Chlamash Tarkaan's body hung in a macabre imitation of the stillness that had characterized him in life; tense with the gradual onset of death, he remained motionless as the tent above him swayed gently, wooden poles creaking. Aravis could not see his face: it was twisted back by the wire, as if he were looking up, waiting for Tash to deal the final blow.

Below his neck, his body was a mess of armor and red, ragged flesh.

The smell of blood finally hit Aravis' nostrils and she staggered backwards, hands fumbling for her sword. Under the heavy weight of her armor, her heart seemed to stutter with shock, and then roar back to life with horrific speed. Chlamash was dead.

He was dead in the Tisroc's tent; which meant that his killers had entered sacred ground and strung Chlamash up as they had meant to execute the Tisroc: like a wild hog, its only worth its flesh.

Aravis was shaking. She had been shaking for a while now, but as the initial shock receded, terror set in. Where was Chlamash's sword? After looking around without stepping away from where she stood, she found it, half-obscured by the mattress. She would have been sleeping there, had she not wandered away from the camp. By Tash's mercy, she had been saved – and Chlamash had taken the killing blow.

The Head of the Guard was dead. The Tisroc had survived… but for how much longer?

The walls of the tent fluttered and shook, as if a million men were already surrounding her, pressing against the canvas, ready to drag her by her neck, slit through her stomach and gut her like an animal, ready to put an end to the Usurper's reign of arrogance…

Fareez Tarkaan had won this war before they had even set foot in Northern territory. Tehishbaan had seized power, with Zalindreh and Teebeth at its side. Who dealt the final blow no longer mattered: the throne belonged to Bilash Tarkaan, and the short-lived reign of a former wife would disappear from Calormen's memory.

There was a sound of scraping boots on hardened sand behind her, and the flap at the entrance shifted. Aravis whirled around, drew her sword, and with a suddenly steady hand and pressed it up against the neck of the man who entered.

Marekh Tarkaan stared at her with horrified eyes. No one else walked in behind him.

Aravis could hear her voice tremble when she spoke, every muscle taut. "Did you do this?"

The Grand Vizier was in full armor, but never once did his hand stray to the scimitar at his side. Instead, he stammered, eyes wide before Aravis' burning ones. "I—I—" his gaze moved to the twisted body suspended behind her. He paled. "Is… is that Chlamash?"

The stench of the blood passed over her again and Aravis quelled the urge to vomit. Her sword slipped against Marekh's exposed neck, and he winced with pain. Her arm began to shake. "Was it you?"

"Tisroc—" he began to tremble as well, and the wind made the tent walls push inwards, as if the structure itself were holding its breath.

"Was it you?"

"No! No, by Tash…!"

Aravis searched his eyes, looking for a hint of treachery, but all she could see was terror. Behind her, she felt as if Chlamash's dead form were watching her. Marekh kept glancing at the body, then looking away.

She released him.

Stumbling back, the Vizier gasped for breath and then pressed a hand over his mouth. Aravis did not lessen her grip on the sword. The tent exhaled again, a thin layer of sand making its way into the room and settling into the puddles of blood. But then Marekh swallowed, drawing himself up to his full height and lowering his trembling hand. Like her, he had come to understand the sudden gravity of their situation. His eyes followed hers to the entrance of the tent.

"How soon until sunrise?" she asked quietly. If Khalid Tarkaan had had a hand in this, then she might be dead before the sun came up.

"Nearly two hours," Marekh replied, voice a quaver. "The barbarian King sent his reply."

"What did it say?"

His eyes met hers and he looked away quickly as if stricken.

She had not sheathed her sword. It was risen in midair, still prepared to strike. Around them, the desert wind rose, and the flapping of the tent all around them felt as if the army was pressing in at all sides. Aravis kept her eyes on the entrance. "I know you read it already; whether it was you or the other Tarkaans, I do not care. What did he say?"

Marekh swallowed. "He refused your generosity. He is thirsty for blood."

Aravis glanced back at Chlamash. His blood still dripped onto the sand, wires cutting into his arms where armor had failed him. "As am I," she said, and tried to cease her trembling. "Bring Kidrash Tarkaan to me."

"Here?"

"What use is there in leaving, when they might be watching already?"

Marekh nodded, but his frame still shook. "And—and the body?"

Her knuckles were white against the sword hilt. "First we must survive the night."

With one last frightened look at her, he slipped away, hunched over as if he feared becoming a target – which he might very well be. It was unfair, Aravis thought, in a sudden rush of cruel bitterness, that it had been Chlamash, and not Marekh who had been lost. Chlamash, at least, had the ability to think things through calmly.

Aravis pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, then stepped away from the bloodied carpet. She did not dare stand beside the tent walls; it was, perhaps, dangerous anyway, but she could not shake the idea of being stabbed through the canvas as she leaned against it. Her eyes watered.

