The War of the Great Loch Clans

[POMC S117]

I've just hit a writer's block.

[POMC S117]

Sorry for the delay:


Chapter 13

Assarothë, a crested, golden helmet crowning his head in magnificence, moved to the front of the army, Siöré and Siädre beside him. In the elf's hand, perhaps the most decadent item in his possession, even more so that his helmet-crown, was a banner, glittering gold and red, like a long streaming ribbon, sparkling like glass in the sun. On the fabric, in an intricate design, was a star and a moon, facing each other, opposing each other, the day repelling the night. Then, the elf-king raised the flag and threw it into the air, where it flew like a spear of light.

The elves charged, spurring their horses onwards, towards the fort. As they ran forward, the ael'nonuvah strung their bows and fired, filling the air with their arrows. After they had spent their ammunition, they drew their swords, curved and silver, holding them forward, towards the enemy.

The Braeburnian soldiers, trapped between the fast-approaching elven horde and the fort, quickly lost morale, discarding their weapons on the hill. They sprinted and tumbled away, leaving the Khârgi mercenaries alone. The dwarves of Khâ had always been hostile towards the ael'nonuvah for the untold atrocities that elves had inflicted against them but these hardened bandits despised elves. They didn't run, even though there were only forty of them against the tidal wave of one thousand elves on horseback. At the same time, a rallying cry came from inside the fort and the door swung open, breaking as the legionaries and clansmen ran out, attacking the Khârg from behind. The first line of riders met the mercenaries, carrying momentum and power with them, knocking the heavily armoured dwarves to the ground. Siöré and Siädre, in one fluid movement, leapt from their mounts, swords slashing, joining the mêlée. The two brothers had their backs to each other, covering each other, protecting each other, using their skills to fight back the dwarven mercenaries. Julius, Tybril and Brulus joined the fight, leading the legionaries and clansmen out of the fort.

“Forward, men! Let's show these eejits who they're messing with!” yelled Tybril, smashing his warhammer into a Khârgi shield.

Julius spotted a dwarven soldier being pursued by a spearman. The dwarf, in a quick movement, turned around, swinging his axe, bringing it into the horse's legs. With a cry of pain, the horse buckled, collapsing, weight being thrown onto its hind legs. The rider was bucked from his position on the saddle and thrown to the ground. Dazed and slow to recover, the al'nonuvah was unable to defend himself when the Khârg forced his axe down onto his neck. Julius roared, encouraging himself to charge. He thrust his sword forward, aiming for a gap in the dwarf's armour. His weapon struck the thick metal casing surrounding the dwarf, missing the joint at the elbow by inches. The Khârg twisted around, lashing out with his heavy axe. The centurion quickly sidestepped the attack, recovering and stabbing forward with his sword. His blade found the gap between the head and the body, slicing into the fat neck of the dwarf. With a yell of pain, the dwarf fell silent.

Safe from harm, Julius took the opportunity to glance around, examining the battle. It was clear who was the winner. Those few soldiers that had remained fighting were now either dead, in chains or fleeing. Julius took out his canteen and gulped down some water. He just noticed that he was sweating, perspiration dripping down his skin. Storing his flask away, he looked around for a familiar face. The elves were reforming, getting ready for another attack. Although the Braeburnian force had been shattered and routed, the Vettachians, Mordachians and other clansmen remained. The echo of rock hitting masonry as the siege weapons continued their deadly barrage could still be heard. The centurion heard footsteps coming towards him and turned around to see Siöré limping forward. His leg was badly damaged, stricken by an axe. White fragments of bone could be seen. Despite his apparent injury, he was smiling.

“Siöré!” exclaimed Julius. “You and your kinsmen certainly took your time. Any later and you would be burying me in a graveyard.”

“You may be a man but you can look after yourself, Julius. I would have been calling for us to slow down if I hadn't heard that the Khârg had come.” joked the elf, before his knee was engulfed in pain.

The centurion steadied his elven friend. “You should find the healer. Your leg's broken.”

“That's a sound observation.” grimaced Siöré.

Calmly, casually, he lowered his hands over his leg, until they were almost touching the blood streaming down to his boot. He whispered something inaudible and a glowing light appeared, covering his injury. Gradually, the skin began to reform, spreading over the wound. The blood flow stopped as the skin closed.

“You'll have to te-” began Julius until he was interrupted but a loud but distant growl.

