Sanctuary

Chapter 14

Favaronas awoke with a start.

The monstrous creatures of his nightmare were still vivid in his mind, and he ached as if he’d been wrestling a legion of attackers. Three hundred sixteen years he had lived, and here he was sleeping in the desert, dodging murderous nomads, and prowling haunted tunnels. The lovingly shaped halls of Qualinost were far away, in time and distance. How he missed his old life there! The measured pace of the royal library, the smell of venerable parchment, the dust of time collected on the wisdom of the ages. He feared all of that was lost forever.

Profoundly thirsty, he sat up slowly and reached for a handy waterskin. The collar securing the spout was a ring of polished tin. It made a small but perfect mirror. In its mirrored surface he glimpsed something on his reflection that brought a gasp of shock.

Across his neck were four deep, parallel scratches.

He cried out, dropping the leather waterskin and clutching his throat. The wounds did not hurt, but he could feel the beads of clotted blood clinging to them. It had not been a dream! The bloodthirsty shapechangers were real. He had to tell Glanthon at once.

The sun was just peering over the featureless horizon. Its light was faint, as the sky was layered with dull white clouds.

Scrambling up the hill to Glanthon’s tent, Favaronas found himself caught by the sight. He’d not seen an overcast sky since coming to Khur. It actually looked as though rain was possible. He glanced back at his bedroll, to make certain his parchments were covered.

One of the stone cylinders had unfurled.

Favaronas hurled himself back down the slope, his need to find Glanthon forgotten. Muted sunlight dappled the book. He touched the page. It was cold, stiffer than natural parchment, but no longer stone. It felt like heavy vellum, the sort usually reserved for covers, not text pages. With great care, he unrolled the curled page. It was covered in writing, a neat scribal hand, the ink copper-brown against the yellow vellum. The words were the same abbreviated Elvish as the labels on each cylinder. He couldn’t simply read off the contents but would have to decode the abbreviations.

He ransacked his meager supplies for ink, pen, and paper. He must transcribe the writing, get it all down, and worry about deciphering it later.

While he was engrossed, the sun continued its slow rise, the filtered orange light traveling across his bedroll. When the light fell upon the second and third cylinders, they also softened into readable scrolls, the tightly furled pages loosening with a soft whish. Favaronas’s heart thudded in his chest. What was happening here? The cylinders had been exposed to sunlight before and had not opened. Was it because the clouds were screening the normally harsh sunlight? Was it the first light of dawn? Could it have something to do with his dream that was not a dream?

Just now it did not matter. The mysterious books were open!

Around him, the warriors stirred. A sparse meal was prepared and eaten. Horses were watered and fed. Whenever a warrior passed by, the archivist found himself shielding the open scrolls from view. Without knowing why, he felt a need to keep this development to himself.

When the sun was more fully up, beams of stronger light reached out through gaps in the clouds and fell upon the scrolls. One by one, they curled up again, turning white and hard, becoming stone once more. Favaronas tried to stop the process by shading the books, but the transformation was inexorable. Barely an hour after he noticed the first book opening, all were stone again. He’d managed to copy out only a third of the first tome.

“Good morning!”

The archivist convulsed like a guilty lover. Glanthon had arrived, bearing his gear on one shoulder. “What?” Favaronas said, looking up. “Oh, yes. Good morning.”

Glanthon squinted at him. “Are you hurt? What are those marks on your neck?”

Favaronas’s hand went to his throat. “This? Nothing. I rolled over on a stone while sleeping and scratched myself.”

Glanthon could see no such stones in the immediate area of Favaronas’s bedroll, but if the Speaker’s archivist didn’t want to parade his problems Glanthon would not press the matter.

“We’ll be moving out soon. It’s two days to the caravan I road. I want to keep clear of Kortal itself. Too many Nerakan spies.”

Favaronas nodded. What he wanted most right now was for Glanthon to go about his business, so he could begin translating the writing he’d taken down from the first open scroll. He feigned a headache and asked to be left alone until the company actually departed. Unsuspecting, Glanthon wished him better health and left.

The camp grew noisier as the warriors curried their horses, saddled them, and stowed their gear. Favaronas broke his fast with a bag of dried vegetable chips and a cup of water, and tried to make sense of what he’d written.

