There is little left to tell; other than to say I awakened to a pounding head and the smell of burnt flesh—for what was left of Mortigen lay next to me on the field: spitting and popping and sizzling—like so much frying lard—seeping back into the earth, like wine. Nor did I linger overlong with the grisly remains but rather dusted myself off almost immediately and located and mounted Scar ... after which, having tethered Mortigen’s horse to us, we cantered along the water toward the bridge and promptly crossed it—pausing only after we’d reached the makeshift barricade, and this only because I’d heard a sound, a commotion, coming from the other side of the Mississippi, from the fortified hotel.
A commotion, I realized (having retrieved and employed my binoculars), that involved Black Dunca
