Ch 10: Peter

Oh, Aslan, how his head ached.

Had he fallen from his horse? The last thing Peter remembered was following Humrubble along a mountain path in Ettinsmoor, a steep climb that plunged away into nothing on one side. Salvia had been flying right overhead when Peter's mount shied at something. Something. He couldn't remember anything being in front of them but the giant.

Oh, his pounding head. Worse than the ache from a few too many drinks of dwarven ale.

A bird shrieked now, sounding distressed. Peter cracked open a cautious eye.

He might well have left it shut for all the good it did him. Pitch darkness greeted him. Had they been taken by Ettin giants and brought into a cave? He felt the ground underneath him and came in contact with solid rock. "Salvia?" he whispered.

The bird shrieked again, unintelligible. Fluttered.

Peter found he was sprawled flat on his back as though he'd been knocked down by an enormous, invisible fist. That might account for the headache, if the giants had been fighting them and hit him. But why not bind him? A king went for a king's ransom. Even the largely dull-witted giants would have come to that conclusion. He patted himself down and found no blood, no piercing pains indicating broken bones. Just that horrid ache in his skull, as if something were grinding at it from the inside.

He struggled upright and smacked his head on the rock ceiling. "Ow! For pity's sake." Rueful, seeing stars, he rubbed his head. "Salvia? Say something."

More incoherent cries.

Peter hurried, half-crouched, toward the sound. Was it not his hawk companion?

Feathers brushed his arm and stilled. The shriek died to chirping. Still confused, Peter said, "Once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.' Are you Salvia?"

Chirp.

"I can't understand you. What's happened?" He knew the bird couldn't answer him, and Salvia must have known it also, because he didn't try. Instead, the bird climbed onto Peter's leather glove. "Never mind. Let's get into some light and see where we are. We'll sort this out."

He crept, still crouching, to the cave's wall and felt his way forward. A twist here, a turn there. More convolutions. Gradually the blackness began to take on a yellowish glow. Firelight, maybe. His arm began to ache from Salvia's weight.

Then, without warning, the space opened to brightness.

Peter found himself in a cavern with six men in tattered German military uniforms. For the first time in long memory, Peter, High King of Narnia, victor of hundreds of battles, cool-headed planner of countless hazardous campaigns, froze on the spot.

- # -

Helen knew every pore and crack in the stone wall before her by heart now. She'd been gagged and tied to a crude, makeshift chair for who knew how many days. From the moment the stranger in her kitchen fired his pistol and shattered the lamp overhead, she'd been living in terror that the next bullet would go to her. And no explanation why--not one she could understand, no matter how they roared their angry questions at her.

She noted the passage of time only by the instances when they brought her food, let her attend to nature's call, or when the desperate need for sleep overtook her worry for her husband and children. Had Michael endured this kind of torture while away at war? He never spoke of the fighting, and to this day she wasn't sure what terrible things he must have seen.

And then, breaking into the interminable monotony of stamping feet, clinking metal, and voices speaking guttural foreign languages, came a curious sound. A shrieking, chirping noise. Voices rose in alarm.

Fighting. The first she'd heard since being brought to this horrifying place. It went on for endless frightening minutes, and she could do nothing, not even hide from this new threat.

Her bound arms ached and shook, and she felt tears begin to slide down her cheeks. The salt stung the cuts on her cheek and lip. Her nose felt so terribly bruised, it might have been broken. They hadn't shied from striking her when she couldn't answer their demands. They would certainly kill her now.

And then the noises stopped. Firelight blasted into her makeshift cell, almost blinding her in contrast to the little lantern they'd placed on the floor nearby. She could only make out a bizarre, rumpled outfit that looked like it had come from a Shakespearean play.

As soon as the man saw her, he dropped his torch with a clatter. It sputtered and died, but the dimming light couldn't hide the wild look on the bearded man's face. Long, dark-blond hair, well out of fashion, hung to his collar. His breath shuddered out. He bolted toward her.

Helen screamed though the gag in her mouth.

True alarm flashed into the man's bright-blue eyes. Crouching, he clapped his hands over her skirted knees. "Mum!"

Helen stopped in mid-scream.

The man glanced toward the opening to her cell while jerking a knife from some sort of pouch. "Salvia!"

Helen started to whimper at the sight of that knife, but the man slashed through her bonds as if he did this every day. Then she noticed what looked like a sword hilt in a scabbard at his belt. Despair flooded her. Her arms and legs ached so, Helen couldn't even raise them to stand and fight. Even well, she couldn't outmatch a man with this stranger's height and breadth.

An enormous bird soared into the cavern, its wings nearly touching the walls on either side of the opening. It landed on the floor and turned round to study the doorway.

Too stunned by this, Helen didn't even think to move, until the man reached for her face with that knife. She whimpered and arched back as much as the chair allowed, but he cut through the gag in one swipe that didn't even touch her. "Can you walk? Can you walk! Did they hurt you! Are there more than six!"

His rapid-fire questions made almost as little sense as those of the strangers. She managed a tearful head-shake and tried to wobble upright. He rose with her, and she toppled right into his arms.

He nearly squeezed the breath out of her as soon as he had her. Building up another scream, Helen struggled with all the strength her wearied limbs had left.

And then she noticed he was kissing her hair. His voice cracked as he spoke. "I've got you, Mum. Nothing's going to hurt you, nothing, I swear it, I swear it."

She arched away to find him crying, too. The pure shock of it stopped her struggles, and she studied his face, the tears streaming from his blue eyes into the gold-brown beard. A strange, drifting sensation overtook her. Disbelieving, she whispered, "Peter?" and passed out.