Then she used the ax — second time she'd used it. She'd lost her temper. Another man — or one of those two, maybe, was still standing in front of her. His jaw was hacked and hanging down so his tongue was out in squirting blood. Martha supposed she'd done it. A very strong man edged past a mantelet, cut her hard at her right hip, and drove her, drove her back into a scorpion. This man was much stronger than she was. She smelled his breath, fresh as a child's, as he grappled with her, working to get his sword's edge across her throat. Martha crouched suddenly, so he'd think she'd fallen down — then stuck her dagger hard as she could into his nuts, and wrenched, wrenched at the blade with all her might to draw it up into his belly. The dagger blade was caught — then sliced its way free and ran up into him.
The man made a terrible noise, and she was able to pull away from him. He'd been very strong. Martha was standing against the curve of a scorpion's bow; couldn't remember how she got there. She hacked her ax's spike into another man's shoulder as he struck at her — used that to haul him off-balance — then turned the ax's handle to chop its blade into his eyes, and was surprised at how easily she'd done it. He made a mewing sound, like a kitten, and stumbled away. Blinded, he bumped into a mantelet's edge.
Someone limped across and thrust a spear into the blind man's back, so he screamed and fell down. Martha smelled shit, and supposed it was from him. She saw it was the Queen who'd done it. Her beautiful helmet was off — its lacing broken — and strands of her long hair, red and gray and red again with blood, were down past her shoulders.
Martha looked around as if she were waking up, and saw no more horsemen coming at them, though several — they had the oddest slanting eyes — still stood down the narrow way, at the head of the ladders. There were six... seven men lying still on the deck, one man sitting up, and two men crawling. The wind was making bright red puddles stream and run along the deck. The blood crinkled, freezing as it ran.
There were noises from below... shouts and cheering. Martha saw things thrown high in the air from the main deck. She thought they were hats, then saw they were heads.
"So far, so good," Master Butter said — a copybook phrase so perfect it sounded just made up. He was leaning on his long sword's point, his short-sword in his left hand. Three of the men lay before him, two piled across each other, looking like killed animals with their furs rumpled and soaked with blood. "Well enough, so far, since it seems we're only an afterthought, up here."
Martha saw they'd all had been pushed back against the scorpions' rigs and timbers. The Kipchaks had forced them back there, fighting.
There was stinging in Martha's left arm. She looked down and saw the mail sleeve had been sliced open, and her forearm, too. She didn't remember that happening at all. Blood was running dripping, and she could see a piece of polished bone deep in there.... It looked dreadful, but only stung her as if wasps were at it, didn't hurt as much as her hip. But that hand hung empty and white, and her dagger was gone.
"Floating Jesus." The Queen tugged her long scarf off, bound it around Martha's arm, and knotted it tight.
The few Kipchaks at the ladders only stood watching. It seemed to Martha they were all — the tribesmen, too — very tired already, though only sudden time had passed.
Then, one of the horsemen shouted something to the others, and they came running — so the Queen had to snatch her second assag from where it stood on the deck, her other apparently lost, stuck in some man's bones....
Everything seemed to go slowly and strangely, so Martha felt she almost knew the name of the next man who attacked her — slashing, slashing — he became so closely familiar, his face almost a friend's, though twisted with effort, fear, and rage. She guarded and struck with her ax, missing her left arm and her dagger. Then that man went away or was down, which was just as well, since she was feeling sick. A fever's dream-sickness, it felt like. Tribesmen were standing by the ladders, blood on their furs.
She heard the Queen say, "Probably better on their horses. Cree would have chopped these people to pieces."
"No doubt." Master Butter, at the Queen's other side, sounded out of breath. "Embarrassing… but I've been taken in the belly, dear. I thought the son of a bitch was dead… Martha?"
"Yes?" Martha saw Master Butter was standing hunched as an old man.
"My... last lesson. Man worth killing once... is worth killing twice."
"Yes," Martha said, "I will."
She heard Master Butter catch his breath and say, "And how do you, my dear?"
