Wars of the Aoten Page 6

  Chapter VI

  Artur stiffly paced a circle around a tree at the edge of the wood, desolate and fuming. Never had his people nor his body taken such a thrashing as at the hands of the Aoten. The Rufoux needed a plan, a strategy; for long days he had pondered idly what battle might bring, but he had never settled on an idea. Instead he had relied on pure emotion – yes, he had always relied upon that in the back of his mind, from the very beginning. Believing that raw anger would carry the Rufoux to victory, as it always had, he had neglected his responsibility to lead. One can not lead without some idea of where to go, and Artur had failed. The failure could not be placed upon his people, Artur thought, it fell squarely upon him.

  As the couples of the village bowed and embraced to console each other, Artur’s solitude again rushed in upon him. He gave up his stalking and sat, withdrawn at a distance. The crushing doubts he now felt, as never before, fed his usual isolation from all that felt safe and comforting. Thoughts of the battle swirled together with his pretensions to grand strategy, and hopelessness swelled in his chest. Only the jostling of another body sitting down roused him from his dejection.

  Wyllem sat there silently.

  He remained so for a time. Occasionally he would glance at Artur, but mostly he too hung his head and gazed upon the ground. Finally, Artur spoke.

  “Victory comes easily for the Rufoux. Stalemate is no better than defeat.”

  “We drove them off the fields. Isn’t that a victory?”

  “They drew us off the fields, as you well know. And they may be back there already, you can’t be sure. I’m not going to go find out.”

  “Don’t you think they feared to follow us? Didn’t we at least give them reason to think twice tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want to consider tomorrow. Surely we can not survive this kind of striving every day. Certainly our strength will not hold out forever. We are men, made of muscle and bone and no more. One day death will catch all of us; only one has outfoxed that enemy. And speaking of Mog, did he flee with his protection? Has Mog himself abandoned us?”

  Wyllem again fell silent for a time. “Will you stop being chief, then?”

  “What? Of course not,” said Artur without hesitation. “If I had any strength left I’d bludgeon you for that.”

  “Then at least I can thank the Aoten for saving me a beating today,” Wyllem tried to raise a smile but could not. “Or perhaps I should say another beating.”

  “We have never retreated, never before have we retreated. Rufoux do not retreat,” said Artur. “This is not like any war we have ever fought. We will have to think our way in and out of this one, not just fight like frenzied baboons. And we can not let the Aoten pick the battles.”

  “You talk like a true chieftain now, like a military chief,” said Wyllem. “But come, you must recover from this battle first. You must rest your mind and body now, before you prepare for another day. Come on.”

  Artur lurched to his feet, and Wyllem led him into the gathering of people. A few spoke a word of encouragement to him, a few slapped him weakly on the shoulder, and a maiden approached him with a bowl of water and thick towels.

  “What is your name?” Artur asked her.

  “I am called Andreia,” she replied, and she squeezed water out of a towel and blotted at the blood and grime covering Artur’s face.

  “You brought me the grain.”

  “Yes, Sir Artur.”

  “Your husband should serve with you. Why do you work alone?”

  “I have none,” said the old maid at twenty-one.

  Artur fell silent at this, and Andreia continued ministering to his injuries. The hummingbirds darted playfully from behind his head. A cold compress around the back of his neck and gentle nursing of his aches and pains improved his mood within, though his face remained stolid. His mind returned to the events of the fight. How grandly he and Wyllem had agreed about making a battle plan in the days before, and yet they never decided anything. This failure haunted him. But no decision presented itself. The Rufoux had come upon the Aoten with all their might, and had been turned back. Attacks like that day’s had scattered every foe the clan had ever faced. Artur did not know what to think. If raw power failed them, what could be added that might make the difference?

  “What secret is there to victory?” Artur asked himself out loud.

  “Begging your pardon, sir?” said Andreia.

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  “Do you still think about the battle, Sir Artur?”

  “What else? Don’t call me sir.” The name stabbed him to the heart.

  “Yes, sir. Did you not win victory you had hoped for?”

  “No, I’d say not. We held our own, but for what? Only to put off for a few hours the pillaging of our fields.”

  Andreia stopped her nursing for a moment and sat thoughtfully. “You must not wait,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This people know as much of the battle as you. They think the same thoughts as you. They look to you to tell them what to do. You must not wait.”