She had known that this would happen, really. She could not pretend that death had not been the most likely option when she left Tashbaan: indeed, she had counted on it. And yet here she was, shivering like a leaf, facing the bodies death had left behind and able to do nothing but wait.

She forced her hand down from her face, and blinked away the tears. She could hardly feel the weight of her armor anymore: terror had taken hold of her senses and rid her of her weariness. Well, then; she would make the most of what little she had left. If it was the rush of fear that availed her, then she would use it until her last.

Her sword was still in her hand. At the realization, she lowered its point onto the carpet with a muted thud. Hardening her resolve she looked up at Chlamash—at the wire that still somehow held him. She could not reach high enough, and the sword would not be able to severe the chain. Chlamash would have to wait.

Aravis wondered if he had had a family; if there had been anything else in his life besides the commitment he had to the Tisroc. It was all too late now. There was no time for prayers or mourning.

Around her, the tent shivered with renewed intensity, and she could hear the hushed voices of men approaching: the sound of hooves against the hardened sand. Tightening her grip, she stepped forwards again, closer to Chlamash, as if he could yet protect her.

But mercifully, it was Marekh again. Behind him came her father, and his face grew ashen as he stepped through the entrance and caught sight of the carnage within.

"By Tash—!"

Aravis tamed her emotions, crushing them down and fixing Kidrash with a searching look. "I trust that you knew nothing of this."

He gaped for a moment, eyes moving from Chlamash's body to that of the guard's on the ground. When he attempted to speak, no sound came out. Finally, he cleared his throat, tone choked with dread. "This must be Fareez' doing; Bilash's command from Tehishbaan. We have pushed too far."

Aravis had no time to wonder at the 'we'. She ground her teeth. "Might Zalindreh and Teebeth be a part of this?"

He nodded, his face terribly grim. "Most likely. Khalid Tarkaan I would not trust, either."

Aravis let out a breath, turning away slightly. She had not wanted to doubt her own decision in bringing Khalid instead of Ishamiel, but it seemed that she had made a terrible miscalculation. However, there was no time now for regret. Blinking away the blinding terror that threatened to rise to her head, she turned back to her father. "Then why have they not attacked?"

She had never seen Kidrash Tarkaan look so agitated, yet so intensely focused. Despite his advanced age, the danger only seemed to make him stand more upright. Aravis wondered if this was what made him such a respected Tarkaan among the warring men; or if it was his own stake in her powerful position that was holding him together.

"They would have left your body to be found after the battle, and then blamed it on the barbarians," he said. "But my men are standing alert all around us; they cannot attack now if they do not want an all-out battle, and to be rid of Calavar on the eve of war is a price they cannot afford."

So she had escaped a terrible death by a hair's breadth; it was most likely that on her return from her walk in the darkness, she had just missed her assassins.

Aravis took a deep breath and smelled death all around her. "The sun will rise soon," she said, her common sense beginning to take control. "Their quarrel with me has lower priority before the threat of Archenland. They will take the North before they revisit assassination."

But Kidrash's expression did not change. "It will be easier for them to betray you in foreign territory," he said gravely. "Even more so, perhaps, in the heat of battle."

If she survived battle at all, that is, Aravis thought, but did not say.

There was a sudden scuffle outside, and a voice let out a loud exclamation of outrage, only to be stifled by who Aravis presumed were her father's personal guard. Her grip on her sword tightened again. Kidrash Tarkaan turned just as his guard from Calavar looked in, growing pale at the sight of the bodies.

"What is it?" Kidrash snapped.

"O Tisroc, may you live forever," the soldier gasped, then cleared his throat, turning to the Tarkaan. "There are members of the Tisroc's Guard, may she live forever, seeking audience. I do not—I do not believe that they know what has happened."

They did not know. And as a man from the Guard who had often been at Chlamash's side stepped into the tent, Aravis felt faint pity for the young man who stared with wide eyes at the suspended body of his superior.

"Chlamash Tarkaan is dead," she said, somehow managing the words without tremor. "As is one of the men of the Guard. I grieve the injustice done to them; but more so, I wonder by whose hand they were betrayed."

The young man threw himself to her feet, dangerously close to the blood. He flinched upon the realization, but pressed his forehead to the edge of the carpet nonetheless. "The Guard is ever loyal to the Tisroc, may she live forever!" he exclaimed, anguish in his voice. "We live to protect her from this shameless treachery, and avenge our brothers, whose lives were honored by being spent in the path of servitude."

She allowed herself to relax her grip on her sword. "In Chlamash's absence, who is second in command?"

"This servant, O Tisroc."

"Can you vouch for all your men, Tarkaan?" she asked sharply.

He did not hesitate. "With my life."

