"Charmian…!" She was gone and at them. Sam drew and ran down after her… heard his bowmen yelling, "No!" He saw more Lights coming along the slope to reinforce as he galloped down the hill, snow flying.
Charmian had gone for the nearest, a big Kipchak in black furs. Sam saw the man's face, a mask of rage and effort as he struck at her.
Then it was not fighting, but killing.
Charmian caught his curved blade coming across – picked it out of the air with her rapier's tip, guided it sliding to the right, and thrust the long, slim blade of her left-hand dagger into his belly.
Two more stomped up through the snow at her, and Sam yelled, "On the left!" ducked low and swung a two-handed cut across the first man's leg. He felt the sword's grip kick as the blade hacked through boot-top and bone – then yanked the steel free to spin the other way and thrust, one-handed, into the second man's armpit as he raised his yataghan to strike.
The crippled one slashed at Sam from the snow and caught him lightly at the thigh – a touch below his hauberk – with the so-familiar icy stroke of steel, then burning.
Sam drove his point into that man's mouth – felt his blade break teeth, then slide through delicate stuff in a spurt of blood to split the spine.
Joy came to him as he freed his blade, joy at the wonderful simplicity of action, and he and Charmian, on guard for any others, shared an instant's glance of pleasure.
Then his mounted bowmen, and a storm of Light Infantry from above, struck the two of them and the advancing Kipchaks together, knocking Charmian down and sending Sam sprawling. Furious officers and men stood over them – "Stupid… stupid fuckers!" – picked them up, and listening to no orders, showing no respect for rank, hauled them up the hill.
Loosed near the ridge, his sword wiped and sheathed, Sam looked back and saw the Kipchaks once more in shallow retreat… then gathering to charge up the slope again. The base of the hill was thick with their formations – by squadrons, as if they were mounted. The dead and dying lay scattered across the snowy slope, streaks and pools of bright red gleaming under the rising sun. The hillside breeze brought the coppery smell of spilled blood, the stink of the dyings' shit… There were great concentrations of tribesmen, and driving activity along the base of the hills. But no massive movement coming on through the forest beyond. No trembling of tangled foliage, no glimpses of columns followed by more columns marching toward them through the snow.
"Busy," Charmian said, catching her breath beside him. She staggered a step. "Busy…"
"Now, you stay the fuck out of that line!"
"Yes, sir."
Sam glanced down, saw where his leather trousers were slit a few inches at his right thigh, and felt a little blood sliding warm to his knee.
"Sir," a bowman said, "you're hurt."
Sam waved him to silence as flights of arrows whistled up the slopes, and the Kipchaks shouted and came again, charging higher… higher on the hillsides, their battle lines extending half a Warm-time mile.
"Charmian, can you hold them?" He had to lean close, almost shout in her ear; the noise was terrific.
"Yes, I can hold them – unless we're wrong, and they're strongly reinforced."
"They won't be. I've made my mistake for the day."
"I can hold them. And if they bleed a little more, and I commit every man and woman – and the wounded still walking – I can drive them!"
"Not yet." Sam ducked – thought an arrow had come near him. "Not yet. Wait for a galloper with the word. We need him to come deep into the center, uncover both his flanks while he thinks we're breaking."
"Understood." Charmian turned to yell across the slope. "Catherine! What the fuck are you waiting for? Crossbows front, for Christ's sake!" The last, a phrase once forbidden. "Stupid bitch," Charmian muttered, standing bent a little to the right to favor her wounded side, " – looking around with her thumb up her ass! Made her a fucking captain and I can damn well unmake her. I could have used Margaret here…"
She turned back. "Sam – I know what you want. Now please go away; I don't have time for you." She limped off over the snow, calling, "Where is Second Battalion? We're replacing in echelon here. We're supposed to be replacing in echelon along the fucking line! Where are they?"
"Can I help you, sir?" The bowman had brought Difficult to mount.
"No." Though Sam wished he had the help, struggling aboard the beast. His leg held the stinging tingle of injury… and the fucking horse kept sidling away. "Will you hold this animal still?" A Kipchak arrow moaned past. They were fighting higher on the slope, now. Sam could hear the sword blows, like camp-axes chopping soft wood. But screams followed these.
He heard trumpets as he rode fast, east along the ridges, four bowmen riding behind him. He saw, in morning sunlight, the armored columns of Heavy Cavalry, the spaced squadrons of Lights, already slowly shifting along the heights, beginning to shake out into line of march, their banners leading east.
"Thank you, Howell, for getting them moving."
"Sir?" A bowman spurred up alongside.
"Nothing…" As if a deck of pasteboard playing cards – but these for fortune-telling – cascaded in his mind, Sam saw on each, as it flashed by, a different problem, or an opportunity already lost to him. Great or small, it made no difference as they dealt… Lieutenant Gerald Kyle carried vodka with him, and lied about it – what now, to keep him from misjudging and killing his company? Man should have been replaced… Thousands of crossbow bolts needed to be greased for this wet winter weather. Had that been done? Company officers' responsibility. Had it been done?… Fodder clean? No mold or mildew to sicken the horses. Might have spoken to Ned, might have checked to be sure… When the cavalry swung in to flank the Kipchaks to the east, had it been made clear they were to hook in – hook in after, to hold the tribesmen while the infantry marched back from their false retreat to finish them? Fucking cavalry always galloping off into nowhere, and full of excuses afterward. Had that hooking-in been made clear?
Difficult – not so bad a horse. Stupid, stubborn, but strong for this kind of uneven going. Steep going… And for Weather's sake, promote Jack Parilla! Poor man a captain for years – always a hard fighter, always took care of his men. No fool, and ready for more rank. Overlooked, a good man overlooked, and no complaint about it, either… Sonora – what was it about those people? Where the fuck did they think those taxes went? Having to build that son-of-a-bitch Stewart a bridge!… Should have at least shown Rachel how much he liked her, that he thought her an interesting woman. And good-looking, really. Should have told her that…
Some of the cavalry saw Sam riding by, shouted and raised their lances in salute. As he passed a second column of Heavies, three horsemen broke through their formation and came galloping after him. One carried the army's banner on a stirrup-staff – the great black scorpion on a field of gold – cloth rippling in the wind of his riding so the creature seemed to crawl and threaten. All three were coming fast through a light snowfall.
"Sir! Sir!" One of them was a captain Sam knew. Collins – Roberto Collins. "Sir," – Collins rode up beside him – "General Voss's compliments." The captain a little breathless. "He says you are to keep the fucking banner with you, sir! So people can find you, sir! And you are to have me and Lieutenant Miranda with you. Also additional escort, sir!"
From the captain's mouth, to fact. As they rode up a rough draw to the Middle Ridge, the horses slowing with the climb, a half-dozen more mounted bowmen – Sam saw Sergeant McGee leading them – came riding to join. So, it was with a thundering tail of twelve men and one woman, the large Lieutenant Miranda, that Sam kicked Difficult through a last deep drift to lunge out along the iron ranks of Butler's Heavy Infantry.