Narnia fic: Carpetbaggers Chapter IV, Part 10 (1700 words)
Chapters I and II are here.
Chapter III and earlier parts of Chapter IV are here.
*
The sound of the battle around him seemed very far away, attenuated as though echoing down a railway tunnel. Edmund could hear the blood pounding in his own head, though, and feel the slick warmth of Susan's blood on his hands as he opened her hauberk and tunic and tried to stop the bleeding. She had a deep gash in her side, narrow like a sword blade had made it, and the blood pulsed from it regularly. It wasn't spurting, which Edmund suspected was good, but it wasn't stopping, either.
He couldn't use his tunic as a bandage without taking off his own hauberk; his blood-wet hands slipped on the buckles and he snarled with frustration.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Aslan had named them kings and queens, set them on the thrones of Cair Paravel, had died to save Edmund. Susan wasn't supposed to die in the mud of an unnamed field because Edmund had buggered up his first real command. Firefoot had died, but this was Susan, his sister. He refused to let it happen.
The buckles finally came loose: Edmund tore the hauberk off and wrenched at his tunic. It needed to be clean, he remembered that much. Not that there was any part of his clothing that was clean, but at least he could use something that wasn't covered in mud or someone else's blood.
"King!" shouted Rhea in his ear, and he snarled back without looking away from his filthy hands tearing at his tunic, "Leave me alone!"
"No, you must look!" cried Rhea, and put her foot on his hand. She had enormous feet, broad with sharp claws, now coated with mud. "Look!" She took his shoulder in her mouth and tugged him sideways, forcing him around.
The sounds of the battle around them had changed. Instead of grunts and shouts and the clang of weapons, Edmund heard--and felt--a rhythmic pounding thunder. The vibration, as of a herd of horses charging across a field, came up through his feet and rattled his ribcage. Above that noise, came shouts and cries of surprise--and fear.
The Hag, just a few feet away, tore loose from the Faun and scrambled backwards, diving into a nearby copse of brimbleberry bushes. Her escape left an opening through which, even kneeling, Edmund could see most of the battlefield.
It had only been a few minutes--or moments--since Edmund had fallen to his knees next to Susan, and yet everything had changed. Instead of a crowd of deformed and vicious Rebels sweeping across the field, chasing the broken Narnian forces, Edmund saw dozens of Centaurs crashing through the Rebels' lines. They came from the north, and their stone spear-points glittered as they charged, chanting Aslan's name, throwing up bloody clods of turf like a child splashing in a mud puddle.
"Oh," said Edmund, and watched as the Minotaur who had been leading the charge against the Narnians was felled in an instant by a stocky roan mare using a spear and a long-bladed knife. As the Minotaur collapsed, she did not pause before turning and launching herself at the Cyclops nearest Edmund. The swing of her bound hair was what jogged his memory, and he knew her, then. Silversharp, the weapons-master.
Which at least gave him some warning (if not a great deal), so that a moment later he was not quite as surprised as he might have been to find himself confronted with great stamping hooves and the carved and painted butt of a long spear. He looked up.
A dark-skinned Centaur with ragged untamed hair looked down at him consideringly, and met his gaze with a nod. "King Edmund," he said, voice deep. "I would wish we had come in better time."
He knew he needed to say something. He looked at Susan, and then back up at the Centaur. "Stormcoat," he said, finally, his voice cracked and dry, "I need--can you help my sister?"
"I will do all that I can," said Stormcoat, and turned to wave at someone. "A healer here, quickly! The queen is injured!"
Edmund looked back at Susan. She breathed shallowly, a frown etched into her forehead and one hand still clutching her bow. The bow was bloodied at the ends, as though she had been using it as a weapon, and the string hung free, broken or cut at some point in the battle. He could not see her dagger--it must have been lost in the fight. Not three feet away lay another body: a Dwarf, collapsed onto his face with a short sword in his hand. It might have been him that struck her down.
Something nagged at the edge of his attention; Edmund was forgetting something.
A Centaur mare lowered herself to the ground next to him, and unfolded a brightly-colored woven bag to reveal small bottles of liquid, clean cloths, and sharp stone tools. She murmured, "Oh, that does not look good," and gently shifted Edmund to the side so she could examine Susan's wound.
