A/n: I'll be the first to admit it: Three months between updates is much too long. I've wanted to update this story, because I like what it's becoming and I'm excited with how I think it'll turn out. But what with school, work, and moving into a new house, I've had my hands full.

Now, though, I'm finally catching a quick break—just enough time to write and post a long chapter. With any luck, my updates will become more and more frequent. For now, I hope you enjoy this chapter—though you might want to consider yourself warned: It gets pretty graphic.

"Wake up!"

Philip started awake. The horse blinked, and a uniformed man slipped into focus. Gold trim adorned his blue coat, and a rapier hung from his belt. Thunderheads rumbled above his head, their anvils gilded by the light of the morning sun. Long shadows darkened the creases in his clean-shaven face, and his high voice jarred Philip's ears like a slap to the cheek.

Philip gave a grunt. "Confound it, man," he said. "Who are you?"

"Mohmar Sharif, lieutenant in the Erizadi patrol. I'm escorting you."

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here. Animals are forbidden to use the beach as a stable—especially when they're derelicts."

Philip started to speak, but he held his tongue. He rose up on all four spindly legs and shook the sand out of his mane. "As a derelict, do I have the right to ask you a question?"

Mohmar glared at him. "Just follow me."

Philip gave him a snort and trudged through the sand. A stream burbled to his right, and his jaws throbbed with thirst, but the man gave no indication that he would stop for anything.

"Did you happen to see a cheetah prowling about?" said Philip. "Talks like a scholar. Has an eternal scowl on his face."

"No."

With a sigh, he gave the stream a longing eye—and at that moment, his stomach churned in protest. A strange odor wafted downwind, threatening to make him gag. He took in another breath, and the odor strengthened. "Sir, is there something in the water?"

The man sniffed the air, and his face softened. "I don't know." He paused, taking in another breath. "If there is, what would you call it?"

"Without knowing for sure?" Philip said, inhaling a deep breath. "I'd call it death."

The man's face hardened again. "The last time an animal said that, most everyone in its village was dead within a week."

Philip stopped in his tracks, staring wide-eyed at the officer. "What could do such a thing?"

Mohmar shook his head. "All I know is what my people call it: 'Red Death.' Within less than a day, everyone who drank the water was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and most of them were dead by the next day."

The man saw the horse's agape mouth but paid it no heed. He aimed a finger at the line of buildings on the horizon. "Do you see that village? Go. Tell them to stay away from the stream."

Philip turned a wary eye toward the man. "Why should I obey you?"

"Because in Erizad, you answer to us—and we may be in great need of your help. Besides, your friend may be in trouble. If you go into the village, you might find him there."

There was a pause. Philip gazed out at the horizon, staring at the buildings that glowed in the morning light.

He's right. The horse loosed a light breath and started to trudge south. Disease or no disease, I have to find him.

A mile of sand had lapsed behind him when the horse's charge slowed to a gait. A red blot had scrolled beneath his belly. He swung his head over his shoulder, and his heart slammed against his chest; he knew the unearthly stain was blood.

He swiveled his head to follow the trail, and it crested the top of a dune. Philip surged up the mound, slipping as the ground sloped beneath him. Philip's heart sank in waves of dread: A tawny blur inched toward the village, leaving a crimson trail behind.

"Have mercy," he muttered. "FARAJI!"

The cheetah gave no reply.

Philip heaved himself over the mound and followed the trail. As he approached Faraji's spotted frame, the cheetah swung his head—and Philip whinnied in horror.

Blood oozed out of the cheetah's nose, staining and dribbling down his chin. His mouth hung open, gathering and loosing a weak breath, and out came a pitiful mew of words. "Something…in the water. Did you—?"

"No. I was told to go into the village. Tell me—what can I do?"

Faraji gave a wet cough, and blood oozed out of his mouth. "Help me…"

With a breath, the horse pried open his jaws and closed them around Faraji's neck, as if the cheetah were a cub hanging from his mother's jaws. He lay limply in the horse's mouth, and the pounding of Philip's hooves lulled him into a stupor.