The writing was like the labels, line after line of abbreviations, without break, punctuation, or capitalization, and only a small tic of the scribe’s pen separating each syllable.

Who would record valuable records in such a difficult fashion? Still, if each syllable represented a word in Old Elvish, he should be able to read the entire document. But it would take time. The first line was nat.hat.om.bar.sem.hoc.ved. Nat could stand for many things, from the word for rooster (nathi) to the verb meaning “to behead” (natcar).

By the time the company was ready to depart Favaronas had translated four lines, and those only roughly. The book on which he was working was apparently volume three of a longer work. It began in mid-sentence, not unusual in documents from ancient times: “—he commanded [us?] to raise the stones as part of the sacred star [or pattern?] that the powers of heaven had buried. [?] might be enhanced in this place.—” There followed several words he could not puzzle out, then: “Many were weak and reverted [or changed] by this time. The work went slowly. Many died, and their spirits walked by night, confined by the power [or place?] they sought to control.”

Now Favaronas really did feel a headache coming on. The thicket of ambiguous syllables yielded their secrets so slowly he knew translating the cylinders would require weeks of continuous labor. He would never be able to keep their secrets for that long in the confines of Khurinost.

Why keep them a secret at all? He raised the cup of water to his lips with a trembling hand. The answer was terribly clear. Power. A frightening theory was growing in his mind: that the fabled dragonstones were buried under the ruins, that a secret colony had grown up in the valley centuries after the dragonstones were buried, a colony devoted to harnessing their forbidden power. He imagined the ruins were all that remained of an enormous magical operation, intended to allow the colonists to tap the dragonstones as a water-wheel and mill and utilize the power of a flowing stream.

Was the design finished? History did not record the rise of a great city of magic in the Inath-Wakenti. The few lines Favaronas had read implied the colonists died off faster than their work could be completed. Who were they, and why did they die? The fact that their chronicles were written in truncated Silvanesti lent weight to the theory they were elves, but no Speaker of the Stars would have tolerated such an illicit enterprise. Maybe that was the final answer to the mystery of Inath-Wakenti. The builders of the ruins had been rounded up, and perhaps exterminated, by the Speaker of the Stars.

Oh, how he longed for access to the ancient archives of Silvanost. What mysteries they must contain!

He regretted saying as much as he had to Glanthon. Glanthon was a good soldier, but the scope of this revelation was beyond him. He might spread the word to the other warriors, and he would want to turn over anything they found to the Lioness. The Vale of Silence was no place for swords and soldiers. It ought to be quarantined, with access strictly controlled and only the wisest sages and mages allowed inside.

Of course, Favaronas himself did not qualify as either. But wasn’t this exactly the task of an archivist, to recover lost records while searching for evidence in the annals of two ancient kingdoms? Who better than he to unravel the secrets of Inath-Wakenti?

Favaronas had learned much from the hardships of this journey. No longer was he merely a beer-loving librarian. His time with the Lioness had taught him the necessity of decisive action. Thus inspired, he moved swiftly now. He wrapped the cylinders in his bedroll, added his notes and the few provisions he hid, and tied the resulting bundle with cords. He placed the precious bundle at the foot of the hill, on a large area of soft sand. He swept his footprints away, then dug a hole large enough to contain the bundle and himself if he drew his knees to his chin. Wrapping his belt sash around his face, to protect eyes, nose, and mouth, he lay in the hole and buried himself completely.

For a moment, the weight of the warm sand pressing down on him brought panic. With his head turned to the side, he discovered he could breathe well enough. The sash filtered the sand from the air. Concentrating on the marvelous knowledge contained in the cylinders he clutched to his chest, he forced himself to be calm. This was the right thing to do. He must have time to decode the knowledge contained in the cylinders. He waited.

“Favaronas! Fa-va-ro-nas!”

Glanthon and other soldiers could be heard calling him. He felt the vibration of hooves pounding nearby. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his neck, but he did not answer.

Eventually the calls died away, though it took longer than he had imagined. Guilt stabbed him. Glanthon sounded very worried. He kept his soldiers searching for what seemed like hours, but although the archivist’s legs twitched once or twice with the urge to put an end to his scheme, he did not. He stayed where he was.

The sand grew warmer as the day wore on, but the unusual layer of clouds kept it from becoming too hot to bear. Favaronas dozed, waking in terror several times, dreaming he’d been buried alive or was sharing his hole with those horrible leaping spiders.

