I was still there, and I saw him carefully aim his rifle at the bent back of the first one, the one who had called to us from below, and fire. That one spun in place as his back erupted. I caught a brief glimpse of his shattered ribs. He’d given a belching cry, blood fountaining in his throat, and his knees had buckled, dropping him onto the rock. I saw Makemin shoot the other one right after—that second one only half turned when it hit him, and then slumped to the ground, his outstretched leg fluttering. Another bullet nearly split the first one in half. His abdomen exploded like a marrow bone being burst open. He went limp at once. I saw the head of the second one leap. The fluttering of his leg stopped as Makemin’s fourth bullet lanced through his brain and spread the pulp against the base of the stone.

Today, Makemin is teaching me a good lesson about narrating.

Have I explained it? It was murder.

*

We left the path once the rocks thinned out and we were within the ring of fortifications on the slopes, plunging headlong down toward the city. Makemin is determined to get down among the buildings before daylight reveals our presence there, or at least exposes us and our position.

I am determined to get away from Makemin. I can’t run from the Predicanten, but I might hide from them in town. Maybe find a different unit—they wouldn’t care about that, would they? There is no way away for me on land or in town, but the town gives on the sea, and that way I might escape.

I hear a moan ripple through the soldiers around and ahead of me. The grey smoke and the buzzing shot fold around us again. We fling ourselves headlong down the slope. Cries all around me—men flash by in the dark, falling or tumbling down the steep—a confusion of shots—I am running, pass men kneeling and firing off to my left. I still have to attend to any wounded man I find, but I am not searching, only running, looking only along my path. Snap of a shot against a stone not two feet from me—the Yeseg woman who scouted with me coughs once, a stout vocal sound—I hear the thud the bullet makes when it strikes her—my hand comes away from her uniform darkened. Her blood-striped face eyes closed mouth agape receives knowingly the news that she is dead as I tell her you are dead, pick up and go on running as she seems to say save yourself, nothing is worse than this, nothing is.