The Clappers suddenly call congregate. The shooting has stopped. Only now do I realize it has been over for a while. My ears are ringing.

Men are timidly emerging from cover and gathering in the flat spot where the road forks. Makemin and Nikhinoch stand there impatiently. As I approach, and the lieutenant, looking grim, comes behind me, the captain strides up lightly but out of breath and reports to Makemin, pointing down the path. Makemin nods. Presently I hear him asking after Saskia. I point down the path myself, explaining where she went. Makemin frowns and pulls the havelock from his helmet angrily wadding it in his hands. I can’t yet follow entirely what is being discussed—I look back and see one of the blackbirds scrambling at the top of the declivity on the path ahead. Before I can cry out, I see him slip and drop. When he emerges from the stones among which he fell, he is staggering in obvious pain and clutching his right arm. Saskia appears at the top of the declivity and shouts. The enemy soldier sees her and flees, heading down to the base of the slope. She is on him, but ungainly, colliding with him she knocks him to the path, where he falls on his side. Saskia, regaining her balance, strides up to him and kicks him in the stomach hard enough I can hear it all these yards away.

She kicks, kicks again. I am running toward them. She kicks him mechanically, and steadily. With each kick I see blood spurt from his lips two feet. I call to her to stop, but nothing changes.

Now she stops, and walks a little down the path, picks up his hat and tears the emblem from it, pockets the emblem. I am at his side now. His ghostly pulse gives out beneath my fingers.

“What’s the matter with you?!” I shout at her as she walks to Makemin, passing me. No sign that she hears me. The features on the ground are so badly broken no amount of mental effort could reassemble them into a face; not a real face.

I follow her back.

Makemin is fuming.

“That’s the last time you run off on your own!” he says harshly. She seems not to mind him. Her front is butcher-bloody from her head to her feet; she seems winded. Makemin inclines his head and seems to gather up her gaze.

“And we need prisoners, you understand?”

Saskia purses and unpurses her lips and nods wearily, putting her hand to her head. Makemin sends scouts forward and continues to gather the men; I gather the casualties.

“How many?” I am asked.

“Sixteen dead, eight injured, don’t know how many minor hurts yet.”

“We leave the injured here with two of the asylum soldiers to tend them. Silichieh will erect the tent. You select the two attendants, tell them what to do and supply them. Make certain you strip the injured and give their supplies to Nikhinoch. Get your funeral friends to strip and burn the bodies.”