Kingdom River

by Mitchell Smith

  The yurt's thick entrance-curtain was paged aside, and four servants filed in. They carried a tray of silver cups, a pitcher of warm kumiss, and polished brass bowls of dried fruit, scented herbs, and rose-water. Toghrul could only hope his opposites might wash hands undoubtedly dirty, before the lamb arrived.

  * * *

  Sam came ashore in bitter dark before dawn, from a freezing river already streaked and stiffening with ice, so the boatmen, as they'd done off and on for two days and nights, had had to batter and break thin shelves of it, sailing, then rowing, to reach the appointed West-bank beach.

  Sam, then Wilkey, despite their protests, were lifted and carried ashore like cargo bales, the rivermen splashing, cursing, stomping crackling edge-ice. Carried, deposited… and left.

  Wilkey held a boatman's woolen smock as he started away. "Is this the fucking place?"

  "An' how would you know if it wasn'?" the boatman said, and pulled loose — but managed a bow to Sam. "Sir, here's North Map-Arkansas, an' jus' the spot away to your people. We didn' fail you."

  "I never thought you would," Sam said, gave the man silver... then stood with Wilkey to watch the boat pull away.

  'The fucking place' looked to be just that, as much as a fading moon, cloud-buried, could show. A narrow, frozen bar of beach, then a steep bank with dark trees and tangle thick along its top, all bending to the river's wind.

  "We'll get off this shelf." Sam led the way up sliding sand, gripping frozen roots and brittle vines to climb.... At the top, he got a good grip, hauled himself up and over onto all fours — and found six pairs of shaggy moccasins waiting. The savages, pale as the dead in dark-gray light, were tall, thin men. Five were carrying steel-blade tomahawks, and one, the tallest, a long-handled, stone-headed club.

  Sam heard Wilkey, coming up behind him, say, "Shit," and was considering a lunge to one side to clear .his sword, when someone laughed.

  "Not the most dignified entrance, for a Captain-General! And… bride-groom?"

  "Ned — you son-of-a-bitch." A perfect use of the copybook phrase.

  Ned slid down from a dappled horse, and walked out into the last of moonlight to offer Sam a hand to stand. "You're in one piece, anyway. They didn't kill you. — Sergeant."

  "Sir." Wilkey stood watching the savages.

  "Don't be troubled by my Bluebird friends. I'm a favorite of theirs, for some reason I'd rather not know."

  The tallest of his friends, the man with the stone-headed club, smiled and said in fair book-English, "Ned man, is a merry man." The Bluebird's teeth were filed.

  "Very merry, now," Ned said, smiling. "Our song-birds, here, came from their camps last evening with wonderful news. News, I suppose, drummed all the way down the river, from tribe to tribe."

  "Wonderful?"

  "We — well, the Kingdom's people — have won, Sam! A victory in the north, fighting all day yesterday — and according to Toothy, here, right on through the night. He says the drums say, 'A so-cold dying on the ice for the horse riders.' "

  "If it's true... if it's true." Sam felt relief rise in his throat, painful as sickness.

  "Oh, my friends here don't lie, Sam. Don't think they know how, actually. — Great thieves, of course, steal anything not chained to a tree. Understand they like to bake children in pits in the ground…. Reason I haven't accepted invitations to dine." Ned went back into the brush, came out with four more horses on lead. "Didn't know if more might be coming with you. Sure you recognize your favorite."

  The imperial charger, Difficult, night-black and looking big as a house, tried to bite Ned's shoulder.

  "Behave yourself." Sam took the halter. "So Toghrul is coming down with only half an army, Ned — thanks to the Boxcars. Lady Weather bless Hopkins and Aiken!"

  "Friends?"

  "Well, a winning admiral, and a winning general — which makes them our friends."

  "And Toghrul is not 'coming,' Sam. He's here. Arrived with his first elements yesterday. Man seems to be in a great hurry."

  "But he hasn't attacked?" Sam went to Difficult's left side, tugged the stirrup strap down, hopped in the snow to get his boot up, and swung into the saddle. The charger sidled, began a buck, and blew noisy flatulent breaths.