"The cordial, king," said Rhea. "Do you have the cordial?"
The cordial! Edmund surged to his feet. He staggered, as his legs suddenly seemed too weak to support him, but Rhea let him lean against her until he regained his balance. The mare kept working on Susan, not looking up. "I need the Eagle," Edmund said, and gazed around distractedly. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," said Rhea. "But look, here is Fraxinus, he can call her."
Fraxinus looked nearly as bad as Susan did, although he was still on his feet, barely. He swayed dangerously, but Edmund had only to mention the Eagle once before Fraxinus brought out his little pipe. Edmund propped him up while he played it, and then carefully let him down next to Susan.
The Centaur physician nodded thanks to Edmund, and murmured something he didn't catch. She looked serious as she examined Susan, her brows drawn down above her grey eyes as her hands touched and prodded.
"Will she be all right?" Edmund had to ask.
"She is very badly hurt," said the physician, without looking up. "But she will not die under my hands."
Wings flapped behind him, and Edmund turned to see the Eagle, settling awkwardly to the ground next to Fraxinus. "Yes, what is it? I am not a Dog, to come at a whistle!"
Edmund bit back the urge to snap at the bird. Susan's injury was not her fault, after all. "I need your help, good Eagle. Can you fly to the Witch's castle and find my sister Lucy? Tell her we need her cordial desperately."
The Eagle ruffled her feathers uncomfortably. "The Witch's castle? Are you sure? That's a terrible place. I could go somewhere else instead..."
Rhea growled and took one pace forward.
The Eagle jumped backwards, looking rather less noble than she doubtless intended. "Or I could go to the Witch's castle, which I'm sure is perfectly safe since the Witch is dead, of course. Find Lucy, get her cordial, and...?" She cocked her head sideways.
"Bring it back," ground out Edmund through clenched teeth. "As fast as you can."
"Well, all right! No need to get snarly with me!" And the Eagle leaped into the air; the downdraft of her great wings nearly knocked Edmund sideways. She was out of sight very quickly, disappearing over the ridge to the east, flying straight and fast.
Edmund looked around then, feeling as though he were supposed to do something but not quite sure what. His brain felt thick and slow and he wondered if he'd been hit on the head without knowing it. Around him, Centaurs were herding prisoners into the center of the meadow, binding the wounds of the injured, and tending to the dead. Nearby, Stormcoat spoke with Silversharp, who had not yet cleaned her weapons. Edmund did not see Bruno anywhere; he suspected the Grizzly was halfway back to the Witch's castle.
"King," said Rhea quietly. "While we wait for the cordial, there are other wounded, as well. And your sister is in good hands."
Edmund stared at her for the long moments it took her words to sink in. "Oh," he said finally. "Right. I see." Peter had not mentioned this as a duty of commanders, and Edmund wondered what he had missed while he slept after the end of the battle with the Witch. He found it easy to imagine his brother talking with the wounded, holding someone's hand as they were treated, and cheering them up despite their pain just by listening to them. Edmund cringed inside--he was not Peter, after all--but then he thought about Firefoot. He could do no less for these than he had for the Centaur foal.
The next minutes were something of a blur: soft voices and moans and cries of pain; the smell of blood, and mud, and worse things; grasping hands (or paws), the feel of wet fur, and the tacky sensation of blood on Edmund's hands. Too many were already dead, and too many more were past any help the Centaurs could provide. But many were merely hurt, and they would soon be walking again, making their way home to tell the story of Stormcoat's Charge and the breaking of the last vestige of the Witch's forces in Narnia. (Edmund hoped for all their sakes that it was in fact the last vestige and not the start of some long-running conflict that would exhaust them all.) They spoke to him with cheer and pride in their voices, talking of their deeds in the battle, or (more frequently) their homes and their families, and everything they meant to do now that the Winter was over.
It was that purpose, that cheer, that lifted Edmund from his fog in the end. He stood up at length from beside a Dwarf who had taken a bad knock to the head and seemed confused by the sun and warmth around him: the fellow had forgotten everything that had happened since some time before Aslan broke the Winter. As he turned away, already looking ahead for the next injured soldier, there was a cry overhead.