Julius turned to face the source of the sound. Filling the space that the ael'nonuvahian riders had occupied minutes ago with their grey, hulking mass were hundreds of beast, roaring and growling, taunting those on the battlefield. Their very presence filled Julius with fear, their raucous cries adding to the terror. The centurion had always imagined these creatures to be imaginary, only being found in fables and fairy tales. But what he was seeing was real, that much was undeniable, and unlike the tales of old they could turn inhabit their beastly form whenever they wished, not just when the moon was full. They were Lyncanthropes of the Shrine, headed by the Femrash, an ugly quadruped with pure white fur and a wolfish form. Barking his orders, the Lyncanthropes, consisting of werewolves, weredeer and wereboars, charged forward, on all fours, fast and quick even in their vastness.

Julius looked round for Siöré but the elf was gone, having leapt onto his horse to join his kinsmen. The centurion watched in horror as the distance between him and the Lyncanthropes closed. There were only two hundred metres between them. Then there were only one hundred. Normal horses would have frozen in fear or taken flight but the ruvahequii, for that was what the mounts of the ael'nonuvah were called, being taller, purer and stronger than other horses, stood firm, as calm and calculated as their elven masters.

Seeing that Julius wasn't doing so, Tybril decided to order the men. “Shields up! Javelins at the ready! RELEASE!”

There was a pause as the order was processed before the air was filled with javelins. The spears soared into the sky and then dropped onto the heads of the wereforms. A few of them were killed but most of the beasts remained, carrying on the charge. The first line of weredeers sprang from the ground, flying towards the legionaries. The creatures landed on the shields, breaking the wall of defence that the soldiers had formed. Some legionaries fell onto the ground, not able to hold the added weight. The clattering of swords was heard as the legionaries struggled to repel the enemy. The second line of Lyncanthropes, composed entirely of wereboars, sallied forth, charging through the legionaries and clansmen, sweeping them aside. The last line, filled with the elite and feared werewolves, arrived, beginning a deadly assault on the legionaries. The ael'nonuvah were placed behind the legionaries and clansmen and moved forward, going to assist their allies. A small group, headed by Siädre and Siöré, broke off, running towards the Vettachians and Mordachians to assist those in Timorium.

Knocked to the ground by the initial attack, Julius clambered to his feet in time to see a companion pushed aside by a werewolf's swipe. The centurion grasped tighter at his sword, fighting his dizziness. His opponent was a monstrous, massive individual with great claws. Though typically seen on all fours, it was bipedal when in close quarters, walking quickly on its hind legs. Its snout was shorter than that of a normal wolf but thicker. It advanced on Julius, who scrambled to pick up a shield that had been dropped by a legionary. Holding it up just in time to avoid being punctured by claws, Julius felt vibrations spread through his arm as the shield was knocked from his grasp. The beast snarled, glaring, revealing its rotten teeth. Taking Julius by surprise, it jumped forward, jaws opening to bite the centurion. Julius walked backwards and tripped over the broken and beaten body of a legionary, falling to the ground. The werewolf's mouth snapped down on thin air. Julius scrambled away, narrowly deflecting an attack with his sword. He punched the wolf squarely on the snout, hearing the ringing of metal as his gauntlet connected with skin.

Shrieking in pain, the werewolf backed away for a moment, allowing Julius to jump to his feet and press on with his advantage. With a horizontal slash aimed at the mid-section of the wolf's body, Julius was disappointed as his sword missed thinly, metal cutting through air. The werewolf brought its two paws up and slammed them into Julius' head. His helmet rattled uncontrollably, the noise and the pain making him feel ill. With a stroke of its paw, the werewolf batted the legionary to the ground. It approached him, readying itself to unleash a fatal bite onto the dazed centurion.

***

Siöré and Siädre's mounted unit closed in on the enemy. The howls of the Lyncanthropes could be heard behind them. The elves but the sounds to the back of their minds, ignoring the bloodshed as they continued towards the Vettachians and the Mordachians on the hillside. The catapults were being fired quickly and skilfully by trained operators, unleashing assault after assault on the town of Timorium. Siädre was sickened by this. Innocent citizens were being subject to violence. The catapults had to be stopped to prevent any more deaths.

“Faster, soldiers!” shouted Siädre, determined to reach the hill as quickly as possible.

