and rode past sunset.

Wind, water, mud, rain—

the last light lingering in the west

when they climbed the ridge

overlooking the ford,

the wide river swollen,

the plain across the river flooded.

Diminished shapes of survivors

struggled toward the ford

where thousands of people

already stood, stranded, sodden,

on the far side of the river.

Water, mud, rain, wind—

Memnor, King of Ritany,

gray-haired and great-hearted,

ruler of that underwater plain,

rode down the ridge to the ford

followed by sixty of his cavalry

and his guest, King Xau,

who had offered his help,

though it seemed unlikely

that Xau and his guards

could make much difference,

the scale of the disaster inhuman.

Mud, rain, wind, water—

Memnor’s horse refused to put one hoof

into the churning brown water,

so Memnor dismounted and strode in,

the cold water pummeling him.

He made it thirty yards,

thigh-deep, fighting for balance,

before he turned round.

Rain, wind, water, mud—

Memnor waded back to his soldiers

beneath the darkening October sky.

Wind whipped his wet hair.

His guest, King Xau,

only twenty-four years old

yet already burnished with legends,

dismounted and joined him.

Memnor turned to Havnar,

his army commander (and more than that),

a muscled man with a shaven scalp.

“What can you do?”

“Nothing until the main army reaches us.”

Havnar shrugged, his habitual response.

Memnor gazed across the water

at his stranded people.

A man on the far side

waded into the river toward them.

Partway across, hip-deep,

the man was knocked off his feet.

The man’s head bobbed up once, twice,

before Memnor lost all sight of him.

“Ropes?” asked Memnor.

“Ropes are with the supply train.”

Havnar wore the same look he’d worn,

years ago, when his soldiers

were dying of a fever.

King Xau said, “Perhaps the horses.”

Memnor looked at him sharply.

He didn’t point out that his own horse

had refused to set foot in the river.

He’d heard the tales about Xau—

demon-killer, dragonslayer,

he who tamed wild horses.

Tales were usually exaggerated,

but Xau had always struck him

as levelheaded.

Xau said, “If the horses stand,

each bracing each, a rope of horses,

people to walk beside them.”

Xau gestured as he spoke,

compensating for his awkward grammar

(just as well since the translator

was back with the supply train).

A rope, or chain, of horses

lined up across the river,

the horses anchoring each other,

people wading, holding onto them.

Perhaps.

Havnar shrugged. “I doubt it’s possible.”

“It’s all we have,” said Memnor.

Xau nodded. “We are not sure your horses

to do this for us. May we try with him?”

Xau laid his hand on Havnar’s horse,

a sturdy brown gelding.

Havnar shrugged again. “Go ahead.”

Xau unsaddled the horse,

handed the saddle to one of his guards,

walked the horse into the river.

Through the rain and dark

it was hard to make him out

when he paused, over halfway across,

turned the horse, came back.

Memnor stepped forward