Fire

Tigran sighed softly. He didn't know how long he had spent curled up on the floor, but his back had started to cramp and the pain was steadily growing unbearable. Still he didn't get up. The sun was setting on another miserable day; the grey stonework faintly glowed orange, giving the illusion that he was sat at the heart of a flame. Fire was an uncomfortable thing for Dryads, although it was necessary. He wasn't afraid of it. It was merely common sense that kept him from straying too close. He knew of its treacherous nature. It goaded you with its warmth and protection, pretended to be your friend so you would come closer and then it would bite. It would crackle playfully as it burned, delighted to have something to amuse itself with. It would burn until there was nothing left, then it too would peter out with a hiss. It wasn't fussy about choosing a playmate – fire could kill anything.

A memory suddenly occurred to him, a memory from last spring, when he had woken up from his season-long slumber and watched the trees shake the icicles from their branches. An icicle had fallen at his feet, landing in a pool of sunlight. He had been fascinated by the way it sparkled with the hues of a rainbow. He had crouched beside it, careful not to block the light with his shadow, and gingerly ran his fingers along it. It was cold, cold enough to burn, and his fingers had come away wet. He had licked them, thinking they would taste of something strange and wonderful, but it was only water. The icicle had shrunk, dwindled away in the warm sun like a sharp blade worn down to a dull stump, until Tigran had been left staring at a puddle of water.

Fire could kill anything, but ice was its mortal enemy. Ice stood no chance against fire's wrath.

Fire. That was it.

Ignoring his protesting muscles, Tigran scrambled to his feet. He stuck his head out of the alcove. The corridor was utterly deserted. He stepped out of the shadows, glancing appreciatively out of the window at the far end of the corridor at the flaring sun. Then he turned and strode briskly in the opposite direction. He prayed he hadn't left it too late, that he would still have time before he was expected in the front lines of the General's army as they marched for Cair Paravel. He had less than a day before the ritual would begin and that meant preparations would already have been made.

He allowed himself a small grin. This would be easy.

The hollow bonging of a bell made him jump. It was time for the evening meal and he would be expected to be there. The first time he had heard the bell he had laughed out loud, earning him confused glances from the General and whoever he had been talking to at the time. The thought of creatures as barbaric as these having a dinner bell for some reason struck him as hilarious and it had given him hope that perhaps dining with them wouldn't be an entirely unpleasant experience. He'd been wrong.

A niggling thought in the back of his head suddenly made itself apparent: That wasn't the dinner bell. The soldiers are being summoned. We're going to war.

He paused indecisively. If he didn't turn up in the courtyard to give orders questions would be asked and as soon as they discovered the ritual had been ruined, the finger of blame would be pointed squarely at Tigran's chest. But if he didn't do it now he might not get another chance and it would be too late. He wouldn't let seeing the disappointment in Zia's eyes be for nothing.

He continued on, his light footsteps echoing quietly behind him. The echo grew louder as he went on and suddenly he realised that it didn't match the pace of his feet. He groaned internally, searching for somewhere to hide. The only thing within reach was a tapestry. He ducked behind it as the echo turned down the corridor, flattening himself against the rough stone wall. Thankfully the tapestry was long enough to cover his feet. Harsh breathing accompanied the echo – the owner of the footsteps was definitely in a hurry – and the smell of wet fur grew strong in his nostrils. When the creature had passed, he pulled back the corner of the tapestry and peeked out. A mass of dark hair topped with horns was just disappearing around the next corner, heading in the same direction Tigran had been a moment before. He counted slowly to five, taking deep breaths to calm his jittery heart. Then he followed.

As he had suspected, he followed the bulky shape towards the hidden staircase Tezrac had shown him before. He waited out of sight while the creature lit a torch, smiling with satisfaction as it lifted a bunch of keys from its belt. The jangling metal effectively confirmed the creature's identity and Tigran's curiosity rose as the General disappeared through the door. He caught it before it could close and peered down. He could see nothing, but he heard the faint scuff of hooves on stone somewhere in the blackness. An unlit torch rested against the wall just inside the door. He picked it up, testing its weight as though it was a sword. If this went according to plan, it would serve as the weapon that defeated the White Witch for the second time.

The room below the fortress was exactly as he remembered. The statue glared at him as he stepped through the archway and he gave it a mock salute. The General crouched at his Queen's feet and Tigran could hear him muttering to himself. The air inside the room felt charged with some kind of electric power. The strange candles were unlit, though their wicks seemed capable of spontaneously bursting into life.

