Chapter 5 – War
On the Waste side of the Western Border…
Fleasack inspected the teeth on the tree saws which had just been unloaded from the wagons and groaned audibly.
"This worthless garbage is just like the ax heads." He muttered none too quietly. "Rusty and dull as the brains of the dung worms what brought them."
The saws had been sitting there waiting until everything was in place to begin cutting down the abominable green wood which had been so troublesome to the Uruk-hai that had rushed in without looking first. The fools had just charged into the woods at first, intent on setting up their camps right within them. As Fleasack understood it, they paid for that mistake with their heads. These trees as it turned out, were just as contrary and difficult to deal with as those from Fangorn Forest. Neither they nor the vermin that inhabited were quite as easy to put down as the overlord believed. It made no difference to Fleasack. A few less of those swaggering overmuscled dungsacks would do the world a favor in his opinion. But it did mean that they had to wait on getting started until they had enough arms and enough backs to subdue the termite ridden oaks and rowans just to cut them down. Just the other day one of his company got too close to the edge and found himself first pulled down into the ground by a tree root, and then what was left of him thrown a good distance into the desert for good measure. For that reason they had set up the camps in the waste just beyond the reach of the tree roots that liked to move by themselves like serpents in the ground. They'd get them cut alright, they just needed more labor to do it.
"Can't you maggots at least sharpen these damn saws before you load them?" The orc foreman yelled in the Black Speech to his fellows that had brought the wagons from their outpost close to the Sea of Nurnen. "Ugh, it'll take forever for these things to cut through those thick trunks." He complained.
"Sharpen them yourself, fleabag. We didn't get the chance, now did we? The overlord ordered everything be moved out across the waste immediately." The orc closest to Fleasack retorted, intending the derogatory pun on his name. "Said we wasn't going to be getting any more wood from Saruman or the west any time soon. Our supply lines there is cut off now, ain't they?"
"Bah! Lazy bastards, the lot of you, making excuses." Fleasack grumbled some more. He had been given a quota from that same overlord, but as usual the Uruk chieftain's demands were unrealistic. It was nothing new. Those maggot sacks back in Nurn would get what they got when they got it.
It wasn't Fleasack's fault that the overlords couldn't stand up to a few thousand men on horseback, and with the Witch King of Angmar there to boot! The orc foreman'd been doing his own job on the other side of Mordor at the time! Oh sure, he'd heard about it. Something about a huge ghost army led by a single ranger sweeping in. It was a load of rubbish to be sure. A bunch of excuses for the captains on the field not to lose their heads if they hadn't already. Bunch of whining filth the lot of them.
His one consolation was that the cloud cover had been extended from Mordor out this far so that they didn't have to deal with the painful sunlight as well. Not that his masters in Mordor would've cared. They'd have ordered him and the rest of the lumberjacks out here in the full sunlight too if it suited them. Fleasack would've had burns for a month.
The eastern woods in question had been fairly quiet the morning they were to actually get to work. The lack of sounds was actually a welcome change of pace for him, but it unnerved him all the same. It was strange considering every day up to this point the foraging parties got some kind of trouble from either the trees themselves or the natives. It wasn't nothing they couldn't handle of course so long as they were smart about it, and they brought back some pretty decent meat for the cooking fires, he had to admit. It tasted a combination of horseflesh and manflesh some of it, the meat sweet and savory.
The orc turned his attention to the stand of trees directly to his right not ten paces, and then turned to face them. He couldn't hear no birds chirping like there was just the day before, and no little vermin scattering through the brush like there was neither. He stood still as a stone listening for anything like there was just yesterday, but heard nothing.
"Hey, this ain't normal." He announced to his fellows. "It's too quiet!"
"You ain't normal, Fleasack." One of them called back. "'Bout time, they was given me the willies!"
"Pox on you and your willies! No you maggot filth, I mean listen. There ain't nothing there like there's supposed to be! Something ain't right!" He called back, turning his head to shout at them directly.
