Author's Note: *waves to loyal readers* Here's another chapter for you...with a couple of sneaky twists! I hope you enjoy! This chapter wasn't difficult to write, really, but some of the logistics of trying to explain Peter's duel were a little tricky, so I hope that my descriptions are vivid enough that you can imagine what's going on - I deviated from the movie-duel slightly, and tried to work in some elements from the book as well. Don't forget to leave me a review if you enjoyed this chapter - thanks to all of you, this story has reached 117 reviews! I am so shocked by that! Oh, and I am not a medical professional. I have no idea if my description of how to set a dislocated shoulder is correct. I've never had a broken bone or dislocated joint in my life...so...don't flame me?
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Battle Rages
Somewhere in the woods…
Lucy glanced behind her, but didn't see anyone pursuing her. She hoped that Aislynn's wild strategy had been enough to give her time to escape, but also to give her time to find Aslan. Aslan would not allow Aislynn to be captured, after all – he couldn't allow the only living heir of his High King to be killed.
Aslan, protect Aislynn. Do not let her be hurt, Lucy prayed as she urged Destrier on. She couldn't believe what Aislynn had done, sacrificing herself to buy Lucy time. As Queen, Lucy had seen many of her people offer their lives in defense of their country and their monarchs. It was always painful to know that the Narnians loved Aslan, their country, and their rulers so much that they were willing to die to protect them. After a battle, during their reign at least, Lucy and her siblings had made a point of holding a silent vigil for the fallen warriors of Narnia. It was a tradition that had begun right at the very beginning with Beruna.
Lucy glanced away from the small bonfire that was about five feet away from where she stood with her siblings and stared around at the Narnians who were assembled on the beach below Cair Paravel. Other small fires burned along the beach and the Narnians were all silent, waiting for the first light of dawn. They had been out here all night, waiting in silence.
In the immediate wake of the battle with the Witch at Beruna, the Narnians' joy had been intense and powerful. For over a hundred years they had been tyrannized. Entire generations of the Narnians had known nothing but the cold, never-ending winter. Now they were seeing flowers, grass, and sunshine. Their joy was understandable and contagious. Even more, their prophesized Kings and Queens had arrived and led them to victory, claiming the thrones that had been empty for almost two hundred years.
After the coronation, however, although the joy was still there, the Narnians' grief over those who had died in the battle had set in. Aslan and Lucy had saved many from being stone or from injuries sustained in the fight, but they couldn't save all of them. As far as Lucy knew, there was no one who had fought in the battle who hadn't lost a friend or a family member.
It had been Susan who had suggested an all-night vigil to honor those who had fallen in the battle, and those who had fought for so many years against the Witch, even if it had been fruitless. The Narnians had been very responsive to the idea and so they had gathered on the beach, looking out across the ocean to where the sun would soon be rising.
Just before sunset they had assembled, they had drunk toasts to honor the fallen warriors, and then they had lit candles and bonfires while they waited through the night. Lucy had waited with her siblings, and just like they were, she was dressed all in black. The stars overhead formed constellations that she had never seen before, and all through the silent vigil she had watched them dance through the sky.
A low crooning filled the air, starting suddenly. Lucy felt Peter reach out and take her hand, squeezing it gently, and she returned the squeeze. She glanced around and noticed that the Narnians had opened their mouths, and many had their heads raised slightly. The bonfires cast enough light that she could see their throats vibrating as they sang. There were no words, just long notes that echoed and reverberated through the still air.
The sun began to show itself over the horizon, and the crooning melody coming from the Narnians was joined by the verses of the merfolk, who rose from the waves to greet the sun each morning. Their haunting voices blended with the various tones sung by the Narnians, causing a shiver to run down Lucy's spine. Despite that, however, it wasn't a sad melody, but a joyful one. Lucy glanced back at her siblings and could see they were feeling the same. Peter's blue eyes held a passionate, fierce gaze. Susan had tears running down her cheeks and Edmund looked distantly thoughtful as he watched the sun continue to rise.
Lucy had later learned from Oreius that the wordless song was an echo of the one that had been sung by Aslan when he sang Narnian into being a thousand years before their time. It was part of every Narnian's culture, sung in honor of the life that the Lion had breathed into them on that first dawn, remembered by all and shared with each generation. Like the silent vigil, the song had become a part of the ceremony to honor those who died in any battle fought for Narnia.
If the Narnians won this war, Lucy knew there would be another vigil for those who died fighting the Telmarines. Would Aslan's song of life be sung for Aislynn too? Would she now have to go to Peter and tell him that his daughter would be among the heroes for whom they were showing such respect and honor?
No! No, I will not! Aislynn will be fine!
Although she'd only known Aislynn for a few days, Lucy had already come to love her. She was family, of course, and Lucy cared deeply for her entire family – well, Aunt Alberta, Uncle Harold, and Cousin Eustace might be an exception to that – but it was more than that. There was just something about Aislynn that charmed everyone who met her. Lucy had watched her assisting the Narnians in the preparations, and as much as she was willing to help them, they were equally willing to assist her, oftentimes without her needing to ask. She simply couldn't imagine not knowing her niece any longer. And if Aislynn was killed, Peter would be devastated. Lucy had never forgotten how heartbroken her brother had been by the miscarriage of his first child – but to lose Aislynn after missing out on her entire life would be even worse for him, she suspected.
Shouts from behind her were enough to tell her that at least one of the Telmarines was still chasing her. She gave Destrier all the rein she could manage without dropping them completely. "Come on, Destrier! You can do it!"
The stallion was soaked with sweat that showed up as foamy patches on his dark coat like cresting ocean waves, his breath was heavy and labored from the exertion, and he was quite obviously tiring. For all of his strength and stamina, this wild run was taxing him to his utmost – and they were still far from the gorge and the Lawn. But he seemed to understand the urgency and the desperation in her voice, even though he was not a Talking Horse.