The horses rode faster, fine with being put under more pressure, coping well with the extra speed. The riders bent down low to make themselves more streamlined and to speed themselves up. They reached the bottom of the hill, a few hundred metres to the left of the catapults and the men. A few arrows were fired by the enemy but all of them missed because of the distance.

“Bows out!” ordered Siädre, taking his longbow from his quiver.

Notching an arrow, the elf waited until he was in range before calling for his men to open fire. A stream of arrows flew, faster and going further than their Vettachian and Mordachian counterparts. The first cries rent the air as many of the arrows found their marks. Another volley was loosed, killing and injuring many more. Siöré drew his sword, watching with satisfaction as his subordinates followed. They pressed on towards the enemy, preparing for a fight.

***

At that moment, Tybril, who was watching the scene unfold, ran towards the beast, knocking into its side. Like an animal, he began to beat at the werewolf, snarling in rage, allowing Julius to escape. He drew his small axe, digging it into the side of the monster. The beast struggled, flailing in agony as pain exploded near its ribs, erupting and spreading around its body. Before it could retaliate, Tybril drove his axe down again, cutting further into its body. He raised his axe and brought it down on the beast's head. With a dying scream, it died, shrivelling up and returning into human form.

The commander ripped his weapon from the skull of the beast and extended his hand to Julius. Blinking, the centurion shakily grabbed onto his friend's hand, allowing himself to be helped up. Julius spat blood from his mouth, the spittle landing on his dead enemy. All around him, the battle raged as the Lyncanthropes swept through their lines, being vastly more powerful and manoeuvrable than the legionaries and clansmen were. Although the ael'nonuvah were skilled, they were not used to fighting opponents as unorthodox and as fearsome as the Lyncanthropes. Their mounts, though strong, were easily taken down by the superior power of the wereforms. But the Lyncanthropes had suffered badly as well, their initial advantage of shock and awe gone. Most of the weredeer, being weaker in stature than their stronger wolfish and boar-like counter-parts, had been killed and a few werewolves had been slain. Most of the wereboars, being the shocktroops of the enemy, were alive, having accounted for most of the casualties sustained by the legionaries and Tiberius.

The Femrash was alerted to his casualties and, with an incoherent and deafening roar, called off the attack, calling for his forces to regroup. Assarothë spurred his force forward, chasing the Lyncanthropes, attacking them while their backs were turned. With a shout, he told the legionaries to go and help their colleagues back in the town. The centurion called for what remained of his force and began to march back to Timorium. The large walls of the town were a welcome sight to the soldiers, a sign of safety and security. The gate was opened to admit the soldiers.

The centurion witnessed an awful sight. Debris had spilled onto the streets. Mounds of bricks and tiles were scattered on the road. Many buildings had collapsed. For now, the relentless volley of rock and stone had stopped as the enemy waited for more ammunition to arrive. Very few people were out in the street. Most of those who were outside were looking for friends or family that were missing.

“Centurion Julius! Come with me! We're preparing to attack the enemy while they are busy fighting the elves!” shouted the legate, standing outside the barracks, having been alerted to the centurion's presence by the gate-captain.

“Yes, sir!” saluted the centurion, beckoning for his soldiers to enter the barracks.

Inside the barracks, it was cramped and filled with bodies. The soldiers were confined to a small space, finding it hard to move. Bodies of groaning, injured men lay on mats. Healers and surgeons were attending to them, dabbing at their wounds with wet cloths. Julius noted that the general was one of them. A small room had been offered up to the centurions and the legate so that they could plan their battles. A table was in the centre of the room, covered by a map of Timorium and the surrounding areas. The legate was busy drawing lines onto the map, marking the positions of enemies.

“Centurion Julius, your century is going to be absorbed into the Sixth Century. Centurion Serall and you will split the force between you. Each cohort is going to attack each enemy formation. You will be backed up by archer militia and some Tiberius cavalry. This attack must work. We cannot allow failure. You and your men must fight well and be strong. We are legionaries of the Mithraleenean Empire. We are strong. Centurion Julius, give us your report.”

Julius cleared his throat, aware of the attention being placed on him. He felt out of place here; the recruit amongst the veterans. It had only been three years ago that he had been recruited. “Err... Sir, the Braeburnian force and their Khârgi allies have been utterly crushed. Those that we haven't killed or taken prisoner have fled. We've got a new enemy though. The Lyncanthropes have arrived.”

