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...
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.
"Who else?"
Howell stopped smiling.
"Who else?"
"Ned."
"You're — you don't know that. He could be anywhere out there!"
"Sam, they found him. Sword cuts. Elman saw him fighting in the charge, surrounded by those people.... Found the Kipchak Khan a little farther on. Fucker had been trampled — his own people rode over him."
"Yes…. One of Horacio's officers, Frank Clay, told me they'd found Toghrul dead."
"Ned was maybe a bow-shot away from him. Going to kill the son-of-a-bitch, I suppose, and there were just too many to ride through."
"... Howell, I gave him that order. I said, 'The Khan is to be killed.' "
"A proper order, Sam — and Ned and his people drove the Kipchaks over their own commander."
For a while, they stood and said nothing. It had become a beautiful day, no snowflakes falling. The evening sun shone warm as egg-yolk through clear, cold air. The blood in Sam's right boot had turned to icy slush.
By the greatest effort, he managed not to recall a single day of the numberless days he and Ned had spent together in the Sierra. Laughing — always laughing about something... usually mischief, sheep stealing, trying to lure ranchers' lean, tough daughters out into the moonlight. Always some… nonsense.
"There'd better be two worlds," he said to Howell. "There'd better be a place with open gates, for all the ones we've lost."
"If not," — Howell managed a smile — "we'll take the army and break those gates down." He saluted, and went to mount his tired horse. A lucky man, not to have been blinded by that wound….
* * *
At dark, by a campfire built high of hardwood — as, Sam supposed, a sort of victory beacon — his commanders, senior officers surviving, many limping and bloodied in battered armor, stood around him on the high-ridge hilltop like monuments to war's triumphs and disasters. Some were drawing deep, exhausted breaths, as if still uncertain of their next.
The Boston girl, Patience — no longer looking quite so young — knelt in the fire's light, polishing her scimitar's slender steel.
"Sam…" Howell had cleaned the dried blood from his face, and looked only weary. "Sam, what do we do now?"
The campfire roared softly, its smoke rising into deeper night.
"We bury our dead," Sam said, looking into the flames. He held Phil's little dog, trembling in a fold of his cloak. "Then ride to the river, to celebrate a wedding."
* * *
The elderly Bishop of the Presence of Floating Jesus — a man habitually bulky and full in flesh — stood a little shrunken in his Shades-of-water robe, on which many little jeweled fish were sewn, mouths open to sing adoration of the Lord.
Old Queen Joan had been the bishop's casual enemy for years — supposedly he'd bored her; she'd certainly refused him residence at Island. But her death, nevertheless, had struck him such a surprising blow that these new matters, these over-settings of what had once been so, had worn him severely, and made what was real seem unreal.
True, the sun shone into the eight-week summer; true, the river's wind blew richly through the stone of Island — he felt his robe-hem ruffle to it — and true, men and women wed.
But standing on the wide balcony of North Tower, he faced not only the familiar — he'd known the Princess Rachel since she'd been a child — but the unfamiliar as well, a stocky North Mexican war-chief, supposedly soon to be the King.... His officers, still battle-lame, crowded the chamber beyond, alongside great river lords — and one of the Boston creatures as well.
The sun shone, and the river's wind blew, but all else seemed a dream, and his reading of the marriage vows — 'fidelity to flow,' and so forth — unreal as the rest.
But he ended at last, and the Princess was gathered — cream lace crushed, diadem tilted awry — into her husband's arms and kissed with rather coarse energy, and apparent affection. Then a great rolling roar, an avalanche of shouts, welled from the crowds packing the wide landings, staircases, and distant broad, paved squares of Island — though many still wore blood-red in mourning for the Queen they'd loved. The granite rang, hundreds of hanging, ribboned decorations swung to that thunder, and the banners, pennants, and flags flying from every tower, flying from every ship in the near gate-harbor, seemed to ripple out also in celebration, as if with the river's blessing.
Still, the bishop felt he dreamed... until the bridegroom, smiling like a boy, reached out to take his hand — and woke him with an iron grip, eased to gentleness.
THE END
Twenty years later, treachery abounds.
Boston-town must be destroyed. Toghrul Khan's son will strike at New England's frozen heart.
MOONRISE
Available from Forge Books in April 2004
Sam Monroe became
the Achieving King. He and Queen Rachel had one born son, Newton, and one adopted, Bajazet, born the son of Toghrul Khan and sent for safekeeping into enemy hands. Now, two decades later, King and Queen are dead, drowned in what appears to be a boating accident. Chaos looms over Middle Kingdom in this excerpt from chapter One of Moonrise.
His weapon was the only thing of value Bajazet had with him under the frozen log. And if he hadn't already been up and dressed for before-dawn's hunt breakfast when men in Cooper livery came kicking through the lodge doors, he would have had to flee naked out the upstairs window and down the wooden fire-ladder — Old Noel Purse shouting Run… Run! amid the noise of steel on steel, breakfast tables toppling, the screams of dying men.
Bajazet felt anger at himself — even more than at Gareth Cooper — for carelessness in not considering what opportunity must have been seen after the king's death, with Sam and Rachel's son, Newton, only nineteen, and kinder than most at Island. A kind and thoughtful prince. Too kind... too thoughtful. The king had held the river lords down, the Sayres, DeVanes… and Coopers. Had held New England to caution as well. Boston and its Made-creatures stepped lightly in country of the King's Rule.
Newton should have caught up those reins at his crowning, set the bit hard at once — with his adopted brother, son of Toghrul Khan, to help him. But Newton had been young, thoughtful, and kind. And his brother had gone hunting.
And now, was hunted… and deserved to be.
* * *
He was walking, hurrying, hooded cloak wrapped tight against the wind, before he was clear in his purpose. Still, it seemed certain the way he'd come was the way to go... go quickly as he could, back through frozen tangle as darkness began to grow deeper. Gareth Cooper — no doubt crowned King Gareth now — new king, by treachery, and with only one child. One son and heir.
Bajazet would not have been important enough for the king to come kill him… but perhaps too important for some liveried captain's responsibility. Who better, then, to deal with the last of family business, than the king's only son?
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