were going to follow suit.

He passed one of his cavalrymen

still standing, uncertain, beside his horse:

his horse that still refused to move.

Donal swung round and killed the horse himself.

Horse blood dripped from his sword,

his gauntlet, his greaves.

Enough. Time to talk peace, to play at truces,

then go back home and recalculate.

There would be other years to fight Xau,

to kill the fucking Horse Boy

and end his fucking legend.

SURGEON

Hurried across the tent, distracted,

wiping blood from his hands, his arms,

bowed as he walked past King Xau—

the king had visited the wounded

after each battle, chatting now

to the man with fractured tibia, lacerations—

walked past, but Tsung,

captain of the king’s guards,

stepped in his path: “The king is hurt.”

The king, seated by the injured man,

glanced up at the surgeon:

“We will wait our turn.”

“Your turn is now,” said the surgeon.

That much clear to everyone in the tent

except the king himself.

He appraised the king before touching him:

color good, breath uneven,

a boy of seventeen, not yet full grown.

He took the king’s pulses,

both wrists, the twelve positions,

bared his left shoulder (dislocated, bruised).

Five tries to correct the shoulder joint,

the boy’s color poor by the end,

hardly surprising.

But it did surprise the surgeon

that the king refused a sleeping draft,

refused to retire to his own tent,

that he stayed all night, talking to the men;

the war won, but half the injured

never to return home.

THE MATTER OF THE HORSES

General Qiang stood in King Xau’s tent

with the king’s other generals

and the king’s advisors

and the king’s guards

and the king’s serving boy

and the king himself,

the tent crowded with men,

rank with sweat.

The young king sat on a stool,

his left arm in a sling,

a grimness about him

that matched Qiang’s own mood

though the war was over,

the victory theirs,

the king’s advisors jubilant.

Qiang hadn’t slept last night.

Had tried to sleep. Failed.

Yesterday’s battle still with him.

The horses. Mud, rain, blood.

In the tent, the talk moved

to the matter of the horses,

to how it could be exploited

for conquest.

“No,” said the king.

One word enough to quiet the tent.

“We do not crave conquest.”

“Even so,” said an advisor,

“we should test the limits

of your control over the horses,

the better to employ it for defense.”

The advisor turned to Qiang.

“General, how would you proceed?”

Qiang looked at the advisor,

a man who’d never fought a single battle,

who’d sheltered in a tent yesterday,

warm and dry,

while rain cascaded from Qiang’s saddle, his armor,

turning earth and horse-shit to stinking mud,

Qiang riding on the king’s right

(the king, injured, unable to hold a shield,

but still riding),

Qiang’s horse maneuvering beneath him

before he even gave the commands,

all the horses in perfect unison

as if they were a thousand shadows