of a single faultless form—

a thing out of legend,

out of the old times

when dragons flew to King Nariz

and demons walked the earth—

the stench,

the pounding of hooves, of Qiang’s pulse,

as he rode beside the king,

as the enemy charged full at them—

And stopped.

Every horse in the Red King’s army

rooted to the spot

though their riders kicked them.

Whereupon the Red King,

red-haired and red-handed in war,

screamed in his barbarous language.

And then the enemy had slaughtered

their own horses,

slitting their necks,

the horses floundering in blood—

Qiang looked at the advisor and said,

“If it were my decision,

I wouldn’t test the horses.

I would let them be.”

“Even if inaction now leads to defeat later?”

“Even then.”

Into the stretching silence,

the king spoke:

“What happened with the horses

is not a trick to practice and parade,

but a gift. A gift the horses gave.

A gift for which many of them died.”

The king’s gaze rested on Qiang, anchoring him.

Qiang touched his hand to his heart,

offered it palm-up to the king,

a gesture Qiang had never made before,

the sign of allegiance of warriors

in the old tales.

The tent crowded with men,

but for that moment

only the two of them.

TRAINING: RUNNING

On their ninth day back

within their own borders,

Tsung, captain of King Xau’s guards,

watched that king run round and round

the fort’s largest room,

a set look on the boy’s face,

a look that held nothing

of triumph.

(Three battles. Three victories.

The invaders routed.)

At length, Tsung called out, “Enough!”

Xau dipped his head to Tsung, but said,

“We would run further.”

“You have run enough. Rest.

Let Leong examine your shoulder.”

The barest pause—

a fraction of a fraction of a breath—

Tsung holding the boy’s gaze,

aware that Xau wished to defy him—

but before the other guards took notice,

Xau bowed low to Tsung.

The boy ran from something,

that much Tsung perceived.

Not Tsung’s place to ask

what that might be.

His duty only to serve his king

as long as the boy allowed him.

His duty and his pride.

WHAT XAU RAN FROM

The sound of battle—

drum rolls, the blare of trumpets;

battle cries, screams, groans, pleas;

metal clashing metal.

The soldiers who died for him.

Quick or slow. The horses.

Bones, teeth, shit, blood.

The stench.

The man, after, in the surgeon’s tent,

half-choking on his own blood,

but beaming wide, because Xau

clasped his hand. His red grin.

How Xau’s soldiers cheered

when he rode back, victorious—

No. Not their cheers,

but how he’d liked it.

THE QUEEN’S WAR

A short war.

Thirty-one days

from when King Xau

rode away from her

to the day she learned

of his victory.

Thirty-one days

that Shazia ran the palace

as if unafraid,

juggling ministers,

ambassadors, servants

with deft assurance,

ensuring palace and city alike

were fully provisioned

in case of siege.

A long war.