and hugged the younger man,

surprising both of them.

Mud, water, wind, rain—

a chain of horses across the ford,

people struggling through the water,

clinging to the horses.

Soldiers in the water with them,

carrying children.

Rain, mud, water, wind—

Memnor helped people—his people—

up the ridge, many of them crying,

all of them exhausted, cold, hungry,

yet those who could helping

the children, the elderly,

so that Memnor’s heart swelled

with pride and love for all of them,

for the whole soggy expanse of Ritany.

Wind, rain, mud, water—

two hours in, Memnor shook with cold

as he ordered the soldiers

to rotate and take breaks.

Havnar strode over

and handed him a mug of soup.

Memnor drank the soup,

standing by Havnar,

shoulders touching,

no need of words

after all these years.

Water, wind, rain, mud—

four hours in, Memnor estimated

half the people had crossed the ford.

Progress, but not fast enough.

The surgeon thought many

would die by morning without shelter.

“Half done,” he said to Havnar.

Havnar surprised him by frowning

instead of giving his habitual shrug.

“King Xau’s half done too.

He won’t leave the horses,

but he can scarcely stand.”

“Would the horses stay without him?”

Havnar did shrug this time.

“I doubt it. The horses look at him

like he’s their foal—no, their leader.”

Memnor peered into rainswept dark,

shook his head. “Get across the river.

Send the small children first,

then the babies and nursing mothers,

then the elderly. If there’s time.”

Havnar shrugged and went.

Mud, water, wind, rain—

most of the children over.

Two horses lost down the river,

the other horses struggling.

Memnor waded into the water himself,

stopped in the middle by Xau,

who looked three quarters dead,

the current pushing both of them

against the wet black flank

of one of the horses.

Memnor gripped Xau’s arm.

“We’re done until morning.”

Xau mumbled something

that Memnor couldn’t decipher,

and pointed at the people

waiting to cross.

The horse edged its head round,

rubbing its cheek against Xau.

Xau looked at the horse,

its nostrils flared,

sides heaving, and nodded.

“The horses are tired.”

Water, wind, rain, mud—

all the horses out of the river,

Xau clinging to a horse for support.

Memnor exchanged a look

with one of Xau’s guards,

and then the two men

hoisted Xau up between them

and carried him to the surgeon’s tent.

Wind, rain, mud, water—

Memnor, too old for nights like this,

checked on his soldiers,

checked on Xau (fast asleep under two blankets

and the watchful gaze of his guards),

walked down to the river,

pissed into the rushing water,

then walked back up to the tent

where Havnar waited for him.

A CHAIN OF HORSES

Too little sleep,

too much beyond his control.

Havnar, commander of King Memnor’s army,

stared across the ford’s foaming fury.

Thousands of refugees still stranded

on the far side of the river,

more straggling to join them.

No shelter, rain pouring down.