His one good eye was encased with dust and dirt, and he opened it just a bit, the world but a sliver, and as he lay there, face-first in the desert rock, he desperately tried to remember where he was, what had happened. His limbs ached more than he thought possible, his body weighed a million tons, and he felt more dead than alive. Anvin heard a distant rumble and he looked up to the horizon and could see the faint outline of an army, gleaming yellow and blue, marching away. They stirred up a cloud of dust as they marched north, away from him. Slowly, he began to remember. The invasion. The Pandesians. The Southern Gate. Duncan had never arrived. He and his men had lost. They had failed to stop them. Anvin lay there, feeling the bruises all over his body, the welts on his head, the cuts and wounds stinging. He felt a tremendous throbbing in his hand and he looked down to see his pinky finger was missing, the blood dried up, only a stump now. The memories came rushing back. The battle. The hordes of the world descending upon him at once.
