As Havnar watched, another corpse—

painfully small, a child—

was laid in the churning river

by a taller figure. Father? Uncle?

Havnar turned away from the sight,

bowed to their guest, King Xau.

“Eighty more of my cavalry have arrived.”

“Good. The horses to take turns.

Sixty horses for one hour. Then sixty more,”

Xau said in fractured Ritan.

“You’ll take breaks too,” said Havnar.

“Come out of the river and warm up

while my men ready fresh horses.”

Xau gestured and one of his guards—

the savage with armbands and braided hair—

stepped forward.

“Our guard Atun,” said Xau,

“to be in charge of the horses.”

Havnar reined back a retort

that the man was uncivilized.

“He doesn’t know my men.

Does he even speak Ritan?”

“No. He understands horses.

Atun to be in charge.”

Havnar shrugged.

One more thing beyond his control.

He was helpless without Xau.

Havnar’s own men unable

to persuade so much as one horse

into the churning brown water.

And yet the horses had followed Xau,

had lined up across the ford,

bracing each other for support,

a chain of horses along which refugees

had inched their way to safety.

Havnar called his cavalry captain over,

introduced him to Atun. Whilst he did so,

Xau took off his jacket, his tunic,

passed them to another of his guards,

stood there in the drenching rain.

Havnar frowned.

Xau was brave, no question of that.

Bravery not the same as judgment.

Xau had spent half the night in the river,

had pushed himself close to collapse.

Havnar had commanded too many young men

who’d hurled themselves at danger

without weighing the risk.

He put his hand on Xau’s bare arm.

“If you feel ill, stop.

Get straight out of the water.”

Xau looked away,

looked across the river,

said, “They are dying over there.”

Sharp as pain that moment,

knowing Xau understood the risk

that he was taking.

He stood by the young king

and stared at the small figures

waiting on the far side.

NOT LIKE THIS

Not like this,

it wasn’t meant to be like this:

rain, wind, water, night,

King Xau staggering

out of the churning river

beside a staggering, stricken horse,

the horse’s foreleg spurting blood,

skin hanging in ribbons;

Atun examining the mare

by wavering torchlight,

shaking his head;

the look the king gave him then.

Like this,

it was meant to be like this:

Atun, one of King Xau’s guards,

accompanying king, queen, princeling

on a state visit to Ritany,

his bow ready but unneeded,

the arrow of his life

flown straight.

Not like this:

their visit to Ritany

coinciding with its worst flood

in three hundred years;

refugees struggling mile on mile to the ford,

but the river fickle, furious, fast,

too powerful to cross

even at the ford,

the Ritan army overmatched,

King Xau and his guards

trying to help.

How the world should be:

as it was, seven years ago,

when eighteen hundred wild horses

followed the king from the hills