Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"Oh… Bobby." Charmian bent to stroke the dead man's back, then straightened. "They're coming at us as if they meant it – "

" – But with no army coming behind them." Now, listening, Sam could hear a fragility in the Kipchaks' shouts and war cries, their lowing battle horns. Two thousand men, perhaps more, attacking along the slopes. But not with ten thousand coming behind them… Mistake… mistake. I've made a very bad mistake.

He turned and shouted to his trumpeter. "Kenneth! Ride to the center! Tell Phil Butler they're coming at him after all! – And he's to refuse! Refuse and fall back slowly, in order!"

"Comin' at him… to refuse an' fall back slow, in order."

"Ride! Ride!"

As the trumpeter spurred away, Sam pointed at the bowman sergeant. "McGee – to General Voss and Colonel Flores! The Khan's main attack is to the center! They're to withdraw cavalry formations as his people come in – we'll let them push us back.

Light Infantry will then attack his right flank from here. All cavalry – all cavalry to move east now, into position to attack his left flank as it exposes!"

"Voss an' Flores." The sergeant already reining his horse away. "Comin' at the center – we're lettin' 'em push in so their flanks get bare – then Lights hit his right, Cav goes east, gets set to hit his left!" And he was off, his horse spurning snow across the slope.

As the man rode, Sam gripped Charmian by an arm he hoped unwounded, and tugged her up-hill. "Come on – come on! Get out of this! And put your fucking helmet on!"

"I can't see with the thing." She looked back, called down-slope, "Manuel!… To your left!"

Sam thought he saw an officer there look up.

"Shit!" Charmian yanked her arm free and was off, limping awkwardly down the hillside as twenty or thirty Kipchaks hacked their way up into the Infantry's line – then broke it.

"Charmian…!" She was gone and at them. Sam drew and ran down after her… heard his bowmen yelling, "No!" He saw more Lights coming along the slope to reinforce as he galloped down the hill, snow flying.

Charmian had gone for the nearest, a big Kipchak in black furs. Sam saw the man's face, a mask of rage and effort as he struck at her.

Then it was not fighting, but killing.

Charmian caught his curved blade coming across – picked it out of the air with her rapier's tip, guided it sliding to the right, and thrust the long, slim blade of her left-hand dagger into his belly.

Two more stomped up through the snow at her, and Sam yelled, "On the left!" ducked low and swung a two-handed cut across the first man's leg. He felt the sword's grip kick as the blade hacked through boot-top and bone – then yanked the steel free to spin the other way and thrust, one-handed, into the second man's armpit as he raised his yataghan to strike.

The crippled one slashed at Sam from the snow and caught him lightly at the thigh – a touch below his hauberk – with the so-familiar icy stroke of steel, then burning.

Sam drove his point into that man's mouth – felt his blade break teeth, then slide through delicate stuff in a spurt of blood to split the spine.

Joy came to him as he freed his blade, joy at the wonderful simplicity of action, and he and Charmian, on guard for any others, shared an instant's glance of pleasure.

Then his mounted bowmen, and a storm of Light Infantry from above, struck the two of them and the advancing Kipchaks together, knocking Charmian down and sending Sam sprawling. Furious officers and men stood over them – "Stupid… stupid fuckers!" – picked them up, and listening to no orders, showing no respect for rank, hauled them up the hill.

Loosed near the ridge, his sword wiped and sheathed, Sam looked back and saw the Kipchaks once more in shallow retreat… then gathering to charge up the slope again. The base of the hill was thick with their formations – by squadrons, as if they were mounted. The dead and dying lay scattered across the snowy slope, streaks and pools of bright red gleaming under the rising sun. The hillside breeze brought the coppery smell of spilled blood, the stink of the dyings' shit… There were great concentrations of tribesmen, and driving activity along the base of the hills. But no massive movement coming on through the forest beyond. No trembling of tangled foliage, no glimpses of columns followed by more columns marching toward them through the snow.

"Busy," Charmian said, catching her breath beside him. She staggered a step. "Busy…"

"Now, you stay the fuck out of that line!"

"Yes, sir."

Sam glanced down, saw where his leather trousers were slit a few inches at his right thigh, and felt a little blood sliding warm to his knee.

"Sir," a bowman said, "you're hurt."

Sam waved him to silence as flights of arrows whistled up the slopes, and the Kipchaks shouted and came again, charging higher… higher on the hillsides, their battle lines extending half a Warm-time mile.

"Charmian, can you hold them?" He had to lean close, almost shout in her ear; the noise was terrific.

"Yes, I can hold them – unless we're wrong, and they're strongly reinforced."

"They won't be. I've made my mistake for the day."

"I can hold them. And if they bleed a little more, and I commit every man and woman – and the wounded still walking – I can drive them!"

"Not yet." Sam ducked – thought an arrow had come near him. "Not yet. Wait for a galloper with the word. We need him to come deep into the center, uncover both his flanks while he thinks we're breaking."

"Understood." Charmian turned to yell across the slope. "Catherine! What the fuck are you waiting for? Crossbows front, for Christ's sake!" The last, a phrase once forbidden. "Stupid bitch," Charmian muttered, standing bent a little to the right to favor her wounded side, " – looking around with her thumb up her ass! Made her a fucking captain and I can damn well unmake her. I could have used Margaret here…"

She turned back. "Sam – I know what you want. Now please go away; I don't have time for you." She limped off over the snow, calling, "Where is Second Battalion? We're replacing in echelon here. We're supposed to be replacing in echelon along the fucking line! Where are they?"

"Can I help you, sir?" The bowman had brought Difficult to mount.

"No." Though Sam wished he had the help, struggling aboard the beast. His leg held the stinging tingle of injury… and the fucking horse kept sidling away. "Will you hold this animal still?" A Kipchak arrow moaned past. They were fighting higher on the slope, now. Sam could hear the sword blows, like camp-axes chopping soft wood. But screams followed these.

He heard trumpets as he rode fast, east along the ridges, four bowmen riding behind him. He saw, in morning sunlight, the armored columns of Heavy Cavalry, the spaced squadrons of Lights, already slowly shifting along the heights, beginning to shake out into line of march, their banners leading east.

"Thank you, Howell, for getting them moving."

"Sir?" A bowman spurred up alongside.

"Nothing…" As if a deck of pasteboard playing cards – but these for fortune-telling – cascaded in his mind, Sam saw on each, as it flashed by, a different problem, or an opportunity already lost to him. Great or small, it made no difference as they dealt… Lieutenant Gerald Kyle carried vodka with him, and lied about it – what now, to keep him from misjudging and killing his company? Man should have been replaced… Thousands of crossbow bolts needed to be greased for this wet winter weather. Had that been done? Company officers' responsibility. Had it been done?… Fodder clean? No mold or mildew to sicken the horses. Might have spoken to Ned, might have checked to be sure… When the cavalry swung in to flank the Kipchaks to the east, had it been made clear they were to hook in – hook in after, to hold the tribesmen while the infantry marched back from their false retreat to finish them? Fucking cavalry always galloping off into nowhere, and full of excuses afterward. Had that hooking-in been made clear?