Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me. Oreius also does not belong to me. I do, however, wish I could play in Narnia.
Chapter Two
"I will crush you, little Horse-Man."
The Giant swung his spiked club at my head, and I reared back. One of the iron spikes raked through the hair that fell across my shoulder, but that was as near as he got before I cut his legs out from under him, stabbed him through his wattled throat and galloped into the cave he had been guarding.
It was dusk on the third day since we had found our soldiers slain and our Sovereigns taken. The big Cats and hunting Birds had found the outlaw Zeirer's trail at last and we should no doubt have waited to find out where they were keeping Queen Susan and King Edmund before making our presence known. But the sounds coming from the cave, blood curdling, hoarse, tortured screams, feminine screams, told us we could not wait.
The High King leapt off his unicorn and, Rhindon flashing in his hand, charged in after me and disappeared into the smoky dimness. Shouts of alarm and then shrieks of pain and death echoed against the rocks. This time it was we who had the larger force and the advantage of surprise, and the enemy soon lay still at our feet.
"Susan?"
I could hear the High King's voice somewhere towards the back of the cave, cracked with smoke and fear.
"Edmund? Susan? Are you here? Can you hear me?"
They might not still be here. My men had gone after some of the outlaws who had escaped into other parts of the cave, into tunnels that led who knew where. I was about to call to the High King when I heard someone clear his throat. I turned to see one of the Faun archers at my elbow.
"What is it?"
His dark eyes were wide and full of what I could only describe as horror. "You– you'd better come, General."
I followed him to the largest chamber of the cave, one that had evidently been set up as this Zeier's dining and entertainment hall. The tables that surrounded the great fire pit had been turned over in the fray, food and wine was spilled among the bodies, along with the chest that had held Queen Susan's finery. Embroidered velvets and dainty silks, satin slippers and other feminine accouterments were flung everywhere, evidently pawed over before the skirmish.
And there, sprawled across the now-empty chest, lay a graceful form in a familiar royal gown, delicate white hands now bruised and cut, slender wrists torn, long dark hair matted and tangled and slicked with blood, and the face– the face of the fairest creature in all Narnia– battered out of all recognition.
My throat tightened. I had loved the Gentle Queen as I did her brothers and sister, as if she were my own foal. And to see her now like this, oh Aslan, it could not be. It must not be. I could not–
"Susan?"
I caught a breath, hearing once more the voice of the High King, still in one of the smaller passages. Searching. Searching.
"Edmund? Susan? Has anyone seen them?"
"Keep silent," I hissed to the Faun who still grieved at my side, and then I forced my expression into hardness and turned to face Peter as he darted into the main chamber. "Do not come here, My King. It is not something you should see."
I had heard of this Zeier, that he liked his girls young and that, when he tired of them, he would throw them to his men to do with as they pleased. Evidently their pleasure ended in torture and death. Oh, my Gentle Queen.
Peter's eyes filled with tears when they saw the grief in mine, and his face, so recently aged with worry and fear, now seemed pitifully young. "Oreius?"
I put both hands on his shoulders, squeezing them more tightly than I meant to. "Please, My King. Do not look. You do not want to remember her this way."
The colt shook his head, his mouth moving but no words coming from it, and then he wrenched away from me, bolting towards the woeful sight I had tried to shield him from. He stopped before he reached her, a low, grieving cry rising from his throat. I caught him as his knees buckled and pulled him against me, holding his head against my chest, not letting him see anymore.
For a moment he clung to me, his sobs coming painfully, convulsively, and then once again he shoved me away.
"Edmund. I have to find Edmund. Edmund! Ed?"
He stumbled again into the gray dimness of the cave, and I followed after him. "My King–"
"Here! Over here, My King!"
One of the Tigers that guarded the High King loped out of the darkness, teeth gleaming in the flicker of the torchlight.
"Babur," Peter breathed. "Where?"
"This way."
The High King followed the tiger into a low-ceilinged alcove at the side of the chamber, hardly more than a hole in the rock. Little wonder we had missed it earlier.
"Hurry," the Tiger urged.
His twin, Bast, was already there, curled around a quivering, huddled heap that barely seemed human. Peter threw himself down onto the blood-soaked straw.
"Ed? Eddie?"
Edmund was gasping, gurgling, reaching desperate, stained hands to his brother as the Tigress tried to soothe him with low, nuzzling purrs. Someone had cut his throat and left him for dead.
"The cordial, Majesty."
Peter looked up at me as if the words held no meaning, and I gripped his shoulder.
"Peter, the cordial!"
At once he was scrambling for the little diamond bottle at his belt. Edmund's dark eyes were wide and pleading, and I clenched my fists, my jaw. Not the Just as well as the Gentle. Oh, Aslan, not both.
"Hold on, Ed," Peter breathed. "Just another minute."
He lifted his brother's head, his hand shaking as he brought the tiny flask to his lips. But before he could pour out even one drop, the dark eyes widened even more and then rolled back. Edmund's body convulsed and then stiffened. I caught a hard breath.
"Edmund." Peter tipped the bottle, and a single shining red drop fell against his brother's white lips. "Eddie, please. Please, please, don't go. Don't go."
He pulled Edmund up against him, his arms tightly around him, his face hidden in the mop of black hair. I bent my forelegs and knelt beside them, taking them both into my arms, lifting my face to the One who saw all.
Mercy, Aslan. Mercy on these little ones. For the dark colt and for his brother.
And the slender, still body the High King and I both held suddenly drew breath.
Author's Note: Now what do you think? Yes, I totally went there. Put down those torches and pitchforks. More to come. If you have any guesses about where I might take this story, please send me a PRIVATE message. That way if you're right, I can congratulate you at the end of the story. :)