Destrier's ears flicked back, his neck stretched forward, accepting the extra rein, and miraculously his strides lengthened further as he drove himself forward. If she could say nothing else about Caspian's prized stallion, he had heart and would obviously run until he collapsed if his rider asked it of him.
A whistling noise cut the air behind her, and a moment later a crossbow bolt slammed into a tree beside her, just as Destrier raced past it. Lucy choked back the urge to scream, not wanting to alert any other patrols that might be in the woods thus rendering Aislynn's sacrifice moot, and bent as low as she could to make herself a smaller target. But her mind was screaming when her voice was not. Aslan! Help me!
Aslan's How…
Clang…clang…clang…
Edmund watched his brother closely as the duel continued. Peter was moving systematically now, rather than being impulsive and using every trick and technique he knew. His movements were still fluid, despite the rhythmic back and forth interplay between the combatants. It almost seemed as if Peter was trying to turn the fight into an endurance trial, rather than end it quickly as Edmund knew his brother was more than capable of doing.
As a strategy, it was a double-edge sword. Miraz was older and heavier than Peter, and the weight of his armor and the exertion of the fight might cause him to tire first, leaving an opening for Peter to finish the fight. On the flip side, Peter might tire first, and if Miraz continued to throw his weight around, there was a chance that Peter would be seriously hurt since he couldn't match Miraz for pure strength the way he would have been able to had he been his older self still. If Peter took too many of those blows with all of Miraz's weight behind them, he would lose.
Clang…clang…clang…
Suddenly, Peter shifted his stance as he caught the edge of Miraz's sword with the flat of Rhindon. Edmund wasn't sure what had changed, but Peter unexpectedly went on the offensive, his strikes becoming more aggressive and precise, and less methodical than they had been only seconds ago. Of course, Edmund wasn't about to object – Peter had always been an aggressive fighter, having taken Oreius' words about being the attacker whenever possible to heart. Going on the attack would force Miraz to defend, and would limit the number of attacks that Miraz could throw at him, which would decrease the chances of Peter getting hit.
He watched as Peter ducked to the side to avoid a parried riposte from Miraz, pivoting on the balls of his feet in order to bring himself around behind Miraz in one smooth motion. Before the usurper could react, he lashed out with Rhindon and landed a slash across Miraz's shoulders. The angle at which Edmund was standing gave him a perfect view of the strike as Rhindon's keen edge sliced through the back of the leather hauberk Miraz was wearing. Unfortunately since Miraz was still moving forward to compensate from the missed blow he'd sent at Peter, Rhindon only grazed the leather and didn't bite deeply enough to draw blood. The impact, however, made Miraz cry out, frustrated.
The Narnians' cries redoubled in strength at that blow, and even Edmund couldn't help but cheer his brother on. He had been biting his lips as hard as he could up until this point to avoid calling out and distracting Peter, but that was a wonderful attack, and he had to call out in support this time. "Go Peter! Follow it up, quick!"
Miraz stumbled forward further, pushed slightly off-balance by Rhindon's impact on his back, and Peter pursued him doggedly. Now was the time to land the winning blow and end this combat before the High King tired too much. Peter tried another slash while Miraz's back was turned towards him, but somehow Miraz managed to spin and bring his shield up so that Rhindon glanced harmlessly off the wood and metal.
"Press him, Pete! Don't let up!" Edmund cried. "Keep him on the hop!"
It appeared that Peter intended to do exactly that, for he continued to push forward, swinging Rhindon with strength and precision. Miraz had recovered however, and was again using his height and longer reach to try to reclaim the advantage. For every attack made by Peter, Miraz was there to counter it, and occasionally push back. Several times he made Peter take a step back in order to rebalance himself after a countered attack. Edmund was beginning to get extremely nervous, and only became more so each time Peter was forced to make one of those little half-steps. His nerves were vibrating like harp strings, he was so tense, and for good reason.
Everyone, Centaur-trained as Peter was or not, had a weakness when it came to sword work, and Edmund was praying with a intensity that he hadn't felt in a long time that Miraz would not realize what Peter's was and exploit it. Although Peter was a gifted swordsman, and Rhindon was often an extension of his arm, he had one weakness that Edmund had often taken advantage of during their sparring matches. When Peter raised his shield to block an overhead strike, his stance shifted just enough that a powerful enough blow could cause him to overbalance and drop his guard long enough for a strike to impact his side or chest.
Fortunately, Oreius had quickly identified that weakness and taken pains to correct it with exercises and training drills that forced Peter to accept it and work past it and not allow it to interfere with his mastery of the sword. Over the years of their rule, it had all but disappeared as Peter's arm strength, balance, and stamina improved. But now Peter was back to his younger, less developed self, and Edmund was worried that Peter's old weakness would rear its ugly head again.
Unexpectedly, the combatants broke apart, both of them breathing heavily. The combat had been fierce up to this point, but Peter was holding his own against his taller, heavier, stronger opponent. However, as of yet there hadn't been a decisive blow landed on either side of the conflict. Nevertheless, Edmund was proud of his brother's showing. Miraz had come into this fight expecting to make an easy showing of it and eliminate Peter quickly, thus securing the Narnians' surrender and the throne forever. But Peter had proven to be more skilled than Miraz had expected, and Edmund had a suspicion that Miraz was rattled and uncertain if he could win the duel. And that brought some comfort to Edmund…if Miraz was rattled he would be easily distracted and might make a mistake.
Almost as soon as Edmund finished that thought, Miraz suddenly charged the High King, thrusting his blade with a cry at Peter's leg, and inadvertently giving Peter an opening. Peter brought his shield up in a sweeping motion, batting away Miraz's sword and forcing his arm to the outside of his body. Then, with a clear opening, he made a stab of his own.