At long last, the heat in the ground abated. He had heard nothing outside for hours and decided it was safe to emerge. When he tried to unbend his knees, he found them locked in place. His arms and hands worked, so he clawed his way to freedom.

The sun was still up, but sunset was only an hour or so away. Pain like knife-thrusts gripped both of his legs. It took an age but finally he was able to straighten them and to stand.

The walk back to Inath-Wakenti would be a long one, but night was the best time to cross the desert on foot, if any time was right. He took up the bundle of cylinders and supplies.

Abruptly, loneliness swamped him, a sense of his own insignificance in the vastness of the desert. He felt fear bubble up too. Very little would be required to cause his fear to bloom into panic, and panic would kill him. He must think clearly and carefully. He squeezed the bundle in his arms, reveling in the weight of the scrolls.

“I will know all!” he declared. “I will learn all that they can teach me!”

Courage bolstered, he put the lowering orb of the sun at his left hand and set out north across the rocky sand and windblown dunes.

Wind gusted through the sea of tents, flapping roofs, and shivering taut anchor lines. A hard rain had lashed Khurinost just after sunset, and the sodden tents steamed in the cool night air. No one slept. Elves clustered in the narrow lanes or sat in groups before fires in open squares. Talk was of the growing dangers around them—the attempt on the Speaker’s life, the murder of Lord Morillon, the attack on the city gates by Khurish fanatics. Morillon was respected by many, the Speaker loved by all, yet no one in Khurinost would survive if the water supply was cut off.

The gates had reopened, but talk turned inevitably to the fact that it could so easily happen again. Half the elves believed it would be necessary to storm Khuri-Khan and secure the wells. The other half felt it was time to leave. Exactly where they would go was a subject of great debate.

With Gilthas sleeping, Kerian took some time for herself. General Hamaramis, a fastidious fellow, owned one of the best bathtubs in Khurinost. His tent was currently unoccupied, as he was with his troops keeping watch on the Khurs, so she stole away for a much-needed bath. Long days in the desert had left her feeling dry, dirty, and wrung out like a washcloth. Worse, the stench of her encounter with the sand beast’s carcass could not be overcome by her usual quick ablutions in a basin of water. The odor of decay had permeated every part of her, right down to the roots of her hair. If she didn’t clean up soon, she thought it might never come off.

Hamaramis’s tub was a homemade contraption comprising tent stakes supporting heavy canvas sides, but just now it seemed more luxurious to Kerian than the gold, silver, and porcelain fixtures in the palace of Qualinost. She hauled her own water from a brass tank outside the general’s tent, and she didn’t bother heating it. It was nearly the warmth of blood anyway, thanks to the Khurish climate.

Long hunted by enemies, the Lioness was too wary to strip to the skin and chose to retain her underclothes. Before stepping into the tub, she carefully combed the thick, grit-encrusted mass of her hair. Sand and tiny gravel cascaded to the floor with every stroke.

The tub wasn’t long enough for her to stretch out full-length. Once in, she pulled up her knees and leaned back, submerging head and hair. The clear water turned gray.

The old general disdained soap as an effete affectation preferring to scrub himself with a sponge. Kerian eyed the creamy brown sponge, which hung on a peg inside the tent decided it looked rough enough to plane wood; and made do with a scrap of linen for a washcloth.

She straightened her legs, leaning against the back of the tub, and closed her eyes. The tent was quiet, save for intermittent gusts of wind outside and the tapping of some metal object, stirred by the breeze. With effort, she cleared her mind and let the quiet and blessed moisture work their soothing magic. She dozed.

“That looks wonderful.”

She didn’t start, since she’d heard him coming and recognized his halting gait, but she was surprised to see him.

Looking more than frail, Gilthas leaned against the wooden doorframe. He’d donned a geb, the sleeveless garment hanging loosely without benefit of belt. It bulged over the bandages on his right shoulder. A dressing gown was draped over his shoulders. The stump of a spade handle served him as a cane.

“I can’t believe you’re up and about,” she said.

“It’s a shock to me too,” he replied, smiling faintly. Without warning, he began to slide off the jamb. Kerian was out of the tub in a flash, catching him before he hit the floor.

