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…