CROSSING

Who saw them raft over the river,

three hours before daybreak?

Who saw their half-darked lanterns

glimmer on helmet and shield?

The heron in the reeds,

the crane startled to air.

Who heard the drip of oars,

water dropping on water?

Who heard the horses nicker,

the jangle of bridles?

The otter curled in her holt,

the rat warm in his burrow.

PIGEON SIX

Pigeon Six: no rank,

no name beyond her number,

but she the soldier sent

with news of the invasion.

Pigeon Six: no honors,

her message all that mattered

to any but the pigeon-girl

who cleaned her empty perch.

SETTING OUT

Ten men, ten horses, hooves ringing

on the straight street from the capital,

day brightening about them—

Half his army at the Innish border,

but King Xau himself eight days away

even if he rode from dawn to dusk,

changing horses at every way-fort—

Half his army might be lost in eight days:

Xau tried to turn that thought aside.

Failed. He should have been there.

Should have set out weeks ago—

Ten men, ten horses, no baggage

but swords, bows, arrows, knives;

day warming about them—

Ten men: Xau should have set out weeks ago,

would not waste more time shepherding

the valets, aides, scribes, cook (a cook!)

that his steward thought his rank demanded—

Ten men: Xau, his personal guards,

and Khyert, lately a stableboy,

now promoted to factotum:

valet, aide, groom all in one—

Ten men, ten horses, no armor,

no tents, no grain, no time:

the day hastening by—

Xau looked at Khyert riding beside him.

The boy beamed back, eyes bright.

If any harm came to Khyert

that, too, would be Xau’s fault—

Time wasted negotiating with envoys

who’d been sent to waste his time.

Half his army now at risk

and nothing Xau could do but ride.

THIRTY-EIGHTH WAR BETWEEN INNIS AND MEQING
FIRST BATTLE

Before:

Waiting. Listening to the veterans brag,

the captain’s bad jokes.

Lunch (stew), but Brennan couldn’t eat,

him being, it turned out, a coward.

Waiting.

Packing up for the night.

Equipping in the morning.

Bowl, cup, spoon, shield, sling, stones, knife.

Waiting.

Moving camp. (No one told Brennan why.)

Waiting.

Rain. Sent to the tents to sit

in steaming sweaty smelly damp.

Day after day after day waiting.

Battle:

King Donal shouted,

“Kill the fucking Horse Boy!”

Drums, trumpets, horns

as the captain led the slingers

toward the enemy’s left flank.

Arrows, crossbolts whirred overhead,

thunked into flesh

as Brennan ran from side to side

to confuse anyone

who might be shooting at him,

certain he was about to be hit.

He chose a target, an archer—

black hair, wide nose, dark eyes—

scared-looking—

scared as Brennan, who balked,

couldn’t aim at that scared face.

He sent the stone wide,

saw the archer’s gloved hand release,

saw the man’s dark eyes—

Brennan swallowed bile,

zigzagged, slung stone after stone,

not aiming, throwing wildly.

Worthless.

Useless.

Off to his right, Diarmid screamed,

clutched at a crossbolt in his thigh,