The attack was swift. Because of where Edmund was standing (Peter was partially blocking his view) it appeared that Rhindon's tip had sunk into Miraz's arm, but he knew the usurper's mail would have prevented that. But then Peter shifted his stance and yanked Rhindon free, as Miraz yelled again and groped at his side, below the shoulder, and he realized that Peter had found the opening in the mail hauberk where there was no mail so the arm could slide through.
As Rhindon's tip emerged into the light, Edmund spotted a red gleam on the first two inches of the steel.
"First blood!" Caspian cried, apparently seeing the same thing from his more elevated position on his horse's back. "First blood to High King Peter!"
The Narnian cheers, howls, whistles, and roars were redoubled as the Prince's cry was picked up and passed along the Narnian lines. Although it was not a grievous or lethal wound, it would slow Miraz down as the duel progressed and it brought Peter that much closer to victory. That of course, was good news for the Narnians.
Although he couldn't see Miraz's face through his helm, Edmund could read the usurper's stance. Miraz was panting, both from pain and anger. Blood was trickling slowly down the front and side of his armor. If the duel progressed long enough, Miraz would probably end up feeling light-headed or dizzy from the blood loss when combined with the exertion of the fight. Edmund knew that Miraz would take the wound as a grievous insult to his dignity, especially considering his confidence coming into the fight. It was going to get ugly from this point onward.
As if to prove that thought, Miraz suddenly threw himself at Peter, forcing the High King back as Peter brought his shield up to guard. Apparently, Miraz was using the pain to fuel his rage and his aggressiveness.
Aslan, where are you? Please, hurry. Your High King fights in your name and he needs you now.
Elsewhere…
Sound was the first thing that she registered – the clanking of metal on metal, the sound of leather and chains rattling in the wind, and distant voices, too far away for her to clearly make out what was being said, but voices nonetheless. Immediately following that was smell – leather, sweat, the sweet perfume of flowers.
What had happened?
Aislynn's eyelids felt heavy as she slowly pried them open. The light, although dim, was enough to make her close them quickly again. Her hands felt numb, and dull pain raced through her head, arms, and legs. Her arms felt like they were twisted under her in a most unusual fashion. She opened her eyes again, slower this time, and tried to raise a hand to shield them, only to be stopped by a tug on her wrist.
Shaking her head to clear it, she winced at the lance of pain that went through her temples. As her vision adjusted to the dim light, she took stock of where she was.
She appeared to be in a makeshift tent, and through the open flap she could see Telmarine soldiers milling around. She suddenly remembered what had happened – riding with Lucy to find Aslan, trying to trick the patrol that had pursued them, attacking the soldiers to buy Lucy time to escape, and then nothing.
She tried again to move her arms, but couldn't. Twisting her head, she realized that her arms had been tied behind her back, and tethered both to her ankles and to a wooden post that had been driven deeply into the earth. The angle was awkward, and that was the reason for the throbbing pain in her arms and legs. The bindings were so tight that some of the circulation to her hands had been cut off, although it wasn't serious to cause permanent damage.
She hoped.
Aislynn shifted as much as her bindings allowed, trying to relieve some of the pain in her arms and legs, but found that it was useless. They had placed her lying on her side, and after quite a bit of squirming, she managed to lever herself up into a sitting position, awkwardly leaning against the post her arms were tied to.
Her movements attracted the attention of one of the Telmarine soldiers outside. He looked in at her, then turned and headed across the camp, disappearing among the other soldiers. Aislynn watched him until he mingled with the other soldiers. She was a prisoner, and now that she was awake, she knew what would come next. They would try to interrogate her, in order to find out what she knew of the Narnians' strategy.
Aislynn couldn't help but wonder if her choice had been worth it. Had Queen Lucy found Aslan yet? Was her father still in combat with Miraz, or was the duel over? She didn't think it could be, since the soldiers outside were far too calm…unless of course, this was just a smaller scout encampment and not the main bulk of the Telmarine army. But ultimately, she knew it had been worth it. Someone had to find Aslan, and Lucy had been the better choice. If Narnia's freedom meant sacrificing her own life, Aislynn wouldn't hesitate.
She was surprised at that thought, however. Up until a few days ago, she had believed that she was from Archenland. She'd had no idea that she was Narnian, yet in just the space of a few days, the Narnians had become her people. Aislynn knew that she had now become invested in the survival and welfare of the Narnians – not just for her mother's and father's sake, but for her own. She genuinely cared about the Narnians. After all, she was their Princess and future Queen. It was not only her responsibility to worry about the Narnians and to care about them, but her privilege.
Footsteps approaching caught her attention and she looked up in time to see a Telmarine approaching her. He was tall, and wearing very fine armor that looked as if it had never been used before. Aislynn immediately recognized the type – it was parade armor, meant to show status and command, without appearing tarnished and well-used the way real armor did after any number of battles. Cor and Corin both had sets that they wore on very formal occasions, although they did of course also have real armor that they wore when they were called out to the battlefield.
Like most of the Telmarines, this man – or perhaps more fitting to say lord, since only a lord could afford such a fine set of parade armor – had dark hair and eyes, and a deeply tanned complexion. Aislynn estimated his age to be in his late forties or early fifties. He was not portly, nor excessively slender, but he did exude an air of wealth and power, confirming Aislynn's theory that he was a Lord, mostly likely the one whose troops these were. The only way that Miraz could have had this many troops was if every Lord who had a compliment of the Telmarine army assigned to him had brought their troops together – but no Lord would give over field command of their troops. It was another status symbol. The Lords would be the first to run if their lives were threatened, but in the meantime they would bark orders and satisfy their own pride by being "in command".
"So…you're awake," the Lord said, staring down at her coldly. His voice was even, but there was a hint of a scornful sneer in it as well.
Aislynn had lived too long in Cor's Court to allow a Lord to intimidate her. She was a Princess of Narnia – but she was also a Lady of rank in Cor's highly political Court. She raised her chin to meet his gaze squarely, despite the fact that he was looming over her, instead of lowering it as he no doubt expected. "Obviously."
