They conduct me between two large boulders as the path begins to curve around to the high place overlooking the one end of the town. I see a few tents bowed by the water, and the rags and ends of many others there; the camp is littered with trash. Enemy soldiers look up from their shooting places among the rocks, where most of them lie flat under grey sheets. Rain is gathering in a broad ribbon, widening to sheathe the end of the path before frothing over the edge and down the slope through a rough, fresh notch in the rim. The soil is crumbling as the water saws away at it. A bit of surprise keeps the fear from flashing too strongly over me as we come into camp—there are no more than a dozen or so of them. The rest have gone—I can see their tracks, the flat grooves the cartwheels left now bubbling with rain. These skirmishers remain to hold us down and convince us the enemy are massed on the heights, while the bulk of their number are already on their way and are now between Vscriathjadze and us.

Inside a spacious tent the rain has made into a drum, a man lies groaning on a cot. One of my guards talks to me and points at the man. He turns and puts my pack on table, sifting roughly through its contents. After a hasty inspection, he pulls out the sharper implements then shoves the pack into my hands and points to the wounded man. I don’t want to have to put up with his injuries or his weary suffering any more than they do; I set to work at once.

They must have no medical officer: they won’t kill me. But will they drag me away with them?

I finish, I do a good job. The guard who handed me my pack is gone. The one I presume to be the one to walk behind me sits now on a box by a lamp, elbows on knees, tired eyes on me. Pale-sallow, with a high square forehead tucked into the black visor, honey-brown hair, aristocratic looking nose. The first soldier returns and roots around in some boxes, festoons of water gushing from him. He’s removing bundles wrapped in rough fabric and tucking them under his arms. Suddenly he turns and crosses the tent in three strides, leaning sideways from the waist to peer down at the injured man, whose groans have subsided. He stares at my eyes sticking his finger into my face and speaks harshly to me, his voice so hoarse he can’t stop it breaking. He speaks Tauride, not Yeseg, but there is one word with a shock I know. It’s “narrator.”

The first soldier storms out with only a glance at his companion by the flap, who has not moved nor shifted her eyes from me. Naturally, they will have their own narrators. Soldiers come in and out for blankets or rain gear, as the water begins to fall hard again. They are not hostile, and pay me no more attention than seems necessary. Drawn anxious features stretched over their skulls is all I see. I’m a nuisance to them.