This was met by laughs. “They are but fairy tales. Maybe the position of centurion has made you insane.”

“Quiet, Centurion Garrus!” barked Legate Septimus, before asking Julius to continue.

“We sustained heavy losses but the enemy retreated. Our elven allies are pursuing them now, keeping them from returning.” replied Julius.

“This is good news. We have weakened the enemy and they've not been able to flank us.” stated the Legate, marching down the length of the room, his authority pushing people aside. “Centurions, ready your men. We go to battle soon. Centurion Garrus, go and tell the Tiberius commanders that we require their forces. Everyone, you know what is expected of you. Do your duty.”

“Sir, what is the situation on the elves?” asked a centurion at the back of the room.

The legate gestured at Julius to answer.

“They split into two groups. The larger force pursued the Lyncanthropes. They were heading towards the River Timorium last time I saw them. The other group was going towards the enemy to try and draw their attention.” Julius explained the situation.

A messenger made his way through the room, pushing through the centurions. He whispered something in the Legate's ear. Julius strained to hear what was being said but no noise reached him.

The legate looked up at his centurions and cleared his throat. “Soldiers, I have received a report that the Vettachius is leading his armies personally. Now our objective is not merely to win. If we want this war to end with the least amount of casualties we have to kill or capture the Vettachius. The other clans look to him for guidance. Removing him from the equation will make the opposition a lot easier to face. All attention should be concentrated on the Vettachius.”

Julius buzzed with an excited energy. He knew what he had to do. The desire for battle began to burn in his body. The centurions began to shuffle out of the room and into the main part of the barracks. The commands were communicated throughout the barracks and a wave of energy and nervousness swept through the room. Weapons and shields were handed out and javelins were restocked. A rumble outside informed Julius that the siege had recommenced. A rock landed near to the barracks and the foundations shook, making dust fall from the roof and onto the helmets of the legionaries. Some of the more religiously-inclined legionaries circled a shrine dedicated to Thos, the Mithraleenean god of war and patron of all soldiers. The shrine was a small statue of a muscular man wielding a battleaxe. Carvings of soldiers lay around him, bowing in his presence. Julius was a believer of the Lokvian pantheon but he wasn't a strict worshipper. Despite this, he found himself drawn to the shrine, accepting the comfort given to him by the fact that he knew that someone was looking out for him. It gave him some reassurance, reassurance that he might survive.

After an hour, the legionaries began to leave the barracks. They were joined by the horsemen and the archers. The legion split into two groups, leaving from their separate exits. The gates were opened yet again as the legion passed through. The centurion glanced around, seeing nervous faces. As he turned to face the opposing hillsides, he could see why. The enemy clansmen were waiting, guarding the catapults as they waged a war of destruction against the town. The elves under Siöré and Siädre's command were using lightning tactics against their enemies, charging and then withdrawing to get the maximum power out of their force with the minimum losses. Julius observed that the enemy had the advantage of height. The centurion knew that the advantage could mean the difference between victory and defeat for the Vettachians and Mordachians. He hoped that the cavalry would do their duty and keep the enemy pinned down to prevent a charge. His heart rate slowly began to climb as he approached his enemy. His reactions began to speed up, making him more attentive, more vigilant. He called for his men to form up beside the rest of the cohort.

Obediently, they did as they were bade, forming a shield wall. A few tense minutes passed, making the legionaries burn with anticipation. Some of the younger soldiers began to twitch slightly, fumbling with the handle of their weapons.

The enemy spotted them and began to move towards them. After a loud shout, the Tiberius and Imperial cavalry began to canter towards the flanks of the clansmen, going to intercept them. The yells and cries of battle sounded as the horsemen cut through the enemy formations. Quickly, they withdrew, trying to escape before the enemy recovered and began to slay them. Centurion Julius watched as the Vettachian pikemen began to move to help their allies and smiled, knowing that they were leaving their flanks undefended. The horsemen went in for one last charge before retreating. They charged behind the legionaries, waiting for their next turn. Safe from the fear of cavalry for now, the legion's opponents began to move again, marching down the hill at first but then beginning to run. At the front of the line were Clan Vettach's feared warriors, like the ones that had almost killed Julius a few days ago. Leading the charge was the Vettachius, driving towards Julius on a chariot.

