Mitchell Smith - Kingdom River

So, the proper horse was one problem; the full suit of mail was itself the other problem. No man, not even a very strong man, wished to wear it day and night.

Bandits, probably, high in the mountains above the pass. A spear-tip or sword-blade flashing an instant in the sun. Too far south, too many days south, now, for any interference by the northerners. They wouldn't have more than a few hundred Light Cavalry left at This'll Do. Would have been busy for a day or so just burying their dead. And wouldn't have had time to bring more than… say, a headquarters' detachment down through Please Pass to follow.

"Unlikely," Rodriguez said.

"Sir?"

"I said, 'Unlikely.' But just in case" – a favorite Warm-time phrase of his father's – "just in case, have Third Squadron fall out and arm."

"Sir." Captain Reyes saluted with a cadet-school flourish, showed off with a rearing turn, and galloped back along the files. Fair enough, the man was a fine horseman – unlike, say, a certain nearly-plump Indian, who nevertheless had won a victory.

Almost a sand-glass later by the sun's shadow across the narrow pass, and deep into an afternoon now truly warm, his guidon-bearer, Julio Gomez, saw steel glittering on the steep mountainside above them – and properly called it out.

There was, as Rodriguez had quickly discovered, a sadness nesting amid the pleasures of command. It was the sadness of knowing – knowing more than his officers and men. Knowing unpleasant things they did not yet know.

– Such as realizing immediately that this second conveniently revealed sparkle of steel was deliberate, meant to provoke him to action, and so, was no affair of bandits, but a military matter.

Which therefore meant that some of the northerners had followed him down. And since no local commander would have taken the remarkable risk, after a lost battle, of pursuing days deep into imperial country – certainly riding day and night to do so, certainly killing horses to do so – and with what must be a modest force of the few troops at hand, it meant as well that this northern commander was probably the commander, Monroe himself.

Rodriguez felt chilled and hot at once. Chilled, because such determination, such an extraordinary pursuit of several days south, was frankly a surprise, and disturbing. But hot as well, at the notion of doubling a triumph and bringing to Mexico City not one victory, but two. And the head of Sam Monroe.

He stood in his stirrups, turned, and called for Captain Reyes. It was going to be… it was going to be all right. This pass, Boca Chica, was narrow, its sides much too steep for cavalry to come down on his flanks. So, whether the northerners maneuvered in front of him as the pass widened, or tried to attack from the rear, the result would be the same. His people would hammer them, ride them down.

The colonel saw Captain Reyes cantering to him for orders… and felt the early autumn wind's caress as a promise of victory.

"He's armed a squadron – no, he's arming all his people down there." On the mountainside, Howell Voss sat slumped on a sweated horse, a remount. He'd left his wonderful Adelante wind-broken and dying two days back, as they'd left other horses his troopers had ridden to death on the fast chase south through these mountains. A brutal cost in fine animals. They had no fresh mounts left.

Beside him, Sam Monroe sat his horse, a weary sore-backed bay, looked down the mountainside's steep slope, and said, "Perfect."

In the narrow defile below, the cataphracts were lifting their heavy folds of chain-mail from the pack-horses' duffels, shaking them out, wrestling into them, fastening latches and buckles. Then, weighty, lumbering to their chargers to dress them in oiled jingling steel skirts.

" 'Perfect'? I don't see how this is going to get done at all." Voss leaned from his saddle to spit thirst's cotton. His empty eye-socket itched, as always when sweat ran into it under the patch. "We've got only Headquarters' Heavies, that's two hundred and fifty of my troopers – and what's left of Ned's Lights fit to fight, another two, three hundred."

"Yes."

"Sam, there are maybe seven hundred cataphracts down there."

"Seven hundred and fourteen."

"Our people are tired, and our horses – the ones we have left – are even tireder from chasing these imperials for almost a fucking Warm-time week."

"So?"

"Sir, go down there, I'd say we're asking for another cavalry disaster."

Sam smiled at him. "That's what I'd say, too, Howell, where cavalry's concerned. But what we have down there, to quote old Elvin, is 'an infantry situation.' "

"We're not infantry."

Sam swung off his horse. "Ah – but we're going to be."

"Pass begins to widen up ahead," Rodriguez said, "past the next turn of rock." Captain Reyes stood in his stirrups to look.

"Scouts out, sir?"

"To report what, Captain? That the pass widens slightly past the turn, as we know it widens? That the enemy has come down and is waiting, as they surely are?… Now, I want our formations shaken out into ranks three deep across this Boca, wall to wall. Third Squadron to reverse order and hold in place farther back up the pass to cover the rear. If any of the northern cavalry – and it must be cavalry to have caught up with us – if any have followed down the pass, Davila is to immediately charge and strike them."

"Yes, sir."

"He is not to wait for my command."

"Understood."

"If most, or all their force, has come from the hills and is waiting before us – Mother Mary, please make it so – we will charge them in march order. First Squadron, then Second in support, if there's anyone left to ride over."

"Yes, sir."

"Pass those orders – and see they are understood, Tomas."

"I will!" A fine salute – and another sample of horsemanship as he turned and galloped away on the gray… Man was a pleasant fellow, but really an ass.

Soon enough, another rider came up. Major Moro – practically elderly, and would never be more than a major. Very dark, too, well named Moro.

"Am I to suppose, Colonel, that this time Reyes got an order right? My squadron remains as marching, and first for the charge if the cabrons come down to meet us?"

"That is exactly right," Rodriguez said. "And be careful of your language, Major. The angels may be watching us, now."

Major Moro made a face. "It is those things from the north the angels need to watch, and carry their filthy souls away!"

"Absolutely." Rodriguez crossed himself to seal that truth. "The orders are as given. Now, get back to your men."

Moro saluted and was gone.

The pass was turning… opening. Two long bow-shots, now – no more.

Rodriguez held up his right hand. First Squadron's trumpeter immediately blew three short, rising notes – and the colonel heard, behind him, more than two troops of heavy-armored cavalry spur to the trot, horses' hooves beginning a rhythmic hammer, draped chain-mail making soft music as they came.

Proud of them, he said to himself, certain such pride was forgivable. The pass was turning. Turning. An edge, a sliver of open grassland was becoming visible past the mountain's slope. Steel sparkled against that hint of green.

Rodriguez reined Salsa far to the right – his guidon-bearer, Gomez, following – to clear Moro's men for the charge.

Called commands… Then First Squadron began to wheel in stately turn to the left, ranks in good order as the pivot files slowed. It swung ponderously out into the pass's mouth; Salsa, champing his bit, was shouldered into the Boca's rough wall as the right-flank ranks rode by.

No mounted troopers were waiting at the pass's narrow entrance. No horses.