Free Imager’s Battalion by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

midsection of the fortified bridge, Quaeryt glanced to the western wall. It was difficult to tell the section that had been damaged by the Bovarian barge when it had exploded against the bridge pier below at the beginning of the battle for Ferravyl. Several of the replacement stones looked identical. Those Threkhyl imaged? “They repaired the bridge so well you can’t tell it was damaged.”
    “The roadbed was hardly touched in the center. You and the imagers preserved it more than any would have believed possible.”
    “They still have a lot to learn.”
    “It’s interesting that you know so much about what they need to know.”
    “Scholars need to know a great deal, and I’ve always enjoyed learning.” Skarpa might well suspect, or even be convinced, that Quaeryt was an imager, but he wasn’t about to admit it yet. And not in public.
    “You do know quite a bit. Everything from imaging to rulers, even to the Nameless.” Skarpa grinned at Quaeryt. “You know we still don’t have a chorister in the southern army…”
    Quaeryt groaned.
    “I can’t really insist that a subcommander … but … the officers and men…”
    “All right … but no offerings and no blessings.”
    “I thought you might see it that way.”
    “Did I have a choice?”
    “No. That’s because you’re an honest man, and you worry about your officers and men.”
    “And you’re a persuasive scoundrel,” countered Quaeryt.
    “Of course. That’s why I’m a commander. In wartime, anyway.”
    As he rode down the south half of the bridge, Quaeryt looked out at the triangle of land between the Aluse River and the Vyl River, and then at the stone bridge that he and the imagers had created. Two weeks before, the ground had been covered with ice and frozen bodies. Despite the comparative pleasantness of the morning, he shivered for a moment.
    Two long mounded berms of freshly packed earth now crossed the triangle comprising the bluff above where the rivers met. The mounds were the final resting place of more than twelve thousand Bovarians. A smaller pyramidal mound with a stone before it was located to the north and east. For the Telaryn dead.
    “You’d never believe what this looked like two weeks ago.” Quaeryt felt he had to say something.
    “Lord Bhayar ordered every man in every regiment to spend time dealing with the dead,” replied Skarpa.
    That was another thing Quaeryt hadn’t known, although he had seen hundreds toiling when, barely able to ride, he had been escorted to Nordruil. “How did they take it?”
    “They complained when they thought no officers were listening. What else? Of course, many of them ended up with better weapons or a few more coins. But it was better than letting them just strip the dead and leave them. Had to do something, and do it quickly. That’s the problem with fighting in summer near a city.”
    Quaeryt nodded.
    As they rode along the road beside the berms and neared the imager-built bridge, Quaeryt could see wagon ruts in the still-soft ground. “The locals haven’t wasted much time in using the bridge.”
    “Not at all.” Skarpa snorted. “Except the local ferryman wrote a complaint to the marshal. Said the bridge had destroyed his livelihood.”
    There’s always someone. “All he has to do is move ten milles upriver. There aren’t any bridges there, and most people won’t travel ten milles downstream and then back to take a bridge if there’s a ferry.” Quaeryt paused, as a thought struck him. “But there’s likely already a ferryman there.”
    “The same thing would have happened sooner or later. If Bhayar wins, he’d have built a bridge. Same thing if Kharst had won. Just would have taken longer.”
    As the mare carried Quaeryt onto the bridge, he could see that it was not quite as large as he had thought from a distance, although it was wide enough for two farm wagons side by side—if with little space to spare. The side walls were low, only a little more than a yard