His gaze narrowed at her. "You will address me with the proper respect, woman."
"I am not one of your subjects to command," she replied.
His hand moved faster than she could prepare for it, backhanding her sharply enough to split her lip and tear a gash in her cheek as the elaborate rings he wore connected with her face. "Your life is in my hands, wench. With one word, I could take that life, and no one would question me."
Because of her bindings, Aislynn couldn't move to wipe the blood from her lip. She longed to spit it at his feet, but her mother had raised her to be a proper lady, and Krisalyn would be horrified if she ever found out that Aislynn had done such a thing. Instead, she awkwardly licked the blood from the corner of her lip, gagging slightly at the coppery taste. "I highly doubt that. I know for a fact that you are not the usurper Miraz, and I don't believe that you have that much power that Miraz would simply accept what you told him."
"You would be surprised, then, woman," he sneered. "Now, you will tell me who you are, what you were doing in the woods, and where your companion went when you sent her away."
Aislynn was relieved to hear that Lucy had apparently made it through safely. If she hadn't, this man wouldn't be looking for information about where she was going. But she had no intention of answering his questions.
"I have no idea what you are talking about," she replied coldly.
He seized her face in one large hand and squeezed it tightly, his nails digging into her torn cheek. "I know that you are lying, bitch. Tell me!" He released her, shoving her back so that her head banged on the wooden post that she was tied to.
The fear she had felt for Lucy suddenly returned, only this time it was aimed at herself. This had definitely not been part of her plan. She had expected that either they would kill her, or she would succeed in killing them, stealing a horse, and catching up to Lucy. She had no idea what she should do or say, other than not telling him anything that he wanted to know.
Improvise! she told herself. It's just like being at Court and making inane small talk with the other courtiers. I can dissemble with the best of them!
Something that Oreius had told her once, a long time ago when she was just beginning her training struck her. The tall Centaur had been trying to prove to her that taking the offensive was not only a valid tactic in a fight, but also served a purpose in a diplomatic situation.
"Never allow your opponent the upper hand, or they'll take it and run away with it, and you'll be left floundering. If someone attacks you, physically or verbally, regain the advantage immediately."
"But how? I mean, I can see how you could turn a physical attack back on your attacker, but now does it work with words?" Aislynn asked, looking at her teacher.
"If someone attacks you, turn it back on them the same way. Make them look foolish and shamed, and force them to prove their accusations, whatever it may be. If it is merely jealousy or spite that is provoking the attack, they won't be able to back up their claim and they'll end up looking ridiculous. Watch your mother when you're at Court with her," Oreius replied. "Your mother is a master of dissembling. She's respected because she never backs down – she forces people to give her respect by never giving in to their insults and attacks."
Oreius had been right. Aislynn had spent a great deal of time watching her mother closely over the next few years, and as it turned out, the Centaur had been absolutely right. Her mother was a master of diplomatic small talk and the banal courtesies that were required in a Court like Cor's. She never raised her voice, but she knew exactly what level of inflection to put into each word to get her point across subtly and politely. Aislynn had never been able to understand where her mother had learned it, since she'd always thought that her mother had been raised on a farm near the Narnian border, until she had married Aislynn's father. Of course, now that she knew that her mother had been born and raised a Princess, trained to rule and dissemble, and had then become a Queen of Narnia…well, it made more sense.
Now it was time to see if she could imitate her mother well enough to survive this interrogation.
Aislynn raised her head, imperiously. "I am Lady Aislynn of Archenland, a member of King Cor's Court at Anvard. You will sorely regret treating me in this fashion, Telmarine dog. I will tell you nothing further."
"You will, or you will die," he leaned closer to her, his dark eyes boring into her. "You may be nobly born, or you may be a commoner off the street – it doesn't matter. What you are is a prisoner of war, a spy for the Narnian beasts and captured for killing my men."
"My King will have something to say about this outrage. I am not a spy, I am an ambassador for King Cor, and by holding me you are declaring war on Archenland. My Lord will not allow this act to go unanswered," she replied coldly. "It was your men who threatened and attacked me first."
Another backhanded slap tore her cheek open further, as well as cutting into the skin above her right eye, sending blood down into her vision. "Silence, traitor!" He loomed over her further. "You will answer my questions."
Aislynn tried to blink her vision clear, but the cut was apparently bleeding quite freely. "I am not a traitor. My allegiance has never been with the Telmarines, thus I cannot betray them," she replied, keeping her voice cold, even though she wanted nothing more than to slap that sneer off his face. "You may as well give up, for I will not tell you anything. I would rather die than try to save my life by giving information to a worm like you, my Lord."
The Telmarine glared at her again, but he apparently saw the resolve in her face. "You will regret your decision. When King Miraz has finished exterminating the Narnian beasts, you'll be taken to him. Perhaps he'll be merciful." He turned and headed for the tent flap, leaving Aislynn kneeling on the ground. Just before he exited the tent, he glanced back over his shoulder. "But I would not count on it." Then he was gone.
Aislynn glared after him until she was sure he was gone, before she lowered her head and tipped it to the side, pressing her torn up cheek against the shoulder of her dress. She hissed at the pain as the coarse fabric rubbed against the cut, but she had to stop the bleeding, so she continued to press her shoulder into the cut.
Aslan, my life is yours. If I am to die today, welcome me to your country, she thought, blinking back tears at the thought. She trusted the great Lion, and knew that whatever happened, he would be there for her. But there was still so much that she had wanted to do with her life – marry, raise a family of her own, assume the Narnian throne now that she knew she was their Princess, and help to restore Narnia to another Golden Age like the one her father and the rest of her family had reigned in.
Aslan…I don't want to die. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks, the saltiness stinging the cut on her cheek and her split lip. Please Aslan…save me.
Aslan's How…
Caspian was in awe. He had always believed himself to be a skilled swordsman – he had been trained by General Glozelle, after all, and the General was the best sword master in the Telmarine army – even though he had never fought in a pitched battle.