He approached the statue cautiously, the palm of his left hand prickling as though in warning. The General didn't turn. Tigran watched him remove the knife from his belt and lay it at the stone Witch's feet. Good, he was unarmed. The torch he had used to navigate the stairs hung in a bracket to Tigran's left. He used it to light the one in his hand, starting a little as the flames roared to life uncomfortably close to his face. They were orange and ordinary, but he remembered how the candle flames had glowed blue. They must be enchanted and Tigran was willing to bet that enchanted fire didn't rely on kindle to grow.

He glanced back at the statue. The General was staring at him. He had risen from his crouch and had drawn himself up to his full height, arms crossed over his chest like a father preparing to scold his child.

"What are you doing down here?"

"Assisting with the preparations, my lord," he replied.

The General took a step towards him. "How did you know about the ceremony?"

Tigran shrugged. "To be honest, my lord, I didn't. When did you plan to tell me about it?"

"That is not your concern."

The two had begun to circle each other. The Minotaur was still between Tigran and the statue, and Jadis' translucent face seemed to mock him. "Pity, I thought you trusted me."

"It would seem that would have been foolish. You came here to defy me."

"What gave you that idea?"

The General rolled his eyes. "I have no time for your games. If you choose to betray me you will be severely punished."

Tigran shrugged. "I shall endure my punishment safe in the knowledge that you have failed."

The room shook with the General's harsh, bellowing laughter. "And what makes you think I will fail?"

"Because good always triumphs over evil, doesn't it?" said Tigran with a wicked grin. "I have Aslan on my side and he has already defeated your Queen once."

They were now at opposite sides of the room, each equidistant from the statue. A quick glance confirmed that the General had left his knife on the floor. Tigran hoped it still contained some of the Witch's magic; if he was wrong he would die. The General was smirking at him and didn't appear to have guessed what he was planning. He had always been told that Minotaurs were clever creatures, but perhaps this one was too drunk with power to anticipate his own doom.

"Your precious Lion won't save you this time," was the scathing reply. "He hasn't been seen since those four brats took the thrones. Looks like you're all alone. You may as well give up now and retain some of your dignity to face the executioner."

The knife was only a few paces away, gleaming invitingly by the light of his torch. He let his shoulders sag in submission. "I suppose I may have been a fool," he said quietly.

"Indeed," said the Minotaur mockingly. "Did you not think I knew you would be disloyal? You Narnians are far too noble for your own good, in that you will defend your own until your last breath. You played the part of my willing servant a little too well, doing everything I asked of you without protest. Of course I grew suspicious, and it seems I was right. Yet you continued to do my bidding, bringing about the destruction of your beloved Kings and Queens without a second's thought."

Throughout the General's speech Tigran could do nothing but gape. He'd been tricked? How had that happened? He was the one who was supposed to do the tricking around here. How could it be that the roles had been reversed without him knowing?

Through the white noise in his head, he suddenly became aware of a solid mass charging towards him. He sidestepped just in time, managing to swing his torch around so that it struck the General's back. The beast howled as his fur caught alight and he once again lunged for Tigran, grabbing at him and missing by barely an inch. Tigran's hand found his sword hilt and he drew the weapon with a cry. The General fumbled at his belt as Tigran advanced, a look of horror crossing his ugly face as he realised he was without his knife. They both lunged for it at the same time. Tigran ducked out of the way of the Minotaur's fists and stabbed wildly with his sword. He was rewarded with a terrible shriek of pain as the General crumpled to the floor. His body lay sprawled between Tigran and the knife. Tigran knew for certain the wound had not been deep and the beast was already getting up, grunting and snuffling like a common hog.

Looking back, Tigran could not be sure how the next few moments had happened. The Minotaur had turned to face him, blood gushing from the wound in his neck. In those yellow eyes was nothing but hatred and a promise of vengeance. Tigran's hands were slick with sweat, the left one felt as numb and swollen as it had when it had first been cut. He made another swing towards the General's torso, but the beast easily dodged it and the sword became unbalanced in his clammy hand. The Minotaur knocked it aside and began to laugh. It was the sort of terrible laugh that a hero hears just before the fatal blow and is left with it echoing in his mind for all eternity. Then the beast leapt and Tigran's breath was knocked from his body. The hard soil cut into his back and his spine jarred as his head collided with the ground. The General's dripping muzzle and deranged eyes were a hand's breadth from his face and in his right hand he held the knife triumphantly aloft.

"So long, brave Narnian."

As the blade hurtled down towards his chest, Tigran used the last of his strength to thrust the torch right into the Minotaur's face. The resulting scream was so terrible that Tigran would be haunted by it for years to come, but in that moment he was only aware of the weight rolling off his chest and the knife clattering harmlessly to the floor next to his right hand. His fingers gripped the hilt and he staggered clumsily to his feet, breathing hard. His vision was blurred around the edges but he could clearly see the dark mound of fur on the ground, screaming and writhing and clawing at his burning face. For a moment Tigran felt sorry for him - he had not intended his death to be so agonising.