Philip charged into the village square as the rain started to fall.

The horse's hooves drummed the sett stones and large drops pelted him from head to tail. Buildings one and two stories high towered around him, all with signs and flags written in a language he could not read. Men and beasts poured onto the street from their shelters and shouted in complaint, drowning out the grumbling thunder, but the horse knew some of their words: Narnians were not welcome there, and they would let him know it.

Philip paid it no attention. He lowered Faraji onto a stone bench next to a gushing fountain, and he turned to face the crowd. "I am Philip, steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia, and we—"

The uproar grew deafening. Philip's ears swiveled backward to block the noise. A long-haired young man with a dour face strode forward. His blue uniform was adorned with gold, but his collar was buttonless—he had no great rank to speak of. "I am Tarin Sharaz, the Mareshah of Rasul. What is—" Without warning the man fell silent, his jaw hanging open. One look at the cheetah's bloody face, and he swung to his left. "Mehan! We need your help!"

The door to a two-story residence groaned open, and a silver-haired man in a white tunic burst through the doorway. One look at the cheetah's face, and sorrow filled the man's eyes. "Faraji," he whispered, his voice trailing away. "How long?"

Faraji groaned and coughed. "…Last night."

The silver-haired man turned away. He waved a hand toward the window, and four men and women filed out of the residence. They unfolded and carried a canvas cot strung between two poles. The doctor lifted Faraji's body onto the cot, and the cheetah was carried out of the plaza. All he did was stare at Philip, his eyes filled with horror, and the door boomed shut.

Without warning, the man pointed at Faraji and beamed his angry glare at Philip. "Is that how a hero is to be treated: cradled like a cub by a Narnian steed of none?"

"Harrumph-ph! I can assure you, my good man, that I am no steed of none. I am the steed of King Edmund the Just. Now unless you want us to catch the ague, I recommend that we move into warmer environs."

"I don't care if you're the Sarazen himself. I will deal with you on my terms. Now unless you can wield the magic of Aslan the Man, I have no use for you."

"First of all, I should inform you that Aslan is no man—he is the Great Lion. Second of all, have your people done nothing to locate the source of the illness?"

"There is no need," said the man. "This village was doomed to pay for its sins, and that day has come. Be he man or lion, the judgment of Aslan has fallen upon us."

Philip's mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon?"

"Need I discuss the sins of this village at length? Two men murdered a steed. My son bedded another man's wife. A coalition of cheetahs ate a Talking Beast for a meal. The God of Narnia has sentenced us to this misery, to make us pay for our crimes against him."

"Confound it! Are you all alike?"

"What did you expect, Narnian? When our own people are drowning in moral turpitude, what can we expect but to drown in our own blood?"

"You know nothing about Aslan, and unfortunately, you're not the first. Besides, this disease is not what you think. There was a stench in the water; something must have died. All we need do is go upstream."

"We are the northernmost village in Erizad. Everything to the north is Calormen."

"Confound it, man, these people are dying! Send a militia to go north!"

"There aren't enough men! Everyone in this village is too busy dying or too busy tending to the sick. Two fifths of the men and animals are bleeding from the nose and mouth—a hundred creatures who are dying even as we speak—and listen! Even grown men are crying out in pain, and it's getting worse."

The horse nodded. "Right," he said. "Then I'll go to Calormen."

Tarin lifted a hand and strode forward. "I'll join you. You'll need help."

"Much obliged, my good man," said Philip. "At least there is someone with a measure of sense in this country."

"No!" The doctor grabbed Tarin by the arm. "You're needed here."

"You have other aides. The Narnian has none."

"You know what the Calormenes do to their prisoners. If they see you, they will torture you before they kill you."

"Father, you have sent messengers to the nearby towns, and no one has answered. Once they find out what is happening here, none of them will answer. Please…let me go to Calormen. If I can help the Narnian succeed in his quest, perhaps Aslan will spare me. If I die, then it is proper for him to strike me down."

Philip nickered. "What a cheery lot you are."