"Still standing, Edward." The Queen sounded oddly pleased, though Martha saw she was trembling, and had been cut hard across the side of her face. Strands of her long hair, come down, were stiff with freezing blood. " — Still standing, though bleeding like a pig... and my knee cut by some fucker so it flops." She turned to look at Martha, and smiled. "Dear girl?"
"I'm with you." Martha looked down to be sure she still held her ax. "I'm with you." Then, though feeling so sick, she footed a corpse away for room to fight as the Kipchaks shouted and came again, now more of them pouring up the ladderways from left and right, all steel and fur, frost trailing from their mouths like smoke.
Martha called, "Ralph," as if her sergeant might come to her, his armor green as spring leaves.
CHAPTER 25
"Good?... Sufficient?"
The Khan Toghrul, lying at cushioned ease in his camp yurt by lamplight, scattered a few more grains of feed down the front of his yellow over-robe, and watched a small blue-and-white pigeon strut on his chest, pecking. He felt the little steps the bird took as it fed.
Apparently sufficient feed for this bird of best luck — a pigeon to live, from now on, a life of reward and no message flights where birds of prey might strike it down, the Sky's winter storms freeze it in flight. A lucky bird, a bird that had brought luck, the news of a baby boy. A boy... and an end to uneasiness in certain Uighur and Russian chieftains. Men who, so mistakenly, thought the succession their business.
But politics — wonderful Warm-time word — the usual political triumph didn't occasion joy. Not the joy that had a Khan lying cooing to a pigeon, sprinkling pinches of seed for it on his breast. A boy — Bajazet, for the old Khan — and reported healthy as his mother was healthy. There was no pretending the wife's life wasn't dear as the child's, or nearly. This fondness for her a weakness, no question, and as a weakness, best admitted to.
Toghrul blew gently to ruffle the bird's feathers, and the pigeon glanced at him, startled.
"Only fondness," the Khan said to it, cupped the pigeon gently in both hands... then got up, crossed piled carpets to a small cage-roost, and ushered the bird in. "Soon, once we're finished here, a silver cage for you. A silver cage, but big, with room to fly."
Toghrul closed the roost's little wooden door. Happiness a danger in itself, a sort of drunkenness, so that everyone seemed a friend and all seemed possible.
As, of course, it seemed impossible that an experienced commander — granted Shapilov had not been a vital intellect — still it seemed impossible that an experienced commander, left with his dispositions in the north carefully ordered, and careful warnings given of the River's ice-ships, their strengths and limitations... that the man would still prove fool enough to keep tumans in mass formations, unwieldy, and perfect prey for those vessels.
Fortunately for him, the ass had died in his own disaster — where, supposedly and by third-hand information come just this evening, the Kingdom's so-rude Queen had also died. That news, as copybooks had it, likely 'too good to be true.'
So, even the happiest of men, of fathers, was left with work to do. A catastrophe — with truly catastrophic losses — to be balanced now by victory.... Toghrul went to his yurt's entrance, paged heavy felt hangings aside, and stepped into darkness and a freezing wind that made the guard-mount's torch flames flutter.
"Senior officers," he said.
"Great Lord." The officer stationed there went to only one knee in the snow — the Guard Regimen
t's privilege — then rose and ran for the commanders' camp.
The other sentries stood still, eyes front.
"Uncomfortable," Toghrul said to them. "This damp cold, here. Not like our prairie air." And it was uncomfortably dank amid deep-snowed stands of hardwood trees and thorn-bush thickets, on ground that always sloped away down tangled draws.
The guards seemed to have stopped breathing, apparently frightened by being spoken to. And, of course, they didn't answer him. Stupid creatures.... Toghrul stepped back through the curtains, went to the near brazier to warm his hands, then bent to warm his face. He opened his eyes to the coals' bright blazing till they watered as though he wept.
Bajazet. A name chosen before the boy was conceived. A name both ancient and noble.... What lessons must the boy be taught ? Weapons and war, of course. And should be given treacherous ponies, difficult horses as he grew older, so distrust became natural to him, despite his father's love. He must be given young companions, as well — of good blood, but none quite his equal. One boy might be stronger, another more clever, a third luckier or more handsome. But none as strong and clever and lucky…. The best of virtues must be his: endurance, unswerving purpose, patience — and cruelty, of course, that tedious necessity. He would have to be taken from his mother early — by four, perhaps by five — or Ladu's gentleness would suit him only for defeat.