  "What a brute," Ned said, and was on his horse simply as taking a step. " — No. Still settling in just north of us when I rode out to meet you. Fourth day I've ridden up and down the bank, hoping to their Floating Jesus this was the place meant. No real notion when you'd be coming, only word sent over from a Kingdom ketch."

  "Supposed to be a one-day sail here. Became more than two, with the ice."

  "Yes. A possibility Toothy mentioned. Not much the Bluebirds don't follow on the river. Have to — the Boxcars hunt them, now and then…. Sergeant, mount up."

  ... Then, a long morning's ride through deepening snow. They climbed slow-rising slopes west of the river, horses bucketing through deep drifts — the white lap of Lord Winter — as the Bluebirds paced them, drifting in and out of sight through bare-limb trees and snow-drifted bramble, jogging along, never seeming to tire.

  "Good men," Sam said.

  "Yes," — Ned smiled, riding beside him — "but risky at dinner."

  "I see that. What news from home, Ned?"

  "One piece of very bad news, Sam, pigeoned up a couple of weeks ago."

  "Yes?"

  "Elvin... The old brigadier's dead, back home. Died in his sleep of that fucking disease."

  "Elvin dead…."

  "Yes, sir. Jaime's still doing organizational work down there."

  "Mountain Jesus."

  "Does seem wrong, doesn't it, Sam? Old man was meant to die fighting."

  A dusting of new snow was falling. Nothing much. It barely sifted in Sam's sight, then vanished. "Jaime won't live long, now Elvin's gone."

  "I suppose that's right," Ned said. "So there was that message, a while ago — then, last few days, three separate gallopers come all the way up from the Bravo — killed a couple of horses doing it."

  "Saying?"

  "First one was from Charles: 'All going to copybook hell-in-a-handbasket. Trouble with the provinces. Trouble with money. There isn't any money. Imperative you return soon as possible!'... Then, the second, from Eric: 'Enemy agents cropping up, possible rebellion planned in Sonora, paid for by the empire. Imperative you return as soon as possible!' "

  "And the third?"

  "Oh, the third — and last — was from the little librarian. Four words: 'Nothing important happening here.' "

  Sam smiled, still thinking of Elvin. Remembering him throwing the dinner roll.

  "A sensible old librarian," Ned said, "Neckless Peter."

  "Yes. A sensible man."

  As they climbed a steep slope through cold clear light — come far enough that the river, when it could be seen those miles behind them, was only patches of bright glitter in the rising sun — Sam heard bird calls, but calls from the birds of the Sierra. The tall savages trotting alongside laughed, imitated those calls perfectly… and Light Infantry — from Kearn's Company, by their bandannas — stepped out to meet them.

  ... Sam had said to the Princess, 'My farm will be the camps; my flock, soldiers.' Saying it, of course, as a measure of loss — which now was proved a lie, since he found himself truly happy in dark, wooded hill-country, deep-snowed and freezing. Happy that a ferocious arid brilliant war-lord had come south to oppose him. Happy in the warmth, the trust of more than ten thousand soldiers, men and women who greeted him now from regiment to regiment with stew-kettle drums and singing. They enclosed him like a warm cloak of fur… fur with fine steel mail woven through it. 'My flock… soldiers.' He prayed to the Lady, riding through them, for those who would die by his decisions.

  ... Most of the rest of the day was spent learning the ground — riding rounds down deep, snowed gullies, then up their wooded, steep reverses — and in greetings, embraces by officers and their scarred sergeants, shy as girls. Wilkey had gone back to his company, reluctant to lea
ve Sam guarded by only a half-dozen.

  From one height, Howell pointing, Sam could see over bare treetops to the Kipchak camp — sprawled, as his army was sprawled, across country too rough for regularity. An imperial far-looking glass cold against his eye, he thought he made out the Khan's yurt, bulky and bannered in a town of lesser shelters. By fire smokes, by men's movements across white snow, by horse lines that could be seen, the camp looked to hold perhaps twelve, perhaps fifteen thousand men.

  "All Greats," Sam said, his breath frost-clouding, "bless the Boxcars and their Queen."

  "Yes." Howell took the glass. He began, by old habit, to put it to his black-patched socket, then held it to his right eye and peered out across the hills. "Or we'd have thirty thousand of the fuckers to fight."