Hamaramis’s furniture, like the general himself, was rather spare. Kerian eased Gilthas onto a short, unpadded bench and stood looking down at him, hands on hips, dripping on the carpet.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed. You’ll aggravate your wound.”

“It’s healed.” She looked surprised, and he added, “High Priestess Sa’ida is quite skilled.”

“I gave orders she wasn’t to be admitted!”

He was taken aback. “Why?”

“It was a human who wounded you. We’ve had quite enough favors from them!”

Gilthas coughed, wincing. “You wouldn’t say that if it was your shoulder,” he rasped. But she would, of course.

Annoyed, yet unwilling to berate him while he was so weak, she decided to finish her bath. Taking up Hamaramis’s rough sea sponge and stepping back into the tub, she dedicated herself to scrubbing feet and legs while her husband watched.

Finally, the heavy silence and his grim expression were too much. “Whatever it is, just say it!” she said, tossing the sponge into the bath with a splash.

“I’m trying to find the words.” His voice was calm, but concern laced every syllable. “You left your command in the Valley of the Blue Sands?”

“Yes.”

“Kerian, this is a grave matter.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. But Glanthon is a competent officer. He’ll get his warriors, and Favaronas, home.”

“That isn’t the point.” He paused, then spoke, the words seemingly wrenched from him. “A commander shouldn’t abandon her soldiers!”

“I thought you were dead or dying! And I don’t need you to school me in how to be a commander!”

“Apparently, you do! My health was totally irrelevant. Your first duty was to your warriors. Leaving them to fend for themselves could be construed as cowardice.”

That brought the Lioness to her feet, sending waves of water over the sides of the tub. “How dare you! No one calls me a coward, not even you!”

He leaned back, panting slightly, exertion and emotion taking their toll.

“You’re no coward, Kerian. I know that. But your behavior of late has been reckless and dangerous. I’m told you dragged the rotting corpse of a sand beast to Sahim-Khan’s door.”

With a grim nod, she admitted it.

“Why?” he asked.

She flung out her hands. “To make a point, of course! I was accused of slaughtering unarmed women and children. I realized the sand beast was probably responsible, maybe at the direction of that traitor, Faeterus. If I had simply told the story to Sahim-Khan, he might not have believed me, or he might’ve ignored me. By putting my case to the people of Khuri-Khan, I ended the lie at once!”

“You have sorely offended Sahim-Khan’s dignity.”

“I don’t care about his dignity!”

She wrung water from her hair and stepped out of the tub. When she looked at her husband again, his face was utterly still, the lines on it seemingly etched twice as deep as before, his gaze fixed on the floor. Concerned, she held out a hand to him, meaning to help him back to bed.

“Do you care about my dignity? You have disobeyed my strictest orders.”

The hand dropped to her side. “What orders?” she asked, genuinely confused.

“Not to fight with the Khurish nomads.”

“What in Chaos’s name are you talking about? They attacked us!”

“Then you should have evaded them.” He thumped the carpet with his cane.

“They knew where we were going! I couldn’t very well evade them and carry out your pointless expedition at the same time!”

He pushed himself upright. His eyes held no anger, only a deep sadness.

“Kerianseray, I love you more than my life,” he whispered. Her towering rage drained away. “But I must do what’s best for the elven nation,” he added. “Your actions continue to provoke our enemies and aggravate our allies. You have consistently made impulsive, reckless choices at a time when the slightest nuances of our deeds can mean life or death.”

His posture straightened, and in that instant, her husband was gone. It was the Speaker who addressed her now. “You are removed as commander of my armies.”

Had he pulled out a blade and thrust it home, he could not have astonished her more. She stared at him in shock as he went on.

“In time, I trust, you will appreciate why I must make this decision, will understand what an increasingly difficult political situation we’re in. Taranath will take command of the cavalry. Hamaramis retains command of my personal guard. You may serve in any company you wish, or you may retire from service.”

With that he turned ponderously and, leaning heavily on his makeshift cane, limped out.

Several yards away, in the corridor leading to the tent’s main room, Planchet waited. When the Speaker appeared, Planchet covered the distance between them in three long strides.

Many unhappy tasks were required of a monarch. The one he’d just performed had been the very worst. Gilthas turned a gray, sweating face to Planchet and whispered, “It is done. Take me home.”

Water dried on Kerian’s skin. How much time passed, she didn’t know, but when she finally came to herself, she was sitting on the rug, her back against the bathtub. Her smallclothes were stiff and dry.