The doctor flicked a glare at Philip, then drained a helpless sigh from his lungs. With a sigh, he put his hand on the young man's shoulder. "Begone. Both of you."

Tarin nodded and heaved a leg over Philip's side.

Faraji curled inward and gave a heavy cough. His breaths were ragged and shallow, but at least they didn't bring up blood. He brushed a paw over his face, wiping the uppermost layer of blood and sweat from his face. Is this what I was destined for? he thought. To die a pointless, ignoble death—before I have lived a full span of years? Is this what manner of good and kind thing Aslan is praised for? If so, I suppose I would rather take his evil.

Faraji glanced out the window. Six hours had passed since Philip and Tarin charged north, and the storm continued to rage in the village. Lightning filled the room with light as bright as day, and thunder shook the walls like a giant pounding the floor with a hammer. How could they possibly survive in a storm like this? It will surely strike them dead—assuming those pointy-shoed torturers don't do it first.

The door groaned open, and footfalls filled the hall. A somber mood followed down the hall, and the curtain to his room went back. Four women carried someone in on a cot, and the creature was coughing and shuddering in pain.

It was a cheetah, a soldier's necklace adorning his chest, his ebony eyes staring with awe and dismay at Faraji.

"How did you—" The other cheetah's voice was high and youthful. "I cry your pardon; I should not have been so rude. You don't know me, mehan—"

"Nor do I wish to."

"—But my name is Durik. I was leading a coalition out of Calormen. My brothers and I stopped to get a drink from the same river; it was just before sunset, and unbeknownst to us, the contamination had just begun. My second-in-command and I took the first drink, and the taste was foul."

Faraji's face showed no relief. "...Is he well?"

Durik nodded. "So are the rest of my brothers. But I should wonder what brought you this far north, to suffer this fate with us."

Faraji said nothing. He stared out the window; through the thunder and rain came the sobs of women and children.

"Do you hear that?" Durik let out a sigh. "Such wretched noise."

Faraji coughed again, and nausea bubbled up in his throat. His mouth had just begun to bleed again. "Surely…they are distraught…at what is happening. Someone must…" He fought back a cough—"Someone must have died."

"It is hardly that," Durik said. "That old man keeps babbling about the 'judgment of Aslan.' He should be above such talk."

One of Faraji's ears swiveled. "Why?"

"He is filling his people's hearts with needless terror and pain."

"Is it needless?" Faraji shuddered, fighting back the urge to retch. "Aslan is the god of Narnia... and of all nations of the earth. He can do what he wants. If that is what people need to hear...then let them hear it...and obey him."

Durik scoffed. "I used to talk like that." He winced in pain, his face twisting into a grimace. When he lifted his head, a cruel smile pulled on his bloodstained face. "But I came to my senses, my friend. I realized that no monarch who sentences us to such a miserable fate could be worthy of my deference."

"Why do you tell me this?"

Durik's eyes darkened. "I know the story of your master's son—how he has lain in bed the last two years, suffering and groaning in pain with no one to help him. And I know what Aslan has done to his people and his allies—how he attacks them, how he tortures them, how he terrifies them into submission. No leader can be allowed to do such things to his own people. And now, rivers of blood flowing from our own bodies."

"You don't know...if Aslan cursed us."

"If he sat idly by and let it happen, he is guilty of aiding and abetting murder. But I know Aslan. I know his deeds, and I know how he leads his people."

"Then you would know...that killing us is within his right."

"I don't know that anymore. Whatever excuse he may give for his deeds, my brothers and I will not allow them to go unanswered—not for one more day."

Faraji shook his head. "What is your point?"

Durik smiled again. He coughed, and two streams of blood poured between his front fangs. The sight made Faraji glance away in dismay. "Mehan, you are among the greatest of warriors and a scholar amongst your race, and you cannot comprehend what I am saying?"

Faraji paused, then his face. He knew what Durik meant, and the thought struck him with horror. "Make no mistake...I wished for that. In the confines of my heart...daring not to utter it to a single soul...I wished it. But what creatures are we...to turn such a fantasy into a reality? Confound it, man...you're talking about assassinating the most powerful man in the world!"

