for their death, though. Like them, I made my choice.
Commander Kudret orders his men to pack up the camp, and all along the ridge there is bustling activity as the rebels prepare to continue the march to the west. I shiver in fear every time he comes near, knowing he is the one who ordered the cold-blooded murder of the injured Itanyai soldiers. So when he comes over to me, I cower and stare at the ground. He squats in front of me and waits for me to raise my head. His mud-colored eyes are brimming with hatred and promise when I do.
“Icin buna apacekye,” he says in a low voice, then draws his finger across his throat. Bajram and the others laugh, but the commander jumps to his feet and draws his revolver. He points it at Bajram’s head. The blood drains from Bajram’s cheeks as the older man speaks. I get the sense that Kudret is reminding him that he fell asleep on the job. Bajram does not smile after that. He glances nervously at the brilliant sun, perhaps willing it to move slowly and give his comrades more time to recapture the escaped Itanyai.
The sun is directly overhead when the shout comes from the edge of the canyon. Several raiders jog over and immediately let out a cheer. My stomach turns as Melik and Baris stalk into camp, blood smeared on their brown trousers. I search the crowd around them for prisoners and see not a single Itanyai face, and for a moment I feel an irrational surge of hope.
Then Melik breaks loose from the pack and approaches Kudret. He hands his commander a cloth sack stained with more red brown blood. Commander Kudret does not look happy, but he listens to whatever story Melik has to tell, and then he nods. He asks Baris a few questions, and Melik’s companion makes quick gestures with his meaty hands as he responds. The commander smiles and shakes Baris by the shoulder, then hands Melik the bloody sack and points to me. Melik hesitates, but the commander shoves him toward me.
Melik strides over to me, his expression blank, his eyes cold. His shoulders are tense as he tosses the sack at my feet. “We found them,” he says in a dead-quiet voice. “Open it.”
My heart is hammering against my ribs, and my mouth has gone dry. “No.”
Melik gives the commander a sidelong glance, then picks up the bag. “Your father’s scalpel was quite useful,” he says, staring at me with an intensity that makes me tremble. “We had to travel quickly, so we couldn’t bring their bodies. So we brought something else.” He upends the sack. Five bloody fingers land at my feet, along with five patches bearing the insignia of the national army. I cover my mouth with my hands and clamp my eyes shut. My skull is home to one long scream that blocks out everything else. It goes on and on, wordless and anguished and raging, until there is no more fuel left inside me to burn.
When I open my eyes, Melik is gone, and so is the grisly gift he forced on me. All that remains is spots of dried blood on hard stone.
That and my newfound hatred of the Red One.
He hunted them. He killed them. He brought back trophies for his master.
That I ever believed he was good is a shame I will never live down.
My hatred is a cold, cold thing. Colder than the air around me. I let it eat me up, grateful that it leaves nothing behind, not sorrow nor grief, neither fear nor regret. I am as still and unfeeling as the rocky peaks above me as Bajram coils the rope around my neck. I am numb as he yanks me to my feet.
Bajram jerks the rope to set me in motion. “Cuz. Ilerlemaye.”
I stumble over the rocks but manage to stay on my feet. The other Noor are already hiking, bundles of supplies on their backs, a few horses bearing the stolen Itanyai arms. The sun is high over our heads, providing the slightest whisper of warmth as we trudge upward. My breath comes out harsh, feeble wisps of fog in the chilly afternoon. I can’t seem to get enough air no matter how hard my lungs work. My head spins. My feet and hands become hunks of unfeeling flesh. But still I walk. If the rope is chafing my skin, I do not notice.
The only thing of