Aravis stared at him for a moment. Irrationally, she desperately wished to trust everyone; the notion that her judgement could be any more flawed was unbearable. Rationally, she knew she could not be sure of anything. But she was unlikely to survive much longer. For the moment, all she had was her sword and a semblance of power, at least in words.

"Then rise, Head of the Guard," she told the young man. "You may be called for such a sacrifice yet."

She looked away from him, to her father and to the Vizier. "Send word that we march at dawn. The more urgent the rush, the less of a chance they have to regroup."

Marekh nodded, bowing, and all but trotted outside, calling for men to follow. It felt almost unbearably loud; armor and boots clinking and thudding, tearing through the stillness of the night. But the camp would be roused very soon, and the noise would be much louder.

Aravis turned to the new Head of the Guard. "Retrieve the dead and lay them to rest as befits their rank. A ceremony will be arranged once the fighting is over."

"To hear is to obey."

He would not look at the bodies as he walked backwards towards the door. Aravis forgot to ask his name.

Kidrash Tarkaan was the only one left. His eyes were grave as he looked at her. "Khalid Tarkaan was the wrong choice," he said.

Despite the coldness of the desert around them, and the carnage that had taken place in the tent, Aravis felt again like a child, small and defiant before her father.

Her jaw tightened and she dug the tip of her sword into the carpet, looking away, a sour taste on her tongue. "You are dismissed."

.

The sky was turning pale, blue-tinged pink around the edges, and Aravis stood for a long time at the edge of the tent, surrounded by the Guard. Chlamash Tarkaan's body had been retrieved, wrapped in a roll of fabric and hidden in another tent until the time came to tend to it. The remaining men were tense, their hands permanently on the hilts of their scimitars, their armor like a wall around her. Being outside was somehow even more stifling than being inside.

The mountain range was now visible, ragged edges stark against the sky, far above them. She could just barely see the dip between them in the current light.

Kidrash Tarkaan's men galloped through the tents towards the frontlines, the pounding hooves marking the pace of Aravis' heart. Already the city of white canvas was beginning to fold in on itself, men springing from uneasy rest to take up arms. Calavar's example had set the rhythm for the others. Aravis could see the banners of Zalindreh rising in the West, and the sound of chariot wheels in movement could be heard from Teebeth's section of the camp.

The pressure had mounted. If Fareez, Khalid and the others had meant this to be her reaction when they killed Chlamash, Aravis was riding head-on into the trap.

But it was the only option. War against Archenland had been the only solution when she was Tashbaan, and it now continued to be the only option she could think of. Dying in a foreign land, at least—dying in battle—was a more honorable way to die than having her throat slit in Rabadash's chambers. Leaving the legacy of Northern conquest to her name, reviled as it may be for being that of a woman, was almost worth the madness that had come with the attempt.

She had already died long before Rabadash's death, anyway. To die at war would merely be a formality.

For Lasaraleen, Badrih and Aya's sake, however, she wished things could end differently.

Her horse would be brought to her, soon. Her hand was still on her sword-hilt, although it was now sheathed. Her hands felt stained with Chlamash's blood, although she had not touched the body. She had seen more blood in the last few weeks than she had in a lifetime.

And now she would be riding into the very center of violence.

What did she know of war, after all? Only the tales of glory the Tarkaans often spoke of, and the distant horror of the death of her brother. She had wielded a sword only when faced with one enemy, never surrounded on all sides. A Guard could only avail a Tisroc for so long, after all. War was merciless, and did not care for rank or gender.

The air in the desert suddenly fell silent, devoid of its natural breeze, as if the ground itself was holding its breath. Aravis' back prickled again; the ghost of the lion's scars aching on her back, so clear and real that she nearly flinched. In the East, a thin line of orange-gold had appeared, and suddenly the pass in the mountains was visible to her: a cavity in the otherwise firm wall of Archenland – a path, sent by Tash, that led straight to the enemy.

Something was awaiting her, beyond the mountains. But whether it was pain or peace, she did not know.

It was hard to see beyond the narrow pass, even on the hill, but the scouts had been correct. In the cold dawn air, as the sun only began its path across the sky, the Calormenes were stirring with a frenzy that could only point to an attack.

Cor held his sheathed sword with both hands and weighed it in his grasp. It had been a gift, on the year that he had become a man. Back then, it had seemed infinitely heavy; by now, it had somehow become an extension of his arm, just like Dar had assured him it would.

The man in question was standing at his side, watching the soldiers of Archenland advancing towards the narrowest section of the pass, leaving the camp behind them. To the west of the hill, a group of centaurs, fauns and cats were advancing. The cats looked particularly bloodthirsty – their fur was on end, teeth bared in the dim light of the torches. They looked more ferocious than most of the soldiers.