And just as he turned his bestial orcish visage back towards the trees he found an arrow with a red shaft planted between his eyes. He would have been completely surprised had he survived it. Instead, Fleasack's corpse dropped where it had been standing.
In a wide swath around the dead orc, all around the camps, a rain of arrows launched from those same quiet trees descending on the orc laborers like a lethal downpour, catching the orcs unawares, and striking down any and all found within their range.
Around the lumber camp orcs scrambled for cover and to grab their own bows and weapons to retaliate against their as yet unknown attackers. Some managed to fire off several of their own arrows into the trees, but were shooting blindly, not knowing from where the deadly rain had come. Black shafts protruded from tree trunks that appeared to move on their own accord to shield whatever archers might have been behind them. Around those that managed to survive the fall of arrows were the screams and cries of impaled and badly injured orcs.
"Where're they coming from?!" One of their fellows cried in his foul native tongue in surprise and shock.
And then the trees erupted as thousands of centaurs wielding swords and axes burst forth and out of the woods, stampeding through the camps and into the surprised orcs. Dark skinned centaurs, light skinned centaurs, and centaurs somewhere in between drove into them. Centaur hooves trampled down orcs and smashed their corpses into the dirt as they passed. Long centaur blades cleaved pitch black orc heads in twain, and severed arms which held weapons. Centaurs with bows leaped and fired again and again at the servants of Mordor whether they be upright or on the ground. Any movement of orc flesh received the fatal sting of an arrow or the hard bite of a blade's edge.
Interspersed with the centaurs were rhinoceroses which were impervious to the orcs' arrows. They smashed into the lumber equipment and carts, destroying them on impact. Talking unicorns in barding armor joined them, soon fouling their magnificent horns with oily black blood. Talking leopards and predatory cats leaped at the orcs, claws extended and fangs bared.
One of the race of men led the charge of centaurs, crying out, "For Narnia! And for Aslan!" He was encased from head to foot in shining plate armor and wielding a long gleaming sword opposite a shield with the crest of a roaring lion. A gold circlet adorned his helm signifying his rank, and a red tabard flowed over his breastplate with the same lion's sigil. He rode a tall, powerfully built white war horse. The horse too was armored from head to hindquarters like the liege lord who rode him.
One of the Uruks there to keep Mordor from losing too many of the weaker dogs, a tall, muscular leonine orc with long shaggy jet black mane stood his ground against the armored rider on the white horse. He could not see the man thing's face, because it was hidden behind a steel visor, but he knew it was a man nonetheless. He could smell the manflesh from where he stood. He roared in defiance at him.
"Come face me tiny man!" He roared in the common tongue at the lion crested rider. "Get down off your horse and face me like a real warrior!"
But the rider either didn't understand the Uruk, or wouldn't be bated. Instead, he charged at the orc warrior, blade at the ready to strike.
The Uruk raised his heavy hooked blade to meet the armored rider's challenge, both hands on the hilt, just waiting to cleave the metal cased man thing's horse and force him to fight on foot where the Uruk believed he had the advantage of size and strength.
But just then he felt the thud of something sharp and painful in his back. One of those wretched centaurs had shot him in the back! In surprise, he dropped his heavy sword just as the white rider passed and brought his own sword around to sever the Uruk's head from his shoulders in a clean and powerful blow. Black blood sprayed and spilled onto the ground. The armored rider did not stop to survey his handiwork but moved on to the next orc warrior standing.
The orcs, not having been given any reason to expect a force of this size to come upon them, were completely overwhelmed. Some, attempting to escape the slaughter foolishly attempted to run for the cover of the trees. They realized their mistake too late as the trees themselves viciously grabbed them and had their way with their would be assassins. Those that managed to escape the vengeful branches and roots found themselves at the mercy of another force.