  “I see —”

  “We depend on you, our leader, Artur. You are a great leader — Artur of the therium. This clan needs you now more than ever before, needs you to make them believe they can overcome the Aoten. But you must not wait. You must talk to this people soon, immediately. Do not let this battle sink into their minds and fester; lift their spirits, and give them hope. The Rufoux have never faced a greater threat than this, and you must make them know there is a way to victory. Only you can make them understand that secret.”

  “There must be a secret. But what?”

  “Mog will whisper it to you. You will know when you hear it.”

  Artur looked into her young eyes. “You are a great encouragement, Andreia, was it? I know that name, I believe.”

  At this Andreia’s countenance turned down and she hung her head.

  “Yes, Andreia,” said Artur, his memory returning. “And you have no husband. You are Andreia, betrothed to Aric.”

  Andreia nodded her head slightly, and a tear fell.

  Artur looked upon her with pity and thought back through the years. Aric and Andreia, promised to each other at the age of six in the Rufoux fashion, reached the year of their twelfth birthdays, time for engagement. Andreia, already with a thick head of long hair, fair skin and still a few freckles on her nose; Aric, slender and straight, deep blue eyes and broad shoulders for his age. The young couple appeared the ideal of Rufoux culture and life, ready to take the next step in their traditional lives.

  But one was not so ready.

  At the head of the ceremonial tent, Aric stood with his vast family to the left, regaled in flowers and feathers, a new sword at his side. To the right stood the family of Andreia, looking about uncomfortably, for their young lady had not appeared.

  “Where is Andreia?” asked the patriarch of Aric’s family, who would act as priest.

  “We do not know.”

  “And why is she not at this most important ceremony?”

  “She does not want the young man.”

  “What?! And why not?”

  “We do not know.”

  And so it was: Andreia herself did not know, for her years numbered but twelve. Early that morning, facing a commitment forced upon her, she left the village and hid herself among the thousands of caves at the edge of the desert lands. There she sat, her arms wrapped around her knees drawn close, grieving that she could neither live with Aric, nor would her clan likely let her live apart from him. One of the best of the Rufoux youth, Aric had bound himself to the clan and its traditions, and showed great promise among the metalworkers in training; yet something in him Andreia found repulsive. She did not know why, she only knew it to be so: She could not give in to the cultural pressure of her people, even if it meant having to leave them. And so she stayed rocking and weeping alone in the cave.

  Days passed; hunger gnawed at her and she became feverish. When she heard he
r name called, almost unwillingly she answered, and the blurred figure of her father appeared to carry her weak body home.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him as he laid her to bed. “I will marry Aric. I’m sorry.”

  As she drifted off she dreamed of her father and mother exchanging a weary glance.

  Of all the Rufoux boys from all of Rufoux memory, Aric alone suffered the rejection of his intended. Never had any bride shunned her engagement ceremony, and yet this day he had so seen. Unable to bear the humiliation, the insult to his already-inflated Rufoux manliness, the twelve-year-old boy had left camp early the next day and run to where the scaled ones live. He lashed himself to a tree, and waited for a deviltooth to cut short his life.

  A great legacy grew around Aric and his courageous end in the following days and years. The remembrance of his name never reflected the shame of his rejection, but rather the honor earned by a man who set his face towards death. The final irony fell when, with Aric’s death, Andreia gained that most rare Rufoux gift: forgiveness. With no groom remaining, no commitment remained upon the bride; but when Andreia recovered and learned Aric’s fate, the weight of guilt nearly broke her. She carried the burden still these many years later.

  “Because he gave his life, I have had mine as I wished,” she said quietly.

  Artur remembered his own engagement, and the events that had quickly spun out of his control that day, and laid his hand upon her bowed shoulders. “Bless you, child. Bless you for your tender care, for your words, for your suffering.” And Artur turned again to the deep woods.

  Artur’s Bride

  Never had a boy welcomed the rising sun as Artur did that day. The crisp air stung his senses like never before, the beams of dawn’s light shot through the foliage with more brilliance; even the birds crafted a more gay and clever song that day. Artur blinked his eyes clear and sat erect in his pallet, bright in countenance as though he had slept for hours but had been awake for hours more, though neither was true. As he stepped from his hut, his lungs tingled with the hubris of a new day. The water of the River Alluvia splashed upon his hands and face, clear as crystal and cold, the droplets dancing through the air as they playfully returned to mother water. The leaves of the trees twisted and waved upon their stems as the wind teased them for their captivity. All of Medialia celebrated as Artur prepared to ascend into manhood. And all about him the Rufoux villagers called out, greeting him with mock solemnity and a streak of good-natured ridicule.