The Eagle was back, and in one of her clawed feet she clutched a small glass vial.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.
Chapter III and earlier parts of Chapter IV are here.
*
The sound of the battle around him seemed very far away, attenuated as though echoing down a railway tunnel. Edmund could hear the blood pounding in his own head, though, and feel the slick warmth of Susan's blood on his hands as he opened her hauberk and tunic and tried to stop the bleeding. She had a deep gash in her side, narrow like a sword blade had made it, and the blood pulsed from it regularly. It wasn't spurting, which Edmund suspected was good, but it wasn't stopping, either.
He couldn't use his tunic as a bandage without taking off his own hauberk; his blood-wet hands slipped on the buckles and he snarled with frustration.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Aslan had named them kings and queens, set them on the thrones of Cair Paravel, had died to save Edmund. Susan wasn't supposed to die in the mud of an unnamed field because Edmund had buggered up his first real command. Firefoot had died, but this was Susan, his sister. He refused to let it happen.
The buckles finally came loose: Edmund tore the hauberk off and wrenched at his tunic. It needed to be clean, he remembered that much. Not that there was any part of his clothing that was clean, but at least he could use something that wasn't covered in mud or someone else's blood.
"King!" shouted Rhea in his ear, and he snarled back without looking away from his filthy hands tearing at his tunic, "Leave me alone!"
"No, you must look!" cried Rhea, and put her foot on his hand. She had enormous feet, broad with sharp claws, now coated with mud. "Look!" She took his shoulder in her mouth and tugged him sideways, forcing him around.
The sounds of the battle around them had changed. Instead of grunts and shouts and the clang of weapons, Edmund heard--and felt--a rhythmic pounding thunder. The vibration, as of a herd of horses charging across a field, came up through his feet and rattled his ribcage. Above that noise, came shouts and cries of surprise--and fear.
The Hag, just a few feet away, tore loose from the Faun and scrambled backwards, diving into a nearby copse of brimbleberry bushes. Her escape left an opening through which, even kneeling, Edmund could see most of the battlefield.
It had only been a few minutes--or moments--since Edmund had fallen to his knees next to Susan, and yet everything had changed. Instead of a crowd of deformed and vicious Rebels sweeping across the field, chasing the broken Narnian forces, Edmund saw dozens of Centaurs crashing through the Rebels' lines. They came from the north, and their stone spear-points glittered as they charged, chanting Aslan's name, throwing up bloody clods of turf like a child splashing in a mud puddle.
"Oh," said Edmund, and watched as the Minotaur who had been leading the charge against the Narnians was felled in an instant by a stocky roan mare using a spear and a long-bladed knife. As the Minotaur collapsed, she did not pause before turning and launching herself at the Cyclops nearest Edmund. The swing of her bound hair was what jogged his memory, and he knew her, then. Silversharp, the weapons-master.
Which at least gave him some warning (if not a great deal), so that a moment later he was not quite as surprised as he might have been to find himself confronted with great stamping hooves and the carved and painted butt of a long spear. He looked up.
A dark-skinned Centaur with ragged untamed hair looked down at him consideringly, and met his gaze with a nod. "King Edmund," he said, voice deep. "I would wish we had come in better time."
He knew he needed to say something. He looked at Susan, and then back up at the Centaur. "Stormcoat," he said, finally, his voice cracked and dry, "I need--can you help my sister?"
"I will do all that I can," said Stormcoat, and turned to wave at someone. "A healer here, quickly! The queen is injured!"
Edmund looked back at Susan. She breathed shallowly, a frown etched into her forehead and one hand still clutching her bow. The bow was bloodied at the ends, as though she had been using it as a weapon, and the string hung free, broken or cut at some point in the battle. He could not see her dagger--it must have been lost in the fight. Not three feet away lay another body: a Dwarf, collapsed onto his face with a short sword in his hand. It might have been him that struck her down.
Something nagged at the edge of his attention; Edmund was forgetting something.
A Centaur mare lowered herself to the ground next to him, and unfolded a brightly-colored woven bag to reveal small bottles of liquid, clean cloths, and sharp stone tools. She murmured, "Oh, that does not look good," and gently shifted Edmund to the side so she could examine Susan's wound.