A way behind them came Peridan, accompanied by his captains, trotting hastily through the tents that remained. Small companies of Archen soldiers parted to allow him passage, but Cor could not make out their expressions.

"Sire," Dar said in a low voice, following his train of thought. "Perhaps King Peridan ought to be informed of the risk."

Cor turned to look at him. Dar's expression was grim. The current of treachery that ran through the Lords of Archenland was still a secret kept only by Cor, Corin, Dar and Darrin. It made Cor sick to think of it.

"The greater risk now is war," Cor replied after a moment. "There is no use in exposing disunity when so much depends on our joint success."

"Our silence may put him in more danger."

Cor felt the truth in his words, but stifled his own anxiety. "When this is over."

There was a sound of hooves, and Corin rode up, followed by Lord Hawken and Lord Luiden. Luiden in particular seemed energized, seeming ten years younger upon a horse than he had inside the castle halls. Somewhat darkly, Cor felt glad that at least someone had found happiness in the tragedy of it all.

"I just spoke to the Narnians," Corin said by way of greeting, dismounting and coming to stand at Cor's side. "Half the centaurs will be at the front, flanking our Guard. Our archers can join the other half just behind the cavalry."

Cor frowned. "I thought the archers would take to the cliffs? Perhaps some of the Narnians would wish to join them."

"Sire, the cliffs are too dangerous," Luiden said, seeming rather embarrassed at knowing something Cor did not. Cor had forgotten how pleasant in nature the men of the Western Mines were. "The rock is too fragile and will crumble beneath a company. I believe the Narnians have opted to remain on the ground, where their resources may be used best, and we might do well in following suit."

Cor sighed. "We have no choice, then. Pity; I had hoped we could yet use the cliffs to our advantage."

There was no comforting reply. The men around him were much too rational. Lord Hawken scowled as he looked down at the wavering torchlight of the camp. "If we were not so terribly outnumbered such a position might ensure victory. As it is, this is a matter of outlasting them."

Dar nodded, expression grim, but Cor did not reply. He still could not forget the way Hawken had spoken of Peridan; for all his own talk of postponing disunity, he could hardly bear to look at Hawken without disgust.

Soon Kairn, Archard and Ombert joined them on the hill, a few pages bringing waterskins. As the lords turned to discuss their own matters, Cor moved closer to Corin and spoke out loud the concern that had been lingering in his mind. "I fear that they might ambush us even as we are organizing ourselves."

Corin's eyes were burning with a dark, almost frightening kind of determination. "We may yet ambush them."

Cor frowned. "No."

"What use is it to wait for them to strike at us, when we know we are outnumbered?" Corin's voice was cold but calm, and it was the rationality of it that disturbed Cor. "They ambushed us already at Anvard; this is not treachery—it is justice."

"I will not sink to the level of my father's murderer," Cor said quietly, thinking back to the Council meeting where Shar had proposed the unspeakable. "Not against Narnia, and not even against Calormen. Our integrity will not be lost to desperation."

Corin looked away, eyes bright in the firelight. But he said nothing more.

.

In the shadow of dawn, even the shining white-and-red of Archenland and the red-and-gold of Narnia were muted. Horses kicked at the dust under them, men silenced by their own apprehension, and even covered in layers of leather and iron, Cor felt unspeakably cold.

The camp was being gradually emptied, soldiers hastening to where the valley narrowed into the pass between the mountains. The rock all around them seemed like a thick wall of darkness, and the Narnia and Archenland's soldiers stood in close proximity to each other as lines filed in from the valley—Narnian Talking Beasts standing alongside Archen riders; Fauns and Satyrs quietly sharing words with young foot soldiers. At the very front of the company, Cor and Corin secured their saddles as the captains set the troops in order.

Cor was vaguely aware that he had not slept since early in the day before, but his mind felt clearer than it had felt in a long while; although as a company of Talking Horses passed him, some of which he recognized from their conversation the day before, he had a sudden glimpse of the dark-haired girl swaying with exhaustion as they rode into the valley. He blinked and the image was gone.

At his side, Corin was examining his blade, his jaw set. He had been waiting for this day ever since Rabadash had stormed Anvard. But as he looked up at Cor and held his gaze, the anguish in his eyes was unmistakable.

Cor swallowed. "You'll keep your promise?" he asked.

For a moment, Corin did not reply. But then, sheathing his sword with one unwavering movement, he nodded. "I'll retreat on your order."

"Thank you."

They were wearing heavy armor, the sort that made any form of contact uncomfortable, but nevertheless Cor bridged the gap between them and pulled his brother into a hug, his chin on Corin's shoulder. They had often measured their height side-by-side, nervously comparing, eager to be the tallest. They had always remained exactly the same.

Drawing back, Cor saw in Corin's eyes some of the hardened determination he wished he felt in his own.

