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NORTHERN MARSH. SUMMER 1014
Agreeing to go north to help Peter was probably the dumbest decision Nadora had ever made. Never mind that technically, Lucy had been the one to ask her to go; that had been more a formality than anything. Nadora had offered to go with Peter first (and while she’d made the offer out of desperation, she did mean it), Lucy had simply given her the pretense to follow-through.
As she rode north with the handful of men Lucy had sent with her, however, Nadora wondered if she’d made the right decision.
It wasn’t like her to rush into a fight, much less one that wasn’t hers. In fact, aside from verbal arguments and debates, and the random tournament event, Nadora couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a battle, let alone been in one.
But she also wasn’t one to go back on her word. And she’s felt strongly enough about Peter, that even Lucy had noticed. The final supper she’d hosted for Nadora and the boys had been little more than a show of hospitality. Their smaller numbers made the entire event pale by comparison to the meals and festivities they’d shared prior. Yet, Lucy had them all smiling and laughing until the end. For that alone, Nadora would owe her friend a great deal, to say nothing of the fact that Lucy agreed to let Ilias and Halloran stay with her until she returned.
All things considered, Nadora had quite a lot to make up for when she returned, and the thought of it all made her consider, just for a moment, turning back to Cair Paravel now. If she was quick, she would make it back by evening, and she and the boys could head out as soon as they were packed.
But despite the myriad of reasons for why Nadora should turn back and return to them now, she couldn’t. If not for her own worries, than for Lucy’s and for those of the men she rode with. They already trailed Peter and his men by a day, and in a fight, against giants or otherwise, every moment mattered.
Nadora’s party was small and she was under no delusion that a mere five additional fighters on the field of battle would make much of a difference. But Lucy’s worry for her brother had only amplified her own, and if Nadora’s suspicions about Peter were correct, someone needed to be there to watch his back, lest he do something idiotic in the name of uty and devotion to his people.
It was this thought that kept Nadora’s eyes fixed to the Owlwood ahead. If all went well, they were likely to reach the edge of the marsh by the next morning. She just hoped the High King of Narnia would hold off on any grand gestures until then.
The air grew cold that night and stayed brisk through the early morning hours. So much so that even with the layered padding and leather of his armor and gloves, Peter felt the chill of the mountains sweep down the ridges and straight into his limbs. Standing at the border between the Owlwood and the Northern Marsh, he felt the distance to the mountains was far smaller than anticipated. He had not seen this section of the marsh before, or been this far inland from the sea at this juncture between grassy wet ground and wooded forest. A fight against the Ettins, should it come, would be harder than he’d hoped, and even as he stood with his generals beside him, Peter felt a cold chill run down his spine.
Flexing his grip on Rhindon’s hilt, he took in a deep breath. The air was brisk and refreshingly cool, and he tried to focus on that.
“Oreius, Morwen,” he called, keeping his eyes trained to the sky. Both generals turned to him. “We move the moment Glassfeather returns. Either forward to meet the Giants, or back to meet Sir Torienne at the rear and return home.”
“Yes, sire.”
If they were lucky, there would be no fight. Glassfeather was the quickest of their scouts and the most recognizable of their gryphons against the still dark skies. His coat of silvery white feathers helped him blend into the white snow of the mountains as well as stand out against the predawn darkness, and it was his flying form that Peter watched for, fleeting hope still waiting in his chest.
When he did come, though, it was with uneasy news.
“The Ettins prepare for attack, sire, there is no doubt about it,” he reported, catching his breath. “They’ve collected boulders all along the base of the mountains, and at least half have weapons of their own—clubs from the looks of them, though it’s hard to tell, exactly, what they are. But they don’t appear to have moved at all in days. There are no tracks in the snow, no preparations to cross the marsh.”
Peter sighed and looked eastward. His generals were watching him, waiting, he knew, for their specific orders, but he looked directly to the small sliver of horizon visible between the treeline and the marsh. It likely wasn’t the sea he saw, but more marsh and wetlands, but he wished it was the water. A natural blockage to that side would be a boon in this fight. As it was, the only help they’d get from the east was the rising sun and its light.
“Sire?”
Finally, Peter turned back to his generals. “Thank you, Glassfeather. Please, join Sir Torienne in the rear. We move at dawn.”
“Forward or back, your majesty?”
He cursed silently, wishing, desperately, someone else were here to help him decide. But there wasn’t. He was here. Susan and Edmund were at sea, on their way to Calormen, and Lucy was back at the cair. They couldn’t help him, not this time.
“Forward,” he said finally, though even as he said it, he felt a distinct weight settle into the pit of his stomach, as though the decision would forever be one he’d regret.
Nadora heard the battle before she saw it. Giants were, of course, larger and louder than the typical human or even Narnian soldier. And when she finally saw one, it was larger than she expected. Luckily, the marsh was open enough a landscape that she obtain a grasp of things quite quickly.
