Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

"I will," Patience said, "but only to rest to go back again. They shot arrows at me!" And she trudged off into the snow.

"Comin' up!" One of the mounted bowmen.

An officer galloping, chasing the banner… then drew up in a spray of snow, and saluted. A lieutenant, very young – what was his name? Carlton… Carter? Boy was crying, or snow was melting down his face.

"Sir – Colonel Duran regrets to report…" Tears, they were tears. "General Butler has been killed, sir. At the very first engagement. An arrow struck him."

Carter. Boy's name was Carter. "… Thank the colonel for his report, Lieutenant. He assumes command, of course – and is to retreat his regiments as previously ordered."

"Sir."

" – The dog," Sam said. "His little dog."

"We have the dog safe, sir." A weeping lieutenant – nothing new in war.

Sam saluted, and the boy turned his horse and was gone north, back to the center of the line, where companies, battalions, regiments of Heavy Infantry stood killing with long needle-pointed pikes, killing with hissing crossbow volleys – as ten thousand grim shepherds with slanting eyes came swarming up the hillsides.

Phil Butler would be out of all that, lying safe behind the ranks in a warm woolen army blanket, his imperial spectacles folded and tucked into his parka pocket… Horacio Duran would now be wearing the yoke of responsibility. He'd be here and there and everywhere, shouting orders, watching for the time to begin to back away. Then more orders, and galloping back and forth to keep the formations steady as the Kipchaks yelped their battle cries and came on, certain they were winning.

Sam spurred Difficult south, imagining Phil had only been wounded, and Carter had said, 'Injured, sir. Seems not too serious.' If Carter had only said that, then Phil would be alive, fondly cursing his soldiers as they hustled him to the rear. Odd that a single arrow could carry a friend so suddenly away, that there was no time for goodbye… Unfair. Unfair.

Sam saw Heavy Cavalry where there should have been none. Saw two troops… three, through the light snowfall. Three troops standing in a defile. Standing! He spurred that way, down a steep dip, then rode up the column with his people behind him – took an officer by the cloak and hauled him half out of his saddle. "What are you people doing?"

Startled face behind a helmet's basket visor. "Cover reserve, sir! In case of retreat."

Sam shook him hard. "There is no fucking reserve held today, you jackass! No retreat! We lose, they'll follow and kill us all!"

"Orders, sir!" Fool almost shouting, as if Sam were deaf. " – Orders."

"Whose orders?" Shake, shake. The man's cloak tore a little.

Lieutenant Miranda, very large, had heeled her horse alongside. Her saber was drawn.

"Major d'Angelo's orders."

Major d'Angelo… decent officer. "The major was mistaken. Orders are no reserves. Everyone to the line!"

Nods from Torn-cloak.

"Now, you get your ass and these troopers east at a fucking gallop! You understand me? Join General Voss's people to attack on that flank."

More nods. Sam shoved the man upright in his saddle. " – Move!"

Sam stayed to watch them go – go galloping, as Lieutenant Miranda sheathed her saber, backed her big horse… Three troops of Heavy Cavalry almost lost to the attack. Have to speak to d'Angelo. A little less attention to the usual ways of doing things; a little more attention to fucking immediate orders!

"Who was that officer?" A question asked of the snowy air.

"Captain Hooper, sir," said Captain Collins, behind him. " – Good man." Which recommendation, in the face of his commander's anger, also recommended Roberto Collins.

Sam felt tired as if he'd stayed with the Lights to the west, been fighting all this time… He turned Difficult's head, kicked him back up onto the ridge, and looked for a place to stand on the hilltop. Now, unless disaster came, he would be only a watcher, avoiding the dangerous confusions of casual interference. Separate from his soldiers as if he were sleeping far south in Better-Weather, or eating roast pork at the high tables in Island's hall.

Now, he would be a ghost of war, all a commander's directions given. As the Boston girl had done, he could only hover over, his sword blooded once, and watch below him for a battle won. A battlefield ghost, perhaps to be joined by Phil Butler, and many more.

It seemed to Sam he already heard a different music sung from the northern slopes, the higher-pitched chorus of fighting men seeing a triumph before them. Duran would be beginning to coax his men back… back. But slowly, Horacio, and in formation for the love of Mountain Jesus.

Sam found a sensible place, high enough to see all the center below and before him, and at least some of the distant hillsides left and right. Difficult seemed pleased to be rested from snow-galloping. He and the other horses stood blowing and farting. Comical beasts, really…

"McGee."

"Sir?" The sergeant kicked his mount alongside.

"Sergeant, take your bowmen off to the east. Join Colonel Flores, or any Light squadron you come to, and go in with them. They'll be moving now, need every archer they can get."

A sudden roar from the northern slopes, as if snow-tigers had come to fight. Sam saw the first ranks of Heavy Infantry retreating… falling back toward him, some men running this way, over the first ridge.

"Runnin'!" McGee said.

But as they watched, the scatter of running men slowed as retreating formations overtook them. They stepped back into ranks, waited… and broke to run again, making another show of flight.

"That's okay," said Sergeant McGee.

"Sergeant – take your people and move off."

"Musn' leave you, sir." Then, more definitely: "Won't do it."

"Yes, you will, Jim." How had he remembered this man's first name?

After a silent moment, the sergeant said, "Shit…" Then turned and called, "We're goin' east. So kick it!"

As the bowmen rode away, Captain Collins drew his saber and came up on Sam's left side, Lieutenant Miranda did the same on his right. The three of them – with the banner-bearer stoic behind – sat their horses and watched the Heavy Infantry of North Map-Mexico, never before defeated, slowly driven crumbling back along the ridgelines, seeming just short of desperate flight.

Sitting his horse in safety, Sam closed his eyes, imagining every sword slash, every hissing arrow come by merciful magic to strike him instead of a soldier. So that he, who commanded suffering, received it.

Lieutenant Miranda murmured beside him, and he opened his eyes to see the Kipchak horse-tails rising on the ridge, hear the war horns' dark music triumphant.

"Come on… come on." Sam felt the oddest flash of sympathy, of sadness for Toghrul, as if he were a friend. The Khan's looming defeat would have been a victory instead, if Sam had held to his blunder only a little longer. Now, the tumans lunging deeper into disaster, the Heavy Infantry stepping back and back to draw them in, Toghrul – like Sam, a young man chained to authority – would likely end the day destroyed.

It was remarkably like riding up a shallow river in rapids, though these currents were tumultuous with gray fur, drawn bows, and steel. Mounted, of course, with only his hundred of the Guard mounted with him, Toghrul spurred Lively on in the midst of the tumans' assault.

An oddity, this attack on foot, but an oddity that was succeeding. They had already struck the first of North Mexico's lines of heavy infantry, and despite desperate – if fairly ineffective – resistance, were driving them back up their slopes to destruction… Future use of infantry was perhaps something to be considered, with the forests, hills, all the broken country to be encountered east of Kingdom's river, should the New Englanders continue arrogant. Infantry…