There was a sudden commotion near them, and they turned to see three soldiers from Archenland approaching; archers, judging by the longbows and quivers on their backs. They were meant to be further back in the formation, not approaching the King, and Cor saw some of the Lords nearby give them strange looks. But the men ignored them, instead bowing before Cor.

"Your Majesty," said one of the men, tall and elegant; clearly of respectable rank in the village he lived in. "I am Mildor of the Farmlands, at Your Majesty's service. We have heard that no archers are to be placed on the clifftops."

Cor looked at him with some confusion. "It is too steep to afford losing men to the fall," he replied.

"But Your Majesty, my cousins and I are accustomed to climbing; we have worked in villages near the mountains before. By my life, I swear that—with Your Majesty's blessing—we will stand at the cliffs and rain down as many arrows as we can."

Cor looked at Corin, who shrugged, his expression that of agreement. The cliffs may be dangerous, but the advantage of height might mean salvation for a few more soldiers below. Mildor and his companions waited expectantly.

"Very well," Cor said cautiously, glancing at the barely-visible ridges that rose far above them. "I will not give you the order to put yourselves at such risk, but if it is your wish, then your service is gratefully accepted. You are doing much for Archenland."

With a triumphant smile, Mildor bowed low, his companions following suit. Cor thought he saw tears on the cheeks of one of them. But then they retreated almost as quickly as they had come. Between the brave archers, the birds and the gryphons, perhaps they would have more of a chance against the Calormenes.

But time was short. The army was almost complete, and the sky was growing paler by the second. Most of the torches in the camp behind them had already been put out. With the sound of hooves, Peridan and his captains joined the forefront, Peridan's shining armor gleaming even in the dark. It was a pleasant reminder that they were not alone.

As Cor pulled himself onto his saddle, one of the Centaurs passed by him: an older creature, his dark mane of hair lined with grey.

"Well met, Your Majesty," the Centaur said in a low, deep voice. "It is my honor to ride with Archenland when it is ruled by such a King."

"I—Thank you, friend," Cor stammered, rather taken aback. Centaurs did not give compliments freely. "But what do you mean?"

In the scarce light, the Centaur's eyes seemed to shine all on their own. "King Cor is a child of prophecy, is he not? He will deliver Archenland from the deadliest danger in which ever she lay. Your name is long known to the stars, both in the North and in the East."

The words sent a chill down Cor's spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the air. He opened his mouth to reply, but the Centaur was gone, joining Peridan's guard and standing too far from him.

It was at that moment that a scout appeared in the distance, a thin line of dust rising behind him, the noise of his horse's hooves echoing with a clatter through the gap between the cliffs. The army stilled suddenly, holding its breath. Above the cliffs, a gryphon circled.

When the man reached them, his eyes were wide with alarm. At the exact same moment, the gryphon finally landed in a rather dusty heap before the army; the Narnian and Archen scouts had been working together.

"Your Majesties—" said the gryphon, bowing its head.

"They ride hither," the scout from Archenland finished.

.

They rode to the frontlines just as the first glittering rays of the sun blinded the horizon. Around them, the gap between the cliffs steadily became wider. Ahead, the desert was oddly silent and still; the winds that normally swept the sand to and fro unmoving, for once, as if the ground itself were holding its breath. Cor wondered if the rumble he could hear on the ground was his own army, or that of Calormen.

He looked up at the crags, sharp against the lightening sky. He could not see the archers from where he was, but the Talking Birds of Narnia swooped in the air in smooth circles. Below, the Beasts on foot seemed on edge, sniffing the still air. The men of Archenland marched on stoically, but Cor could see fear in the eyes of many.

The words of the Centaur still rang in his mind, unsettling his carefully crafted composure. He was a child of prophecy – that much was true. And he was King of Archenland, in the darkest day his country had ever seen. The prophecy, the dreams, and the way it all seemed to be merging with reality… what was the significance of it all? How did the story end?

He should not be riding towards the desert, he thought suddenly, senselessly. He should be riding with Aravis in the opposite direction.

As a child, Cor had always thought of being King as being someone who ruled from the throne, restraining petty politics, negotiating trade deals and occasionally travelling to oversee the people's affairs. The concept of a King at war he had always reserved for the past; a role for King Cole, and one that would no longer be necessary in modern ages. It was strange to find himself, scarcely a handful of years after Nurse Aida had ceased overseeing his bedtime, leading an army of thousands into battle.

They rode at a swift trot as dawn turned to morning. The colors slowly began to stand out again, and the grey world of dawn became much more real. The end of the cliffs ahead shone bright in contrast to the shadowy rock, and Cor strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of what awaited beyond.

