Black wings. Croaks.

The first ravenous beaks on my bare flesh finished to remove what remained of the dream. The crows had invaded the turret, chattering, their acidic stench mixed with that of carrion, their shrill voices circling the railing. Some had attacked the Carmian's remains, slamming their clappers into the eye sockets and mouth. Others had perched on the cloak and sought to peck at what lay beneath. Most of the birds, already stuffed with rotting flesh, simply wanted to rest and survey the camp from the elevated position offered by the tower. There were a few more painful pinches, and then my hands popped up from the cloak, keen and bold, used to grabbing rats, and the hairy abdomen of spiders.

The birds hesitated at first, surprised to see a dead man stirring. A confused rustling ran through the flock. Then the feathered heads whirled, the yellow eyes looked at me, and finally the platform seemed to burst into an explosion of dark fragments and hoarse cries. At my feet, three crushed crows struggled, a fourth had barely escaped my grasp. I snapped the necks of the injured birds, my fingers slashed, sticky with down and blood. From the surrounding rooftops, the living rooks assailed me with reproaches, and their sermons disturbed one of the great vultures, which flew heavily towards the mountains. Somewhere further on, a hound barked, and I crouched down gently in my shelter. I wiped my hands on my scruffy rags and repressed a yawn. I didn't feel ready to face the mountain yet, but that didn't matter. I had decided to leave with the night.

Careful not to stand up any more than I had to, I turned to look at the road to the north. The sun had not reached its zenith, the sky was still a clear blue, but clouds were gathering in the distance. From the turret, I could easily make out the phalangist camp. Where the terrain allowed it, they had begun to dig a ditch to block access to the valley, and hastily erected spiked fences around a semblance of a stockade. From what I could see, the installations had not been used. I gathered that they must have abandoned the construction of the wall when it became clear that we wouldn't get out of the camp. Several observation posts stretched from east to west along the edge of the pine trees, and all appeared to be manned. The fires I had seen burning there during the night were still smoking. I opened the wineskin and took a few sips of water while scanning the positions. The sight of the quarantine arrangements was enough to convince me that the climb was a better option than the soldiers' lines.

My first task was to undress the dead man, which was a painful and unappetizing exercise. When the corpse was naked, I set about getting him over the parapet, one limb at a time. He ended up crashing to the ground with a loud thud, his mouth wide open and his tongue half torn out by the birds. I returned to putting his things in order. The man had worn a pair of short, thick, chestnut-colored trousers of a tighter cut than Brownian pants, with a quilted doublet and his yellowing linen tunic, a coarse shirt, and gray woolen stockings. I hastened to put these garments over my rags and, after hesitating, I completed the whole by draping myself in the heavy red felt cloak, the distinctive and despised sign of the supervisors.

My new clothes were soaked with a variety of foul smells and stinking dampness, but I had neither the luxury of choosing nor the mind to be picky. To hold the trousers I used the dead man's belt, a beautiful piece of patent leather from which hung a bronze dagger in a wooden sheath. The single-edged blade was slightly curved and as worn as its olive wood handle, but it still felt good to have the reassuring weight of a blade in my hand. The glass shiv joined the dead man in the mud, and I tested the edge of the dagger on the dead rooks, emptying them of their entrails. I wasn't thrilled with the idea of eating the necrophagous birds, but I'd need all the food I could get.

When I had cleaned the soiled blade on my cloth rope, I examined what was left of the dead man's equipment. I quickly got rid of the waxed wooden baton, which I didn't see any use for. What was left was an old crossbow, a quiver with ten arrows, a flint, and a pair of boots. I was busy undoing the buckles of the boiled leather chaps, because I imagined that they would eventually get in the way when I walked. Since they didn't weigh much, I decided to take them with me anyway, and hung them on the pouch. The boots were a bit too large for me, but I had piles of cloth to pad them. I didn't dare straighten up to really try them on, for fear of being seen by the Carmians or the dogs, so I did what I could, horizontally, with my feet on the railing.