“Prepare javelins!” bellowed the centurions, standing at the front of their centuries.

Quickly and efficiently, the legionaries took their javelins from their backs and held them steady, waiting for the order to fire. Once it was given, they unleashed their barrage, their missiles smashing into the charging enemy, killing many of them. Some soldiers tripped trying to get over their dead or injured friends, rolling down the hill. The second volley was released, having the same effect as the first, but killing more men. Javelins expended, the legionaries drew their gladiuses, waiting for the enemy to reach them. The distance quickly shortened, although to Julius it seemed like an eternity. The centurion steeled himself and gave a determined face as the first line approached. Julius felt a jarring blow as the first enemies smashed into his shield, driving him back. He steadied himself, thrusting his sword forward. His blade found its mark, slashing at the exposed chest of a Vettachian. The man fell dead, his eyes losing their sheen as his heart stopped pumping.

A spear missed Julius, brushing over his helmet. Julius leapt backwards, slashing wildly as he did so. His sword thudded into the spear, snapping it in to. Discarding the half without the spearhead, the clansman stabbed at Julius' stomach. The damage was absorbed by Julius' body armour. Recovering quickly from the attack, Julius prepared himself for the next advance. He was ready when the man threw the spear at him, putting his shield up quickly to deflect the projectile. Julius thrust forward with his sword, catching the man squarely on the chest. He dug his blade in deeper, through his stomach. He twisted it and, with a grunt, the clansman fell dead.

Julius ripped the blade from the body as the horsemen began to circle around the legionaries, attack the enemy clansmen in the rear. Taken from two sides, the Vettachians began to take heavy losses. The horsemen were forced to pull back when some Mordachian infantry were called from the reserve to assist.

The trap was now in place. With very little men left to defend the advantageous position on the hill, Siöré's army quickly smashed through the weakly defended line, towards the catapults. The Mordachian vanguards began their valiant attempt to defend the siege weapons while the operators struggled to reposition the catapults to fire on the legionaries.

The centurion saw a blur of motion as a sword swept above his head, hacking vainly at the air around him. He drove his shield towards the location of the sword, smiling with satisfaction as his shield struck the elbow of a clansman. Not even pausing for breath, Julius stabbed with his sword, hearing a piercing sound as it penetrated the skin and flesh of the man. Suddenly, he screamed as a club came down on his shoulder. Blinded with pain, Julius held up his shield to block the next attack. His body was quick to relieve Julius and he felt the pain pass. He headbutted his enemy, drawing blood as his metal helmet connected with exposed flesh. He speedily finished off his attacker.

The catapults had been repositioned and were aiming towards Julius' men. He heard as the weight was released and was fired into the air. The ground shook as boulder landed beside him. Dirt and grass flew up into the air, covering the centurion. He was certain that the rock had killed many men, judging from the screams he had heard as they were squashed between the ground and the rock. Another rock landed, further away from Julius. He still felt the aftershock and had to steady himself to prevent him falling. His attention was brought back to the battle when a soldier ran by him, axe in his hand, waving it madly and hacking at anyone who came near. Julius kicked a pebble and the stone flew at the forehead of the man, making a small dent. The centurion brought his shield down on the man's skull, knocking him out. Julius spotted a line of pikemen marching towards him, spears pointed forward. The centurion struggled to get out of the way of the approaching enemies. He pushed past battling legionaries and clansmen, trying to get away from the pikemen.

Only a few metres away from the legionaries, the pikemen began their full-on, vigorous charge, shouting and screaming profanities. The pikemen met the fighting armies, skewering both enemy and ally. The screams and shouts of the dying and injured were heard as the pikes cut through the flesh like water rushing through a valley.

His attention was brought towards a hillside. The ael'nonuvah had returned, having driven the Lyncanthropes away. They began rushing down the hill, slamming into the flanks of the Vettachian and Mordachian clansmen. The pikemen were slow to turn around and couldn't match the new threat. Armed with only daggers now, the pikemen were quickly slain by the legionaries elves. Siöré and his brother's horsemen came behind the backs of the clansmen, effectively surrounding them. Valiantly, perhaps stupidly, the enemy fought on, sworn to protect their leader. The Vettachius forced his chariot out of the mud, the wheels churning up earth. Escaping from the muddy pile of death, Vamorus Vetta urged his horses onwards, surging towards a gap in the legionaries' circle, pushing out of the killing field. Some legionaries threw javelins at the fleeing enemy but their landed vainly in the ground.

