Chapter 13
Again and again, we lift our bows. Again and again, we aim, we shoot, and each time our aim is true. But it doesn't change the fact that enemy arrows find their way up here; it doesn't change the fact that down on the field, our people are dying.
It doesn't change the fact that we're beginning to lose.
Two griffins fly straight for the Witch after she murders Oreius. Maybe they cared about him. Maybe they were friends. Maybe all they want now is to join him.
And so they do.
I watch as the Witch stabs one with her sword, the other, with her magic spear. The last lion-bird turns to stone in midair – just in time to see his friend die – then he drops onto a boulder and cracks, smashing to smithereens that rain over the war. Smithereens that kill both their men and ours.
I don't wipe tears away anymore – because my eyes are dry.
Out of nowhere, Edmund runs down the rocks, tripping over smaller stones, sending pebbles down like pieces of that griffin are still falling from the skies. I shout after him, but he ignores me. What is he doing?
When he swings his sword over his head, yells a battlecry, and beheads the tiger that would've done the same to Peter, I understand. The older Pevensie is surrounded by the Witch's cronies, plus he's struggled since being knocked off his mount. Still, I didn't realize he was that off his game.
Good thing Edmund did.
As the two kings join, fighting side by side, my eyes follow them and my arrows follow my eyes. At least two human boys will make it home tonight.
Since I'm concentrating on them, I see Peter when, after striking down a minotaur, he shouts at his brother. I can't hear the words, but Edmund immediately breaks off and runs away, heading up the cliffs opposite us archers.
He's going to the Stone Table, I realize and a bit of relief trickles over me. Peter must've told him to get the girls, maybe even to go back to England. Edmund really will make it home tonight.
As he runs, the dark-haired boy glances over his shoulder – I think he's looking for me – but we both know I didn't get here the way they did. When our eyes meet between two of my arrows, I shoo him towards the rocks, telling him to go on.
Somehow, I'll find my own way home.
He nods once, then turns around and sprints for the other cliff, Mr. Beaver at his side. I shoot off another arrow, not bothering to look where it fell – I'm pretty sure it hit the target and if it didn't, following it with my eyes won't help. Instead, I search for Edmund, making sure he's gone.
He's not.
He's stopped and he stares, eyes big again, at some point on the battlefield. My eyes follow his gaze, then pop wide as his were when Peter fell off his unicorn.
Not twenty feet away from the blonde king of Narnia, the White Witch stands, out of her chariot now, fighting like a pro. She stabs three people in the same amount of seconds, and once she's done with them, she strides towards Peter.
The way is clear; his back is turned.
We all know what's coming.
Until Edmund breaks away from Mr. Beaver, racing down to intercept her. "No!" I scream. That'll only get them both killed. But from high up on the mountain, there's nothing I can do.
Or is there?
While Ed's running, I send two arrows at the Witch's head, but each time she somehow senses them coming. Ducking the first, she slices the second with her sword – in freaking midair, no less. The stupid arrow falls to the ground, useless.
I'm already stringing a third, but I know it's too late.
Before she can get to Peter, Edmund yells, distracting her, and leaps down from the rocks. She whirls around to face him, and I can sense her hatred from here.
She thrusts her stone spear forward.
But Edmund was expecting this. He sidesteps it and brings his own sword down, slicing the weapon straight down the middle.
Shing! I can hear the magic split from all the way up here. Even Peter turns at the sound, watching as a ripple of blue and white light rolls from the broken ends. The Witch drops it, staring at Edmund.
I cheer.
But the battle isn't over yet.
She thrusts her other sword forward, but Edmund deflects it with his shield. Whipping her weapon around, the Witch swings again, and he tries to parry. But she cuts the shield strap from his arm, slinging the metal sheet across the field.
My heart in my throat, I can't tear my eyes away. I know what's coming next, but I can't stop looking and knowing doesn't make it any easier.
While Edmund's body is off-balance, the Witch thrusts the deadly point forward, stabbing the young king in the stomach.
For several seconds, time stands still. A burning erupts in my heart and it feels like I've been stabbed, even though I know that's crazy because I'm way up here and he's way down there, too far, too far, and I can't help him.
I blink, and time starts running again. The Witch yanks her sword out of Edmund, the tip glistening with red – with Edmund's blood – sparkling crimson in the sunlight. He looks at her for a second, and I start to hope my eyes deceived me. But then he slumps to the ground.
I stare at Edmund's body, too... I don't know what. Too shocked. Too hurt. Too angry to move. I sense someone else doing the same, and all the way across the field, Peter's and my eyes meet. A supernatural energy courses through us, and then we break the connection, turning back to our tasks.
Edmund is dead. Almost undoubtedly, Edmund... is dead. It hurts, oh it hurts to think it, but I have to go on. Just as I did when Aslan died. When the griffins died. When Oreius died.
This is war. People get killed. That doesn't give me the right to hold back.
I pick up an arrow, string it to my bow, and my hands don't shake anymore.
I can't shoot the Witch. I understand that. But without her magic spear, she's weaker. Much weaker. And that leaves her followers far more vulnerable.
I lift my weapons, point them down, and shoot again and again into the battle. I will take care of those around Peter, and then Peter will take care of the Witch.
She is going to pay. Big time.
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