Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"They're careless," Charmian said.

"Careless?"

"Yes, sir – as if they have no doubt they'll win. Their patrolling is alert, but not aggressive."

"Right," Ned said. "They don't push. Just run regular patrols, keep in touch with our people."

"And on our flanks?"

"Nothing much. More… a little more activity at the base of our main ridge, Sam."

"Just a little more," Charmian said. "We've got high ground here, running up to all five ridges, though the west ridge is lowest. They seem interested in Main Ridge, and the rise to the left of it, but they're still willing to let my people hold those slopes. No contesting."

"No contesting… And nothing much on the flanks at all."

"That's right, Sam," Howell said. "And it's strange, because he brought those people south like a rock slide. Came down through Map-Missouri very fast."

"They overran two of my patrols." Ned tapped the curve of his steel hook against the tent's pole. "Killed them."

"So," Sam said, "in a hurry, then; but now… not in such a hurry."

"I'd say," – Butler had his little dog out on his lap, was stroking it – "I'd say he intends to move very decisively. Whatever feints he may or may not use, he'll drive his main attack all the way. Don't think he means to toy with us at all, no two or three days counter-marching for advantage."

Howell nodded. "I agree."

"Flanking," Sam said, "has always been their way."

"A good reason for him not to do it," Ned said. "Good reason for him to go for the center."

"He already lost," Butler scratching his little dog's belly, " – or his general lost, that battle in the north. First really serious defeat for them. Bound to take that into account, dealing with us."

"Yes," Sam said. "So, a decisive move, not a drawn-out piecemeal battle that might leave some of our army intact, even losing. It's a temptation to attack him – last thing he'd expect, an attack tonight."

Some apprehension in his officers' faces.

" – But this position is so perfect for defense." Sam smiled at their relief. "Now, if he goes for our flank, it will be a hook to our left. Attacking to our right, he takes a chance of being caught between us and a possible sortie by Kingdom troops from the river. So, if it's flanking, it will be to the west."

"Country over there's not much different, Sam." Ned shook his head. "No advantage for horsemen."

"But less chance of a disaster for him, than in a direct engagement up the middle."

"Less chance of a decisive victory for him, too," Howell said. "I think he intends to wipe us out, then go for the river down here and ride north into the Kingdom. Bluebirds say it's freezing fast."

"Yes," Sam said, " – it is. But win or lose, we won't leave him enough men alive to do Jack Shit."

"I've read that one," Ned said. "That's a good one. 'Jack Shit.' That's very good."

"So…" Butler put his dog back into his parka pocket, and stood. "How do you want us?"

Sam sat silent, eyes closed, picturing the army as it lay across wooded hills and hollows. Picturing the draws, wooded and deep in snow, stretching away north to the Kipchak army… For Toghrul to attack there, to come directly at him that way, was to sacrifice his men in the hope of swift and overwhelming victory. Taking a great, almost desperate, chance.

In 'his mind's eye' – wonderful old phrase – Sam saw them coming. Dismounted, of course. At least, he would dismount them. Thousands of short, tough men with hard-hitting bows and curved yataghans. But not trained infantry, not really comfortable off their horses… And all remembering that half their tumans now lay dead, north on the river's ice.

"I think… a flank attack to the west is more likely. He can always regain his balance, if he's beaten trying that."

"My people stay in the center?"

"Yes, Phil, Heavy Infantry stays on the center ridges. And no reserves. Bring everything up on the line."

"I disapprove of that."

"And very sensibly. But do as you're told."

Butler sighed, and strolled out into the snow, Duran behind him. They could hear him shouting for a dispatch-rider to take orders. "Is there a fucking man on a horse?!"

"Speaking of men on horses," Ned said, "where do you want the cavalry?"

"I want them – want you – to do two things at once."

"Nothing new."

"I want the Heavies high on the west ridges, ready to oppose any flanking attack successful enough to threaten our center. I want the Lights positioned, in company and squadron strength, as reaction forces to charge any breach that forms elsewhere along our line – and also prepared to chase when we win. Then, as many Kipchaks as possible are to be ridden down and killed. The Khan is to be hunted and killed."

"Toghrul killed…" Ned breathed on his hook, polished it with his bandanna. "Right."

"Sam," Howell said, "who opposes his flank attack directly?"

"I do," Charmian said, and got up and left, Teddy Baker following.

"I wish she wouldn't do that," Howell said. "Damn woman always just walks out. No fucking further planning… no coordination."

"I know," Sam said. "It's annoying."

"But, Sam – only light infantry?"

"Yes."

"That's… You're sacrificing them."

"Yes."

"Best we have!"

Sam sat looking at him.

"Howell," Ned said, "it's because they're the best we have."

Howell stood, seemed to wish to pace, but found no room for it. "Still wrong, to sacrifice Charmian like that. If her people go under, she'll go under with them… Hard to forgive, Sam."

"Howell," Sam said, "these things are impossible to forgive. I thought you understood that."

"… Alright. Alright, where do you want me?"

"Highest hill, back of Butler. Best place to command from, if something happens to me."

"And you'll be where?"

"He'll be with Charmian, Howell." Ned stood and stretched. "Now, let's get out of here, and leave him in peace."

Sam stood – his back feeling better, standing – and put his hands on their shoulders as he walked them out into falling snow, Petersen and Elman trailing after. "Listen, both of you; there is another order. Live."

"That's it?" Ned smiled. "I'd already decided to."

"It may be too much trouble." Howell reached up to rest his hand over Sam's for a moment.

Their boots crunched in the snow. "Once the people are in place," Sam said, "which is going to take time, with the Light Infantry completing a march to the west – once they're in place, no fires, no noise. I'll be along to review dispositions, make any adjustments to our lines." Ned and Howell swung up onto their horses. " – Feed the people at least a little hot food, as much Brunswick as Oswald-cook can send up from the field kitchens, then give them a few hours' sleep. But they're to be in position at least two glass-hours before dawn… I'd come with the last of night – and so will he."

"Good to have you back," Ned said, saluted with his bright hook, then turned his horse and rode away, Elman spurring after him.

"Sam…" Howell held his big charger still, Petersen just mounted beside him. "Don't do anything stupid. We've got ten thousand swords on these hills – we don't need yours."

"And won't have it, if I have the choice."

"I hold you to that," Howell said, "on your honor."

"On my honor."

Sam walked back into his tent, past a smiling Corporal Fass, on guard – a tent, now he was alone in it, no warmer than the evening. 'On my honor,’ he'd said. Certainly the least of his concerns – to strike or be struck at with sharpened steel. It would be… such a relief to have only that to consider, and not his thousands of soldiers here, not the hundreds of thousands of men and women in North Map-Mexico, waiting to hear whether they would live free and at peace – or in a desperate resistance of several generations against the Kipchak tumans.