"I'm talking about justice!" said Durik. "Aslan has committed high treason against the people of Erizad, and why should he not be held to account? No benevolent leader would allow such a thing to happen to us. Whatever reason he has for allowing this madness to come upon our people, I don't care! What he's done is treason!"

"Do you not understand the madness of this quest? Who are you, O frail and feeble beast, to even think that you could overthrow the god of Narnia?"

"Do you know nothing about your history, mehan? Do you not know what happened just fifteen years ago? It did not take an army—it took one witch, who was powerful and courageous enough, to do what had to be done! If she could do it, why not others?"

"Because Aslan rose again, you fool! He turned death on its head. He killed the Witch, and now he reigns in Narnia. If you were fortunate enough and foolish enough to assassinate the god of Narnia, the whole country would turn against you. War would be waged; cities would be overthrown. Erizad would cease to exist, and so would you!"

"Not if we go through Calormen. They wouldn't dare lay a hand on us."

"You're even greater a fool than I imagined!" said Faraji. "They would want to kill him in our stead! And if you don't tell them what you're doing in their land, they would kill you, too!"

"Not if you help us," said Durik. "You know Calormen better than most. You know the hazards; you know the escape routes; you know how to get us through Tashbaan. And with that bloviating cretin escorting you to Narnia, he can take us the rest of the way. If you persuade him that you're escorting refugees to Narnia, he would think himself a hero."

Faraji's angry eyes softened. "I must be a fool for even contemplating this."

Durik's voice dropped low as he leaned closer. "You know what has to be done. If you survive this ordeal, I implore you to join us. Or will you be like the cowards in this country, who tremble at the very name of Aslan without questioning anything he says?"

Faraji gave no reply.

Thunder cracked over their heads, and the horse stumbled to a stop. "WAIT!"

Tarin hurtled into the horse's neck, scrabbling at the reins to gain his balance. "Damn it! What?"

Philip sloshed in the rain-soaked sand and swiveled around. "Look!"

Tarin lifted a hand to his face. Two hours of constant lightning, even in midday, left him half-blind and dazed. He blinked the rain out of his bleary eyes, and a weary smile gave way to a frown. "Calormene dogs!"

A turbaned man lay in a crook of the river, his fat frame pinned by rocks and trapped against a boulder. No arrow or spear stuck out of his belly. Tarin tumbled out of the saddle and knelt down, holding his nose as the smell of death wafted up to his face. The Calormene's clothes and face were stained light pink.

Tarin planted one foot backward and grabbed the man's wrists. "This was no accident," he said. "This man did not just fall over and die here. He was laid here. He's been spreading the disease, even in death." He gave a mighty tug, and the man's wet wrists slipped through. Tarin tumbled backward into the sloshing sand, spitting out water that tasted of decay. "Come, Narnian, help me!"

Philip took two steps backward, then charged and soared over the bend. He splashed along the shore, his hind legs slipping on the riverbank. A gust of wind pushed a wave up his neck. Foul water burst upon his face, making his tongue taste of death, but he lifted his muscular bulk out of the water. Lightning burst out of the sky and turned a palm tree into a smoking wick, and thunder roared like an angry giant, but he ignored it. Philip bit into the man's shirt as Tarin grabbed the man by the wrists. With a mighty heave, the man's body slid over the rocks and onto the sand.

"This way!" Tarin stabbed a finger over his shoulder. "Over here, where the ground has caved!"

Philip nodded and swiveled left, following Tarin's footsteps. A flicker of light cast a shadow over a yawning pit.

"Mind the edge!" Tarin roared over the wind. "Don't fall in!"

At last, an Erizadi who has the courtesy to treat me as one of his own. Philip banked left at the edge of the hole, and he loosed his grip on the man's shirt. The man tumbled into the hole, splashing into the shallow water.

"Go upstream," said Tarin. "Is the water still bad?"

Philip loped back to the river, shaking another layer of water out of his hair and mane. He strode some yards upstream, smelling the water. "It's good!"