The crossbow, though weathered, had been lovingly and meticulously taken care of. It was a simple, unadorned object. I suspected that it had belonged to a soldier. I put my foot on the stirrup to see if I could cock it, remembering Ulrick's death, the night battle that had broken the siege of Ac-Pass and the decisive role that the carmian crossbowmen had played. My meager efforts came to nothing. I was still too weak and the sitting posture didn't suit the task. Although I had never shot, I set out to learn, if I ever made it to the other side of the mountains. I emptied the quiver and found a small hammered tin can filled with tallow at the bottom, along with a spare string. The projectiles were a little longer than my hand, most with a wide profile and stiff leather fletching. There was a tiny hole at the base of each of the heads, the presence of which mystified me for a while, before I realized that this was what must produce the characteristic whistling sound of the carmian arrows flying.

I ate half a loaf of bread with dry fish, swallowed some more vinegared water and dozed for a while to gain strength. In the early afternoon I plucked the crows and stored them in the dead man's bag, together with the conspicuous cape and the rest of the food. When I was done with the birds, I tied my cloth rope to one of the frame posts, before scanning the surroundings from the turret. During the night, the dogs had come. I had heard them barking and growling below, but it didn't seem to me that they had picked up my trail, and I didn't think they would know how to track me through the carrion. When I was sure that the esplanade where the turret stood was deserted, I girded myself with the pouch, canteen, and quiver, slung the crossbow over my shoulder, and slid ungracefully to the ground.

Then I went back to the barracks, half running, with my back bent. My legs were much less sore than the day before, and when I entered the deserted dormitory, I hardly needed to catch my breath. My eyes squinted to adjust to the darkness. I moved quickly toward the bed where I had left my tumbler and two of the thicker blankets, which I had strapped into a crude bundle. I was trying to figure out the best way to carry them without being hindered by the rest of my gear when a ferocious roar sounded from the back of the building.

I startled, the blankets under my arm, and nearly dropped my package. A large black hound had appeared at the other end of the barracks. She was advancing towards me between the benches, her hair bristling, her fangs uncovered, rolling her broad shoulders like those of a cat on the hunt. I swallowed and started to give way, while trying not to make any sudden movement. The beast had a tattered ear and torn lips, but I had no doubt that it would get the better of me. I spread my hands and began to whisper. The hound came at me without a sound. I swung around and dashed for the exit, the beast on my heels.

Even weakened, I was still a good sprinter. With a few steps ahead of me, I threw myself outside, pulling the door behind me. The door slammed like a whip against the plank frame. The bitch crashed into it with such force that her drool was thrown through the cracked wood. I lost my balance. Birds took off in large numbers from the surrounding rooftops. Inside the dormitory, the trapped animal pounded against the door, barking furiously. Without waiting, distraught by the commotion, I ran towards the warehouses at the south gate. A chorus of ferocious barking was erupting from every corner of the camp.

I crossed the turret esplanade with heavy heart, cursing with every step I took. The dead man's boots clattered in the packed mud. I jumped over bodies rather than around them, my eyes wide as I wandered from alley to alley, looking for the slightest movement. If the pack found me in the open, nothing could save me. I thought I saw a dark figure galloping across the camp, and I picked up the pace. I passed the empty refectory without slowing down, stumbled over the damp remnants of a fire, and then, out of breath, dashed into the first warehouse that came along. Rats scurried past me like living clusters and scattered into the darkness. I collapsed gasping against the cob wall.

I desperately listened over the chaotic rhythm of my own breathing. The echo of the barking was getting closer, no mistake. I wanted to slip the blankets into the shoulder strap of the bag, but found my hand cold and clenched. Surprised, I lowered my eyes. I was holding the bronze dagger in my fist. Five years had passed and yet I had drawn the blade during my run, as if war had never left my side. I shakily sheathed the weapon, ran my tongue over my dry lips and somehow managed to get back on my feet.

