Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

And would be such a relief, also, not to have to consider Rachel – and those hundreds of thousands more – waiting along the river for him to win their war, or lose it.

Sam sat on a camp-stool, spread Charmian's map on the cot, and bent in yellow lamplight to study neat notes inked at its edges, fine lines drawn curving with hills' slopes and rises.

"Corporal."

"Sir?"

"If they carry up stew, please bring me a bowl."

"Yes, sir. I can go back to the kettles and get it."

"No. But if they bring it up to the lines, I'll have some."

"Yes, sir."

Sam leaned closer, saw the pen's crosshatching of indicated forest thicken to the west, showing awkward country… then much more awkward. And if the Khan did flank to the right, instead, taking the chance of being trapped against the river? The country east was a little more open… bore thinner forest. But the snow had drifted that much deeper there – slow traveling when he'd come that way, and by tomorrow, even more difficult. It didn't seem a likely line of attack, with all their nice maneuvers slowed to lumbering.

Also, the east flank offered no surprise. The army, camped higher, would see the Kipchaks coming miles away, and all the better as they came over snow, in daylight or moonlight.

Charmian's fine map made the Khan's choice for any flanking clear. 'She'll go under,' Howell had said. 'If her people go under, she'll go under with them.'

And so, of course, she would. How old was Charmian? Twenty-eight? No, certainly thirty, at least. There was gray in her hair – as in all their hair. They were all dyed a beginning gray by blunders, however rare, grim enough to stain anything.

… This was a time, if Margaret were here, that she'd nudge the vodka flask out of sight. Wasted effort. There wasn't vodka enough on earth to drown this difficulty.

Did fine Warm-time Caesar, did fine Napoleon or Lee dream of leaving their tents before battle, of walking away into the night, free of any expectations? So their armies and their people and the future would no longer know of them at all, leaving only a fading mystery to their puzzled, aging soldiers.

Howell had done a very good job, settled like the banner's scorpion on several rough hills, claws and stinger poised and ready. But was there another way than flanking to shift this ten-thousand-soldier scorpion, send it scuttling sideways, then back… and back, until the Kipchak boot came finally down?

Assault to the front. Possible, though not Toghrul's style at all – which, as Ned had said, argued for it. And would have made some sense if he still had a whole army, instead of only half. Here – with, probably, neither force withholding reserves – to lose in a frontal assault would be to lose utterly. It seemed unlikely Toghrul would accept that gamble. Seemed unlikely…

Sam folded Charmian's map – really fine paper, imperial stuff – stood, and tucked it into his belt's wide pouch. To arm, or not yet?… Not yet.

He turned down the lamp's wick, unslung his sword, and lay down on the cot with the weapon beside him. The cot seemed more comfortable than Island's feather bed had been. Probably spoiled for comfort, by soldiering…

Sam dreamed of Rachel, tall, dark-eyed, her father in her face. They were in her solar tower. Sergeant Burke was there with them, sitting reading a copybook, tracing the words with his finger, moving his lips as he read. Sam was explaining to Rachel the difference between the Ancient American Civil War – Red-Badge of Courage – and the wars he'd fought in North Map-Mexico. "In those ancient battles," he said to her, "few screams were heard, because of the noise of tremendous bangs of black powder. Cannon. Muskets. So those were the noises heard during their battles. Very few screams, until the fighting was over."

Rachel agreed it was probably so, but Burke said, "Sir."

Sam said, "What?" both in the dream and waking.

"Sir…" Corporal Fass. "Lady to see you, sir. Told her you were asleep."

"Alright… alright." Sam rolled off the cot, turned the lamp's wick up.

"I've brought stew," the Boston girl said, the shoulders of her blue coat dusted with snow, " – and news. Wasn't that kind?"

"Very kind." Sam took the bowl from her. "Please… sit." Standing to one side of the hanging lamp, he dipped a horn spoon into the steaming Brunswick, took a sip.

Patience settled onto the cot, her scimitar across her lap, and smiled up at him. She seemed as she always seemed, rested, lively, interested. "You don't think I might have poisoned it?"

"I don't care," Sam said, and took another spoonful.

"Poor old Louis, in Map-McAllen, would have wanted me to poison it. Boston would have said, 'Well done.' "

"If the Khan wins, you won't need the poison." The stew was very hot. Some solder must have run from back of the hill, run through the dark with the yoked buckets slopping.

"If the Khan wins," Patience thoughtful, "I do think he will fall in love with me. He can't be used to someone as pretty and clever."

"Probably not." Sam blew on his spoonful. "You said, 'stew – and news.' "

"Yes, and you're the first to hear it. I came to you first of all. A Mailman flew here just a little while ago; he must have hunted the camp like a night-jar to find me – I heard him calling. A really nasty thing; I asked his name, and he said, 'Fuck you.' Webster hates him and tried to bite, but still, he's the first to ever bring me news "

The Brunswick had cooled enough to eat. "And that is?"

"The battle north – on the river ice?"

"Yes. Won, thank Lady Weather."

"And will you thank her that there the Queen was killed? The nasty Mailman brought the note – news down from Baton Rouge by pigeon, then up from Map-McAllen to here."

"… Killed?"

"Yes, killed. Her ship broke, and the Kipchaks swarmed over."

… Then, sitting puzzled on the cot, Patience reached up to take the stew bowl from him, and said, "Weeping… How does that feel to do?"

As clouds sailed over a setting semi-moon, the regiment called Dear-to-the-Wind filtered through trees and frozen underbrush. Stocky men in fur cloaks, felt trousers, and felt boots, they managed fairly quietly through deep snow, carrying strung bows. The bow-staves were short and curved as yataghan blades were curved, both, some said, to honor that same crescent moon that rode through Great Sky above them.

… Lieutenant Francisco Doyle, always insubordinate, didn't hesitate to lean close to his colonel and whisper in her ear. "Get back out of here, ma'am. Get up the hill."

It was not a suggestion most would have cared to make to Colonel Loomis. Charmian shrugged him away and ignored it. One of the Kipchaks, scouting, stepping shuffling through a drift, was coming close to the evergreen overhang where she and Doyle stood in darkness.

Doyle, really a brave young man, was considering another whisper when his colonel strode suddenly out into the snow, her moon-shadow stretching lean and swift beside her. She flicked her rapier's bright blade to set the startled tribesman's half-drawn bow aside, then thrust him through the throat.

The man convulsed, dropped his bow, and clawed at the blade's razor edges, arching back and back to get a breath for screaming. But the blade point stayed in him. The colonel, as if dancing, accompanied him as he lurched away, still slicing frantic fingers along the steel.

Their shadows pranced over the snow while the bowman managed a sound at last, a soft squealing that ended as he fell, in liquid fart and stink.

Arrows – one, then another, whistled past into the woods, and Doyle saw hundreds of Kipchaks now coming on foot through the trees downslope, kicking through the snow in ragged ranks. Some shooting as they came, but most with yataghans out, steel flashing in moonlight. There were no war cries, yet, or shouted orders.