Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Ah… of course," said Murad Dur.

Toghrul waited for any additional comment, response. The three wooden generals seemed less worried, now, perhaps even interested… But was it, perhaps, not the best notion to have Manu Four-Horsetails killed? Should even dangerous talent be allowed for its usefulness? No question, that officer would have been valuable here, if his arrogance could have been borne…

" – So, certainly the enemy will have made those dispositions. Object? To bleed our people in country they don't care for, and in which it's difficult to maneuver to effect. Monroe will assume we're much too subtle to simply go slaughtering in direct attack at his center. He'll expect something of our steppe and prairie way – sudden sweeps, brisk flanking, and staggered assaults into the resultant confusion. I believe he'll expect those maneuvers – or at least as near them as this rough country allows."

Nods. The wooden three were capable of nods, at least. Not entirely simple.

" – Since, however, I'm not inclined to do as an opponent expects, we will do the opposite. His object is to bleed us. My solution, since flanking would find the same country east and west, with no advantage… my solution is to bleed – and win, bleeding. The last thing this North Mexican will expect from us is a stupid and direct frontal assault on foot, heedless of losses." Toghrul tried another smile. "After all, long winters in warm yurts breed replacements soon enough."

And, by the Sky, at last one smile in return. Murad, of course. Intelligent, and not afraid – sad to consider that these very virtues might, in time, make him dangerous.

"To continue. We dismount the tumans, so our clever Captain-General fights, not horse archers, but archers as woods' hunters first, then infantry in assault. And, of course, we'll have to mount a very convincing – though necessarily shallow – attack on… the western flank, to persuade Monroe to weaken his center to oppose it. This false attack is to be driven home as if all the army came behind it. Officers are to spend their men for that effect – and, if necessary, spend themselves."

Toghrul clapped his hands. "A solution certainly not perfect, but probably sufficient."

And no general said otherwise.

At the handclap, a guard had come through the yurt's entrance. "My lord wishes?"

"Your lord wishes roast lamb with the Empire's golden raisins, dishes of soft cheese and dried plums, kumiss and vodka for himself and his generals."

The guard bowed.

"Oh, and music. Is Arpad in the camp?"

"His squadron's in, lord." Murad Dur.

"Then we'll have the captain and his oud – and any decent drummer."

The guard bowed and went away.

"Sit." Toghrul gestured the generals to the carpet. "I'll draw our dispositions in lamb gravy, while we enjoy an evening's pleasure – before tomorrow's pleasure." And got smiles at last from all of them, properly, since they were being honored by his presence at a meal.

The commanders sat carefully cross-legged, their boots tucked under so no dirty sole was exposed as Toghrul joined them. They leaned a little back and away from him as he sat opposite, since no honor was without peril.

… A reminder that Bajazet would need to know more than how to frighten such fools. More than knowledge of horses and archery. There must be a tutor for the boy. But who? Would it be possible, once the North Mexicans were broken, would it be possible to forgive an old man his treachery? And if Neckless Peter Wilson were forgiven, and became the boy's teacher, what lessons would be taught? An aging man's cautious consideration of every point of view, so decisions came slowly, if at all? Bajazet – while certain to be a delight – might not be gifted with sight so perfectly clear that argument evolved swiftly into action…

The commanders were sitting silent until spoken to, as was proper, eyes lowered so as not to offend.

… So, a tutor for Bajazet, certainly. But an old man who'd insulted his master by refusing service? Worse, who'd taken service with an enemy. A dilemma. It was a tremendous responsibility, raising a boy. And all the more, raising him to be lord of everything he saw, everything his horse rode over…

The yurt's thick entrance-curtain was paged aside, and four servants filed in. They carried a tray of silver cups, a pitcher of warm kumiss, and polished brass bowls of dried fruit, scented herbs, and rose-water. Toghrul could only hope his opposites might wash hands undoubtedly dirty, before the lamb arrived.

Sam came ashore in bitter dark before dawn, from a freezing river already streaked and stiffening with ice, so the boatmen, as they'd done off and on for two days and nights, had had to batter and break thin shelves of it, sailing, then rowing, to reach the appointed West-bank beach.

Sam, then Wilkey, despite their protests, were lifted and carried ashore like cargo bales, the rivermen splashing, cursing, stomping crackling edge-ice. Carried, deposited… and left.

Wilkey held a boatman's woolen smock as he started away. "Is this the fucking place?"

"An' how would you know if it wasn'?" the boatman said, and pulled loose – but managed a bow to Sam. "Sir, here's North Map-Arkansas, an' jus' the spot away to your people. We didn' fail you."

"I never thought you would," Sam said, gave the man silver… then stood with Wilkey to watch the boat pull away.

'The fucking place' looked to be just that, as much as a fading moon, cloud-buried, could show. A narrow, frozen bar of beach, then a steep bank with dark trees and tangle thick along its top, all bending to the river's wind.

"We'll get off this shelf." Sam led the way up sliding sand, gripping frozen roots and brittle vines to climb… At the top, he got a good grip, hauled himself up and over onto all fours – and found six pairs of shaggy moccasins waiting. The savages, pale as the dead in dark-gray light, were tall, thin men. Five were carrying steel-blade tomahawks, and one, the tallest, a long-handled, stone-headed club.

Sam heard Wilkey, coming up behind him, say, "Shit," and was considering a lunge to one side to clear.his sword, when someone laughed.

"Not the most dignified entrance, for a Captain-General! And… bride-groom?"

"Ned – you son-of-a-bitch." A perfect use of the copybook phrase.

Ned slid down from a dappled horse, and walked out into the last of moonlight to offer Sam a hand to stand. "You're in one piece, anyway. They didn't kill you. – Sergeant."

"Sir." Wilkey stood watching the savages.

"Don't be troubled by my Bluebird friends. I'm a favorite of theirs, for some reason I'd rather not know."

The tallest of his friends, the man with the stone-headed club, smiled and said in fair book-English, "Ned man, is a merry man." The Bluebird's teeth were filed.

"Very merry, now," Ned said, smiling. "Our song-birds, here, came from their camps last evening with wonderful news. News, I suppose, drummed all the way down the river, from tribe to tribe."

"Wonderful?"

"We – well, the Kingdom's people – have won, Sam! A victory in the north, fighting all day yesterday – and according to Toothy, here, right on through the night. He says the drums say, 'A so-cold dying on the ice for the horse riders.' "

"If it's true… if it's true." Sam felt relief rise in his throat, painful as sickness.

"Oh, my friends here don't lie, Sam. Don't think they know how, actually. – Great thieves, of course, steal anything not chained to a tree. Understand they like to bake children in pits in the ground… Reason I haven't accepted invitations to dine." Ned went back into the brush, came out with four more horses on lead. "Didn't know if more might be coming with you. Sure you recognize your favorite."