In the distant sunlight, the edge of the rock shone golden as it opened into the smooth plains of the desert, its distant dunes stretching out as far as the eye could see. But with a blinding glint, Cor suddenly saw much more than just the desert sands. The sun's rays hit metal and steel as well: a line of soldiers so long that, through the threshold of the pass, it spanned the desert entirely.

The Calormene army was massive; and spread out as it was, it seemed ten times larger than the army behind Cor. The sharp points of spears seemed to pierce the very air, and in the stillness of the land, the explosion of color of their horses, their armor and their turbans felt like a violent rip in the peaceful desert.

On the largest of the multitude of banners that flew above them, Cor glimpsed the angry dark figure of the Calormene god: Tash, its bird-like beak raised to the heavens.

The Northern army came to a halt. Heart pounding, Cor turned and faced his army. Thousands of men stared at him with wide eyes, some little more than boys, like their King himself.

"Men of Archenland!" he called out suddenly, surprising himself by the force behind his words. "Friends from Narnia!" He turned his horse, pacing before them between the cliffs on either side. The Talking Birds had perched on rocks above, looking down, hunched and ready for battle. In the distance, the hooves of Calormen rumbled. "Let the very mountains remember this day, at the edge of the Lion's land. Even in the darkest of hours, the North is united!"

Peridan had followed suit, sitting tall upon the saddle, his keen eyes taking in the long lines of soldiers. As Cor fell silent, his voice rose and echoed between the cliffs. "Narnians, many of you remember the war that freed us from the Long Winter. Today, may our strength reminds us of that victory, and secure it for us once more."

A heartfelt cry rose up among the soldiers, and rang between the mountains. And for a moment, Cor thought that even if their numbers fell short, perhaps the force of their voices might strike fear in the hearts of the enemy.

From the stillness of the desert, the sound of the Calormene army rumbled, armor glinting in the sunlight. At his side, Peridan smiled a smile that did not quite reach the sadness in his eyes.

"Well, my friend," he said quietly. "For Narnia and for Archenland, one last time."

Cor looked at Peridan, then at Corin. Words would never be enough. But he filled his lungs with the air of the North, and let out a cry. "Come forth, people of the North!" King Col the Builder's words, and as he had weeks ago, on the day of his coronation. "For here we have built our kingdom, and we will defend it! For Aslan and the North!"

With a cry, the army sprang forwards.

When the cavalry had assembled, and the provinces scrambled to move their troops forward, Aravis deemed it time to advance. It was as if she were going to war with two armies at once – the barbarians, just beyond the mountains, and the traitors at her back. To grip the hilt of her sword as she rode, then, was both a comfort to herself and a threat to her own people.

Kidrash Tarkaan had gone before her, likely placing himself between her and Fareez Tarkaan, although it was not likely that Tehishbaan would strike at her before the confusion of battle could hide the evidence. The sight of her father leaving to protect her – indeed, the sight of her father at all – was repulsive to Aravis; had she not rejected his relation to her? And yet here she was, resorting to his influence, as any petty-minded daughter might do.

Even now, it seemed, she relied on the mercy of men.

The House banners swayed slightly in the still air, looking dead when bereft of the violent desert wind. The land was strange today; perhaps it was their proximity to the mountains. Perhaps, whispered the men amongst each other, the barbarians have already spoken their curse. But the strangeness of the weather was hardly something to linger on; war was the more pressing matter at hand.

As they passed line after line of soldiers, battalions having taken position on the hardened sand beyond the encampment, Aravis kept her eyes on the mountains ahead. She did not wish to look at a soldier and see a Tarkaan of Tehishbaan, Zalindreh or Teebeth stare back. Whether out of superstition or strategy, Azrooh's refusal to attack at night had resulted in Chlamash's murder. She did not know who could be trusted.

The young Head of the Guard was close at her back as they approached the front of the company, but Aravis found no comfort in his presence. The Grand Vizier followed, gripping his reins in his eternal anxiety. When they reached the end of the lines of soldiers, and all Aravis could see to her sides was the long stretch of the desert and the limp banners of the Tarkaan Houses of Calormen, she turned to stand before them all.

"Tisroc."

She turned her head to see Khalid a small distance away, seated comfortably in his saddle, his expression unreadable. He glanced from her to the new Head of the Guard. Chlamash's absence was like a blackened hole.

"The order was issued quite swiftly," he said in a low voice. "Is there a reason I was not invited to council? Perhaps the Tisroc, may she live forever, forgets that she put me in command of her army."

His eyes gleamed, and in a flash Aravis saw Rabadash's dark gaze in them; a sharpened dagger aimed to cause as much pain as it could. Rage blossomed in her chest.

"I will keep you as far away from me as possible," she said through gritted teeth. "I will not store my poison with my wine."

She rode away before she could see his expression. Rabadash was dead, she reminded herself. And they would all be dead soon enough, in one way or another.