Dismissed. She was dismissed. By her husband!

How many years had she borne arms against the enemies of her people? How long had she shed blood and fought foes more numerous, more powerful, more ruthless than she? She had won and she had lost, many times over, but always she fought on. Never had she quit. And now she was dismissed, cast aside, disparaged.

Gilthas was wrong. She had made mistakes, she admitted that, but her course wasn’t reckless, it was right. If their people were to survive, they needed bold and vigorous action, not soft words and evasion. Inath-Wakenti was a dead end, as dangerous to the elves as the desert heat and marauding nomads. Perhaps their people weren’t yet strong enough to retake Silvanesti and Qualinesti, but they would hardly grow any stronger in this dreary field of tents, living off the charity of barbarous humans. Nor could they grow stronger by crossing the murderous cauldron of the High Plateau only then to face the deadly mysteries in the Valley of the Blue Sands.

No. Elves must take control of elven destiny once more. If Gilthas and his soft advisors couldn’t see this, someone would have to show them the way. They clung to an imaginary life, thinking protocol and precedence mattered, thinking politeness and accommodation would keep their people safe. Someone would have to make them understand reality.

The first step to saving the elven race was right here. They must take Khuri-Khan, and use it as their base for striking outward from Khur. Gilthas always had been reluctant to confront Sahim because the human khan had offered the elves sanctuary during their time of trouble, but that sanctuary had come to have much too high a price—and Kerian wasn’t thinking only of steel and silver. The life they’d been forced to live, begging humans for every scrap they received, was draining the heart and soul from her people. Sahim-Khan was a liar, a schemer, and a greedy bandit. He deserved no consideration, and less mercy.

With Khuri-Khan in their hands, the elves would have access to the sea. Ships could be commandeered or built, and the Lioness and her fighters would harry the coasts of Silvanesti and Qualinesti. Ships of their former conquerors could be taken, and raids mounted on coastal towns. There were islands with temperate climates in the Southern and Eastern Courrain that would fall to a determined attack. The new elven nation would be a seafaring nation, building their wealth and power against the day they would take back their ancestral lands.

That day would come. Fists clenched, Kerian swore to herself it would come, and not in some dim, distant future, but soon. Very soon.

She got to her feet, dressing quickly in her dirty garments. It was obvious that talking to Gilthas and his advisors would be pointless. She would make her case to the warriors. Like herself, they understood the realities of life. With them behind her, Gilthas would be forced to listen to her. He could be made to see the logical perfection of her plan.

It was fully dark outside, and the wind rushed through the lanes, first one way, then back the other. Rosy haloes glowed inside the clouds overhead. The strange sight halted Kerian, despite the fervor of purpose burning in her breast. Lightning was white or bluish. Even in the gods-blasted wastes of Khur, lightning wasn’t red.

As she navigated the twisting byways on her way to the warriors’ quarter, she encountered no one. However, she quickly knew she was not alone. A hundred yards from Hamaramis’s tent she glimpsed shadows moving behind her. Senses honed by years on the run warned her. The next time there was a flash of scarlet lightning, Kerian whirled abruptly. She saw no one, but had no doubt she was being followed—and by more than one person.

She shucked the scabbard from her sword.

Cooking smoke drifted through the lane. Small black shapes flitted overhead, making faint chirping noises. She’d seen bats in Khur just one other time, the night the ash leaves had fallen on her. Recent events had driven the omen from her mind. Now that memory returned full force.

She continued her march up the alley, making as much noise as she could without being too obvious. Reaching a three-way intersection, she sprang to her right and sprinted down the winding path, taking long strides and landing only on her toes. An old Kagonesti trick, to foil trackers.

She ran far enough to lose her breath, then ducked behind a cloth merchant’s stall, its flaps closed for the night. The bats still flickered overhead, dodging between the canvas rooftops. When they had passed, silence descended. No sounds of pursuit reached her ears. She stepped out of hiding to continue on her way, and her bare feet trod on soft, green leaves.

Without looking, she knew they were ash leaves.

Fresh air teased her back. Turning, she glanced back along the twisting lane. The overlapping edges of the fabric roofs flapped lazily, then settled again. Wind puffed down the path, making the tents belly in and out like the breathing of enormous animals. All but one. One tent didn’t flex-because someone was pressed against it.