  “Is this Artur? Geoffrey’s son? Certainly not! Why, just yesterday he grew to no higher than my knee!”

  “Ready to take over the bellows of my forge, Artur? It is not for nothing you are known for hot air! Now maybe I can retire!”

  “Artur! Is that a whisker on your chin, or do you dribble your mama’s milk again?”

  “Artur, that bride of yours is lurking about! Keep your eyes straight!”

  Artur smiled broadly and held his shoulders back until his muscles ached as he swaggered through the camp. Filled with bravado even at twelve, he offered back insults and retorts with equal gusto. Every man and woman of the Rufoux looked upon him glowingly, and Artur knew the day belonged to him, and all that it would mean to the rest of his life.

  From a distance Geoffrey kept an eye on his son making his rounds. He disguised his smirk only with difficulty, remembering the time eons ago when he too tested his youthful cheek against the good humor of his kinsfolk. He saw much of himself in Artur. Only when the boy had circled back toward his own hut did Geoffrey rein him in.

  “Artur! Here!” he called quietly, gesturing with a thumbless hand.

  Artur dutifully followed his father around the back of the house and toward the smithy shop. Along the way Geoffrey talked to him in that way that only fathers can talk to sons.

  “Artur, you don’t need me to tell you the importance of this day. I can’t remember a day of the last six years that you have not talked about this day. But you must realize that today’s ceremony means more than a betrothal. This day you commit yourself to your family, to me, to the memory of your mother, as well as to the entire clan. You commit yourself to more than just Lauræl.”

  Ah, Lauræl, that name, the heavenly name of all nature’s most beautiful creature. Just at the sound of it Artur’s mind raced into a distant world in which Geoffrey could be seen only through a dream, a place where his voice faded to only a faint, annoying buzz. Artur’s eyes still followed his father’s lips, but his mind heard only the name Lauræl. Truly she must be an angel, a celestial being escaped from heaven’s clutches to bless the land with the treading of her feet. In a few short hours their promise would be made good and they would be betrothed to each other’s love before all the Rufoux.

  Often had Artur indulged in the boyish imaginings of love: Rescuing Lauræl from deviltooth, defending her from villains’ attack, serving her like a child goddess in her temple. This day his only goal was to hold her. Though they had been promised to each other six years earlier, in truth they had declared their devotion to each other much earlier. So well did they know each other, so much did they think alike, that Artur couldn’t distinguish what he loved so about her; he loved her like his right arm. He did not remember a time when he and Lauræl did not share in one another’s games, and confidences, and dreams. He did not remember a time without Lauræl.

  “Artur, listen to me!” Geoffrey became reality again, and Artur jumped slightly as his attention snapped back. “You make me proud, and humble, and embarrassed and frustrated all in the same moment! You become a man today, and you are expected to take the role of a man. Soon you will be apprenticed to a trade, you will learn the forge, and you will learn the art of battle. You will learn to build a hut, and prepare for the day when you will fill a hut with your own family. It is all the Rufoux culture, the Rufoux history.”

  At this point Geoffrey stopped as if to gather his thoughts. He sat next to Artur on a bench outside the smithy’s, and he slid closer to him to speak in a dark whisper. “Artur,” he began, and thought again. “When your mother bore you, the eldest of the Rufoux spoke. He served as priest of Mog for that event, and he spoke in a way I had never heard before. Not the usual mumbo-jumbo, rites of passage garbage — he spoke a word of prophecy over you, Artur. You would remain my youngest son, but you would be the greatest, he said, and no Rufoux to follow will ever be greater. You have a destiny, Artur, and today you begin your journey toward that place in history.”

  Artur sat silently, not sure what to make of this talk. Geoffrey stood and disappeared into the smithy’s for just a moment. When he returned, he carried with him the most beautiful piece of worked metal Artur had ever seen.