But High King Peter was so far beyond anything that Caspian had seen before. His every move was powerful and precise – each move flowed into the next. He could change direction nimbly, with no warning, or turn a defensive block into an offensive strike with ease, and still stand and simply send strikes in a pattern, taking it turn and turn again in the fight. Caspian knew that he could train for years and he wouldn't even come close to matching the High King's prowess with the sword. Truly, King Peter had been the best choice to fight his uncle. General Oreius had been right when he had said that the High King was the most accomplished fighter with the single sword.
When King Peter had drawn first blood, he had angered Miraz even more than the usurper had already been. Now Miraz was throwing himself at Peter, outrage in every strike and line. But Peter was standing firm, not allowing Miraz to rattle or intimidate him. Miraz might outweigh and outreach the High King, but it didn't matter, because King Peter was quite obviously the better trained of the two of them. At the moment, King Peter was losing his lighter weight and smaller frame to his advantage, dancing around Miraz, forcing the usurper to pursue him, thus forcing Miraz to expend more energy. The armor that the High King was wearing wasn't hampering his agility at all, and it was obviously beginning to frustrate Miraz.
Miraz suddenly swung at Peter's head, apparently aiming to separate it from the King's shoulders. Peter ducked just in time and the steel blade whistled through the air where his head had been. Just as Peter straightened, however, Miraz used the momentum he'd built up and came back with his shield in a vicious back-handed shield strike to Peter's face. This time the shield caught the edge of Peter's helm and tore it free to clatter on the ground and roll towards where Glenstorm was standing.
With the High King's face now visible, Caspian thought he saw a momentary look of panic as Miraz's sword came around a second time, again aiming for the High King's neck. Peter ducked again and actually stepped forward, even as his mail cowl fell back to rest against his neck, forcing Miraz to overcompensate for the missed attack. Before Miraz could adjust, Peter made a cut of his own and connected with Miraz's thigh, just above the knee where Miraz's mail had ridden up, leaving only the leggings to protect him. But the cloth was no match for Rhindon's keen edge and the blade left a deep, bloody gash in its wake. It seemed, at least to Caspian, that since King Peter had scored first blood, he was determined to keep it up and chip away at Miraz, taking him out piece by piece if necessary.
Miraz roared in pain at this newest injury. He faced Peter squarely as Peter backed off slightly and gained higher ground by stepping up onto a piece of the tumbled down wall. The two fighters stared each other down, each waiting for the other to make the next move.
Caspian frowned as he thought he saw his uncle glance towards where Glozelle and Sopespian stood, but it was hard to tell because of his uncle's face plate. He glanced over at the other two Telmarines himself. He had noticed that Glozelle was carrying a crossbow, but hadn't thought anything of it, since Sopespian had a sword. The Marshalls were required to be armed, in order to defend their fighter from any assassination attempts from the other side. Glenstorm had his swords, the Bear had his teeth and claws, and Edmund was armed with his twin swords.
Whatever was going on, Glozelle did nothing but stand there, his hands loose on the crossbow, and his finger not even close to the trigger. Sopespian just watched with mild disinterest. Caspian turned his attention back to the fight, as his uncle sliced at Peter's legs in retaliation. Peter dodged by pushing off the stone he was standing on, and literally somersaulting over the blade, landing on his back and sliding slightly, before he rolled to his hands and knees and regained his feet, in one fluid motion.
Despite the fact that he was limping, Miraz closed with Peter again, exchanged a few blows, and then kicked out and tripped Peter, knocking him onto his back. This time the High King's armor hindered him, as the weight of it overbalanced him and causing him to land with his arms spread out to his sides.
Move, Your Majesty! Caspian thought desperately, even as his uncle closed in on the suddenly vulnerable High King.
Peter was trying to gather himself, but his armor and shield were weighing him down just enough to throw off his center of balance, and the awkward position he had landed in wasn't helping. Normally he would have been able to compensate for the extra weight, but the duel had gone on too long. He was tiring, and he was also struggling with his own stamina (or lack thereof).
Miraz was on top of him. Peter tightened his grip on Rhindon; prepared to use the blade to block the blow he knew was coming. His timing would have to be precise, or he would be dead. There were no second chances in a duel to the death. He braced himself, waiting for the blow.
Instead of bringing his sword down, however, it was Miraz's foot that came down, landing on his shield and pressing the edge toward the stone. Because the shield was slightly curved – to allow for a sword to glance off more easily – Peter's arm was torqued in a manner that nature and human physiology did not allow. A moment later, there was a sickening pop in the shoulder joint, followed by a shooting stab of pain all through Peter's shoulder and arm.
"Aaah!" Peter screamed. He couldn't help it. The pain was intense, despite the fact that it was not unfamiliar. He'd dislocated his shoulder more than once during his reign. Any number of battles, training sessions, and even accidents caused by the weather or other unexpected variables could lead to injuries, after all.
Miraz's dark eyes were gleaming with satisfaction at finally getting Peter to cry out. He raised his sword, prepared to strike Peter down while he had him pinned. Desperately, Peter yanked his shield arm towards his body, ignoring the shooting pain that ran through his shoulder at the movement. Miraz's balance was already off because of the slight curve of the shield, and as Peter freed his arm, it threw the usurper's balance off even more. Hugging his arm close to his chest, Peter rolled away frantically, trying to get enough distance from Miraz so he could get to his feet.
However, now that he had Peter in a vulnerable position, Miraz was not about to let him escape. He limped after Peter, blood now running from his leg and his underarm. His sword was held in a ready position, and the sunlight glinted off the edge of the blade, a severe and dangerous threat if Peter couldn't manage to get up. There was only so long he could avoid Miraz while he was on the ground and Miraz on his feet. Peter continued to roll, choking back a scream each time his shoulder impacted the ground. He knew that he couldn't keep this up for long, his shoulder wouldn't tolerate the continued abuse, and the weight of his armor wasn't helping. Dwarf-made it might be, and extremely light considering how strong it was, but it was still metal and still had some weight to it. Finally, he made a desperate gamble, and rolled toward Miraz, impacting his knees and bringing the usurper down as well.