Out from the trees and behind the cavalry rushed foot soldiers of every shape and size imaginable. They too were led by one of the race of men encased in armor and wearing a similar gold circlet on his helm. Whichever of Mordor's servants had survived the first two assaults, even if only moaning in pain on the ground, was quickly put to the sword by those who came behind. The slaughter continued for hours until every orc in sight had ceased to draw breath.
This was how the army of Narnia began its march west as the bleak ground of the western wastes ran black with orc blood like a petroleum slick had erupted and spilled all through that land. When their grim work was done, the order was given to put the orc's equipment, weapons, and bodies to the torch. They would not be looted. Their effects would not be touched except by the flame. The Narnians wanted there to be little if any memory of them left upon the edge of their borders before they moved on. The one exception to this was the remains of the carcasses from the cooking fires. These were carefully gathered, treated with honors, and buried with the respect due them. When all there was left were bones that could no longer be identified, these too were gathered and buried together. They spent the next two days securing their border from any other orc camps north and south along the western woods, burying their dead citizens, and removing the orc filth from the land before moving on.
Two days after...
It might have been an excruciatingly hot summer day in the desert if it weren't for the darkened cloud cover which still hung over their heads in the sky. It rendered the weather gloomy, but at least cooler than it would have been otherwise. What dark magic Mordor had meant to protect its own servants by blotting out the sun now worked in the Narnians' favor as they completed their tasks before continuing east. Peter and Edmond stood around a table in their command tent with their captains going over the final tallies which had been delivered to them.
"One thousand and thirty four orcs all told and accounted for." Edmond announced, reading from sheets of parchment which had been delivered to him and doing the necessary maths. He didn't need to add that all those foul corpses had been destroyed by fire. The stench from the bonfires wafted across the wastes like loathsome cooking fires.
"And our own losses?" Peter asked him.
Edmond hesitated a little before reading those numbers off, "Seventy two cavalry, three dozen archers, and a hundred footmen. Two hundred and eight soldiers in total, mostly from arrows the fiends managed to fire off before they were finished."
"Mostly?" Peter questioned.
"Some of our people hesitated with their killing blows, your majesties." A talking mouse answered him. "A few attempted to accept surrender from the enemy."
He was the captain of the talking mice who had answered the call to arms, his people especially devoted to the Great Lion. His name was Klipplewick, and in spite of his diminutive size, he was one of their finest swordsmen and his own courage against the orcs was nothing short of remarkable. He could be like a ghost on the battlefield, moving unseen until it was too late. Many orcs felt the lethal sting of his blade before they even knew he was there. Any general would feel himself lucky to have more like Klipplewick under his command.
Of course they did. Peter thought to himself. Had I not heard the instruction from Aslan himself, I would have offered surrender too. Out loud he said, "Send word out to all our troops, make sure everyone understands the order. No surrender is to be accepted from the orcs, and no quarter is to be given. Let those two hundred of our dead serve to remind them why."
"It will be done, your majesty." Klipplewick answered immediately, though even he appeared uncomfortable with it.
"Their bodies should be prepared and sent back to their families before moving on." Peter told him, only the slightest hint of emotion in his voice betraying his mixed feelings.
"It appears our victory here was complete, was it not your majesty? Our forces passed their first test in battle. That should be something." One of the captains, a centaur man who had been a veteran in the battle against the White Witch remarked.
"Did they? We outnumbered them twenty four to one against peons and serfs no less who had no idea we were coming, and yet still we lost over two hundred of our own to their blades and arrows. We slaughtered lumberjacks, not hardened soldiers. I do not see this as a true victory, Joseph." Peter returned, an uncharacteristic anger edging his voice as he spoke directly to that same captain. "No. Our real test will be when we cross the waste three days hence and reach Mordor's western edge."
"Of course, your majesty. My apologies if I spoke wrongly." The centaur, Joseph, responded, feeling the sting of his king's rebuke.
Peter paused for a moment, and then checked himself. "No, Joseph, forgive me. You are right, we won this one. And it would be asking too much to not expect losses from our first taste of combat regardless of our advantage of numbers."
