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Chapter 11

Our army bustles about the camp, finishing all the last-minute preparations for battle. As I mount my horse (all the while hoping I don't fall off today) my eyes find Edmund. He stands by his own mount, his shoulders hunched over, his back stiff, and his eyes fixed on the ground as if he's searching for something immensely important there.

I slide off my horse – honestly glad for the excuse to – skirt around the overly large animal, and stride over to him. "Edmund?"

He looks up... and there are tears in his dark eyes. I reach out to put a hand on his shoulder, but at the last second, I drop it, letting my fingers fall against my leg. "Is... is something wrong?"

He sniffs, and we both know the answer; the real question is whether or not he'll tell me the truth. "I've... I've been wondering," Edmund begins, "why would Aslan do that? Go straight to the Witch and allow her to kill Him? Just when we're on the verge of battle, too? It doesn't make any sense.

"And then I realized: he did it for me." Edmund's voice breaks, and I swallow back the awful sadness as last night flashes across my mind. "She wanted my life, and He traded His." The young king looks down at his hands. "Aslantraded His life for mine. I'm not worth that, Zaylie. I'm not."

My fingers stop kneading the fabric of my leggings, and this time, I do reach out for him, gripping his shoulder in a firm and – I hope – comforting hold. "Aslan believed you are. He loved you, Edmund. He willingly laid down His life for yours. Don't waste His gift by feeling guilty. Live and fight in His name."

Whoa. Where the heck did that come from? A strange feeling washes over me, like what I felt during the visions, but less painful. In the corner of my eye, I think I see a flash of a golden mane, but I tell myself it's just a trick of the light.

Edmund smiles through his leftover tears, then reaches over and hugs me real quick. "Thank you, Zaylie."

I smile, stepping back. "Anytime."

"All right, everyone!" Peter calls, swinging up on his horse - which is actually a unicorn. "In formation!"

I rush over to my own mount and climb on without too much of a struggle. Glancing over at Edmund, I wave to him. "See you on the other side."

He laughs. "You, too."

I can't believe it. I absolutely, positively, cannot believe it. But here we are. Out on the battlefield.

I'm hidden in the crags on the mountainside – the archer's section – with Edmund and several centaurs. Down below, I see Peter, Oreius, and the rest of the army spread over the poisonous-green grass, standing between the rolling hillocks and rocky ridges jutting out of the terrain. I swallow thickly. This is it.

A griffin flies low over the field, screeching to our army, readying us for the fight. Finally, he settles by Peter, and we all sit in anxious silence, waiting for the White Witch and her cronies to approach.

They do not disappoint.

Coming over the far grassy knoll, a huge, black minotaur – their general – roars and thrusts his arm out, encouraging his men to advance. Just behind him, the Witch drives forward in a chariot drawn by... polar bears? Yup, definitely polar bears. Maybe they'll keel over and die in the sweltering heat, crushing her beneath their thousand-pound bodies.

Stranger things have happened.

As she pauses at the crest of the hill, I see something golden glinting on the Witch's neck, and my throat tightens when I realize what it is: Aslan's mane. My hands grip my bow and arrows, wrapping around the wood like mini boa constrictors. She will pay for that act of disrespect.

Peter draws his sword, raises it high, and the trumpet sounds. Every Narnian draws his or her weapon, lifts it likewise, and cheers along with the trumpets' death blare.

Death to the Witch and her crew.

And then they advances on us, all manner of ugly, terrifying monsters running straight for our army. Even though I'm up on the cliff, far out of their range, my heart races – thump, thump, thump – against my ribcage, anxious for my friends below.

Still, Peter doesn't give the command to attack. We all stand stock-still, waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for the Griffins.

A whole flock of them flies over, shrieking at the top of their lungs, dropping ginormous boulders on the enemy's heads. A ton of the Witch's men collapse on the ground, crushed under the stony weight, dead before they know what happened to them.

I smirk. Maybe this battle will be easier than I thought. I glance over at Edmund, hoping he'll smile or something to give his opinion, but his eyes don't meet mine.

Once a quarter of the Witch's men have died by rock-smashing, they finally get smart and their archers start shooting at our lionbirds. Most of the arrows find their targets, and more than half of the griffins are hit, plunge to the ground – and die.

My smile disappears and my fingers twitch; I want to do my part, but I don't dare. That isn't part of the plan – not yet. We all knew some of the griffins would have to... to sacrifice their lives. Peter made sure we understood as we went over the battle strategy.

I sniff, willing myself not to cry. There will be a lot more death before this battle is over, and breaking down now won't help anyone.

As the griffins disperse, my eyes drop to Peter, and I see him and Oreius exchange a few words. Then Peter turns away, facing forward again, and he raises his sword, shouting, "For Narnia and for Aslan!" His unicorn rears, kicking its pure-white hooves into the sky, and then the army is off. Our troops ride out in epic formation, galloping forward to face the Witch. Edmund and I watch from the rocks, silent, still waiting for out turn.

It seems all sound stops in the seconds before the armies collide. Silence, like your life flashing before your eyes when you die.

Then horses neigh, centaurs bray, minotaurs roar, and swords clash. If I had any doubt before, I can have none now: the battle has begun.

The fight goes on for several minutes, then the Witch slaps the reins on her polar bears and they come charging down from her perch on the hill. In her right hand, she holds her evil, magical spear.

My lip curls – I've never felt so much hate in my life and it kinda scares me. But before I do something stupid, I glance over at Edmund, who nods, putting phase two of the battle plan in effect. The centaur woman beside me lifts a flaming arrow, nocks it in the bow – "Fire!" Edmund calls – and she lets it go.

An explosion erupts, shaking the sky, and a black and red bird appears, streaking down towards the battlefield. Once it's about a foot from the ground, the Phoenix opens its beak, igniting a fiery line right in front of the Witch. She has to yank the reins back to keep her stupid bears from running into the flames. I hope she – and them and her entire, evil army – got burned.

Mr. Beaver punches his fist in the air. "Yes!" Edmund and I look down at him, then at each other, allowing small smiles.

Maybe-

A sound like a million shattering windows echoes across the field, and our eyes whip back down, widening in shock when we see it: the Witch has destroyed our barrier. Triumphantly, she drives through the flickering remains – a shower of ice, smoke, and tiny sparks – making a beeline for our still-shocked army.

I gulp.

This was not part of the plan.

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