Kerian set her feet firmly and gripped her sword hilt in both hands. She didn’t have long to wait.

Four figures dashed into view. The leader held a hooded lamp, and when he saw Kerian he opened the shutter wide. Bright light dazzled her, so she lunged forward and swatted the brass lamp away. It landed in the sand, flickered, and kept burning, but less brightly.

Recovering from her lunge, she heard her attackers draw swords, one after the other. The first, the one who’d held the lamp, thrust at her, throwing himself off balance in his zeal to reach her. She bound up his blade in a parry and drove him back with a punch to his nose. A second attacker came at her, point first. She swung up at him in a wide arc. Their blades met, and the force of her swing sent his sword flying. Completing the circle, she beat aside the blade of the first attacker and repaid him in full, shoving the tip of her sword through his collar bone, deep into his chest. Blood welled.

Her attackers were strong and fast. Dressed in gebs, they wore gray cloth masks that completely covered their heads. They carried Silvanesti-style swords, but that meant little. Local artisans had taken to making such blades to peddle to the elves, who did not care for the guardless Khurish swords. The craftsmen’s ingenuity had sparked a fad for laddad-style weapons among the youths of Khuri-Khan.

As she held them off, she shouted for help. No one answered. This part of Khurinost seemed deserted. The Lioness was on her own.

She snatched up the fallen lamp and used it like a shield, fending off sword points. One of her three remaining foes got too close, and she clouted him with the lamp. He went down, but his hard head broke the oil reservoir off. The lamp died. She dropped it, and a blade found her empty hand. It scored a deep cut along the back of her left wrist.

Rapid footfalls told her that at last someone was coming. Her hope of assistance died quickly when she saw the new arrivals wore gray hoods. Having whittled her attackers to two, they now swelled to eight.

She flung herself at a tent wall, sword outthrust. She sawed the stiff canvas and dove headfirst through the opening.

The tent was used for storage. Only baskets and sacks greeted Kerian’s eyes. She dodged around them, slashed through the opposite wall, and found herself back outside, in a parallel street.

Scarlet lightning danced above her, and the wind played down the lanes in gusty waves. Tents flapped. Somewhere nearby a metal bucket got loose and clanged end over end, driven by the freakish wind.

From the noise they were making, Kerian knew her attackers had split up. Some were coming through the holes she’d made in the tent while others were circling the tent to try and cut her off. She saw no glory or purpose in dying just now, so she took to her heels. Her hand was bleeding, leaving a distinct trail in the sand. Even a goblin could track her.

A single set of rapid footfalls closed in behind her. When they got close enough, she threw herself on her face and let the assassin overrun her. In a flash she was up, and had run him through. He dropped to his knees. She dodged in front of him and tore the hood from his head.

He was an elf, a Silvanesti!

Placing her bare foot on his chest, she shoved him onto his back. With her sword tip at his throat, she cried, “Why are you doing this? Who put you up to it?”

He writhed in agony. His comrades were coming fast behind them. Kerian repeated her question, letting her blade draw blood.

“The prince!” he rasped. “The prince of Khur!”

Thunderstruck, she dropped to the sand beside the dying elf. She took hold of his geb and dragged him up till they were nose to nose.

“Why? Why does Shobbat want me dead?”

“For the throne of his father.”

That made no sense, but he was past answering any other questions.

The rest of the murderous band was upon her. She snatched up the dead elf’s sword. In the weird light of windblown torches and red lightning, the Lioness went through the remaining assassins like a reaper through hay. One of her early teachers was a master of two-sword fighting, which he always claimed was superior to any other type. The secret, he said, was to let your opponent parry, then counterstrike while his blade was engaged. On this night, she put his teachings to the ultimate test.

The assassins were nimble and capable fighters, but they had never faced a warrior like the Lioness. One by one they fell, stabbed or slashed by one of her whirling blades. None fled. Their orders were clear.

The last fellow fought best against her, slicing a bloody line on her right arm and another on her left cheek, before she broke through and impaled him with both her swords at once.

He collapsed, and she released her blades, allowing his dead body to carry them to the ground. For a moment she stood, covered in their blood and her own, breath coming in gasping gulps, then the strength left her legs. She dropped to her knees, then fell facedown onto the bloody, hard-packed ground.