"The cordial, king," said Rhea. "Do you have the cordial?"
The cordial! Edmund surged to his feet. He staggered, as his legs suddenly seemed too weak to support him, but Rhea let him lean against her until he regained his balance. The mare kept working on Susan, not looking up. "I need the Eagle," Edmund said, and gazed around distractedly. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," said Rhea. "But look, here is Fraxinus, he can call her."
Fraxinus looked nearly as bad as Susan did, although he was still on his feet, barely. He swayed dangerously, but Edmund had only to mention the Eagle once before Fraxinus brought out his little pipe. Edmund propped him up while he played it, and then carefully let him down next to Susan.
The Centaur physician nodded thanks to Edmund, and murmured something he didn't catch. She looked serious as she examined Susan, her brows drawn down above her grey eyes as her hands touched and prodded.
"Will she be all right?" Edmund had to ask.
"She is very badly hurt," said the physician, without looking up. "But she will not die under my hands."
Wings flapped behind him, and Edmund turned to see the Eagle, settling awkwardly to the ground next to Fraxinus. "Yes, what is it? I am not a Dog, to come at a whistle!"
Edmund bit back the urge to snap at the bird. Susan's injury was not her fault, after all. "I need your help, good Eagle. Can you fly to the Witch's castle and find my sister Lucy? Tell her we need her cordial desperately."
The Eagle ruffled her feathers uncomfortably. "The Witch's castle? Are you sure? That's a terrible place. I could go somewhere else instead..."
Rhea growled and took one pace forward.
The Eagle jumped backwards, looking rather less noble than she doubtless intended. "Or I could go to the Witch's castle, which I'm sure is perfectly safe since the Witch is dead, of course. Find Lucy, get her cordial, and...?" She cocked her head sideways.
"Bring it back," ground out Edmund through clenched teeth. "As fast as you can."
"Well, all right! No need to get snarly with me!" And the Eagle leaped into the air; the downdraft of her great wings nearly knocked Edmund sideways. She was out of sight very quickly, disappearing over the ridge to the east, flying straight and fast.
Edmund looked around then, feeling as though he were supposed to do something but not quite sure what. His brain felt thick and slow and he wondered if he'd been hit on the head without knowing it. Around him, Centaurs were herding prisoners into the center of the meadow, binding the wounds of the injured, and tending to the dead. Nearby, Stormcoat spoke with Silversharp, who had not yet cleaned her weapons. Edmund did not see Bruno anywhere; he suspected the Grizzly was halfway back to the Witch's castle.
"King," said Rhea quietly. "While we wait for the cordial, there are other wounded, as well. And your sister is in good hands."
Edmund stared at her for the long moments it took her words to sink in. "Oh," he said finally. "Right. I see." Peter had not mentioned this as a duty of commanders, and Edmund wondered what he had missed while he slept after the end of the battle with the Witch. He found it easy to imagine his brother talking with the wounded, holding someone's hand as they were treated, and cheering them up despite their pain just by listening to them. Edmund cringed inside--he was not Peter, after all--but then he thought about Firefoot. He could do no less for these than he had for the Centaur foal.
The next minutes were something of a blur: soft voices and moans and cries of pain; the smell of blood, and mud, and worse things; grasping hands (or paws), the feel of wet fur, and the tacky sensation of blood on Edmund's hands. Too many were already dead, and too many more were past any help the Centaurs could provide. But many were merely hurt, and they would soon be walking again, making their way home to tell the story of Stormcoat's Charge and the breaking of the last vestige of the Witch's forces in Narnia. (Edmund hoped for all their sakes that it was in fact the last vestige and not the start of some long-running conflict that would exhaust them all.) They spoke to him with cheer and pride in their voices, talking of their deeds in the battle, or (more frequently) their homes and their families, and everything they meant to do now that the Winter was over.
It was that purpose, that cheer, that lifted Edmund from his fog in the end. He stood up at length from beside a Dwarf who had taken a bad knock to the head and seemed confused by the sun and warmth around him: the fellow had forgotten everything that had happened since some time before Aslan broke the Winter. As he turned away, already looking ahead for the next injured soldier, there was a cry overhead.
The Eagle was back, and in one of her clawed feet she clutched a small glass vial.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.