  His hands held a breastplate of polished bronze, shining like a mirror, not unlike Geoffrey’s own, awarded to him eons ago. Etchings of delicate images of thylak and rumidont spanned the broad chest, with a great burst of flame engraved in the very middle. Around the torso area swirled rings of knots and loops, surrounding the angry face of a deviltooth. From the shoulders draped the long blades of swords, appearing to strike scenes of Rufoux enemies writhing on the ground at the small of the back. Around the bottom a fringe of leather — the traditional Rufoux armor, tough as chain mail — hung like a skirt to cover the thighs. It was just Artur’s size.

  He could not believe his eyes. Geoffrey held the armor out to him with the words, “Artur of the Rufoux, this breastplate, like no other piece of armor in the land, I give to you this day. It is for the celebration of your ascendancy. Take it, embrace it, wrap yourself in it, for in it you will find your destiny.”

  Artur held the work of art in his hands, not knowing what to do for what seemed an hour. A look to his father, and silently he unstrapped the buckles, and with Geoffrey’s help fitted it over his head and onto his body. It lay upon him heavily, a burden almost, but fit perfectly to his physique, like a glove. Again he returned to the village and strode about his people, no longer in pride but an odd measure of glad humility. The friendly ta
unts fell silent.

  The service in the common building took the form evolved through centuries of tradition. A great bronze bell was rung once to call the attendants. Artur’s family stood at the left, Lauræl’s to the right. Artur, bedecked with the ceremonial feathers and skins, his arms painted to highlight his muscles, stood like a god with his chin high; the breastplate struck the crowd breathless. A hummingbird flew circles around his head, but Artur took no notice; he could see only Lauræl.

  Lauræl stood demurely in lacy white linen. Flowers adorned her head, woven into her soft red hair, which fell in cheerful curls upon her shoulders. Underneath her delicate brow, bright green eyes shone like the sun itself, accentuated by deep, pure white. Pleasing lips turned up in a secretive, unrelenting smile, only occasionally allowing a glimpse of glimmering teeth. A gentle nose turned up slightly, and the petals, locks and a gauzy veil conspired to cloak the soft curves of her ears. Her neck, unusually svelte for a Rufoux maid, emerged from the tight collar of white damask. No more of her could be seen, save her hands, but there could be no doubt: Lauræl was fast maturing into beautiful womanhood.

  The front of the long building at stood bared to the heavens, no skins covering the skeletal framework; under the open sky stood the aged Geoffrey, the patriarch of his family although only Artur’s father. Gowned in long robes and intricately decorated mantles, he stood between the two families before the assembled crowd. A dappling of colors, one mystically transforming into another, peeked from the folds of his dyed vestments. Upon Geoffrey’s head, in place of a helmet, stood a tall, white miter, embroidered with black and gold thread, long ribbons of feathers hanging down the back. In one hand he grasped a stout sword, made of flint chipped into a point and sharp edges, and in the other a hammer; a clansman held before him a flaming torch that threw dancing shadows across Geoffrey’s face. Behind him stood an altar of rough, haphazardly stacked stones, piled with kindling.

  Incense and candles burned around the perimeter of the hut, filling the senses with stinging, sweet pungency. A small table behind Geoffrey held a tethered dove and a mottled red apple. As the guests filed in and sat upon the ground, a low humming arose seemingly from nowhere and yet everywhere, an ancient chant sung entirely in unison. The sound swelled and faded as the assembly grew, but never throughout the ceremony did it disappear altogether.

  Geoffrey held his hands aloft, armed with the sword and hammer, to begin the proceedings. “Oh Mog,” he recited from ages of memory, “We come here today to acknowledge the greatness of your power and the power of your anger. We gather to hear these two Rufoux, in the flower of their youth, declare before you their dedication to each other, their dedication to the clan, their dedication to you, oh Mog. We gather as witnesses and partners to their engagement, as they fold their individuality into each other and into the whole of their people.

  “Oh Mog, we pray that you will present your fire. We pray to you today that you will bring your iron will down upon this young couple, Artur and Lauræl, and make them four arms in defense of the Rufoux, four legs in defense of the Rufoux, one heart in defense of the Rufoux. We pray that you will burn in them love for themselves, love for the clan, love for the borders of the Rufoux. We ask that you will use them to bring up a great army to defend our lands in Medialia.”