Even at that distance, Philip could see Tarin smile. The young man waved him back over. "If we can bury him, the Calormenes will not be able to use him again."

Philip nodded. He spun around, and his hind legs kicked up waves of sand.

The two dug through the afternoon and evening, long after the storm had broken. By nightfall, they had filled the cavity in the earth, and they rode south as the stars made their march across the night sky.

And it was by daybreak that the village came into view, and Philip's relief gave way to horror. Tarin had stepped away to relieve himself, or so he said; when he returned, his face and hands were stained with blood.

Faraji tipped his head over the side, and he heaved blood over the edge of the table. His heavy coughs gave way to sobs as his bowels kept screaming in pain. One look at his belly made him cry harder; pustules had erupted and broken across his skin, protruding through his fur. He panted and writhed on the table, his head lolling to and fro.

A pang of horror stopped all the breath in Faraji's chest. Durik's eyes and mouth were closed, as if he were asleep, but his chest was still as a stone. Two women stood over him and laid a shroud over Durik's body, and Faraji loosed his pent-up breath. So this is how Aslan deals with traitors.

At once, horror gave way to anger. What manner of monster is this, that he should threaten or execute us with a horrid death? Is there no better means to satisfy justice and win allegiance?

Tears poured out of his eyes, and a sob worked its way out of a blood-soaked cough. How could this be happening to me? he said. I obeyed my master, I served him in battle, and I'm going to Narnia. Was it all supposed to end like this? Am I doomed because of my misdeeds, doomed like the dead and dying in this cursèd place?

No answers came. His frantic thoughts fogged his head until he returned to his stupor. And then he saw his master's son, a small boy crying in pain. He saw the doctors laboring over him, wondering what would cure him. He saw his family praying to Aslan night after night.

I cannot just go to Narnia!

At that, searing hot pain rushed up Faraji's back. Stars flashed in his eyes as he howled in pain. The doctor and his aides rushed to his side.

Dreams and visions flickered in and out of existence. The boy he cared for crying in pain...Philip warning him that he must go north...his master threatening to kill him if he did not obey...the feeling of claws sinking into Philip's muscled back...

I will not…

The doctor said something he could not discern. Throbs of white-hot pain spread to his belly. The memory of the boys' awestruck faces as Faraji read them their bedtime story. Rumors of Aslan tearing open the back of a girl. A doctor telling the Mareshah, "Unless he gets help, he may not live to see another birthday."

"Safe? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."

A measure of peace fell over the cheetah. The pain loosened its stranglehold. Blood stopped pouring out of his face, and at last, and all was calm and quiet.

I will not let him die.

Faraji opened his eyes. Without lifting his head, he stared out the window, beholding a bright and cloudless sky. The crisp morning air drifted in on a breeze. A light smile started to flick up the cheetah's face, but it fell as he heard the mourning of men and women outside. He caught the words "ninety dead" and wondered if it was true.

The sound of boots clopping on the floor caught his attention. He turned around saw the doctor looking at him with relief. The silver-haired man's voice had dropped to nearly a whisper as he said, "How do you feel?"

The cheetah's mouth hung open, trying to gather his voice. "In pain…very weak...but...death lost its grip on me."

The man let out a sigh. A grim smile flicked across his face. "You are fortunate," he said. "Most everyone in this house died, and all but one of the animals in the stables."

Faraji grunted as a wave of pain broke across his back. "What about…what about the Narnian?"

"He was even more fortunate. Death never came within a league of him."

Faraji nodded. I cannot use my confusion and delirium as an excuse—not anymore, now that Philip is still alive. I have spoken my own words...and now I must keep them.

Philip paused. The bucket of water sat before him, beckoning him to drink. He sniffed the water and gave a sigh of relief—no stench of death that he could tell—but he still hesitated.

A week had passed since their arrival in Rasul, and the disease had come and gone. Talk had spread of launching an attack on Calormen, ever since Tarin told the village elders about the soldier in the river; now that the young man had died, the rumors became a call to arms, and the funerals for the other eighty-nine dead were ended with promises of war. Philip was never asked what should be done; then again, he could not answer. He slept too little that week.

