He walked up to RavenSong as the man admired his handsome new horse and his warrior scalped the fallen don and musketeer. They grasped hands and Jay knew it was over for the chief. The rest was personal, between Jay and Don Enrique. “See ya later ole boy. I got dis.”

RavenSong stepped back and went to one knee and sang a brief song. Jay was touched in the heart over this, and helped the lean older warrior to his feet. They hugged, he turned and clasped hands with the warrior and handed off his bow and arrows and was off up the track at a run.

Within a mile he had them in sight. He could tell that the pike-man was a real good runner, and was now trailing the big charger that carried the fat don. Don Enrique would not be fat by 21st Century standards. But he probably went 200 pounds at only five feet and ten inches. That load was going to tell on that horse; and that was a heck of a horse. He was a big black charger with huge hooves. The thing was like a Clydesdale, like something that a knight would ride. It was a lot bigger than King Phillip.

With the load that this horse was carrying Jay figured he should be able to run it down in a mile or two, but, the snow was really telling on Jay’s legs, and seemed to affect the horse far less than him and the pike-man struggling in its wake. Jay knew that the run was slightly up hill all the way to the Susquehanna. He settled down for a long jog, and would just dog them for the next six hours before he turned up the heat. The pike-man had cut down his pike to a six-foot length and discarded his sword and breast-plate.

A determined foe is good for the soul. This will be a run to remember!

They ran slow through the late morning, hard through the afternoon, and slow again as they neared the heights above the Susquehanna below which Havre de Grace would have been in the 21st Century. The horse had stopped sweating [what Duty called ‘a lather’. The don was bleeding from the ass and sweating hard. The pike-man was drenched in sweat and had vomited three times, the last mostly blood, phlegm and bile.

Push it now!

When he crested the ridgeline he broke into a run, his blade still reversed and gripped by the ricasso in his left hand. He could hear wood creaking at a distance, even as the gentle lapping of the bay slapped the hard muddy banks.

No! You can’t let this coward take ship! Pump those legs hillbilly!

He broke from the wood-line running like a madman. In the distance, across the heavy river was a Spanish mission, a nice log cabin version of the Alamo he thought. To his right spread out the bay, and on it, a fleet of many large warships flying a flag that was not Spanish or English. This perplexed him, because other than the Stars-and-stripes, Stars-and-bars, and Rising Sun, he did not know what any of the other national flags looked like, either now or in the future.

Oh yeah, they’re Dutch.

A small boat bobbed toward the mission from the flagship, where some small robed figures stood awaiting it on the riverbank—the very bank toward which Don Enrique, whipping his big black charger savagely, was headed. The big beast was barely keeping its head above water as it struggled against the current. Jay wanted nothing more than to catch this man and pull him off of that horse to drown. But, a man that was really a hero was standing with his back to his fleeing commander, on the hard muddy bank, leveling his shortened pike as Jay charged maniacally at the stalwart soldier.

Just before he impaled himself on the pike head, Jay beat it with a lateral roof block and crashed into the battle-hardened foot soldier. As they wrestled both of their helmets came unsnapped and rolled off into the lapping inch-deep murk. He sat out and turned in and slapped a knee-bar on the man. This soldier came from a society where ‘tapping’ was not even a sports convention. He just grunted and ground his teeth as Jay separated his knee.

He rose and grabbed both weapons. He drove the head of the pike into the bank and placed his helmet on it. He then returned his claymore to its scabbard and strapped it to his back and kicked off his moccasins. The bearded battle-scarred soldier looked up at Jay in wonder, surprised that he was not being killed.

Jay saluted the man where he lay and then let out a roar as he charged into the river and swam for all he was worth. It was so cold he could not feel a thing. He could have sworn that his testicles and penis had shrunken to microscopic proportions. He did not, however, feel hypothermic. His heart and lungs were pumping like a primed heat engine. He felt like a tireless hydraulic pump.

Each time he pulled his head to the right to suck in air under his arm he caught a glimpse of the fleet—even thought he heard men yelling. After what seemed ages he heard a horse whine and snort up ahead. Then his fingers scrapped mud and rock. He lowered his legs and began to high-step slowly so he would not ruin an ankle. As the north wind blew the sheets of water from his naked body and the sun died in the west he could see Don Enrique freeing himself from beneath his fallen warhorse. The horse was struggling to rise but could not, and the rich bastard didn’t have a care for the animal, was just crawling away from it and drawing his sword.

The clap of oars was heard to his right, as were some English words. Spanish words were heard ahead to his right as robed figures approached. He had no time for these. He focused only on Don Enrique; his fear and urine smell and his staggered breath. The don, giving up all hope of escape, finally turned and faced him with rapier leveled. Jay drew the claymore and retained the scabbard in his off hand to use as a beater. The horse snorted and he was moved to speak between ragged heaving breaths of his own, “His name… the horse’s name?”

Don Enrique cast his fine hat aside and said with all of the pomposity he could muster, “He is El Cid, a finer horse than any, and a nobler beast than you heathen!”