Khalid could pretend that he did not know, but she was tired of petty veiled threats. Her anger was too great. For the first time, she saw the sense in what Ishamiel had said: these men would only recognize authority if it came with cruelty. If she must execute them all after the battle, she would do so. Once she did not need her soldiers' loyalty, she would cleanse Calormen of their toxic manipulations.

Calormen's fruits had flourished from bloodshed. To survive, they required constant watering.

The army was deadly still as she rode forwards, the bells and barding her horse had been dressed in clinking with a merriment that bordered on the sarcastic. The fabric around her head was thrown back, her face visible to the crowd.

The expressions of the ten thousand men that had ridden with her from Tashbaan were mostly obscured, but there was a strange tension in the air that had nothing to do with excitement. War might be what the Calormenes did best, but superstition ran equally strong, and despite the greed that had brought them there, the fear of barbarian magic still kept the men shivering. NoTisroc survives an encounter with the North.

But Tash was on her side, and would lift her to victory, as he had done in the Temple at the Midsummer Offering. Aravis thought of Ishamiel, still seated at the Palace in a rank he had never aspired to; of Lasaraleen's children. Of the little girls that had watched from the windows of Tashbaan as the army rode by, marveling at what a girl from Calavar had achieved.

She had not come here out of fate's odd mistake; she had fought at every turn to lead this army. She was Tisroc of Calormen. She could not yield now.

"Men of Calormen," Aravis called out, and in the muted desert her voice seemed to echo strangely, as if it were the voice of another. "Now comes our chance at victory, and at vengeance. Together, we wept at the loss of our Tisroc to the Northern Curse, and together we have loathed the dark sorcery that birthed such treachery. Today, we shall be delivered. Today, we shall conquer the barbarian lands, and a river of riches shall flow to our Empire!"

The men cheered, their fear lifting. At last, the barbarian lands would belong to Calormen; ten thousand men were nigh invincible, a force that could conquer Archenland and beyond, and the sight of the soldiers standing in serried lines for as far as the eye could see would strike fear in the heart of any man. Aravis banished her misgivings from her mind and turned back towards the mountains, tensing to urge her horse forwards.

But as she did so, she froze. The desert was quiet and still, almost eerily so, but where the mountain line faded into nothingness, the horizon seemed strangely blurred, as if a heavy mist had fallen over the sand.

The sight of it sent a shiver down Aravis' spine. Behind her, the cheer faded, and the Tarkaans looked at each other with worry.

Farrokh Tarkaan of Azim Balda rode forwards suddenly, the bells on his horse jingling loudly, soldiers parting before him to give way. The tip of his helm beneath his turban glinted brightly in the morning light, but he seemed distressed as he came closer, until he stood within the circle of the Guard.

"O Tisroc—" he exclaimed, eyes wide with alarm. "This is a sandstorm."

A chill fell over Aravis' heart. As if Farrokh's very words had signaled something to the air, a sudden wind from the West blew through the army, hard and relentless. Already, the mist—which Aravis suddenly realized must be sand—seemed much closer than it had first looked.

"What must we do?" she asked hurriedly.

"It looks too large to withstand as we are. It will tear through the encampment."

"But panic is equally dangerous," said Kidrash Tarkaan suddenly. Aravis had not noticed him nearby. "There is nothing to be done but ride for the pass, where the rocks are high enough to shield us. We may reach shelter yet."

But Aravis knew that they could not possibly reach the mountains on time—certainly not the entire army of ten thousand. They were trapped between the wind and the harsh nothingness of the desert. And to be crushed between the wind and hard rock…

The cloud of sand was now so large that she could not see much more beyond Mount Pire itself.

Tash, the wind seemed to whisper around them, and the same word came from the lips of the soldiers as they tightened the helms on their heads, as they pulled fabric over their noses. Tash speaks through the desert.

She seized the reins. "Then we ride. Now."

She set off at a gallop without another word, and for a moment it seemed that she would ride alone. Only the noise of the wind whipped at her veil, sand particles rising and scratching at her hands. But then she heard a low rumble behind her – the sound of thousands of horses, of thousands of feet, beginning a desperate race across the last stretch of the desert, towards shelter – and towards the enemy.

.

Tash. The whispers of the wind rose to a howl, and Aravis' horse let out a cry of alarm as a thick layer of sand blew past them, making Aravis flinch and turn her head away even as she lay bowed over the saddle. Tash, it seemed to cry. The stories of the gods tearing through air and land seemed suddenly, mercilessly real.

Ahead, the gap between the cliffs rose almost to the sky. Imposing as they were, all Aravis could think of was the strong barrier the rock walls would be from the crushing wind. The skin of her hands already felt raw from the friction of whirling sand. Behind her, the banners of the Houses of Calormen and the larger banner of Tash shivered violently in the wind, as if fighting to fly away.

