In nearly four days riding north in absolute command, a command that might end with the destruction of all the army's cavalry, Howell had begun to learn the lessons he'd seen traced on Sam Monroe's face. Sadness, and necessity. All these people following behind the banner, behind Howell Voss – sole commander, and responsible.
It took much of the pleasure out of war. Not, of course, all the pleasure.
He heard grass-muffled hoofbeats coming up behind him. A cuirassier drew up on his right, hard-reining a big bay. "From Colonel Petersen, sir."
Howell recognized the man, but couldn't remember his name – then did. "You're one of the Jays – Terrence."
"Yes, sir." The corporal pleased as a child to be recognized. How was it possible not to take advantage of the innocence of soldiers?
Jay wrestled his bay to keep it close. "Sir, the colonel suggests holding the column here. Cold camp."
"Cold camp, yes, Corporal – but not here. Tell Colonel Petersen" – as new a colonel as Howell was a general – "tell him I've changed my mind, decided to move closer. Tell him I want to be able to take the Kipchaks in darkness, a glass before dawn. They're horse archers; no need to give them good shooting-light."
Corporal Jay hesitated, digesting his message. "In the dark before dawn. Yes, sir."
As he started to rein away, Howell said, "And be easy with your mount, Trooper. Later, you'll want all the go he's got."
"Yes, sir." The corporal, carefully slack-reined, cantered away back to the Heavy's column, and Howell noticed some chaff rising where the big horse went. I want a light snow – very light, but enough to weight this dead grass. A prayer, he supposed, but asked of what Great? Lord Jesus? – still, the shepherds thought, hanging spiked to a pinon pine somewhere in North Map-Mexico's mountains. The shepherds, and the bandits there, thought he might be found someday and rescued, taken down and brought to Portia-doctor for healing… In the Sierra, they used to think Catania-doctor could certainly heal Mountain Jesus when he was found – and the man or woman who found him made Ice-melter in reward, and ruler of a new-warmed world.
No use now, though, for a new-made general – come north into enemy country – to pray to Lord Jesus, fastened in early Warm-times to his pinon and left there asking why, and saying, 'Please not.'
Portia… Portia. If we were together now, and some savage stuck a blade point in my only eye – or a piece of this dry chaff was blown into it – you would have a blind oaf stumbling after you, mumbling love, and asking where his cup might be, since there was still some chocolate in it. A burden added to a thousand others wearing you away.
Sam might have earned you, might be sufficient. No one else.
…What Great, then, to send us a very light snow? Lady Weather? The Kipchaks' Blue Sky brought snow or clearing, but undependably. Some savages worshiped one of the old All-makers, a Great too busy doing – and often doing badly – to listen to any prayer. And the white-skin tribesmen up by the ice-wall, their red-skin shamans and chiefs, called to the Rain-bird for weather they wanted, which seemed to make as much sense as any.
Howell closed his eye as he rode, picturing the Rain-bird in his mind. He saw it flying. Not big as a mountain – only large as a small lake, green and blue as that same lake in Daughter Summer. Its wings rising and falling, all wind and breezes blown from those wings…
They camped at sunset. Cold camp. But though there'd been no snow, neither had Kipchak horsemen – though four had been met – escaped to warn Map-Fort Stockton.
Howell walked the high-grass swales in failing light, his boots crunching, breaking dead stems. He chewed mutton jerky and talked with the troopers – all of them cheery, all apparently pleased to be in the Khan's country, and readying for battle… Howell joked with them, especially with the women – the lean Lights in their fine mail and leather, smiling, girlish, some sharpening their curved sabers with spit-stones, and the fewer bulky older women serving in the Heavies, ponderous in cuirass, with long, scabbarded straight sabers, and helmets hinged with neck and face guards. The perfect images of war, but for cooing altos as they groomed their big horses.
Howell chewed the last of the jerky as he walked the lines. He found Carlo Petersen sitting in deep grass, playing checkers with his captain, Feldman.
"Not for money, sir," Petersen said, as he and the captain stood. In the army, only equal ranks could play for money, horses, or land. All could play for sheep.
"Who do you have out, Carlo?"
"Same as the march screen, sir. But rested."
"Send riders to them. Remind them they're to avoid the enemy tonight, as before, but kill any they can't avoid or take prisoner. No Kipchak is to ride out from Fort Stockton, then back to it."
"Still retire before force, though?"
"Yes, still retire before company strength or more. Send a galloper, and fall back on us."
"Yes, sir. Billy, see to it."
"Yes, sir," the captain said, saluted, and trotted away, acorn helmet under his arm, mail hauberk jingling.
"We hit them in the morning, dark, and no trumpets?"
"Yes. I know, Carlo, that there'll be some confusion, even going in brigades-in-line. But the Kipchaks will be even more confused. I don't want whatever garrison is there, to have the chance to hold fortifications or buildings against us. I want them surprised and scattered… I'll be with Second Brigade. Make certain, certain that your officers know to keep contact with our people to their right and left – no gaps, darkness or not."
"Not easy."
Howell said nothing, and Petersen grinned. "Okay, I'll remind 'em. – Do we take prisoners? Major Clay supposed not."
"We'll take no fighters prisoner, Carlo, but if your troopers catch a coward – or wise man – running, then that's a Kipchak I'd like to speak with. And remember, by Sam's order, women and children are not to be harmed in any way."
"Yes, sir. And you'll be with the Second."
"Right. First Brigade's yours, Carlo. I'll be trying to hold Reese back."
Petersen laughed. Willard Reese was more than forty years old – a moody man, cautious as an infantryman before he was engaged, then almost insanely aggressive. Fighting, the man foamed at the mouth.
Howell returned Petersen's salute – Sam was right, the saluting had certainly set in – and walked on in the last of sunset light. The western horizon was colored rich as a deep-south orange, though the air was weighty with Lord Winter's early cold.
He kicked through dead grass, wishing Ned were commanding at least the First Brigade's Light Cavalry. Not that Carlo Petersen wasn't a fine officer, and a driver. Only he lacked that instinct (wonderful Warm-time word) that told an officer – not that something had gone wrong – but that something was about to go wrong.
Ned had that – or used to, before This'll Do. And Sheba Tate, Third Brigade, had it. No need, this evening, to find Major Tate on the right flank, advise her…
A group of horse archers called to Howell as he walked past. "There he is – a general!" they called, and laughed, delighted as he gave them the so-ancient finger. A tribal sign, but one all people seemed to know.
Valuable men… and only men, those troopers. No women could draw longbows on horseback, the six-foot bows looking so odd and awkward with their long upper arms and short, deep-curved lowers. Valuable men, who could outshoot even the Khan's cavalry – once they'd spent a young lifetime learning to work their longbows at a gallop – shooting fast to either side or to the back, over the horses' cruppers. If he had more of them, if they didn't take years to train… If Ned had had more than two files of archers with him in the south, they might at least have covered his retreat.