Chapter 4: Cruel and Icy Water
The thin grey cloak hung limp against Peter's back as though it were dead. Not a whisper of a breeze stirred the morning. It was uncharacteristically cold for this time of year, and the steady rain that fell from the sky was just short of freezing. The air around Narnia's massive cavalry force seemed almost as misty as the surrounding woodlands because of the visible vapour produced by hundreds upon hundreds of breathing mouths. It was certainly not a day to be out marching.
Presently, Peter's horse Dardread shied and bared his teeth at an enormous red Archenlander horse, which were known for their size. Its rider, a tall, blonde-haired and fair-skinned young fellow, flashed the High King a sparkling white-toothed smile, which Peter returned with difficulty. General Randid Heimshire was a fabulous commander and an amazing blade master, but he was one of the most irritating men in the army. His incessant boasts about women, politics, war and everything in general, would have been tolerable if his claims were not so outrageous. Just that morning, he'd tried to convince a soldier that he'd scaled the White Mountain, the tallest mountain in the Wild Lands of the North, something only the maddest and stupidest would ever attempt.
"Is it not a splendid day to be out riding, Peter?" Randid exclaimed swooping out his hands dramatically to gesture at the miserable, muggy weather. The man thrived on attention. "The morning brightens my eyes. Her smell revives me and her sound invigorates me and her beauty stuns me."
"Aye, she's a beauty, General, in all her foggy whiteness," snickered a nearby captain, and everyone in hearing range chuckled. Peter sighed. Randid Heimshire was a fabulous commander, but it was never easy to lead a military force when more then half of it thought their general was a nancy little halfwit with too-tight breeches who preened himself more then a peacock.
Heimshire swung around in his saddle to glare and the culprit, who, although he was many years Randid's senior, quickly ducked his head and murmured a "meant no offence, General." Apparently satisfied, the blade master turned back around to face his king, a grin on his face once more. Peter had to suppress another sigh at the thought of spending every day with this man for many weeks to come.
"I must disagree, Randid," he said, pretending not to have heard the captain's comment, "for this weather is inconveniencing our cause. The scouts I sent out when first the news came to me will not find us 'till this fog is clear, should it be hours or days or weeks."
"You are indeed in the right, my Lord. That I humbly admit." Randid looked anything but humble in his vibrant coat and with his chest puffed out like an overly agitated bird. "And we can do naught but press on and pray that our paths cross those of your scouts. T'would be unwise to halt our advance when we are so far from our destination."
Peter, who had been contemplating doing just that, nodded slowly. A fool Randid might be, but he knew what he was about. The company lapsed into silence once more, and the horses plodded on, hooves thumping dully in the silence and sounding strangely muted against the deep, impenetrable mist.
The rain pattered on for two days, dampening the Legion's clothes as well as their spirits. And still the fog and the windless cold persisted. Everyone rode their horses with slumped shoulders and downcast expressions. Peter watched it all, felt and saw the gloom and even a tinge of despair settle in, though they were only three days into the campaign. The soldiers' faces said it all. "There is no glory in this. There is no honour, no excitement." He tried to look alive, to cheer them, but it was a hopeless cause, and eventually, even Randid Heimshire lost his spunk.
They made their way south and a bit east, angling slightly toward the sea. The terrain was flat but slick and muddy from the rain, and even the most well trained beasts slipped in the muck. It was difficult to find suitable camping ground, and on the third day Peter had them set up only an hour or two after midday because he'd found a convincing area, and it was near certain there wouldn't be another for miles yet.
He dropped from Dardread to the ground, his knees buckling and almost causing him to fall over from stiffness. Sturdy leather boots crunched against brown needles. It was a thin wood, and smelled of pine and fir. A nearby chipmunk, startled by the sound and movement, dashed away, leaping nimbly from branch to branch. This forest, with its clear water drops dripping from the evergreen needles of the trees, its misty calm and sleepiness, its sharp and woody but strangely comforting smell gave Peter the most pleasant sensation he'd felt all day. He sighed in contentment. This was... peaceful.
The men got to work as quickly as only such trained men could. It was the work of a moment to get organised, begin to set up tents, clear small areas for cook fires, though it was doubtful anyone would find any dry wood today. A busy bustle set in, and it was a relief after the weary, strained, uncomfortable silence that had reigned during the march. The High King's confidence was building. If this sleepy little wood was having the same affect on the soldiers as it was on he, there would be a spring in their step and a brightness in their eyes tomorrow.
He walked among the warriors, giving a pat on the back here, exchanging a word or a smile there. It was good to know your men, to have them know you. He paced the length of their temporary settlement, and a few minutes later found himself at its edge and looking out into the woods with its trees that sunk into the mist like the shadows of a ghost. There was practically no plant life other then the pines and firs dotted about, except for the occasional early shoot of grass or weed that had poked through the dead brown needles that coated the forest floor. There was nothing in the distance but dim shapes melted into the fog.
