Kingdom River

Sam found a sensible place, high enough to see all the center below and before him, and at least some of the distant hillsides left and right. Difficult seemed pleased to be rested from snow-galloping. He and the other horses stood blowing and farting. Comical beasts, really…

'McGee.'

'Sir?' The sergeant kicked his mount alongside.

'Sergeant, take your bowmen off to the east. Join Colonel Flores, or any Light squadron you come to, and go in with them. They'll be moving now, need every archer they can get.'

A sudden roar from the northern slopes, as if snow-tigers had come to fight. Sam saw the first ranks of Heavy Infantry retreating… falling back toward him, some men running this way, over the first ridge.

'Runnin'!' McGee said.

But as they watched, the scatter of running men slowed as retreating formations overtook them. They stepped back into ranks, waited… and broke to run again, making another show of flight.

'That's okay,' said Sergeant McGee.

'Sergeant – take your people and move off.'

'Musn' leave you, sir.' Then, more definitely: 'Won't do it.'

'Yes, you will, Jim.' How had he remembered this man's first name?

After a silent moment, the sergeant said, 'Shit…' Then turned and called, 'We're goin' east. So kick it!'

As the bowmen rode away, Captain Collins drew his saber and came up on Sam's left side, Lieutenant Miranda did the same on his right. The three of them – with the banner-bearer stoic behind – sat their horses and watched the Heavy Infantry of North Map-Mexico, never before defeated, slowly driven crumbling back along the ridgelines, seeming just short of desperate flight.

Sitting his horse in safety, Sam closed his eyes, imagining every sword slash, every hissing arrow come by merciful magic to strike him instead of a soldier. So that he, who commanded suffering, received it.

Lieutenant Miranda murmured beside him, and he opened his eyes to see the Kipchak horse-tails rising on the ridge, hear the war horns' dark music triumphant.

'Come on… come on.' Sam felt the oddest flash of sympathy, of sadness for Toghrul, as if he were a friend. The Khan's looming defeat would have been a victory instead, if Sam had held to his blunder only a little longer. Now, the tumans lunging deeper into disaster, the Heavy Infantry stepping back and back to draw them in, Toghrul – like Sam, a young man chained to authority – would likely end the day destroyed.

***

It was remarkably like riding up a shallow river in rapids, though these currents were tumultuous with gray fur, drawn bows, and steel. Mounted, of course, with only his hundred of the Guard mounted with him, Toghrul spurred Lively on in the midst of the tumans' assault.

An oddity, this attack on foot, but an oddity that was succeeding. They had already struck the first of North Mexico's lines of heavy infantry, and despite desperate – if fairly ineffective – resistance, were driving them back up their slopes to destruction… Future use of infantry was perhaps something to be considered, with the forests, hills, all the broken country to be encountered east of Kingdom's river, should the New Englanders continue arrogant. Infantry…

A roar of cheering up ahead. Through fading snowfall, Toghrul saw the horse-tails of First and Third Tumans on the ridge. He and his Guards rode among the second – which began to run. More than five thousand men racing, flooding up snow-drifted slopes to join the thousands driving into the enemy's center.

Toghrul spurred on, his Guardsmen swinging whips to win a way through rushing ranks of soldiers, the nagaikas' cracking lashes heard even over war cries, over the sounds of battle as the North Mexican infantry fell back into the hills in retreat.

Once on the heights, the tumans would divide, strike east and west along the ridge-lines to complete the victory. Then, Shapilov's foolish loss in the north forgotten, the subjugation of Middle Kingdom would become inevitable.

His center destroyed – in only Warm-time minutes, now – Monroe would, of course, dream of flanking movements. But dream too late… too late to reposition troops, to reorganize his army. There would be no time for it.

There was a sound to the east… Toghrul rose in his stirrups to hear better over the noise of the advance. Something there at the left flank – from the left flank.

There was… something. A trembling in the air. A sound from the eastern slopes as if a great barrel of stones were rolling… Cavalry.

Toghrul shouted, 'Cavalry!' Sul Niluk, at the head of the escort, heard him as other Guardsmen heard him – and all turned to stare east.

Out of a fading curtain of falling snow, blowing, drifting with the wind… movement. Shifting movement on the hillsides' snow-draped brush and bramble. Gray gleams of steel, and the rumbling noise louder and louder.

Then a grand choir of trumpets – and horsemen, banners, a host of three… four thousand riding in an armored tide a half-mile wide across the slopes, thundering down on tumans dismounted. The men scrambling – so slow on foot – crowding, surging away to avoid that avalanche of cavalry, its trumpets blaring like the cries of monstrous beasts.

Then bugles answering from the west. Toghrul looked to the right, saw nothing yet, but heard the bugles. That would be their Light Infantry coining, of course. And commanded by a woman, of all absurdities.

There… there. The first formations coming at the ran to swing the western gate shut upon him… some sunshine coming with them, shining on their steel. His Guardsmen were shouting… the dismounted men, thousands of them, also slowing their advance on the hillsides, calling, crying out as they saw death come riding from the east… running from the west.

'Rally!' Toghrul howled it, and hurt his throat. 'Rally and fall back!' Hopeless… hopeless.

Monroe had dreamed of flanking after all, and dreamed in time. His Heavy Infantry's so-convincing retreat would now end as a blocking wall of pikes and crossbows at the last high ridge, to hold the dismounted Kipchak army as it was flanked, slaughtered, then hunted as those still alive fled north… Really fine generalship. An interesting man.

Toghrul's Guardsmen had reined to face the cavalry attack, to hold it for the instants he would need to gallop free. Everything was perfectly clear, went very slowly, could be seen in each detail. Sound, though, seemed muffled, so that trumpet calls, men's screams, and the rumbling shock of hoofbeats were like distant music. He saw the pennants' colors perfectly… noticed an officer in the first rank of those horsemen, brown uniform, black cloak streaming as he rode, a shining steel hook for a hand.

Toghrul reined Lively around, blessing the animal, and spurred away as his escort of one hundred wheeled to guard. His standard-bearer had turned to stay with him – but reined his horse left, rather than right, so Lively lunged shouldering into it. Caught off-balance, the man's horse stumbled in the rush and went down as if it had taken an arrow.

Lively, stepping over the fallen horse, was kicked and his left fore broken.

Toghrul picked him up on the reins and heeled him staggering away, three-legged, as the hundred of the Guard – tangled by fugitive soldiers into disarray – were struck at a gallop by a surf of cavalry. The Guards and their mounts were hurled aside, ridden down, driven back and back in a tumble of flesh, bone, and steel.

This great breaking wave of frantic thrashing beasts, of dead and dying men, caught Lively and drove him under.

Toghrul had an instant to try to kick free of the stirrups – leap for his life in a desperate scramble, then run, run… And, of course, look ridiculous in the attempt.

He stayed in his saddle, called only, 'My son…'

***