While Miraz was down, Peter rolled one last time and managed to get to his feet, dropping into a fighting crouch, Rhindon raised. He tried to raise his shield as well, but the weight was too much for his injured shoulder, and his left arm was suddenly totally useless. Miraz still wasn't on his feet yet – his injured leg seemed to be causing him trouble.
"Get him, Peter!" Edmund's voice reached his ears. "Now's your chance!"
But Peter held back. His arm was paining him too much, and he needed a moment to rest and recoup his strength. His shield was essentially dead weight dragging his arm down. He needed time – he needed to find a way to call for a respite to get his arm reset, or he would be dead when Miraz attacked again. He could not both attack and defend with Rhindon indefinitely.
Miraz finally staggered to his feet and met Peter's gaze evenly. He saw the way that Peter couldn't hold his shield and a fierce light came into his eyes. He raised his sword and took a step forward, only to stumble as his leg buckled. He caught himself, but if it wasn't for the fact that Peter was holding back because of his arm, he could easily have been dead in that moment. Recovering his stance he eyed Peter again, saw the firm grip that Peter still had on Rhindon, and knew that injured arm or not, Peter was not about to surrender or give in easily – and with an injured leg, Peter knew that Miraz was the more vulnerable of the two of them.
"Does His Highness need a respite?" Miraz mocked Peter, even though it was obvious that Miraz needed it as much, if not more than Peter did.
Peter swallowed hard, trying to calm his heavy breaths so that he didn't sound desperate. "Five minutes?"
"Three!"
Peter watched Miraz carefully as they circled each other, heading for their own sidelines. He didn't trust Miraz not to try to stab him in the back if the opportunity presented itself. His arm was throbbing, and he hoped that Edmund could do something. If his shoulder was injured worse than a simple dislocation, Edmund might not be able to do anything for it except immobilize it – and if that was the case, Peter either would have to honorably resign – thus granting control of Narnia to Miraz – or he would have to fight with an injured shoulder, in which case he would probably die – and that would have the same effect as a surrender, at least for Narnia.
Edmund closed his eyes as he heard his brother's shoulder crack, and the scream that was torn from Peter's throat. He hated, absolutely hated hearing or seeing his brother in pain. However, he knew he couldn't close his eyes to the fact that Peter was still fighting, and with that injury, he would need Edmund's help if he could manage to get Miraz to agree to a rest. He looked up in time to see Peter tug himself free from underneath Miraz's foot and begin frantically rolling towards his own side to try to get enough distance to regain his feet. Edmund could only clench his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palm as he watched Miraz pursue Peter across the fighting arena. He knew that the constant impact of the ground on his brother's shoulder could not be helping the injury, and he marveled at Peter's restraint in not screaming every time he was forced to roll onto his shoulder.
When Peter knocked Miraz off his feet and managed to get up, he released a little breath and relaxed a bit – at least until he saw the way Peter's shield hung limply at his side. He frowned deeply. Come on, Peter…ask for a respite! It's not dishonorable, and Miraz needs one too! Fortunately, Miraz did broach the idea of a respite, and they both agreed.
As Peter cautiously edged past the limping Miraz, careful not to take his eyes off the usurper, Edmund turned and signaled to Caspian, who was still sitting nearby on his horse, waiting for instructions to start the charge. He beckoned to the Prince, silently asking him to come and help – Peter's arm would need to be looked at, and probably set. Glenstorm was too strong, and he and the Bear would be responsible for guarding their monarch until the respite was over, to keep Miraz's men from trying any assassin's tricks. Then, he cautiously stepped out and went to Peter's side, grasping the shield and lifting it enough to take some of the weight off of Peter's arm.
As the made it back to where Caspian and Glenstorm were waiting, Caspian took Rhindon from Peter and sheathed the blade. Edmund began fumbling with the straps that allowed Peter to carry the shield on his arm, looking for the buckles to release them. Usually Peter just slid his arm in and out of the straps – the leather was soft and well-used and his arm usually slid freely. But with Peter's shoulder injured, Edmund was not about to yank the shield free and jar Peter's shoulder further. The Narnians had fallen silent, no doubt worried about the High King after hearing his scream earlier.
Edmund was worried about his brother too. Peter's face was stark white from the pain, with the exception of two red blotches on his cheeks that were a result of the exertion he'd been through. "Peter, is it your arm or your shoulder?" He wanted to be sure where the problem was before he started trying to help his brother, not wanting to make the injury worse.
"Shoulder, I think," Peter ground out through gritted teeth. "Lucy and Aislynn?"
"No sign of them, yet," Caspian said quietly.
"They –" Peter broke off, gasping, as Edmund finally freed the shield and leaned it up against the stone. "They should have been back by now."
"They'll make it, Peter," Edmund soothed. He glanced back at their army. "Keep smiling, Pete, the Narnians know something's wrong."
Peter turned to face their lines and raised his uninjured arm above his head in a sign of victory, waving at the Narnians. He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace as his injured shoulder was jarred again. Either way, it worked, because the Narnians immediately burst into cheers again.
"Sit down, Peter," Edmund urged his brother. "Caspian, help me get the plate off."
Peter sank down onto the little stool as Caspian handed him a rough wooden cup filled with salted cider. The Prince turned his attention to the pauldron and rerebrace as Edmund worked on removing the couter plate and vambrace from Peter's forearm. He sipped the cider while they worked, trying not to move – although he let out a fierce hiss when the pauldron caught on his tabard and jarred his shoulder again as Caspian tried to untangle it.
"Sorry," Caspian replied quickly, pulling the pauldron free.