So, treacherous ponies for the boy, and difficult horses. But not dangerous....
"As you commanded, lord."
The four trooped in, breathless, bowing. Murad Dur — and three competent nonentities, interchangeable brutes with at least veteran notions of giving and obeying orders.
"Oh, Lord of Grass, and now — father," Dur led the others in more bowing.
"So," Toghrul said, foolishly pleased, "good fortune follows ill."
"Still," Murad said, and bent his head so his face — harsh, hook-nosed, very like a red-tailed hawk's — was shadowed by a hanging lamp. "Still… some illness lingers."
The other three said nothing, stood dripping melting snow onto the carpets.
"So?"
"Sled savages, lord."
"Sleds?"
"As reported, Great Lord. Savages — though only a very few. Archers from North Map-Texas, driving dog-sleds over deep snow, attacked a remount herd. Eight hundred horses."
"Go on."
"The remounts were dispersed and lost, Great Khan. Herders were killed, and the Lord Chimuk was... also killed. An arrow struck his throat."
It was surprising what a shock that was. For a moment, Toghrul couldn't catch his breath.... Old Chimuk, killed by some Sky-cursed savage. Yuri had seemed one of those men who couldn't be killed by any enemy. In how many battles had that old man fought? From Siber Gate, across and down to Map-New Juneau... Map-Portland. Years of battles. And now, an arrow through his throat in this stupid wilderness.
"Were all the herd-guards killed?"
"Most, Great Lord."
"Kill the rest of them," Toghrul said. "Their throats to be cut for the cowards they are."
"As you order, lord."
Not caring to be stared at after such news, Toghrul turned back to the brazier and stood holding his hands to the warmth, thinking. What was that wonderful copybook saying? It's an ill wind that blows no good. Yes, really a perfect old saying, since now, with his grandfather gone, there would be no powerful person troubled by the unfortunate death of that so-brilliant young commander Manu Ek-Tam — presently demonstrating his talent by chasing sheep in North Map-Mexico.
An ill wind... Certainly including the clever North Map-Mexican rabbit — that had run, jinking here and there as the hawk went stooping — but was now revealed to be a wolf. Wolf enough, at least, to have snarled some sense into the Kingdom's cannibals, so they'd actually concentrated for battle in the north....
Silence from the four commanders. It occurred to Toghrul that those silences — so usual, so proper — might occasionally have deprived him of useful information.
"Very well." He went to his couch, sat, and settled amid cushions, booted legs crossed, his sheathed sword across his lap. "Very well. As put so perfectly by the ancients: 'To business.' We have a lost battle in the north — but not a lost war. It requires only to finish the clever young Captain-General in these hills — I think of him as younger, though apparently we're close to the same age." Toghrul considered having his generals sit, then decided not.
" — If this Lord Monroe is beaten quickly enough, then we have time left to march east to the cannibals' river, and campaign north up the ice — instead of south, down it. The result would be the same, and Shapilov's defeat only incidental."
Murad Dur nodded, apparently understood. The other three generals — perhaps only careful to appear stupid — stood stolid as posts.
Toghrul paused, considered reviewing good news — beside the birth of his son — pigeoned from Caravanserai, then decided not. It might be considered weakness, an attempt to obscure the disaster below St. Louis. Good news from Map-Los Angeles; payments in silver now perfectly acceptable to the Empire…. Good news from Map-Fort Stockton; herds being replaced through bitter snows. Good news, but not good enough.
"It's an interesting problem, really." Toghrul smiled. "An interesting problem. By day after tomorrow, Third Tuman will have joined us. And certainly by that time, the Captain-General will have joined his army. We will have a competent — say, very competent — commander, whose army has taken a defensive position just south of us, in broken hills. His intention will be to hold those draws, slopes, and wooded ridges against our tumans. Hold the slopes with his Light Infantry, of course, the crests with his Heavy Infantry, the ridges, with his cavalry. Short charges through deep snow, brush, and so forth, to keep us off the heights."