  With this the man holding the torch retreated, and Geoffrey turned his back on the crowd and faced the altar. “Thus do we bring this man and woman, Artur and Lauræl, together. Thus do we declare them one.” And he brought his two implements together with a great blow. The heavy hammer knocked the sword out of Geoffrey’s hand, lacking the thumb, and sent it clattering to the ground, but not before fulfilling its purpose: An explosion of sparks flew over the dry kindling. The wood caught easily, and soon a great blaze arose.

  Geoffrey laid aside the hammer and took hold of the dove, firmly pinning it down with one hand as he untied the tether with the other. Turning again to face the assembly, he held the bird high and allowed it to flutter its wings, showing it to be alive. Then he returned to the altar and held the dove over the fire. The ceremony had come to a critical moment, in which Mog’s will would be revealed. According to tradition, the fate of the dove would determine the future of Artur and Lauræl; without a favorable sign, doom would hang over their marriage. Geoffrey, wise in his experience, held the creature over the fire and smoke several long minutes, then let go with a flair of dramatics, holding his empty hands and splayed fingers high over his head. The asphyxiated bird fell directly into the altar fire and burned to a crisp. Geoffrey knew to let it breathe deeply of the smoke – if the dove had somehow managed to fly away from the sacrifice, Mog’s fire would not satiate his anger with the bird, but no doubt instead wait to exercise it against the couple. But Mog had consumed the dove; a good omen had befallen them.

  Geoffrey again wheeled around to the crowd, and again took up the ancient liturgy. “Artur and Lauræl,” he began. “Do you today pledge yourselves to each other in formal engagement?”

  They both nodded.

  “Then pledge yourselves to these vows by saying ‘Yea’ in response to each.”

  They nodded again.

  “Do you, Artur and Lauræl, pledge to hold your bodies only for each other?”

  “Yea.”

  “Do you pledge to withhold your bodies from each other until you are wed?”

  “Yea.”

  “Do you pledge to make a new family, many children added to strengthen the defense of the Rufoux?”

  “Yea.”

  “Do you pledge to destroy either one who may violate these vows, or any outsider who would lead you to violate these vows?”

  “Yea.”

  “Do you pledge to fan the flame of love, to forge devotion between yourselves, among your family and within the clan?”

  “Yea.”

  “Then be you engaged to be married upon the year of your eighteenth birthdays.”

  Geoffrey again turned to the table, took up the apple and gave it to Lauræl. Lauræl took a single bite and held the fruit out to Artur, who took the second bite. At this the crowd broke out of its humming and stood to raise a great cheer, then fell into the undercurrent of song again. Slowly they filed past the couple, each man and woman rubbing their heads for good luck. Hours ground past as hundreds of Rufoux went about this ritual. Artur and Lauræl felt faint at times as they endured this ordeal, standing like statues; but within sight of each was the other, and their eyes sustained them until at last the final man, Geoffrey himself, rubbed their heads and led them from the tent.

  The ceremony over, the celebration could begin. According to Rufoux convention, the crowd would be entertained with games. The young couple sat on a bench upon a dais, covered by a flowered bower. Lauræl, the bride-to-be, by tradition named a champion to do battle against an opponent chosen by lot. Lauræl looked slyly over to Artur, and shyly said a single word.

  “Jakke.”

  The crowd groaned, and Jakke strode out of the crowd to kneel before the lady. A strapping man of only about a hundred seventy, his nose had not been beaten quite flat yet.

  “What will be your weapons?” asked Geoffrey.

  “Short swords,” replied Jakke, and he winked at Artur.

  Lots were cast, and an unfortunate Rufoux man stepped out of the crowd. The two men entered an open ring and took up wooden swords.

  “No matter what foe fate might throw against us, the Rufoux will be champion. Let the games begin,” Geoffrey blared.

  The Rufoux clansman grasped his sword with both hands, holding it before him as he warily approached Jakke. Jakke held his sword down, in his right hand, smiling at the man. They came within a couple yards of each other, then before anyone knew it the contest ended. Jakke expertly used his weapon to wrench his opponent’s sword out of his hands and send it flying off to the right. In the same motion his left fist had found the man’s chin and laid him flat on the ground. Now Jakke knelt over him, smiling gleefully and slapping him lightly o
n the cheeks; he grasped him by his crown and lifted him gently to his feet.

  “Quick work,” said Lauræl.

  “I told you so,” said Artur.

  “Games are over,” said Geoffrey with some exasperation. “Everyone go home.”