"S'alright," Peter hissed, clenching his other hand around the cup as hard as he could.
"Easy, Peter," Edmund said as he removed the rest of the plate armor from his brother's arm. He gently brushed past Caspian and began probing the wounded joint with his fingers.
"I think it's dislocated. I felt it pop," Peter ground out as Edmund pressed a little harder. After a moment, Edmund nodded.
"It is. We'll need to set it – but we don't have time to take off the mail," Edmund confirmed. "This is going to hurt, Peter. Do you want something for the pain?"
"Just do it," Peter replied.
Edmund looked unhappy, but nodded. He knew what Peter was thinking – pain medication would make him drowsy or disoriented, and he couldn't go back into the duel that way. "All right. Caspian, I need you to kneel in front of Peter and brace him. When I tell you, start pushing his shoulders toward me," Edmund ordered.
"What about your sister's cordial?" Caspian asked, as he took the position that Edmund had asked, gently resting his hands on Peter's chest, just below his collarbone.
Edmund shook his head. "It can't relocate a bone. It could stop the swelling and inflammation in the joint, but –"
"No, Edmund. I'm going to finish this duel with honor," Peter said as firmly as he could.
Edmund sighed, frustrated by his brother's stubbornness, but nodded. "Hold on, Peter." He moved into position behind his brother and wrapped his hands around the abused joint. He looked at Caspian – making sure to stay out of his brother's line of sight – and mouthed 'on two', before he spoke. "On three Peter. One, two…" he pushed suddenly. Caspian was ready and pressed against Peter in the opposite direction at the same moment. It took only a moment's pressure before Edmund felt the joint snap back into place with a cracking noise.
"Aaah!" Peter cried, his face going stark white. He doubled over, and Caspian caught him, preventing him from falling on his face.
"It's over, Pete; take it easy for a moment. Miraz isn't ready to fight yet, either," Edmund soothed, glancing at the usurper, who was currently having the gash on his leg bound. He took the cup out of Peter's hand and refilled it with cool water before pressing it back into Peter's grip. "Drink this, Peter."
Caspian levered the High King back into a seated position, ready to catch him again as Peter regained control of himself and some of the color came back into his face as the pain eased. The High King blinked at both of them, before Edmund's gentle insistence caught up to him and he shakily raised the cup and took a few swallows of the water.
Edmund watched as his brother's color improved, before he cautiously rotated his shoulder, testing his range of motion. He raised his arm over his head, stretched it out to the side, and made several short, sharp movements that echoed the motions he would make when using his shield. Edmund didn't see anything wrong, but Peter would be the judge. "Did we set it properly?"
Peter nodded. "It's a little stiff, and it'll be sore until the inflammation goes down, but I can use it. It's a good thing it was my shield arm and not my sword hand, though."
"What's the verdict on Miraz, Peter?" Edmund asked as he reached for Peter's plate armor again. "Do you think you can beat him?"
"He's tough. Very tough," Peter said thoughtfully, taking another swallow of water. "His wounds will slow him down, but he's a lot better than I expected. It's really going to be too close to tell." He glanced up at Edmund. "What do you think happens at home if you die here?"
"What do you think happens at home if you die here?"
Caspian watched as Edmund went as white as his brother had been a moment ago. Surely the High King wasn't being fatalistic, was he? His uncle might be good, but from everything he'd seen thus far, Peter was better. After all, Peter had wounded Miraz three times – the wrist, the underarm, and then the gash to his leg – while Miraz had only managed to dislocate Peter's shield arm.
The High King glanced up at his brother while they waited for Miraz to return to the arena. It seemed as if Miraz's men were having difficulty binding the underarm wound without removing all of his armor. But Caspian saw the way the High King's blue eyes fastened on the Just King, and there was definitely a distance – a thoughtful one, but a distance nonetheless – in them.
"You know, Ed, you've always been there for me, and I've never really said anything."
"You don't have to Pete – you're my brother," the Just King replied, his voice thick.
"I'm serious, Ed. I wouldn't have made it through these last few months without you. I owe you so much, but I may not get the chance to make it up to –"
"Save it for later," Edmund interrupted harshly.
"Ed…"
"No, Peter. Later we'll talk. Miraz is ready, get back out there and end this."
The High King held his brother's gaze for a long moment. Caspian wasn't sure what he was looking for – reassurance, perhaps? Or some sign that his brother understood what he had been trying to say? Maybe just another silent promise that he would make it through the duel and they would get that chance to say what needed to be said? Whatever it was that the High King sought, he apparently found it, because he nodded as he held out his arm, once again covered with the plate armor. The Just King slipped his brother's shield back onto his arm, before offering him Rhindon again.
Caspian spotted Peter's helm lying nearby and bent down to pick it up. He offered it to the High King, but Peter shook his head as he stepped back into the center of the ruins. Miraz, having also refused his helm, was waiting in the center for him. As Peter approached, Miraz raised his eyes and met Caspian's gaze. Caspian stared back levelly, seeing the coldness in his uncle's gaze, as well as the ambition. All his life, Caspian had seen that look every time he had looked into his uncle's eyes. His uncle had made no secret of the fact that he wanted Caspian's throne, but until recently, Caspian had always believed it was just talk, born of the fruitless desires of an ambitious man who happened to have been the younger of two princes.
Of course, he had learned the hard way just how wrong that assumption had been.
Now, however, Caspian stared his uncle down. You won't win, Uncle, he thought viciously. If you harm the High King, there is nothing that will protect you from my wrath, or save you from King Edmund, Queen Susan, or Queen Lucy. Caspian could care less about doing the honorable thing at the moment. His uncle had murdered his father – he wouldn't let him murder Narnia's noble High King to fulfill his ambitions for greater power.
Perhaps Miraz saw some of what Caspian was thinking in his eyes, because the coldness suddenly changed to confusion and wariness. He held Caspian's gaze for another several seconds before he was forced to glance away.
