Chapter 8--Ambush

A/N: Again, thanks so much to all for the reviews and encouragement. And now all the world shall see why I rated this fic "T".

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Lord Arran skulked through the maze of tents, waiting to hear a low whistle. When the whistle echoed quietly in the night, he wheeled about and saw who he was searching for: The cloak-shrouded figure he had spoken to at the gates of Cair Paravel.

"What news, Arran?" the figure hissed.

Lord Arran approached the figure, glanced about sharply, and mumbled, "The good news is, the army's morale is dropping. The bad news is..." After once more assuring himself that he wasn't being watched, Lord Arran dropped his voice to a whisper. "...the High King Peter is back."

The figure froze. "What? How?"

"I don't know. Black magic, maybe. And what's worse is that he's not nearing his fifties like he should be by now--at least he doesn't look like it. He's young again."

"The Tisroc, may he live forever, will be thrilled," the figure replied sarcastically.

"Fortunately for us," Lord Arran continued, "Queen Victoria does not recognise him. But the general does."

"What do you desire I do about it?"

Lord Arran pressed some coins into the figures hand, and answered, through gritted teeth, "Kill him. Immediately."

"Where shall I find him?"

"He is asleep in the Queen's pavilion. Try not to wake the Queen. Kill him undetected and I'll double your pay."

"To hear is to obey, my lord. I'll send one of my men as soon as I can. What of General Oreius?" the figure demanded, pocketing the coins.

"Leave him," Lord Arran commanded softly. "He's mine. When the time comes, he'll pay for his insolence to me--with his severed head."

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Peter rolled over on his side, half awake, as he squeezed his eyebrows together confusedly. What had awakened him?

The thin amount of light coming through the red walls of the pavilion told him that dawn would arrive in about an hour. To his right, Victoria slept in the security of her hammock. Sadness momentarily twisted through his stomach like a knife, and he wondered, What will it take to show her who I am?

A twig snapped outside the pavilion, making Peter jump. He turned his head towards the sound, and stiffened as a shadow drifted across the tent. Probably just a soldier getting some water, he decided, and relaxing slightly, let his head fall back into a pillow.

But no sooner had he done that, than a wild, terrifying voice growled into his mind, No, it's not. Take up your sword, Son of Adam. Prepare to fight.

What? No. I am imagining things. I'm overexhausted, so I'm going back to sleep, Peter firmly countered the voice. As he closed his eyes, the growl changed into a roar.

Son of Adam! Awake! Take up your sword!

Peter felt his stomach drop with terror, but he hardly knew why.

Peter, TAKE UP YOUR SWORD! NOW!

Aslan, I don't have a sword! Peter cried silently, desperately.

Look to your left!

Peter obeyed. Relief and amazement surged through him, for there lay Rhindon, his old sword, inside its gold-embellished sheath. He tumbled off the pillows and grabbed the sword.

Immediately the tent flaps swished open and a figure rushed in, sword drawn, and lunged at Peter.

With a startled gasp, Peter jerked Rhindon out of its sheath and blocked the attack. Even so, the figure had hit so powerfully that he toppled on his back.

"What in the name of--" Victoria began, sitting up. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream as Peter's attacker swung the blade at his neck.

Peter threw his head back and cried out in terror as the blade missed his throat by an inch. "Victoria, get out of here!" he shouted, pushing himself off the ground.

Victoria, instead of leaving the pavilion, bounded out of her hammock and snatched up a long wooden bow near the back of the tent.

"What are you doing?" Peter yelled, striking at his attacker's legs and missing.

Without reply, Victoria stumbled behind the man and crushed his head with the wood bow. He grunted in pain and lashed out again, slicing into Peter's shoulder.

Peter screamed, but then realised that the blade had only nicked him and he could still move his arm. So, he took a deep breath, and threw a determined attack at the man's stomach on the exhale, shouting defiantly.

The man dropped his sword and roared as his blood soaked his clothes, the ground, and Peter. Then he swayed, and crashed down on his face. Before Peter could finish him off, Victoria threw herself on her knees, whipped her bodice knife out and plunged it between the attacker's shoulder blades. The man gurgled as his blood bubbled up around Victoria's fist, and abruptly went motionless.

Sick and dizzy as he was from the combat, Peter demanded, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Victoria rose, white and trembling, and cleaned her knife with a handkerchief. "Thank you, Cephas."

"What happened!" Oreius galloped into the pavilion, swords glinting in the dim light. "Your Majesties--Majesty, are you all right?"

Victoria returned her knife to her bodice. "I think so. This man attacked us."

Oreius brusquely turned the corpse on its back. "It's a Calormene." Simple words, but they induced extreme horror in Victoria.

"Which means..." she gasped. "They know where we are."

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"ALL TROOPS MAKE READY TO FLY!" Oreius and several heralds roared as they dashed through the camp; some punctuated the commands with blasts from horns.

As he rushed to pull up his tent pegs, Lord Arran nodded to himself in satisfaction, believing Queen Victoria must have discovered the High King dead.

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Victoria buzzed about the pavilion, cramming her things into a pack, wading through a flurry of ladies-in-waiting. "Cephas, you must get away from here quick as you can," she commanded the young man who waited at the exit. "May Aslan lead you to Archenland and your family in safety."

Cephas cleared his throat. "Actually, please it your Majesty, I have a mind to accompany your band to the border."

"What? Why?" Victoria demanded unceremoniously as she struggled to pull her leather sandals on.

"Safety in numbers?" Cephas shrugged.

Insolent little--Victoria began to fume, but a low growl echoed in her mind, cutting her thoughts short. Daughter of Eve, grant Cephas his wish.

Victoria sighed; she knew that even if he didn't speak aloud, Aslan gave orders for a reason. She faced Cephas. "Done. You may accompany us."