Aravis gripped the reins as tightly as she could and tangled her fingers in the horse's braided mane. With the other, she pulled the veil tightly around her face, but it was no use—the sand was relentless. Behind her, she heard men shout. She did not dare look to the West. She knew already that they were too late. The sandstorm was upon them.

The dark walls of the cliffs were closer—so close that she thought it would take mere seconds for them to cross. But near the rocks, the wind was more violent, hissing and roaring in her ears. For an instant, she thought she heard a lion, like the one in her dreams. Perhaps the magic of the barbarians had come to take her at last.

In the gap ahead, even through the yellowish air, she could barely make out a winding path of rocks and dry grass. Further away, she thought she glimpsed a flash of red.

The barbarian army.

Could they hear her? She could still hear the pounding of hooves behind her, but when she looked back, it was all a haze. Only the Guard and a few shields of Calavar still glimmered in the scarce light. But the men were crying out; if they were war cries, or cries of terror, Aravis could not tell.

She forced herself to sit upright, even when the wind threatened to knock her back down. The men were still behind her—this was still war, though the gods had now joined the fray. Reaching to her side, she unsheathed her sword and raised it in the air, cutting through the sand-filled wind.

"In the name of Tash, the inexorable, the indomitable!" she cried, and the sound of it rang through the pass that was nearly upon her.

She thought she heard the answering call of many behind her, but then the wind became too loud, and she nearly choked on sand. Another gust of wind hit them, so powerful that Aravis feared it might push her off her horse, and her steed neighed loudly.

When she opened her eyes, she could no longer see the pass.

But from ahead came a sound that was unmistakable. Even with terror on all sides, the sound of it sent a thrill of fear through her bones. It was an army's war cry. And the sound of hooves, riding towards them from the North.

But before she could so much as raise her sword again, the storm was upon them. Her horse screamed, and she turned her head to see, out of a vortex of brown, the army behind her pulled back and then pushed forwards, sending horses flying into the sand, men soaring through the air as if by magic, crashing against the cliffs with terrible screams. In the distance, the chariots of Teebeth shrieked, their parts coming loose in the vortex—metal flying in the air alongside the once colorful banners, which like ragged kites flew in circles above the screaming army—flew towards Aravis—

She felt the ground under her suddenly, and the air left her lungs. The world was a swirl of sand, lodging itself in her mouth, in her nostrils, in her eyes. Her mind was spinning.

Her horse was shrieking somewhere behind her, and she was no longer upon it. The cries of the soldiers were choked by the rush of the wind. She heard something whizz through the air, too large to be an arrow, and before it even hit her she knew—

The air suddenly cleared before her, a thin path, as if the eye of the storm were directly over her. She was able to open her eyes, knuckles digging into the dirt, able to push herself up onto her knees. Her sword was somewhere near, somewhere… ahead, the sand was filled with shadows…

She looked up to see a stallion directly in front of her, mid-turn in hasty retreat, coated in red and silver: a war horse. Had she still been riding, she may have almost been upon him. On its back was a tall rider in full armor, head uncovered as if the wind had torn his helm from him, bowed over his horse as they escaped the storm. His skin was fair and his hair was golden and it glinted in the light, gold like the hair of a fisherman's boy in a distant shore...

Aravis pushed herself off the ground with renewed vigor, but suddenly the sound grew louder, and part of a Teebeth chariot, a wheel turned projectile in the storm, flew through the air and collided with her shoulders, spinning and slicing—

A horse, somewhere in the distance, let out a terrible scream.

Ahead, the rider turned, eyes wide.

And as if in a dream, mid-gallop, he slipped his boots from the stirrups, slid both legs over the left side, and jumped. And Aravis saw, even as the storm whisked away the wheel as quickly as it had brought it, the rider's own confusion in his blue eyes as he ran back towards her, through the sand, bridging the gap between them, his steed long lost into the distance.

Then the pain hit her; red-hot, burning pain. But it was not new pain: it was the same pain that had haunted her dreams for so long, that had torn her back open and made her bleed, finally made visible. Aravis could almost imagine that the lion had only just turned and run away.

Gasping, she fell back, and she could feel blood pooling through her ripped armor, could feel herself shudder from the pain of it. The sand was hard and unforgiving, the air still yellow-brown, still muting the cries of anything further away. But the Northern rider crouched at her side and caught her before she touched the ground, and his eyes were blue, blue like the waters of the Winding Arrow, like they had been when she had met him in another lifetime, two children fleeing lions through the water, blue like the waters of a fisherman's beach in a Calormene village…

She reached for his arm and gripped it, even as her body lost its strength.

"Shasta."


...let me know what you think? Thanks for reading!

A character list can be found on my tumblr: nasimwrites.