"WE'RE GOING to fucking die," Rithar mutters, dragging his feet through the tall grass in stubborn reluctance.
Captain Sevoller growls, smacking the back of the soldier's helmet. "If we do, it's for a good fucking reason," he tells him. "Don't forget what we are fighting for."
Beside me, Rithar scoffs quietly but continues marching through the forest. The unit of soldiers I'm in has been dragging their asses since receiving orders to join the infantry a few minutes ago.
It was easy enough to get into the camp undetected. The soldier Reepicheep captured turned out to be more than happy to spill whatever information we asked for, so long as he could hide safely in Aslan's How until the battle was over. So when his replacement showed up to take over his post, I knew exactly what to do and how to find my unit back at the camp. What he didn't tell me was how damned dysfunctional they are.
Rithar is the most pessimistic and argumentative person I've ever met, always looking for a fight to pick with the other men and complaining about their inevitable deaths at the hands of 'some savage goat-beast with a stick.'
Nillovlen constantly has one finger on the trigger of his crossbow, waiting for a blade of grass to look at him the wrong way so he can shoot an arrow through it. He takes every opportunity he can to preach about their magnificent king and how he's going to finally push the Narnians to extinction. His attitude is at least better than Rithar's, but the hunger for blood in his eyes makes him far more unsettling to be around. He also sprouts the most idiotic statements I've ever had the misfortune of hearing.
Burtaz seems normal enough until you try talking to him and he immediately starts crying. Rithar has convinced him he's going to be brutally killed by a Narnian beast and so one word in his direction launches the unstable soldier into a tirade of hysterics and desperate prayers for his survival.
Gestollan (the imbecile I'm stuck impersonating) is a skittish, nervous wreck of a soldier who's more likely to impale himself on his own sword than kill anything with it.
And Captain Sevoller is just an asshole.
He doesn't give a damn that one of his soldiers is about to turn tail and run into the trees before reaching the battlefield, or that Nillovlen will probably mistake him for a pig and shoot an arrow through him. All he cares about is fighting at Beruna for his tyrant of a king. From what I've gathered, he just begged to have his unit taken off of scout duty and moved to the front line. And thank the stars whatever commanding officer he dealt with had enough sense to realize what a horrible idea that is and instead ordered us to the fifth battalion — the very back of the far left flank.
The walk itself shouldn't be long but with these insufferable morons around me it feels like it may never end.
"Have you seen their army?" Nillovlen chortles. "They have a few horse-people and wood animals. Even if that hill of dirt they're hiding in is full of them, the cavalry will kill them all."
It takes me a second to realize he means woodland.
The captain realizes this at the same time and sighs from behind me while Rithar coughs into his fist to hide his unimpressed laughter.
Aslan's mane, if all the soldiers are like this, we might actually stand a chance.
Nillovlen proceeds to rain praise on the newly crowned King Miraz of the Telmarines, ranting about his excellence in duelling and how the Narnian king — whoever that is — doesn't stand a chance.
High King, I want to tell him. High King Peter the Magnificent, you far-brained imbecile.
The real Gestollan would say something all nervous-like and cowardly, and I probably should do the same if I want to keep my cover. But if I open my mouth all that's going to come out is curses and everything Gestollan would never have the nerve to say. So I keep my lips calmped shut and my feet moving forward.
I feel Rithar look over at me.
"Accepted your death, Gestollan?"
"By God, Rithar."
"Shut the fuck up," Nillovlen snaps.
In favor of a verbal response, I just muster whatever pained, pathetic expression I can manage and meet Rithar's gaze.
He laughs and clasps my shoulder. "About damned time," he says. "I got sick of listening to your whining."
The captain scoffs. "You're no better."
I swear I see him roll his eyes behind his helmet.
"At least I don't laud a bastard king," he mutters under his breath.
Nobody hears him over the crunching of branches and leaves under our boots, but I do — my superior hearing picks up his words.
It's relieving to know at least one of these soldiers isn't entirely loyal to Miraz. I'm not thrilled it's him, but it gives me hope that other soldiers might have similar thoughts about their new king. I don't doubt some of the Lords do. Sopespian has been nearly as conniving as Miraz the past few years; he's probably furious about the coronation.
Out of nowhere, I feel a strain on my invisible tether to Edmund. No emotions follow it, just a sensation. Like a tap on the shoulder that says I'm right here.
Wondering if the empathy connection is determined by distance, I send a soft tug in response and refocus on the task at hand. If I start thinking of Edmund and what he's doing right now I might drift too far into my thoughts and begin to overthink that sweet, impulsive kiss–
No. Not now, I chide myself, flexing my fingers to ground myself in reality. Right now, a lack of focus will get me killed. Nillovlen sure as hell won't hesitate to put an arrow in me.
Finally, our unit reaches the eighth battalion and we emerge from the trees.
The grass has been levelled and almost turned to mud in the wake of the army, whose soldiers stand in endless rows of armour and metal under the beating sun. Save for some shuffling amidst the infantry and the unease of the horses, the machine operators and ammunition teams are the only men moving. They cart wagons of large stones between the lines of soldiers to the trebuchets in preparation for the attack, passing large sticks between each other to roll the boulders onto the tracks. They look like insects against the towering height of the machines. They call orders to each other over the whinnying of the cavalry mounts and the snapping of the flags in the wind, metal clanking and wood creaking.
I switch my attention to the ballistae, watching as they're loaded with massive, barbed bolts. Gryphon-killing bolts.
I swallow my nerves and quickly memorize everything I can about the weapons, searching for a way to destroy them.
While the How was organized chaos and noise, the Telmarines are like one of their own war machines, meticulously ordered and primed to kill.