  Sam had been… not startled, perhaps saddened to have noticed Howell, Ned, Phil Butler, and the others seeming older now than when he'd left them only weeks before. He supposed that he looked older, too, the price of large matters being dealt with.

  Howell slid the glass shut into itself and handed it back. "How do you want to go about this, Sam?"

  "To begin with, let's get warmer."

  ... Sitting on his locker, Sam envied Toghrul the big yurt. His canvas tent was cramped, packed with commanders sitting on his cot or camp-stools, with their silent second-in-commands: Carlo Petersen, Horacio Duran, Teddy Baker and Michael Elman, standing or kneeling behind them. And all smelling of sweat, leather, horse, and oiled steel. It was not a restful space, though warm enough now, with crowding.

  "First, I want to thank Phil, and the army, for a brilliant march up through Map-Louisiana, Map-Arkansas."

  "I had to hurry, Sam." Butler had brought only one dog on campaign; rat-sized, brown-spotted, it peered from his parka's pocket. " — That Boston girl was impossible. One more week, I'd have hanged her."

  "No," Howell said, "I'd have hanged her."

  "A wonderful march of infantry," Sam said, "and, Howell, a perfect move east. Not a trooper lost coming over from Map-Fort Stockton."

  "Luck, Sam."

  "No. Not luck. Charmian, how was the Bend border when you pulled your people out?"

  "Busy." Charmian Loomis had a rich, sweet singer's voice, sounding oddly from someone so lean, dark, and grim. "They had a very good commander come down with them — not Cru-san; better than Crusan. If he'd had a couple of thousand more people, it would have been a problem."

  "But as it was?"

  Colonel Loomis considered. "As it was, it was… busy, but not a problem. We killed them at night, usually. And left… oh, perhaps eleven, twelve hundred still riding that whole territory, trampling farmers' starting-frames. Just good practice for our people down there."

  " 'Good practice,' " Ned said. "You terrifying creature."

  Colonel Loomis smiled at him — a rare event for her. She'd always seemed to like Ned, so much her opposite in every way but soldiering. Sam had wondered, as had others, if there might be a match there, someday. An odd match, to be sure. Lightness and darkness.

  "This is my first day back. Tell me about the Khan."

  "Sir, his dispositions — "

  "I know how his army lies, Charmian; I've seen it, seen your map. I meant… what do your people feel about that army."

  "They're careless," Charmian said.

  "Careless?"

  "Yes, sir — as if they have no doubt they'll win. Their patrolling is alert, but not aggressive."

  "Right," Ned said. "They don't push. Just run regular patrols, keep in touch with our people."

  "And on our flanks?"

  "Nothing much. More... a little more activity at the base of our main ridge, Sam."

  "Just a little more," Charmian said. "We've got high ground here, running up to all five ridges, though the west ridge is lowest. They seem interested in Main Ridge, and the rise to the left of it, but they're still willing to let my people hold those slopes. No contesting."

  "No contesting…. And nothing much on the flanks at all."

  "That's right, Sam," Howell said. "And it's strange, because he brought those people south like a rock slide. Came down through Map-Missouri very fast."

  "They overran two of my patrols." Ned tapped the curve of his steel hook against the tent's pole. "Killed them."

  "So," Sam said, "in a hurry, then; but now... not in such a hurry."

  "I'd say," — Butler had his little dog out on his lap, was stroking it — "I'd say he intends to move very decisively. Whatever feints he may or may not use, he'll drive his main attack all the way. Don't think he means to toy with us at all, no two or three days counter-marching for advantage."

  Howell nodded. "I agree."

  "Flanking," Sam said, "has always been their way."

  "A good reason for him not to do it," Ned said. "Good reason for him to go for the center."

  "He already lost," Butler scratching his little dog's belly, " — or his general lost, that battle in the north. First really serious defeat for them. Bound to take that into account, dealing with us."

  "Yes," Sam said. "So, a decisive move, not a drawn-out piecemeal battle that might leave some of our army intact, even losing. It's a temptation to attack him — last thing he'd expect, an attack tonight."

  Some apprehension in his officers' faces.

  " — But this position is so perfect for defense." Sam smiled at their relief. "Now, if he goes for our flank, it will be a hook to our left. Attacking to our right, he takes a chance of being caught between us and a possible sortie by Kingdom troops from the river. So, if it's flanking, it will be to the west."

