Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

A roar of cheering up ahead. Through fading snowfall, Toghrul saw the horse-tails of First and Third Tumans on the ridge. He and his Guards rode among the second – which began to run. More than five thousand men racing, flooding up snow-drifted slopes to join the thousands driving into the enemy's center.

Toghrul spurred on, his Guardsmen swinging whips to win a way through rushing ranks of soldiers, the nagaikas' cracking lashes heard even over war cries, over the sounds of battle as the North Mexican infantry fell back into the hills in retreat.

Once on the heights, the tumans would divide, strike east and west along the ridge-lines to complete the victory. Then, Shapilov's foolish loss in the north forgotten, the subjugation of Middle Kingdom would become inevitable.

His center destroyed – in only Warm-time minutes, now – Monroe would, of course, dream of flanking movements. But dream too late… too late to reposition troops, to reorganize his army. There would be no time for it.

There was a sound to the east… Toghrul rose in his stirrups to hear better over the noise of the advance. Something there at the left flank – from the left flank.

There was… something. A trembling in the air. A sound from the eastern slopes as if a great barrel of stones were rolling… Cavalry.

Toghrul shouted, "Cavalry!" Sul Niluk, at the head of the escort, heard him as other Guardsmen heard him – and all turned to stare east.

Out of a fading curtain of falling snow, blowing, drifting with the wind… movement. Shifting movement on the hillsides' snow-draped brush and bramble. Gray gleams of steel, and the rumbling noise louder and louder.

Then a grand choir of trumpets – and horsemen, banners, a host of three… four thousand riding in an armored tide a half-mile wide across the slopes, thundering down on tumans dismounted. The men scrambling – so slow on foot – crowding, surging away to avoid that avalanche of cavalry, its trumpets blaring like the cries of monstrous beasts.

Then bugles answering from the west. Toghrul looked to the right, saw nothing yet, but heard the bugles. That would be their Light Infantry coining, of course. And commanded by a woman, of all absurdities.

There… there. The first formations coming at the ran to swing the western gate shut upon him… some sunshine coming with them, shining on their steel. His Guardsmen were shouting… the dismounted men, thousands of them, also slowing their advance on the hillsides, calling, crying out as they saw death come riding from the east… running from the west.

"Rally!" Toghrul howled it, and hurt his throat. "Rally and fall back!" Hopeless… hopeless.

Monroe had dreamed of flanking after all, and dreamed in time. His Heavy Infantry's so-convincing retreat would now end as a blocking wall of pikes and crossbows at the last high ridge, to hold the dismounted Kipchak army as it was flanked, slaughtered, then hunted as those still alive fled north… Really fine generalship. An interesting man.

Toghrul's Guardsmen had reined to face the cavalry attack, to hold it for the instants he would need to gallop free. Everything was perfectly clear, went very slowly, could be seen in each detail. Sound, though, seemed muffled, so that trumpet calls, men's screams, and the rumbling shock of hoofbeats were like distant music. He saw the pennants' colors perfectly… noticed an officer in the first rank of those horsemen, brown uniform, black cloak streaming as he rode, a shining steel hook for a hand.

Toghrul reined Lively around, blessing the animal, and spurred away as his escort of one hundred wheeled to guard. His standard-bearer had turned to stay with him – but reined his horse left, rather than right, so Lively lunged shouldering into it. Caught off-balance, the man's horse stumbled in the rush and went down as if it had taken an arrow.

Lively, stepping over the fallen horse, was kicked and his left fore broken.

Toghrul picked him up on the reins and heeled him staggering away, three-legged, as the hundred of the Guard – tangled by fugitive soldiers into disarray – were struck at a gallop by a surf of cavalry. The Guards and their mounts were hurled aside, ridden down, driven back and back in a tumble of flesh, bone, and steel.

This great breaking wave of frantic thrashing beasts, of dead and dying men, caught Lively and drove him under.

Toghrul had an instant to try to kick free of the stirrups – leap for his life in a desperate scramble, then run, run… And, of course, look ridiculous in the attempt.

He stayed in his saddle, called only, "My son… "

Sam had noticed before, that the near silence at a battle's end seemed loud as the fighting had been. This end of the day sounded only with distant trumpets calling the chase, with orders spoken nearby, with conversations and the rasp of grave-digging, the hollow chock of axes cutting campfire wood. And an occasional muffled scream as the parade of wounded was carried on plank hurdles over snowy slopes, then down the main-ridge reverse to the medical tents, and Portia-doctor's people.

The remnant Kipchaks were scattering north, pursued by Light Cavalry. They would ride, killing those people, until their horses foundered.

Poor savages. Only shepherd tribesmen now, without their brilliant Lord of Grass – and hunted by every people they'd conquered before. It would be years before the Kipchaks were an army again – if ever.

Victory. Its first taste, chilled imperial wine – its second, rotting blood.

"General Voss comin', sir." Corporal Fass – alive and on tent-guard as usual… More than could be said for Sergeant Wilkey, that quietly dangerous young man. Assuming Sam might have some special affection for him, Charmian had sent a word of regret that he'd been killed.

A people whose bravest men and women died in wars to defend them… after years and years of such losses, might a country of mountain lions became a country of sheep?

Howell was riding a strange horse – his charger must have been killed in the fighting. A tired horse, and a tired man climbing off it.

"Thank you," – Sam took his hand – "for Map-Fort Stockton, and for here."

"Sam, don't thank me for giving orders, and I won't thank you for it. Our people did the dying, enough so Lady Weather let us win." Voss – left eye already lost, its socket hidden under his black patch – had nearly lost the right. A blade-point had struck his cheek just beneath; a run of blood was clotted down his face… But it seemed one eye was enough to reveal sorrow.

"Tell me, Howell."

"Phil…"

"I know Phil's dead. Dead in the first engagement. Horacio sent a runner when it happened. He's got Phil's little dog…"

Howell made a face like a punished child's. "And Carlo."

"Carlo… All right. Go on."

"Teddy Baker, Fred Halloway, Michelle Serrano, Willard Reese… and a number of junior officers."

"A number…"

"Two hundred and eleven, Sam."

"By the dear Lady… Certain?"

"As reported. Still could be more – or less. A few may turn up, might only have been wounded."

"Soldiers?"

"Sam, it's too soon to say; still calling rolls. Likely at least three thousand killed or wounded. A number of companies don't seem to exist, now. Fourth Battalion of Lights is gone, but for twenty or thirty people. – And Oswald-cook is dead. Apparently heard 'No reserves,' and brought his people up on the line as the center fell back. Fought with cleavers and kitchen knives, some of them."

"Kitchen knives… Elvin would have been relieved. No more experiments for dinner."

"Southern peppers stuck in everything…" Howell tried a smile.