"Alright men." Sevoller breezes past me and Rithar, falling into the lead. "Let's try to act a little more civilized. And Burtaz!"
He whimpers and answers in a nasally, congested voice. "Yes sir?"
"For God's sake, if I see you crying again I'll have you put on the front line myself."
The poor soldier sniffles and does what he can to collect himself. "Yes sir."
The captain leads us right past the trebuchet positioned on the rear left of the army, giving me the perfect opportunity to analyze it up close. It has two wheels on the lower portion, with the smaller one attached to a long, protruding metal crank for the operating team to rotate. Beside it, the larger one uses a chain drive between it and an upper wheel, engaging a connected axle at the top that rotates the double arm of the trebuchet.
Everything about it is monstrous and heavy wood and solid metal. Everything except the drive chain: made of spliced rope and timber rungs. That I can damage — cut right through it and render the upper wheel and axle immobile. And for the ballistae, all I need to do is cut the bowstrings: three to each ballista. I tally the numbers, six drive chains and eighteen bowstrings. I can do this.
Before I can fall behind and get myself yelled at, I hurry after Captain Sevoller as he stalks past the trebuchet. He leads us to the battalion's midsection, where the back row of soldiers has an opening in the lineup.
I try to look over the heads of the army to get a good look at the Lists, the site of the duel, and whether it's started yet. Aslan's How is a small hill of stone across the plains, the Narnians gathered outside its walls a diminutive force against the Telmarine's numbers. I sharpen my eyesight as best I can, only able to make out the forms of a few men at the Lists. I don't see any movement, though. Has it not started yet?
I take my place in the infantry ranks between Rithar and Nillovlen, considering how Gestollan would breach such a topic.
The first thing I do is make myself sick with nerves, recalling the details of the White Witch's resurrection earlier this morning — the rancid smell of her severed head lit aflame — until my stomach is churning and my skin beneath my armour is slick with sweat.
I clear my throat, breaking the tense silence of the surrounding soldiers. "Has it started yet?" I ask, my voice shaky.
Rithar nearly jumps at my voice, muttering a curse.
"Yes," Nillovlen answers gruffly. "A few minutes ago."
My heart stops. Minutes? By the mane, I need to hurry...Please let this work.
I hunch my shoulders and exhale a shaky breath to steady my roiling stomach. "I'm going to be sick."
Quickly, Nillovlen tries to shuffle away from me as I fake heave. Rithar does the same and the soldiers in front of us make disgusted noises and try to move forward as much as they can.
"By God, Gestollan, not here!" Nillovlen hisses. "Go to the fucking trees!"
"Right." Another fake heave and I stumble backwards, turning and leaving my place in the rear lineup.
My heart is racing as I walk back to the woods, trying to think of a way to get close enough to the machines without blowing my cover. I could use an animal form to sneak around, but the Telmarines are too wary of the Narnians to let even a passing mouse or songbird stay alive. I have to be one of them for this to work.
The trees envelop me, and I immediately start practicing a new voice, forging a new identity. I have to be one of them.
I narrow my shoulders, changing all the angles of my face and the length of my arms and torso and legs. I still have to fit my armour, but I have to be distinguishable from Gestollan. And without wasting another second, I exit the treeline and head straight for the first trebuchet positioned behind the fifth battalion.
Unlike the bumbling, nervous soldier I was before, this man walks with purpose and authority in his stride. His shoulders are strong and pulled back and his head is held high with pride.
One of the most valuable strategies I learned from all my years of espionage in the palace is using confidence as camouflage. If you can make yourself look like you belong — unquestionably and purposefully belong — nobody will question you. It's never failed me and I pray today will not be the day it does.
"Captain!"
The Telmarine overseeing the trebuchet's operating team turns around, his eyes narrowing in confusion like he could care less about whatever I have to say. "What is it?"
But my visage doesn't falter. In fact, it strengthens under his patronizing gaze. And I send him my own cold stare.
"Check your men," I order. My tone doesn't leave any room for debate, but still, he hesitates. I harden my eyes and step closer, standing over him like a brewing storm cloud. "The general has demanded all units be checked for imposters." The soldiers have stopped what they're doing to listen, watching as I move past the captain to inspect the machine. I speak louder for them to hear. "The savages have a shapeshifter on their side."
When I turn around to look at him again, the captain's sneering mouth has slackened in shock.
He looks to his unit. "Men!" He shouts. "Lineup for questioning!"
Murmuring uneasily, the operating team obeys their captain's orders and forms a line. While they're being questioned, I continue to circle the trebuchet in search of any signs of sabotage. And when I reach the drive chain, I kneel down to inspect the wheels and trade my finger for a sharp talon, sawing through the spliced rope as quickly as I can. The threads snap and fall away until both sides of the drive chain are severed.
And when it's done I straighten and tell the captain his machine shows no sign of sabotage. Then I move on to the next, making my way down the endless lines of the Telmarine soldiers, playing the same game every time and cutting away at the strings of Miraz's army. One by one.
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author's note
tag urself I'm burtaz lmfao
I was gonna add more #idiots to arryn's unit but I didn't want to get too carried away with it. I was having way too much fun writing telmarine banter and I needed to focus more on the story lol would y'all like to see rithar again tho? maybe in votd timeline? lowkey I really like his character
also, hopefully I didn't butcher the telmarine naming conventions too much. it was not easy coming up with those five names
apologies for the late update, life has been a little chaotic. but let me know if y'all have seen any good (new) movies recently. i feel like there haven't been any good releases since pre-covid, and if i keep rewatching marvel and transformers and pirates of the caribbean i'm going to get sick of all my favorite movies lmao
i think i ran out of fun facts like five chapters ago sorryyy
i hope y'all enjoyed this chapter!