The warehouse had been devastated days before, tool boxes knocked over, piles of wood looted for heating, barrels broken open in search of food. The double door through which I had entered was now only held together by a single hinge, and it took only a glance for me to realize that it would be futile to try to barricade it. I walked into the middle of the wrecked warehouse, my eyes sharp and my breath short. Outside, the dogs were still howling all over the place, and some of the yelps now seemed to come from the esplanade.

High up, there was a dusty chiaroscuro that blurred the outlines of the beams and ropes of the pulleys, and all this swayed over my head in whimsical and disturbing shapes. I stumbled over the body of a stripped slave, whose skull had been caved in from behind, and made my way to the attics. Low mezzanines ran alongside the building, storing fodder for the beasts of burden on their way to the valley, and grain for the kitchens. There were other bodies up there, I could tell by the smell.

My footsteps screeched on the spilled ore. Broken ladders lay here and there, but I found a section that reached high enough for me to reach the top floor. Halfway up, I heard the ruckus of a pack in the adjacent alley, an irregular chant of deep voices, sometimes mixed with the high-pitched squeaks of those being corrected by the leaders. I had to pull myself up by the force of my arms on the last span, my fingers digging into the cob in search of holds. The pouch weighed down by the blankets got stuck as I tried to get my leg onto the attic floor. The ladder suddenly skidded along the wall against which I had leaned. I lost my footing. For a terrible moment I thought I was going to fall. I struggled desperately, clinging to the mezzanine, then the bundle bent and I could finally topple into the straw.

Outside, the hounds were circling the esplanade, more interested in their own ruckus than my trail. From what I could hear, fights were breaking out between the packs, the echo of the clash of fangs rattling between the buildings. I lay down in the hay, without taking my eyes off the door. If the dogs could no longer reach me, they could still prevent me from leaving. Somewhere to my right, a man lay under the roof peak, and blowflies drew erratic arabesques on his bloated face. Other dead bodies lay further away, twisted and deformed.

I remained motionless and vigilant for the time it took for calm to return. Concentrating on my breathing, my nose buried in the straw and dust to escape the smell of rotting flesh, I tried in vain to chase away my thoughts, and the procession of contradictory emotions they awakened in me. There was a confused guilt on the surface, but underneath pulsed elation, a tingling sense of gratitude that all the chains had been removed. For me, for me alone, the borders were open again. I belonged to myself in the same way that I belonged to the world. This truth gushed out with every heartbeat, spurting from my guts like water from a deep spring. From time to time, a shivering smile reached my lips, but more often I was crushed by the weight of my own breath, which stubbornly persisted in the heart of annihilation.

Since the animals weren't coming to prowl the warehouse, and I couldn't stand the constant tug of my feelings, I allowed myself to make a few discreet back and forth trips upstairs, navigating between the piles of straw and what was left of the emptied bags. There was no food left. What had not been taken by the men had been taken by the rats. I took advantage of the abundance of grain sheaves to get my hands on a braided hemp rope, figuring that I might have some use for it in the mountains. The bag being already full, I wrapped it around my own body. I then cut a piece of tarred cloth to protect my blankets, and hesitated to take one of the small pulleys with me, before deciding that it would be too noisy. I rested, afterwards, ruminating on the memories of the Stream that this imposed hide-and-seek brought back. For the first time in a long time, I thought of Tom Minnow, the first corpse I had laid eyes on, and the cascade of events set in motion by his death. Brown-Horn now belonged to the old families. The clans, I had been told, had returned to the forest. My hand occasionally touched the clan tattoo I wore under my collarbone. I hoped with all my heart that Dera was doing well, and that she had become a great hunter of the chaig people.

When evening came I slid down the broken ladder. In the pine trees, the spring insects hummed with faint songs. Very slowly, I slipped through the door of the warehouse, and turned into the central alley. No dogs showed up on the short path that separated me from the south gate. I figured the animals were sleeping. I walked through the half-open gate. My fingers lingered on the scarred oak, and I took a deep breath. A cold breeze blew from the mountains. I bit my lip, my face turned toward the caress of the wind, the pure, healthy fragrance coming from it, as I adjusted my pouch. Without looking back, I took one step, then another, my heart torn between wonder and everything I was leaving behind.