  Artur and Lauræl sprinted away, hand in hand, into the forest lands. Artur’s plan had worked perfectly, cutting short the interminable rites and rewarding him with time alone in the presence of his beloved.

  Together they ran among the trees and bramble, breaking from each other’s grasp on occasion, then again coming to a collision of hands and inter-locking fingers. Lauræl’s face glowed bright as a star in the deep night, like one of Medialia’s glistening pools reflecting the sun’s dappled glory back upon itself. A scattering of curls had escaped and played upon her forehead. Adventure danced in her eyes.

  “Come, over here,” said Artur, and he took her by the hand toward a husky-looking standancrag, far from the Rufoux camp, deep in the tangle of the forests.

  “Can you climb in that?” he asked Lauræl, indicating her gown. Without a word, she answered by pulling the back of her dress through her legs and binding it with her belt. Artur smiled and pulled the end of a vine from behind a shard. Lauræl could see the length of the vine curled around to the back of the standancrag. Artur walked around the rock pillar, unwinding the vine, until she saw that it led to a small opening in the side some forty kronyn from the ground.

  “Up with you then,” said Artur. “I’ll be right behind.”

  Lauræl kicked off her shoes and began her ascent. It should come as no surprise that the Rufoux encouraged their women to be fit and strong. Slowly she made her way up the standancrag, pulling with her hands, pushing with her feet, Artur close behind, until both sat within the little enclave. Scattered leaves and straw covered the dry, smooth floor, and a small row of stones acted as a low wall around the ledge. The sides of the opening rose gently sloping outward, until they merged again into the outside of the standancrag. The whole area took up no more space than an oxcart.

  “I alone know of this place, my private retreat, my haven. Today I give it to you as well,” he said.

  “It is like a castle in the sky. Like a Raspar city,” she replied.

  “Never has there been a day like today. I feel like I’ve breathed all of creation into my lungs,” said Artur, beaming at his beloved.

  “Oh, Artur, I love you so. Why did our mothers give birth the same year? Could anyone be more blessed than to be born the same year?” Lauræl gently caressed his head with both hands, letting his hair run through her fingers.

  “Who can say? Why did my father have another child at his great age?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m glad he did. How wonderful that only Rufoux of the same age are betrothed!”

  “True, that, or you might have gone to another. I would have had to kill him, poor chap. Father says I am to be the greatest of his sons.”

  “I already believe that. You are a sight in that armor. I have never seen anything like it.”

  “Yes, my father has given me a glorious gift.” Artur leaned back upon his hands and looked down at his gleaming breastplate, but of course from his angle he couldn’t make out its designs. “How does it look?”

  “Just the most dazzling thing a girl could ever see, that’s all,” Lauræl said playfully. “Just the most impressive show of manliness ever. But I know your weak spot.” With her finger she traced the delicate engravings at Artur’s chest.

  “Oh, do you? You think you could hurt me?” Artur returned, smiling slyly.

  “That armor will do you no good against me,” and she kissed him lightly.

  “Come on, then, give it your best shot,” said Artur, not letting go of the game.

  “What?”

  “Give me your best, wench, or I’ll have you for a scullery maid,” he said with overdone bluster, puffing out his chest as best he could. He gave the breastplate a couple of raps with his knuckles.

  “All right then, have that!” Lauræl threw a couple of small stones at him lightly.

  “Is that all the better you can do? Really, how can I do battle for the Rufoux if I can’t get better training than that?”

  Lauræl grinned mischievously and stood up. “All right, then, Sir Artur, prepare to meet your destiny.”

  She looked about for another small stone, and found one the size of her palm. She let it fly, throwing awkwardly from her elbow and off-balance. The stone bounced off Artur’s armor and flew back at Lauræl, catching her just upon her eyes.

  The next second proceeded in slow motion before Artur’s unbelieving gaze. Lauræl stumbled at the blow and twisted her ankle badly on one of the larger stones. “Artur!” she cried out as she lost her balance. Her arms shot desperately into the empty air, and then she disappeared.

  Artur lunged for her, reaching, pleading with both hands, landing heavily on his chest and scattering stones off the ledge. He lay there like a wet rag. His head and outstretched arms hung limply over the edge of the grotto, his haven, his sanctuary, as he stared at the broken body of Lauræl below him.