Oreius
"Oreius! Oreius!"
Flisk. Riderless. I automatically looked beyond him to the center of the front line. I could see only King Edmund through the fray. He had taken over supreme command of the battle. Where was the High King?
Minutes later I was doing something I never imagined I would do: I was running from a battle as fast as I could.
Or perhaps I had engaged in a new, more desperate battle. The fear I had never felt in war swept down upon me, centered on the suddenly frail form I carried. I had loved this good king from the first, but I never realized the depth of that love until this instant, when I realized I could lose him.
"Bal!" I shouted, never slowing as I reached the rear line. "Bal!"
The Cheetah caught up with me and ran alongside.
"Get word to Queen Lucy! The High King is mortally wounded. Have her meet us!"
He tore off at top speed. Several of my Centaur troops saw and heard what was happening and broke off, falling in to protect me and my burden. They were joined by the Elk guard and the four sons of Ravenwolf. Good. I would have brought the whole army with me to protect him if I could.
I know I said I was with you to the death, my king, but I meant only my own, I thought to the slight figure cradled in my arms. I am sure that Aslan, blessed be his power and might, never meant for one such as you to die. I could smell blood dripping from him, feel broken bones shift as I raced towards the rear. He was so small. A foal. Seventeen years was not long. Certainly not long enough for a lifetime. And I had left his younger brother behind against a terrible and mighty foe.
I had failed them both.
I glance down at King Peter's pale face. Even unconscious I could tell he was in agony. Methalain had broken more than bone. Clearly he had internal injuries. My hands were sticky as his blood dried on them. A few minutes later, when I looked again, I realized he wasn't breathing properly.
I stumbled and slid to a halt, almost losing my hold on the king. The ride was too rough for him in this condition because when I finally came to a halt he seemed to breathe easier. I could not continue. He would never make it.
"Fetch Queen Lucy back to here immediately!" I ordered the black Wolves and the Elk captain. Swift as the wind, they took off. I barely noticed as I shifted King Peter until his labored breaths seemed to come easier. There was a faint froth of blood at his lips, but I knew of nothing I could do but hold him. The Centaurs and Elks drew close around me and formed a protective ring.
I stared at the High King's fair face, bloodied and broken, and I thought of his brother facing the Ogres. How difficult had it been for Edmund to send me away with Peter? How impossible was it for me to stay with Peter so gravely wounded?
I am trusting you with my brother's life.
King Edmund had knowingly given me the greatest treasure in Narnia and he had stayed behind to protect me and his brother.
Sacrifice is the motto of his knightly order. He was living it now.
I had once dared to call Edmund a traitor. I regretted that as I regretted few instances in my life.
I swore never to fail them again.
King Peter stirred, gasping in pain, and I feared he would wake up. I glanced at the soldiers around me, making sure they remained alert as I knelt, then settle down in the tall grass, gently easing my charge to the ground, careful of his broken bones and injuries. He seemed smaller than when I last saw him, smaller and colder and far too young to be dying in my arms. I supported him with my arm and, as softly as I could, I soothed his brow, trying to comfort him.
"It is Oreius, my king," I whispered to him. I would have given anything to take this pain away from him. "You have been wounded, but Queen Lucy will be here soon and you will be healed."
Slowly he turned his head and looked at me. I saw suffering and exhaustion reflected in his blue eyes, but also trust. Peter was different from his brother in so many ways, but the expression in his eyes was identical to Edmund's when he had surrendered this boy to my care. Gradually his eyes closed and he leaned against me. I watched his breathing, tried to stop his bleeding, and prayed to Aslan that Bal had reached our youngest queen.
"A Centaur lying down on the job," a familiar and welcome voice suddenly said from a few feet behind me. "That's not something you see every day."
It was Sir Giles Fox.