Peter was waiting for him, and as soon as he saw that Miraz was ready, he raised Rhindon and saluted his opponent before settling into a ready stance. It was an honorable gesture, and Caspian wondered if his uncle realized just how honorable the High King was – to show such respect for one who had essentially stolen his throne. If he did, perhaps his uncle would also realize the futility of this duel.
As the two fighters began circling each other again, Caspian shifted his gaze back to the men who were supporting his uncle. General Glozelle was watching the duel closely. He held a crossbow in his hands, but his grip on the weapon was loose and his fingers nowhere near the trigger. Caspian had never been able to understand how Glozelle had fallen in with his uncle. Everything that he had thought he had known about the General had told him that Glozelle was an honorable man. How many times had Glozelle expressed the need for honor in his lessons with Caspian? How many times had Caspian seen Glozelle dressing another soldier down for doing something dishonorable or being disobedient? What hold did Miraz have over Glozelle? Was Glozelle only helping him because he felt that it was his duty? Or was there something more to it that Caspian had never known about?
Glozelle met Caspian's gaze, and unlike Miraz, his gaze was not cold, or ambitious. Instead they appeared tormented by something, as if Glozelle was torn between two different choices and didn't know what he should do. And Caspian was certain, in that moment, that Glozelle was still an honorable man. Whatever was making him follow Miraz, he was not happy about it, and he was trying to find a way to salvage his honor without betraying his duty to the army and to the Lord he currently served. Caspian wished he could do something to reassure the man, but right now, Glozelle was the enemy and it was impossible.
Perhaps, when this was over, if they all survived, King Edmund would have some ideas. After all, Edmund was known as the Just, so he must understand something about justice and the law?
Caspian's gaze left Glozelle and instead settled on Lord Sopespian. A chill ran down his spine as he met the other Lord's gaze and held it. Of all of the Lords who served on the Council, he trusted Sopespian the least. The cold scheming and arrogance in those dark brown eyes said everything. If it was possible, Sopespian wanted the throne even more than Miraz did – and Caspian knew suddenly that it was the other Lord who was the real threat. Ambition was one thing, but the scheming and the calculated cruelty that he saw was something else entirely. How could his uncle have missed it?
"Caspian, what's wrong?" Edmund asked, looking at him closely all of a sudden.
"This is going to get ugly, Your Majesty," Caspian said slowly. "Whatever happens in this duel with my uncle won't matter in the long run. I just wish I'd seen it earlier. Damn!"
Edmund frowned. "How so?"
"Lord Sopespian is the real threat," Caspian said quietly. "If King Peter wins, Sopespian will take command and order the attack."
"We expected that might be the case…" Edmund began quietly, but Caspian cut him off.
"This…everything that has happened since my cousin's birth…it's all been orchestrated by Sopespian. This duel doesn't matter. If my uncle loses, Sopespian will order the attack. If my uncle wins, my uncle will order everyone killed under the terms of the agreement you negotiated with the challenge. But I'll guarantee that within a year, my uncle will be dead by Sopespian's hand."
Edmund stared across the arena at Sopespian. His dark eyes studied the Telmarine Lord closely, before they darkened further with dislike, although the rest of his face remained calm. "He's one of those who were trying to provoke Miraz into accepting Peter's challenge."
"He's the most ambitious of the Lords of the Council," Caspian explained softly. "Several years ago there were more Lords on the Council who were loyal to my father and to me since I was the rightful heir. They helped to balance the more ambitious members of the Council, including Sopespian and my uncle. They disappeared about five years ago."
Edmund's face grew more thoughtful, but Caspian couldn't even begin to guess what he was thinking.
Edmund wondered why he hadn't noticed Sopespian during the challenge negotiation. He was the Just one, the one who could usually see betrayal the easiest of his siblings. He had noticed that Sopespian was trying to subtly goad Miraz into accepting the challenge, but he hadn't looked beyond that, so focused had he been on getting Miraz to accept it.
How did I miss that? If Caspian's right, then Sopespian has been planning this for a very long time. He is the greater threat, and he's one variable that we didn't account for when we were making our plans.
"Caspian…are there any other Lords who could prove to be a threat if Miraz and Sopespian were both eliminated?" Edmund asked.
Caspian thought about it for a moment. "In the long run, possibly, but if both my uncle and Sopespian were removed at the same time, they would probably immediately begin fighting among themselves for power. I suppose – although it would be a little unorthodox – my Aunt might assume power, but she would only do so as regent for my cousin."
"Unorthodox?" Edmund asked.
Caspian nodded. "Telmar has never had a ruling Queen, nor a female regent. Usually the highest ranking Lord of the Council is the one appointed regent."
Edmund thought about that. Our ultimate goal is to eliminate Miraz and defeat the Telmarines to free Narnia…but now we also have to make sure that Sopespian is defeated. We cannot allow him to live, or Narnia will be doomed in the long run.
Unfortunately, there was no time to send for a messenger to relay the new plan to the rest of the army and their allies. Edmund was going to have to think fast. After a moment, he had an idea. Turning to Caspian, he indicated the dagger at the Prince's waist. "May I see your dagger?"
Caspian appeared puzzled, but unsheathed the short blade and handed it to him, hilt first. "Surely you're not going to assassinate Lord Sopespian here and now?'
"Of course not," Edmund assured him, taking the blade. He glanced up at the sky, judging the angle of the sun. He was going to have to be careful not to distract Peter with this plan. His brother's life was still important after all.
He stepped back a few paces, but was careful to continue watching Peter, so as not to alert the Telmarines that something was up. He raised Caspian's dagger to shoulder height, as if he was studying it. He hoped that Susan, Corin, and Cor were paying attention to him as he allowed the light to play off the blade, continually turning it back and forth, admiring the steel.
Come on…get the message! Edmund thought, praying that his friends and family were watching. Everything could ultimately depend on this.