Now is not the time for pity, he told himself as he shifted the knife into a more comfortable position in his hand. With a face as calm as thunder, he dropped the torch and the knife onto the General's heaving chest. The flames caught instantly, hissing and spitting blue sparks. It licked greedily at the Minotaur's prone form, dancing along his legs and arms until he appeared to be made of blue flames. But they didn't stop there; when the flames reached the end of his fingers they hopped onto the dry soil as if it was perfectly natural. It dawned on Tigran how much danger he was in – the fire didn't know the difference between good and evil and if he stood there a moment longer it would come for him.

"Time to go." He bent to retrieve his sword and made a dash for the door. The flames nipped at his heels like a puppy that wanted to play. He could outrun it for sure, but the question lay in whether he would be able to set the troops in motion before they caught on to what was happening. There was only one way to find out.

"What in Aslan's name are you doing here?"

When Edmund reached the Northern border, he wasn't sure what kind of welcome he was expecting, but he certainly hadn't been expecting that. Peter stood before him in his full armour, his helmet tucked under one arm and his shield in his other hand. He looked slightly worse for wear, his blonde hair was dark with sweat and grease and his left cheek had been grazed almost beyond recognition. But despite the injury his confusion was all too apparent.

"You sent for me," Edmund replied, indicating the group of Narnians he had brought with him to serve as Peter's back up.

"I did no such thing."

Edmund reached into his belt and pulled out the roll of parchment that had been presented to him in the throne room two days previously. Peter put down his shield and helmet in order to take it, and Edmund watched his expression transform from puzzlement to shock and finally worry.

"I didn't send this," he murmured.

Edmund frowned, glancing back to his soldiers standing bemusedly behind him. "Then who did?"

"What did the seal look like?" Peter demanded gesturing to the letter.

"There was no seal," Edmund said impatiently. "I assumed you were too preoccupied to bother with a seal."

Peter stared at him, his blue eyes wide. "Edmund, I did not send this letter. Surely you would know my handwriting even if it was sealed?"

Edmund gulped. He hadn't thought of that. He was just so worried about what was said in the letter that he hadn't even stopped to think about the details. "Then that means I was tricked. I've been such a fool."

Peter rubbed Edmund's shoulder consolingly and shook his head. "No matter, I'm glad to see you. We must hurry back to the Cair as quickly as possible though."

Behind him Edmund could see white tents and people hurrying between them carrying pitchers and bandages. There were even a few Marsh-Wiggles, all of whom looked very disgruntled. "Where are the Giants?" he asked in a low voice.

"They agreed to go back to the Wild Lands where they belong. We managed to convince them we had things under control."

Edmund laughed weakly. "Well that's something. But the enemy will be halfway to the Cair by now."

"Then we must be quick," replied Peter briskly. "Gather all of those that can still fight. The sooner we get back to the girls the better."

"Don't worry Pete," Edmund said before his brother could stride off. "The Narnians wouldn't just let them attack the Cair. They'll protect Susan and Lucy with everything they have."

"I know," Peter replied with a small smile. "But we still need to make haste. Come on, get going."

Zia had hoped she would never have to face the horror of a battlefield again – especially not so soon after she had lost her sister under similar circumstances. But everyone seemed determined that the only way out of this was more bloodshed and she had had no choice but to join the Centaurs that had gathered in the clearing as they rushed to the aid of the two Pevensies in the castle on the cliff. Zia's stomach turned to ice when she learned of Edmund's absence, but there was no time to worry about him. The Cair was a chaotic frenzy of hasty war preparations; weapons and armour had to be cleaned, the hospital had to be stocked with supplies and food had to be gathered in case of a siege.

They had barely got everything ready before the lookouts on the battlements spotted the enemy emerging from the forest. Zia had taken up her position with the rest of the archers. She felt her heart drop right down to the ground floor of the castle when she spotted Tigran – his pale blonde hair visible even from a great height – leading the army on the back of a huge Snow Leopard.

"Oh Tigran, what have they done to you?"

Someone came up beside her and leaned their arms on the ramparts. Susan looked completely calm despite the frenzy all around them and the smile she offered to Zia was thoroughly genuine.

"There's still no sign of them," Zia said quietly. She lifted her hand to feel the familiar weight of the pendant around her neck, though it did little to ease the ache she felt in her bones.

"They'll come soon," Susan replied levelly.

"How can you be so sure? What if something has happened to them?"

Susan turned her head and raised one eyebrow. "I know because they have yet to let us down. I know because they are my brothers and I believe in them."

Zia couldn't hide the tremble in her voice when she asked, "Do you think we can win?"

"I can't say for sure, but we'll find out soon enough."

Somewhere in the distance a horn sounded. The battle had begun.