He started to lap up the water when he heard the stable door creak open. Out of the corner of his eye wove the lithe figure of a cheetah. It was Faraji, looking worn but standing tall and strong. A pause filled the space, and Faraji's hard face began to soften.

"What I'm about to tell you, I hate to even think it," he said softly. "But, given everything that has happened, it is only proper that I do it."

Philip didn't reply. He sat there, peering at Faraji and awaiting his words.

"My people owe you a debt of gratitude. What you did was noble and courageous—and best of all, it worked."

Philip stared blankly, as if he hadn't heard a word. The horse's face was tired and somber. "When I was a foal, I was told all the stories of Aslan, all the sayings and the proverbs—how he was on the move, how he would come to save us from our troubles. When he did...when I saw him with my own eyes, killing the White Witch and roaring in victory...I was filled with joy indescribable. Hope and faith gave way to glory. But now that I have seen so much suffering...so many men, women, animals, children bleeding and dying in agony...what am I to think?"

Faraji gave a sigh, and he sat on his haunches. When he lifted his head again, it was not the look Philip expected. No haughtiness or pride crossed the cat's face—just the same dour face he saw upon their first meet. "Two years ago, my master sent me and one of his lieutenants on a mission. We had heard rumors of a plot to attack a town west of here, along the border with Calormen. We thought it would be a simple mission. But when the lieutenant and I headed north, we didn't expect to encounter resistance so early. The Calormenes were defending a dry riverbed that led nowhere. He thought my master was mistaken—or, perhaps, that the Calormenes were bluffing, to divert us from something bigger."

Philip blinked his large eyes. "Were they?"

"No." A pause, and Faraji sighed, staring off into nowhere. "At first, the Calormenes broke off their pursuit. It seemed that we had called their bluff. The next day, they had caught up with us, and their reinforcements with them, so we had to face something even worse. The two of us killed twenty men, and we broke through the resistance—but it cost the lieutenant his horse, and we ran on foot with Calormene spears an inch away from our backs."

Faraji turned back to the horse. "No man or beast can ignore his duty forever. Anyone who runs away from it will run straight into it. Even if the orders make no sense, even if the man who gives them leaves his own judgment to be questioned, the orders have not changed."

Philip paused, then said, "You're right. Indeed, I have a complaint for Aslan, but we still have a mission."

Faraji nodded. "Besides, I now understand how it feels to be attacked by your own body. I now understand the sensation of one's viscera feeling as if they're on fire. Granted, I despise Aslan, and I despise Narnia, but my boy has suffered far longer than I, and I am the only hope my boy has. It was only when I resolved to complete my mission that I knew I would live. If we can deliver my boy from his own agony, I shall be content to go to Narnia and the north...no matter what else I may face."

The cat let out a deep breath, and he resumed his austere and dignified posture. "On, then, to Narnia and the North."

Philip's smile grew. "To Narnia and the North."

Faraji leapt into the saddle and steadied himself, and on cue Philip trotted out of the barn.

As Philip's hooves clopped down the plaza, a clamor of voices burst across the square. Faraji and Philip glanced left as a half-dozen cheetahs shouted in Erizadi, hissing and clawing and shouting words that Philip did not understand. Iron shackles clamped their necks, and men led the beasts away in chains. Faraji heard the words "Traitor!" and "Coward!" and some obscenity-laden call for vengeance, but Faraji gave no reply. When he realized Durik was among the dead, a wave of sorrow overtook him.

Philip waited until the stone road gave way to desert, and he said, "Good Heavens, what was that about?"

Faraji stared onward, showing no emotion on his face. "Nothing of consequence," he said, forcing a lift into his voice. "Just some ruffians who made me an attractive offer."

"Whinny-inny. Well, I fancy that you could have persuaded them to join us, to put their talents to superior use."

Faraji shook his head. "They are not capable of that," he said, staring blankly at the twilight-hued northern sky. "All they wanted was to spill blood. We don't need any more."