higher than any arrow’s flight,

vultures surveyed King Xau

and his guards and the horse warriors

as they rode for the desert.

The beast,

deep in his desert lair,

spied through the vultures’ eyes,

men and horses clear but tiny:

miniature figures inching

across the landscape,

one hundred and eight men

with four horses apiece.

Three times the beast dispatched

squadrons of his cavalry

to kill them.

Three times the beast witnessed

his soldiers thrown from their horses,

watched the traitorous horses gallop

to his enemy,

saw the miniature figure

of the enemy king sway, unsteady,

on his horse.

Three times,

and after the third time

the small figure of the king

could not sit his horse

without one of his guards

riding double behind him

for the rest of the day,

and this the beast noted carefully.

The beast brooded then:

eight hundred of his cavalry left,

should he send them against Xau now,

perhaps disable the king?

Or order them into the desert

to garrison his lair?

In his agitation,

the beast used up half his toys

(men, women, children)

their torment balm to his doubts.

Only sixty soldiers at his lair—

trusted deputies,

double-bound both by his power

and their own dark inclinations—

sixty soldiers too few

to defeat Xau’s horse warriors.

Thus the beast sent his cavalry

speeding toward his lair,

watched from the birds’ high view

as the tiny figures of his enemies

advanced toward him.

DESERT

On the night of the half moon,

King Xau and his guards

and the horse warriors

reached the desert’s edge.

Not the desert’s sandy heart

but a stark plateau

of pebble and rock and stone

and stunted prickled plants.

They rode through the night,

startled small creatures—

lizard, snake, scorpion, beetle—

rode on into the dawning day.

Rode until the air scorched them,

retreated beneath white awnings,

sharing their shelter

with their horses.

For three days they rode

by night, by dawn, by dusk,

rode beneath a breadth of sky

that stretched unbroken.

The king sent his will

ahead of him as he rode,

reaching for the enemy’s horses,

entreating them to leave the desert.

Rode without knowing

whether the horses heard him,

whether they heeded him,

whether they were even there.

On the fourth day, sand.

Ripples, waves, hills, mountains.

Sand in clothes, hair, nose,

mouth, eyes. Constant.

Day six, the spring on the map

dried up. Waterskins emptying.

Day seven, a second dry spring.

Waterskins empty.

On the eighth day,

a lake rimmed by date palms.

Every horse, every man

shoulder-deep in water.

WATER

“Better than getting drunk,”

said a horse warrior,

shoulder-deep in the lake,

a scarf draped over his head.

“Better than a horse race,”

said another, gulping water

from his cupped hands.

“Better than sleep,”

said a warrior who’d stood guard

last time they rested.

“Your turn,” said Leong,

prodding King Xau,

who stood in the water

with the rest of them,

men and horses alike.

“Better than pickled cucumbers,” said Xau.

“Pickled cucumbers?!” Leong snorted.