Peter sat mounted on his horse - a dumb beast - at the head of his army. He stood and watched as Judas, Lord of Calormen, came to meet them from over the hill, just a little less than a half a mile off.

The High King had lad many battles since he began his reign, but this would be the first he fought without his brother by his side. He supposed it would have been worse if he still thought Edmund was dead; he would find it hard to keep his fighting spirit. Now, Peter had something to fight for, something he could give his all to gain back.

He could fight for Susan, who sat at the top of the towering rocks to the right of the Narnian army, leading the archers and guiding their shots. He could fight for Lucy, who had insisted upon coming and was in the healing tents at camp, prepared to use her cordial for any who might need it. But Peter would fight the hardest for Edmund; his was the fate that depended on this battle. Peter would fight and bring him home, home to his sisters who didn't even know that they were fighting for him.

This was the determining factor. These soldiers had no idea what was at stake. This could either be Narnia's last stand, or the beginning of a new age of prosperity.

Peter didn't want the Narnians to fight for him; he didn't even want them to fight for Edmund. What Peter really wanted, was for them to fight for their families, for their future, for Aslan. This fight would be carried out like all the rest. Narnia lived in honor and she would die in that same honor.

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Edmund could barely see the feet of the Calormene, posted outside of the slave tent, beneath the flap, the entrance of the tent. His bonds rubbed uncomfortably against his wrists which were tied in front of him, but he stretched as far as he could to listen for any other soldiers.

The camp had fallen near silent long ago, but Edmund had to be sure that they were gone before making a move.

"Sit still, would you boy?" One of the older slave women scolded. She was tied next to him in the line of slaves. Each of them were bound hands and foot and connected by a length of rope running from ankles to ankles.

Edmund pulled himself back to the group of slaves, facing the woman who had just scolded him. "Help free my bonds." He lifted his wrists up to the woman.

She stared at him in astonishment. "You can't surely think of it, son. Do you know what they'll do when they catch you?"

Edmund nodded. "Yes, Miss, but I must escape. They won't catch me; I won't let them."

The woman didn't look convinced. "They always catch everyone, boy. There's no escape I should know: I've been here for twenty-three years."

"Miss, if ever there was a time to escape, it's now. Do you want to remain here another twenty-three years?"

The woman just stared. "Won't live that long, Young One."

"And do you want to die in bonds?"

"It doesn't seem like that's my choice."

Edmund looked her square in the eyes. He held the attention of every slave in the tent. "I would rather die young, fighting for my freedom, than live a long life and die in slavery's chains. If you want to stay here, then stay here, but at least help grant me my wish. I can't do it on my own."

The woman seemed to consider his words; she paused for a long moment before moving to untie the rope around his wrists. "This is for you, only, boy. I do not have the strength to fight men. Aslan be with you."

Once Edmund's hands were free, he moved to untie his ankles. He then stood and addressed the room, quietly. "If any of you would decide to join me, now is your chance."

Frightened looks were all Edmund got in response. Who was he kidding? These people had spent so much of their lives in bondage, that freedom was a faded memory. They had no hope of any other life. To them, trying to escape was a death sentence.

Edmund bent down and clasped the old woman's hands in his. "I will come back; I will free you, if only to show my gratitude."

The woman smiled and went along with it, even if she didn't believe it. "Bless you, Child."

Edmund turned to the rest of the slaves. "I will come back for you all. I promise."

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Peter's attention was brought back by the blow of a Narnian horn. He noticed, now, how close the Calormene army had gotten. It was a simple charging distance between the two forces.

"My King."

Peter turned his head to the left and met the eyes of his great Centaur general and friend. "Oreius."

"This is it, Sire. The army waits only for your command." The Centaur gave not even a single flicker of emotion in his eyes.

"Thank you, Oreius, but I shall not be the first to call the on battle. I will not bear that on my shoulders." Judas would be the one to hold that blood on his hands.

"It is not too late to give in to my requests!" Shouted a fully armored Tisroc from his place at the front of his ranks.

Peter's blood boiled. "I would be a fool not to let Narnia take her stand against Calormen! We will fight to our very last before we give in to the likes of you!"

"So be it, then!"

Judas turned to face his army and raised his sword - a much wiser choice of weapon compared to the scimitar the Calormenes so liked to use - the Calormene army raised their voices in one big cry of battle. Judas pointed his sword back toward Peter; his army surged toward the Narnians, and the Tisroc was buried behind his ranks.

Peter took a deep breath in, then exhaled it. His army would follow him to any end. They would fight. They would win. All would be put right.

All would be put right.

The High King let the noise around him filter back in. His blue eyes fixed on the enemy troops. He began his charge forward.

Peter didn't know which beat faster: The thump of his horse's hooves on the ground or his own racing heart. It didn't matter, though. The whole world seemed to slow down as Peter shouted at the top of his lungs, "For Narnia! And for Aslan!"