A shout came out, calling for someone to pursue. Julius, not even hesitating, climbed onto a horse that had recently lost its rider and went after the Vettachius. Despite having a lead, the Vettachius' chariot was slowed by the marshy, wet ground. Julius was an experienced rider, having been trained how to ride a horse before he joined the legion. His heart was pounding. He couldn't let the Vettachius escape. If they captured him, the war would be easier. Many more lives could be saved. He willed his horse on. The distance was steadily closing. The Vettachius turned around, noticing that he was being chased. He took a spear from the side of the chariot and, with a strong thrust, let it fly at Julius. The centurion forced his steed to turn to avoid being struck by the spear. The Vettachius took another spear, throwing it at Julius. Julius lowered his head, pressing his body against the horse's to make himself a smaller target. The missile flew over his head. Vamorus Vetta cursed, having used up all his spears. Julius was now less than fifty metres away. They left the marsh, travelling at an extremely fast speed towards a dirt track. The dirt track skirted a river. The centurion watched the Vettachius charge his chariot into the river. At first, he thought that the Vettachius had decided that suicide was better than being captive to the enemy but then Julius realised that the river was very shallow, being the height of a child's knee. The chase continued for several more moments, bringing the chariot and the legionary into another marsh.

Suddenly, the wheel of the chariot gave way, hitting a rock and snapping. The carriage was thrown on its side, casting Vamorus into the marsh. Julius didn't manage to respond in time and his horse charged into the broken chariot. The centurion fell on his side, dazed and confused, dropping his sword. He struggled to his feet. He hadn't recovered from being tossed to the ground when the Vettachius sent his fist into Julius' face, breaking his nose. The legionary fell backwards as blood poured down his face, dripping into his mouth. He spat out blood and saliva. The Vettachius picked up Julius' sword.

“Did you really think you could stop me, legionary?” laughed the Vettachius, moving closer. Another fist landed, smashing into his jaw. Julius yelled in pain, covering his mouth. “Did you really believe that you could defeat me? Did you really think you could kill the servant of Argada? You are but a boy. A common whelp. If this is the type of soldiers that the legions are admitting then it begs the question how they managed to win. It is true that the gods favour those with the largest pockets, not the largest hearts.”

“A boy?” asked Julius, spitting at the Vettachius. His throat was dry; a tiny bit of spittle landed on the Vettachius' shoe. “I'm a centurion.”

“But a boy nonetheless. I feel sorry for you, centurion. Your leaders do not care for you. They sent you here to die. Think about that before I kill you. Who killed the pig? The one with the knife or the one feeding the pig for slaughter?”

The Vettachius was raising the sword to stab Julius when a fly landed on his exposed neck and sank its proboscis into his skin. He yelled in pain, squashing the insect as it began to feed off of him. Julius thanked Thos for this and, draining the last ounces of energy from his reserve, jumped up, grabbing the Vettachius by the shoulders and pushing him over, sending the sword out of Vamorus'. Julius fumbled on the ground for a weapon. Julius' hands wrapped around a stone. He headbutted Vamorus, ignoring the pain and the rattling of the metal. The Vettachius yelled in rage and began to struggle, trying to push Julius off of him. The centurion was tenacious, clinging onto the Vettachius, beating him with his head. He raised his hand, bringing the stone down on the Vettachius. He repeated it, again and again. At last, he fell still, dead. Julius dropped the stone and lay there. The leader of Clan Vettach lay dead, killed by Julius. The war was over. Yes, some remnants of the opposition remained, but they were weak and scattered. Without the command and authority of a ruler, the generals would be fighting amongst themselves, weakening themselves even more.

“For Hendral...” he mumbled, his top lip feeling heavy.

Shakily, he got to his feet, walking weakly towards the town, towards the legion, towards safety. The pain returned, flushing around his body, filling him with agony. He began to feel weak. His shoulder was broken, surely, judging by the pain, as was his nose and maybe his jaw. His armour and hands were sticky, coated in mud. The sun shone down on him, rising behind the hills, blinding him. Despite the warmth coming from the sun, he began to feel cold and clammy. He collapsed as a bout of shivering engulfed his body. His eyes slowly closed. The last thing he saw was armed men, coming towards him before he finally blacked out and let sleep take him.