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110 Amit Bobrov
into service resided and made my way in grim determination to
his barrack. He sat in a room very close to the cells where the

surviving rebels now resided. I took satisfaction in hearing the
moans of those rebels who had been captured by the army.
I could not forgive nor forget how they had nearly ended my
life, and I was not enlightened enough to consider them more
than enemies now. They were the same brand of scum as the
soldiers surrounding me. They were human. I had only to pick
sides. I knocked on the door and entered quickly.
The room had been dark when I crossed the threshold —
only a lonely light shone from a single candle. A clerk in gray

robes sat upon a heavy oak chair, an open book before him, still
writing with the feather in his hand as I entered the room. For a
moment I envisioned him as a demon, writing down the names
of the souls he would take with him to the underworld. Only his
blue eyes shone in the light of the flame.
“So you want to sign in for service,” he asked in a rasping
voice, and coughed, raising his shiny eyes from his book to look

into mine.
“Aye, I’d like to be a soldier,” I answered nervously. There was
a nearly invisible shift in his expression, a tiny smile that was
nearly obfuscated. In my paranoia I almost imagined he had
been waiting there for me. I banished that thought, however,
since it was impossible.
“Sign here, then,” he said, turning his book over to me and
showing me with his finger where to place my mark with the
writing-feather. I tried to banish the impression in my head that

I was surrendering my soul. I nervously moved a shaking hand
to scribble my name when his cold fingers closed around my
hand, preventing me from signing.
“If you’re not sure, don’t sign,” he said in a voice that sent