He leant against a nearby tree, ignoring the knots that jabbed into his shoulder. Peter had never been much of a gambler, and he was playing a dangerous game of chance right now. He'd sent six scouts to the Glasswater as soon as he'd received the news, hoping to gain as much information as he could, hoping they would make haste and return in a day or two at most, but four days had come and gone without result, forcing Peter to lead the army forward without any news of this threat.
As dark thoughts began to form in his mind, the peacefulness of before faded and gave way to the inert ravings of a young man with too much responsibility. "What a fool I've been," he muttered under his breath. This entire campaign was a mad and utterly useless gamble. What ever had possessed his advisors and commanders to encourage this blasted venture. Why, this army could be at the gates of Cair Paravel at this very moment! And he had left the palace with a meagre guard, scarcely more then a few score. "What a blind, idiot fool!" He had half turned around, ready to issue the order to about turn and back to Cair Paravel at full speed, when he heard the distant sound of hooves thudding rapidly against the ground, coming from the direction he was facing. He squinted about, but it was next to impossible to make anything out in the thickness of the fog. Nevertheless, he continued scanning the surrounding trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of the beast and rider. The clinking of chain mail that accompanied the hoof beats assured him there was a rider.
The horse materialized out of the mist ahead. It galloped towards him at full speed, chest heaving and breaths coming in gasps for air. The horseman's head darted every which way, as though searching for something, and Peter could recognise his face. It was Julien, one of the six scouts sent out almost a week ago. He was a mess, his shirt torn and dirty, and his face haggard. When his gaze fell on Peter, he cried out in relief and booted his mount's flanks urging it faster. Meters away, he skidded to a halt and leaped from the saddle.
"My Lord, you must ready arms at once!" he said urgently.
"What!" the King exclaimed in disbelief. But before Julien had time to respond, there came a loud scream from behind, and the two men whirled around to see the camp erupt into chaos.
The enemy was already among them, coated in brown and wielding long, cruel-looking sabres that gleamed even without sunlight. There were hundreds of them weaving through the tents as far as Peter's eyes could see, darting about with silent and deadly quickness. Narnian men were being run through before they even knew of a danger. Men Peter was responsible for. Men he had carelessly gambled away...
"TO ARMS!" the High King roared, and his voice echoed over the treetops and drowned out the screams of dying soldiers. "RALLY TO ME! TO ME!" He dashed forward into the camp, his sword already out and swinging. "NARNIANS TO ME!"
The clashing of metal and cries of the dead sang a bloody song on the battlefield that day. Hundreds of Narnians were slaughtered in the few moments it took for the brown clad swordsmen to slink into their midst, and still more fell in battle, desperately fending off each thrust of the enemy, frantically fighting for just one more moment of life and knowing it was very unlikely they would see another sunrise, or their wife and children, parents and siblings, ever again. Many heard Peter's calls, but few could reach him before they were cut down. Later, when it was recorded into Narnian history, it was said to have been the fastest massacre of a complete military force ever to happen in the country, and was referred to, many years later, as The Slaughter of Saurion Wood.
Only five men still lived through the hour, five of the thousands that set forth just days ago from Cair Paravel. Their only salvation was their cowardice as they bolted from the battlegrounds and disappeared into the mist and the trees. They had no other choice: it was either that or be butchered and left to rot, surrounded forever more by the sweet smell of pine wood.
These five men ran for all they were worth even as they mourned for their dead companions, those they had abandoned. They fled the cries of the dying, the terrified screams of the horses, and the ring of steel. They left the butchered Narnian soldiers, the slashed tents and scattered supplies, and the silent enemies that stalked among the ruins, searching for survivors. They escaped the haunting smell of death and blood that still tried to grasp them with tendrils of its scent, to bring them to their knees and fill them with guilt for what they'd left their friends with, the fate they'd evaded while others they knew still clung to a thread of existence, still fought off each claim for their life.
Peter ignored the bloody gash just above the joint of his right leg, and the three long slices running down his back, and the shallow, stinging scrape that ran from his ear along his neck like a hanging noose. If he had had a rope right then, he might very well of strung himself on a tree.
He loped along with the others, but he did not glance back fearfully for pursuers like them, he did not wince in pain and poke gingerly at his hurts like them. His face was as hard as rock, and the rippling tide of the sea in his eyes was no longer the warm spicy shores with sun and sand and hot, gentle breezes. It was the wind-blasted, crashing waves of the ocean of the north, shattering against the endless walls of snow-capped peaks; the cruel and icy water an endless storm of a blue anger and hatred.