"Great Lord..."
"Yes, Murad?"
"Isn't it possible that Monroe is already with his army?"
"Murad... Murad. Have your scouts reported yet that the soldiers of that army — usually proud of silence — have begun to sing, to strike their cooking kettles, to joke while performing sentry duties? Any such welcoming celebration?"
"Ah... of course," said Murad Dur.
Toghrul waited for any additional comment, response. The three wooden generals seemed less worried, now, perhaps even interested…. But was it, perhaps, not the best notion to have Manu Four-Horsetails killed? Should even dangerous talent be allowed for its usefulness? No question, that officer would have been valuable here, if his arrogance could have been borne.....
" — So, certainly the enemy will have made those dispositions. Object? To bleed our people in country they don't care for, and in which it's difficult to maneuver to effect. Monroe will assume we're much too subtle to simply go slaughtering in direct attack at his center. He'll expect something of our steppe and prairie way — sudden sweeps, brisk flanking, and staggered assaults into the resultant confusion. I believe he'll expect those maneuvers — or at least as near them as this rough country allows."
Nods. The wooden three were capable of nods, at least. Not entirely simple.
" — Since, however, I'm not inclined to do as an opponent expects, we will do the opposite. His object is to bleed us. My solution, since flanking would find the same country east and west, with no advantage... my solution is to bleed — and win, bleeding. The last thing this North Mexican will expect from us is a stupid and direct frontal assault on foot, heedless of losses." Toghrul tried another smile. "After all, long winters in warm yurts breed replacements soon enough."
And, by the Sky, at last one smile in return. Murad, of course. Intelligent, and not afraid — sad to consider that these very virtues might, in time, make him dangerous.
"To continue. We dismount the tumans, so our clever Captain-General fights, not horse archers, but archers as woods' hunters first, then infantry in assault. And, of course, we'll have to mount a very convincing — though necessarily shallow — attack on... the western flank, to persuade Monroe to weaken his center to op
pose it. This false attack is to be driven home as if all the army came behind it. Officers are to spend their men for that effect — and, if necessary, spend themselves."
Toghrul clapped his hands. "A solution certainly not perfect, but probably sufficient."
And no general said otherwise.
At the handclap, a guard had come through the yurt's entrance. "My lord wishes?"
"Your lord wishes roast lamb with the Empire's golden raisins, dishes of soft cheese and dried plums, kumiss and vodka for himself and his generals."
The guard bowed.
"Oh, and music. Is Arpad in the camp?"
"His squadron's in, lord." Murad Dur.
"Then we'll have the captain and his oud — and any decent drummer."
The guard bowed and went away.
"Sit." Toghrul gestured the generals to the carpet. "I'll draw our dispositions in lamb gravy, while we enjoy an evening's pleasure — before tomorrow's pleasure." And got smiles at last from all of them, properly, since they were being honored by his presence at a meal.
The commanders sat carefully cross-legged, their boots tucked under so no dirty sole was exposed as Toghrul joined them. They leaned a little back and away from him as he sat opposite, since no honor was without peril.
... A reminder that Bajazet would need to know more than how to frighten such fools. More than knowledge of horses and archery. There must be a tutor for the boy. But who? Would it be possible, once the North Mexicans were broken, would it be possible to forgive an old man his treachery? And if Neckless Peter Wilson were forgiven, and became the boy's teacher, what lessons would be taught? An aging man's cautious consideration of every point of view, so decisions came slowly, if at all? Bajazet — while certain to be a delight — might not be gifted with sight so perfectly clear that argument evolved swiftly into action....
The commanders were sitting silent until spoken to, as was proper, eyes lowered so as not to offend.
…. So, a tutor for Bajazet, certainly. But an old man who'd insulted his master by refusing service? Worse, who'd taken service with an enemy. A dilemma. It was a tremendous responsibility, raising a boy. And all the more, raising him to be lord of everything he saw, everything his horse rode over….
Kingdom River Page 32