Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

Toghrul blew gently to ruffle the bird's feathers, and the pigeon glanced at him, startled.

"Only fondness," the Khan said to it, cupped the pigeon gently in both hands… then got up, crossed piled carpets to a small cage-roost, and ushered the bird in. "Soon, once we're finished here, a silver cage for you. A silver cage, but big, with room to fly."

Toghrul closed the roost's little wooden door. Happiness a danger in itself, a sort of drunkenness, so that everyone seemed a friend and all seemed possible.

As, of course, it seemed impossible that an experienced commander – granted Shapilov had not been a vital intellect – still it seemed impossible that an experienced commander, left with his dispositions in the north carefully ordered, and careful warnings given of the River's ice-ships, their strengths and limitations… that the man would still prove fool enough to keep tumans in mass formations, unwieldy, and perfect prey for those vessels.

Fortunately for him, the ass had died in his own disaster – where, supposedly and by third-hand information come just this evening, the Kingdom's so-rude Queen had also died. That news, as copybooks had it, likely 'too good to be true.'

So, even the happiest of men, of fathers, was left with work to do. A catastrophe – with truly catastrophic losses – to be balanced now by victory… Toghrul went to his yurt's entrance, paged heavy felt hangings aside, and stepped into darkness and a freezing wind that made the guard-mount's torch flames flutter.

"Senior officers," he said.

"Great Lord." The officer stationed there went to only one knee in the snow – the Guard Regiment's privilege – then rose and ran for the commanders' camp.

The other sentries stood still, eyes front.

"Uncomfortable," Toghrul said to them. "This damp cold, here. Not like our prairie air." And it was uncomfortably dank amid deep-snowed stands of hardwood trees and thorn-bush thickets, on ground that always sloped away down tangled draws.

The guards seemed to have stopped breathing, apparently frightened by being spoken to. And, of course, they didn't answer him. Stupid creatures… Toghrul stepped back through the curtains, went to the near brazier to warm his hands, then bent to warm his face. He opened his eyes to the coals' bright blazing till they watered as though he wept.

Bajazet. A name chosen before the boy was conceived. A name both ancient and noble… What lessons must the boy be taught? Weapons and war, of course. And should be given treacherous ponies, difficult horses as he grew older, so distrust became natural to him, despite his father's love. He must be given young companions, as well – of good blood, but none quite his equal. One boy might be stronger, another more clever, a third luckier or more handsome. But none as strong and clever and lucky… The best of virtues must be his: endurance, unswerving purpose, patience – and cruelty, of course, that tedious necessity. He would have to be taken from his mother early – by four, perhaps by five – or Ladu's gentleness would suit him only for defeat.

So, treacherous ponies for the boy, and difficult horses. But not dangerous…

"As you commanded, lord."

The four trooped in, breathless, bowing. Murad Dur – and three competent nonentities, interchangeable brutes with at least veteran notions of giving and obeying orders.

"Oh, Lord of Grass, and now – father," Dur led the others in more bowing.

"So," Toghrul said, foolishly pleased, "good fortune follows ill."

"Still," Murad said, and bent his head so his face – harsh, hook-nosed, very like a red-tailed hawk's – was shadowed by a hanging lamp. "Still… some illness lingers."

The other three said nothing, stood dripping melting snow onto the carpets.

"So?"

"Sled savages, lord."

"Sleds?"

"As reported, Great Lord. Savages – though only a very few. Archers from North Map-Texas, driving dog-sleds over deep snow, attacked a remount herd. Eight hundred horses."

"Go on."

"The remounts were dispersed and lost, Great Khan. Herders were killed, and the Lord Chimuk was… also killed. An arrow struck his throat."

It was surprising what a shock that was. For a moment, Toghrul couldn't catch his breath… Old Chimuk, killed by some Sky-cursed savage. Yuri had seemed one of those men who couldn't be killed by any enemy. In how many battles had that old man fought? From Siber Gate, across and down to Map-New Juneau… Map-Portland. Years of battles. And now, an arrow through his throat in this stupid wilderness.

"Were all the herd-guards killed?"

"Most, Great Lord."

"Kill the rest of them," Toghrul said. "Their throats to be cut for the cowards they are."

"As you order, lord."

Not caring to be stared at after such news, Toghrul turned back to the brazier and stood holding his hands to the warmth, thinking. What was that wonderful copybook saying? It's an ill wind that blows no good. Yes, really a perfect old saying, since now, with his grandfather gone, there would be no powerful person troubled by the unfortunate death of that so-brilliant young commander Manu Ek-Tam – presently demonstrating his talent by chasing sheep in North Map-Mexico.

An ill wind… Certainly including the clever North Map-Mexican rabbit – that had run, jinking here and there as the hawk went stooping – but was now revealed to be a wolf. Wolf enough, at least, to have snarled some sense into the Kingdom's cannibals, so they'd actually concentrated for battle in the north…

Silence from the four commanders. It occurred to Toghrul that those silences – so usual, so proper – might occasionally have deprived him of useful information.

"Very well." He went to his couch, sat, and settled amid cushions, booted legs crossed, his sheathed sword across his lap. "Very well. As put so perfectly by the ancients: 'To business.' We have a lost battle in the north – but not a lost war. It requires only to finish the clever young Captain-General in these hills – I think of him as younger, though apparently we're close to the same age." Toghrul considered having his generals sit, then decided not.

" – If this Lord Monroe is beaten quickly enough, then we have time left to march east to the cannibals' river, and campaign north up the ice – instead of south, down it. The result would be the same, and Shapilov's defeat only incidental."

Murad Dur nodded, apparently understood. The other three generals – perhaps only careful to appear stupid – stood stolid as posts.

Toghrul paused, considered reviewing good news – beside the birth of his son – pigeoned from Caravanserai, then decided not. It might be considered weakness, an attempt to obscure the disaster below St. Louis. Good news from Map-Los Angeles; payments in silver now perfectly acceptable to the Empire… Good news from Map-Fort Stockton; herds being replaced through bitter snows. Good news, but not good enough.

"It's an interesting problem, really." Toghrul smiled. "An interesting problem. By day after tomorrow, Third Tuman will have joined us. And certainly by that time, the Captain-General will have joined his army. We will have a competent – say, very competent – commander, whose army has taken a defensive position just south of us, in broken hills. His intention will be to hold those draws, slopes, and wooded ridges against our tumans. Hold the slopes with his Light Infantry, of course, the crests with his Heavy Infantry, the ridges, with his cavalry. Short charges through deep snow, brush, and so forth, to keep us off the heights."

"Great Lord…"

"Yes, Murad?"

"Isn't it possible that Monroe is already with his army?"

"Murad… Murad. Have your scouts reported yet that the soldiers of that army – usually proud of silence – have begun to sing, to strike their cooking kettles, to joke while performing sentry duties? Any such welcoming celebration?"