  "Country over there's not much different, Sam." Ned shook his head. "No advantage for horsemen."

  "But less chance of a disaster for him, than in a direct engagement up the middle."

  "Less chance of a decisive victory for him, too," Howell said. "I think he intends to wipe us out, then go for the river down here and ride north into the Kingdom. Bluebirds say it's freezing fast."

  "Yes," Sam said, " — it is. But win or lose, we won't leave him enough men alive to do Jack Shit."

  "I've read that one," Ned said. "That's a good one. 'Jack Shit.' That's very good."

  "So..." Butler put his dog back into his parka pocket, and stood. "How do you want us?"

  Sam sat silent, eyes closed, picturing the army as it lay across wooded hills and hollows. Picturing the draws, wooded and deep in snow, stretching away north to the Kipchak army.... For Toghrul to attack there, to come directly at him that way, was to sacrifice his men in the hope of swift and overwhelming victory. Taking a great, almost desperate, chance.

  In 'his mind's eye' — wonderful old phrase — Sam saw them coming. Dismounted, of course. At least, he would dismount them. Thousands of short, tough men with hard-hitting bows and curved yataghans. But not trained infantry, not really comfortable off their horses…. And all remembering that half their tumans now lay dead, north on the river's ice.

  "I think... a flank attack to the west is more likely. He can always regain his balance, if he's beaten trying that."

  "My people stay in the center?"

  "Yes, Phil, Heavy Infantry stays on the center ridges. And no reserves. Bring everything up on the line."

  "I disapprove of that."

  "And very sensibly. But do as you're told."

  Butler sighed, and strolled out into the snow, Duran behind him. They could hear him shouting for a dispatch-rider to take orders. "Is there a fucking man on a horse?!"

  "Speaking of men on horses," Ned said, "where do you want the cavalry?"

  "I want them — want you — to do two things at once."

  "Nothing new."

  "I want the Heavies high on the west ridges, ready to oppose any flanking attack successful enough to threaten our center. I want the Lights positioned, in company and squadron strength, as reaction forces to charge any breach that forms elsewhere along our line — and also prepared to chase when we win. Then, as many Kipchaks as possible are to be ridden down and ki
lled. The Khan is to be hunted and killed."

  "Toghrul killed..." Ned breathed on his hook, polished it with his bandanna. "Right."

  "Sam," Howell said, "who opposes his flank attack directly?"

  "I do," Charmian said, and got up and left, Teddy Baker following.

  "I wish she wouldn't do that," Howell said. "Damn woman always just walks out. No fucking further planning... no coordination."

  "I know," Sam said. "It's annoying."

  "But, Sam — only light infantry?"

  "Yes."

  "That's... You're sacrificing them."

  "Yes."

  "Best we have!"

  Sam sat looking at him.

  "Howell," Ned said, "it's because they're the best we have."

  Howell stood, seemed to wish to pace, but found no room for it. "Still wrong, to sacrifice Charmian like that. If her people go under, she'll go under with them…. Hard to forgive, Sam."

  "Howell," Sam said, "these things are impossible to forgive. I thought you understood that."

  "... Alright. Alright, where do you want me?"

  "Highest hill, back of Butler. Best place to command from, if something happens to me."

  "And you'll be where?"

  "He'll be with Charmian, Howell." Ned stood and stretched. "Now, let's get out of here, and leave him in peace."

  Sam stood — his back feeling better, standing — and put his hands on their shoulders as he walked them out into falling snow, Petersen and Elman trailing after. "Listen, both of you; there is another order. Live."

  "That's it?" Ned smiled. "I'd already decided to."

  "It may be too much trouble." Howell reached up to rest his hand over Sam's for a moment.

  Their boots crunched in the snow. "Once the people are in place," Sam said, "which is going to take time, with the Light Infantry completing a march to the west — once they're in place, no fires, no noise. I'll be along to review dispositions, make any adjustments to our lines." Ned and Howell swung up onto their horses. " — Feed the people at least a little hot food, as much Brunswick as Oswald-cook can send up from the field kitchens, then give them a few hours' sleep. But they're to be in position at least two glass-hours before dawn.... I'd come with the last of night — and so will he."