The hatred was not so much for the brown-cloaked warriors as for himself, his idiocy, his impotency, his damned recklessness. His fists were clenched so hard that his fingers might break, his teeth gritting so fiercely he might wear them down to his gums. He unclenched a hand long enough to run it along the bare blade of his only remaining weapon: a long, unadorned dagger of steel with a simple black-lacquered hilt.
His blade, ripping through flesh and bone, drinking in blood, gleaming red in the gloom and the mist, while all around, his men toppled to the sodden earth with a last breath of air...Peter's mouth twisted in fury and loathing of himself. He, the High King Peter the Magnificent, who had led his cavalry to the butchery.
He stared around with wild eyes, like brilliant blue flames thrashing in the confines of his sockets, wanting, needing to break free, to rage out of control...
A scream was building in his lungs, and he had a mad desire to let it free, to shriek the violence in his soul to the world. It was a scream not to be contained. It demanded to be liberated. It demanded to be known, this scream of self-hatred beyond comprehension.
Soldiers lying dead all around him, eyes wide and accusing. What have you done, those haunted, soulless eyes moan. Peter whipped around and found them still staring. He turned away, but they were still watching. What have you done?
His hand slid along cold steel and lay to rest on the hilt, smooth against his palm. He pulled it from his belt and brought it up to his face to gaze at the shine of its edge. It was very sharp, and only then did her noticed the blood seeping from a long, straight cut running across his fingers. He also realized that he had stopped, and that the four others had also halted, looking back at him warily under tired, hooded lids.
He bolted from the battlefield with a mournful cry. He ran from the thousands of deaths that lay at his feet.
"King Peter, put the knife away," said Julien. It was odd, having someone give him a direct order. No one did that but his siblings... Peter looked at Julien, as if contemplating obeying. Or maybe as if challenging him, daring him to speak so to his king again. His features were growing harder by the minute, his expression darker, and his eyes angrier. Julien took a step forward, his worried and disapproving frown plain on his face. He was big, a handsome fellow, though he was looking a little worse for wear at the moment. He was certainly wider then Peter, and a few years older at that. The three other men leant away as if being pushed by the incredible tension of the moment, and watched with baited breath. All around, the forest was as still, and the thick fog cloaked the five deserters in silence and solitude.
Blood pounded in his ears, thumping in time with his footfalls against the ground. Behind him, the battle still raged, and he covered his ears with his hands to block out the sounds, the horrible, horrible sounds that sang of blame and guilt...As he ran...
As he ran...
Peter's head swung left and right, his breath quickening and his hand clenching and unclenching over the knife's hilt, as though he could not decide whether to keep holding it or not. He swallowed a ball of bile near the back of his throat, looking for all the world like a cornered cat. A cat willing to claw itself to death, if need be. Julien took another cautious step forward, raising a hand ever so slowly. "Put the dagger down, Peter," he said, calmly but firmly.
The king's gaze focused on the blade for a moment, and then shifted to Julien. The young scout took a step back, seemingly blown away by the intensity of Peter's face, the anger and loathing reflecting off those icy blue eyes.
Ever so slowly, like the shadow of a sundial, Peter's fingers twisted around the hilt of his blade, turning it until it rested against his wrist, pointing toward his heart. He kept his eyes on Julien, one of four fortunate enough to have evaded the slaughter he led his army to face. The blood of thousands soaked his hands, weighing him down and demanding justice. It screamed for justice. It roared for justice. It thundered to the heavens for justice.
"No!" Julien shouted. Rain had begun to fall again, and it plastered everyone's hair flat against their face. "You're the king, Peter. You can't abandon your men!"
A shadow of a smile flickered over Peter's lips, the most terrifying smile that could ever be imagined when paired with his wintry eyes. The smile twisted his face to such a level of self-hatred and revulsion that Darkness itself would have cringed at the sight. "I already have," the young man murmured softly, and plunged the dagger into his heart.
Afterwords:
Done screaming at Peter to stop it? Good! Now before you start flaming me and ranting that this turn of events is absolutely impossible because of... well, the entire Narnia series, I'd just like to forewarn you that things are definitely not what the seem...
So, anxious to read about how the rest of the Pevensies are faring? Wait patiently for my fifth chapter. I'm cooking up some delicious recipes!
PS: I just LOVE all who review. If you (Yes, that's right, you sitting at your computer at this very moment) have not reviewed yet, I beseech thee to tell me what you thinketh! If you think I sound like a dumbass and that I'm trying way to hard to make it all poetic, tell me that. And if you think that this is the most boring thing you've seen since that essay you had to write in the seventh grade about amphibians, tell me that too. And of course you'll tell me if you love it and want more right now!