The centaur nodded, his respect for his high king only growing with his lord's display of humility.
After this, the order of business was in establishing the supply lines between Narnia and the army as it moved west. The wasteland in between the two countries held very little natural water, and they could expect no rainfall according to Sir Eric, who also stood by in the tent wearing his chain mail and Gondorian surcoat, waiting until their majesties called on him to speak.
"The army will need to carry water with them across the desert as well as food, moving at night, making camp during the day." The knight told them.
"Didn't you say that their patrols increased at night because the darkness was their own element?" King Edmond asked.
"I did." Sir Eric confirmed. "But it will make no difference with the sun darkened from the clouds. They will be able to move freely."
"Are there no springs or oases of which we might make use between here and there?" Edmond asked.
The knight unrolled a large parchment which he had been carrying and laid it on the table. On it, Sir Eric had drawn out the details of the land of Mordor which he could remember from his failed expedition.
"The only large body of water which is remotely drinkable is the Sea of Nurnen which we will not reach until passing to the south of Lithlad and beyond." He pointed to a large feature he had marked that lay north of the southern mountain range before pointing again to a region to the northeast. "But there are several rivers and tributaries which feed into it before passing Lithlad. In addition, I was able to find small springs to keep me alive as I crossed, but I was one man. It is doable, but with a force this size, water wagons will be especially essential until we reach Mordor proper."
"What about fortifications?" Peter asked. "What kind of resistance will we meet besides those patrols?"
"There are a few settlements to the south of our route in Ered Glamhoth of eastern men allied with Sauron. They might give us trouble." The knight pointed t a mountainous region to the southeast of the map. "But I do not think they will be able to challenge a force of our size should it come to that."
"Men, not orcs?" Peter asked, wanting to be certain he heard correctly.
"Yes, your majesty. Unless I am much mistaken, I think they might have originally come from that land to your south you call 'Calormen.'" Sir Eric replied.
"Would they be amenable to surrender if it were offered?" Peter asked.
"Possibly, if they felt there was no chance of their victory. Their alliance with Sauron is one of fear and ambition that my comrades and I could gather. They have no true love for him." The knight answered.
"That is something useful at least." Peter remarked with a hint of hopeful sarcasm. "Perhaps we do not have to kill everyone who crosses our path."
"There is one more possible threat which we may need to take into consideration upon entering the black land, your majesties. When my men and I were there in that cursed land, several times we saw huge shapes in the sky like great wyrms or dragons. Those flying beasts had riders on them darker than any orc." Sir Eric told him.
"How so?" Peter asked.
"We couldn't be sure, but before we left Gondor, we had heard rumors that Sauron's special lieutenants, the nazgul had arisen again." The knight explained.
When the Gondorian said the very word, a dark chill surrounded them as though the mere speaking it might summon some dark and unholy demon of death.
He continued. "According to legend, they were ancient kings who had sold themselves to Sauron for power, and now walk the land as neither living nor dead. They are fearsome wraiths, of whose leader it is said no man can kill. Those who rode these black wyrms struck a fear within us so unnatural as to take our hearts completely even at the distance above us which they were. If the legends are anything close to accurate, should Sauron field just one of these ungodly fiends against Narnia's forces, it could prove disastrous even if we have the advantage."
"Aslan said he would be there when we needed him most." Peter replied after absorbing this new information. "All we can do is our part, and trust him to do his. We knew this would not be easy. We only need hold out until this 'ring bearer' Aslan spoke of accomplishes his mission."
"And when will we know that, your majesty?" One of the other captains asked.
But Peter had no answer for him other than, "We will know."
At the Castle of Cair Paravel…
Queen Lucy looked out from the balcony of her family's private apartments in Cair Paravel over the ocean that night. Her delicate feminine hands gripped the carved stone railing hard. She had always enjoyed sailing and visiting the islands to the east which fell under Narnian sovereignty. The sea air could be invigorating, and the camaraderie aboard a ship at sea could be warm and entertaining, at least how she found it.
