthm.
“You didn’t have to do anything, just stick with the subcommander,” said Threkhyl, nursing an ale.
“Keepin’ up with him isn’t easy … Took down those gates like they were rotten wood, kept the battalion casualties real low…”
“How low?” asked Voltyr.
“Maybe ten dead, thirty wounded, and he took ’em through a whole two companies of pikemen, scattered ’em like leaves before the wind … not counting the archers and the foot.”
“How the frig does he do it?” asked Smaethyl. “Never heard of an imager that powerful.”
“You wouldn’t except in war,” answered Voltyr. “That’s because he’s married to Lord Bhayar’s sister. He’s serious about trying to make things better for imagers. That’s why, every battle, he does everything he can. He didn’t have to do it. He was a scholar assistant to Bhayar in Solis. No one even knew he was an imager. He could have stayed there safe and out of danger.”
“He just wants power,” said Threkhyl.
Shaelyt shook his head. “He might be made a commander. He’ll never hold a rank higher than that. He knows that. Rulers and their ministers don’t trust imagers.”
“Why’s he do it, then?” asked Horan.
“He told you,” said Desyrk tiredly. “Bhayar’s the only ruler in the frigging world who’ll give imagers even half a break. That’s because some of his family was Pharsi, they say.”