But Anji, Joss saw, had already ridden on in his own mind. He’d concocted a new plan, and like the others, Joss found himself wondering, waiting, and hoping.

“The oil of naya will find its use. But we don’t want to scatter them. We want to kill them. Here’s what we’ll do.”

FOR THE REST of the day, eagles ran sweeps over the enemy but raised no alert. Again, the sun surrendered the sky to the brilliant stars. With night, the winch turned and the ferry moved out into the channel, piled high with wooden furniture and bales of old hay, drenched with a bit of oil and a lot of lard. From the bank, Joss listened for and thought he heard the faint plops of villagers rolling off the back, each trio hauling a bundle of spears and poles. As the raft neared the deep channel, it burst into flame so bright that Joss blinked back tears. The winch cranked a few more times. Shouts rose from the far shore as arrows whistled across the water, many consumed by the fire. The raft blazed, rocked by the streaming current, a bright distraction as the swimmers did their best to drive poles into the shallows. They finished their work as the flames began to die. One by one, they emerged on shore. When the count was made, one had gone missing, but no one knew if he’d drowned, lost heart and fled downstream, or swum across to warn the enemy.

For a while longer the raft glowed and the enemy did not react.

Then their rafts hit the water. The splash and slop of poles in the water and occasional words of encouragement or barked obscenities bounced off the surface to carry farther, perhaps, than intended. Beside Joss, a youth crouched on the shore, carefully piling stones and moistening the straps of his sling by sucking on the leather.

As the rafts entered the channel and picked up speed, arrows arced out from the rafts, most dropping harmlessly in the water while a few peppered the shore. Anji’s troops, even the raw village recruits, held position behind their own crude shields of planks or sturdy wicker.

The rafts angled toward shore. A thunk sounded from the lead raft as its bottom caught on one of the submerged poles. The four Qin soldiers lit pitch-stained arrows and loosed them at the first raft, then at a second and third that, scraping on poles, swirled in the current. Fire spurted. Panicked men shouted. Rafts rocked, and bodies tumbled into the river.

“On your left,” Joss shouted to mark a swimmer paddling desperately into the shallows. Arrows followed him until his stroke ceased and his corpse floated away, borne on the current.

One group of six men made the shallows and, banding together, used a pair of wicker shields and their spears to push onto shore. Ten Olossi militiamen closed in a disciplined group to confront them, trying to drive them back. Menard had crafted a long pole with a thickly knotted rope fastening a club to one end, and driven bits of jagged metal into the club. Coming up on the flank of the militia, he hefted the flail and, grunting, swung it. The club crashed down twice on enemy shields, which shuddered but did not splinter. Again the old man raised the flail, but this time as he stretched, an arrow caught him in the belly and a javelin’s bite drove him back. He fell, tried to raise himself, and collapsed. With a scream of rage, one of the village lads hoisted the flail and waded forward, club swinging so wildly that the Olossi militia men cried out both in warning and in laughter as the lad broke apart the enemy.