But the salty water that stung her cheeks that night came from her own eyes.
"Lu?" She heard the voice of her older sister calling for her gently from behind.
"I'm out here, Susan." She called back without turning around.
Behind her, she heard the quiet footsteps of the elder queen join her out on the balcony. Lucy had always thought her sister prettier than herself, though no one had ever actually said as much. Even in her elder years with streaks of silver in her dark brown hair, she was still a handsome woman with a sweet smile and gentle disposition in general.
"I thought I'd find you here." Susan began.
"I should have been there. I could have saved them." She told her.
"So you heard the list of casualties." It was a statement, not a question. "The field medics did all they could as I have been told. You trained them well, sister."
"But I could have saved them, Susan!" Lucy told her, turning to face her. "I still have the medicine Father Christmas gave me! I could have saved all of them!"
Susan was quiet for a moment as she studied the pain in her sister's face. It was a pain she felt as well at the loss of hundreds, but did not feel she could show just in that moment. She would be able to shed tears later, in private. But for now, those here in the castle were looking to her, the senior queen, to be strong for them, and she would be, just like she was determined to be so for her little sister.
"Could you have really?" She asked gently, attempting to employ reason. "Do you still have enough of the fire flower juice after all these years, to have treated over two hundred people? I don't recall the flask being that big."
"Well, I..." Lucy began, then stopped herself. She knew the answer. "I could have saved some of them at least! I should have been there! And you! You're the finest archer in Narnia! Your arrows never miss! We should be marching with them!"
"And who would be protecting Narnia in our absence?" Susan inquired. "Who would see to it that the supply wagons continued to move? Without them, the army would starve or die of thirst. Or who would see that those who returned alive but unable to fight receive medicine and care? There is more to war than just fighting, dear sister. Our role is no less important than Peter's or Edmond's."
Lucy was quiet after that. She knew the truth of her sister's words, but obviously did not like them. The sea air was chill on her shoulders, and she wrapped the shawl she wore around herself tighter in response. After a few moments she said, "I worry for them, Susan. For our brothers. It feels different now. When we fought against the Witch, all of us were present, and Aslan himself was there. I didn't feel as terrified then as I do now. What if something happens and they don't come home? What if one of them is shot with one of the horrid poisoned arrows and dies because I wasn't there with my flask? What then?"
"You saw the letter which Peter sent to us before this first assault." Susan reminded her. "Aslan himself told Peter to march. We cannot argue with Aslan's own words, as much as I might try in my own head." Susan then forgot herself for just a moment and giggled at her own words even as a tear fell from her own eye and she wiped it quickly. "Peter was adamant that he wanted us to remain in Cair Paravel and tend to the supplies and the wounded that made their way home. He did not want us to be there, and like it or not, Aslan made him high king over us all. We must respect his wishes."
Susan's admittal of her inner thoughts brought a small smile to Lucy's own lips as she said, "I thought I was the only one arguing in my head."
Susan giggled again briefly as she said, "No, little sister. I have been arguing with both their words in the silence of my own thoughts fiercely since I learned them; our brother's and Aslan's."
They both smiled at that, feeling not so alone in their rebellious and troubled thoughts. The moment was shared between them, and then gave way to practical matters once more.
" We have just received another letter from the front by way of the eagles. Peter has requested barrels of water for the army in addition to foodstuffs. Wagons full of these barrels to help them cross the wastes." Susan told her. "There is precious little of it out there to the west until they reach the country of Mordor."
"The poor beavers are already working themselves to death to provide wood for the supply wagons and arrows." Lucy commented. "And there are more wakened trees in Narnia than not. We may have to request King Lune's aid for the casks."
"My thoughts as well." Susan told her.
After a minute, Lucy added, "Father Christmas was right those many years ago. War is a nasty, ugly business isn't it?"
"Yes. It is." Susan agreed as the two queens looked out over the sea together, frightened for those they loved.