“Go, wherever you’re needed, fall in and take your orders as you get them,” she told the others. Lucy had asked them to stay with her, but she wasn’t blind. The Narnians may have outnumbered the Giants on this field, but the Ettins certainly had the upper hand.
“Lady—”
“Go!” she shouted, before spurring her mount forward.
Peter would be up front, she knew, and the quicker the moved, the sooner she’d find him. Lucy had asked her to aid him and keep an eye on him, which was exactly what Nadora planned on doing. Having her ragtag band of loaned soldiers along, even if they were Narnians and thus feasibly more dedicated to the cause than she herself, would only slow her down.
She stayed mounted well into the marsh, further than she hoped to get in fact. Ultimately, however, she dismounted and sent her horse back toward the Owlwood, to more stable grounds, before continuing on foot, eyes to the sky.
Weaving through shrubbery and soggy marshland, Nadora ducked and dove aside to avoid the jagged rock that rained down on her (and the rest of the Narnians). They came in spurts, and while some seemed to be thrown deliberately, most appeared to scatter wide and far. A peering look downfield to the base of the mountains told her that these rocks flew their way upon being shattered by a giant’s club knocking it out toward the field.
With the disparate but steady rock raining down upon them, it was a miracle any of Narnia’s men had reached the base of the mountains at all. And yet, as Nadora crept her way forward, throwing both herself and others out of the path of falling stone, she found the miracle wasn’t so much in the advance itself, but rather the change in landscape.
Further north, the marsh became sturdier, firm beneath her already aching legs, and it was the solid ground beneath their feet that must have given the Narnians of the frontline encouragement and fortitude. While there had been a moderate number of soldiers spread thin through the marsh, only two dozen or so Narnians appeared to have made the trek across to the mountains.
Unfortunately, the Giants appeared to have garnered the help of some wolves and hags as well, allowing the Ettins their freedom to keep fewer and fewer Narnians from joining them this far north. It was, all in all, a rather sound strategy for a creature known more for the size of their body than the size of their brains.
Scanning the various fights ahead of her, Peter was easy to recognize. He was the only Narnian in bright red—everyone else’s leather gear was of the typical dyes, meant to help them blend into the wood or the earth. Against the stark white of the snow around them, however, Peter stood out, almost like a blood stain with how bright the red of his kit was.
The longer she watched him, however, the more she noticed everything else. There was plenty of dirt and rock around them still, dirtying the sheet of snow that layered the ground. Between that and the bodies—both upright and slain—the clean white blanket of snow was more speckled than it was clean, and all around her were the growling wolves, clashing steel, and singing metal of weapons cutting through both air and enemy.
The Ettins’ strategy, clever though it was, was not giving them as clear an advantage as Nadora initially thought. Renewed by the fighting spirit of the clearly outnumbered Narnians, Nadora focused upon Peter and forged ahead. She moved without thinking in most regards, focused only on what lay ahead of her, adding her own accents to the sprawl of battle. Spattered blood, the yelp of a hag, quick footprints, and her heavy, arcing blade. Heart thumping hard against her rib cage, Nadora soon saw only what was right in front of her, and whatever came next—the block she needed, the attack she served. And for a time, that was all there was.
“Nadora!”
When it came, Peter’s voice was sharp, cutting through the sounds of battle, distracting her—only briefly, but long enough to miss the lunge of a wolf heading her way. Before she can brace herself for its weight, though, the animal was swept aside, knocked out of the way by a familiar centaur’s charge.
Oreius did not stop to exchange pleasantries, and later, she would wish that Peter would have done the same. Unfortunately for the both of them, Peter had cut his way across the field to her, shouting as he did.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes darted around her to various attackers as he did.
Nadora ducked around him to fend off the hag surging forward at his back. “What does it look like?!” she called over her shoulder, realizing belatedly that he stood directly behind her, back to back, and she did not need to shout so loud.
Knowing her stood behind her and was watching her back as she did his, filled Nadora with a genuine contentment she hadn’t expected. Certainly not in the midst of battle.
“Lucy sent me.” She did not shout this time, but threw her voice enough for him to hear her over the clatter of the fight.
“Lucy?”
Peter sounded so alarmed, Nadora almost wanted to laugh. If not for the circumstances, she might have. As it were, Peter chose that moment to step back, and their backs touched.
“I’m going to kill her…” he snapped.
Nadora shook her head—not in answer but in disbelief. “Let’s focus on getting out of here alive, first, shall we?”
And though she could not see him, though she kept her eyes wide and her senses open to attacked from all around her, Nadora knew by the gentle, lingering pressure against her back, that he would acquiesce.
Without warning, the warmth of his presence pulled away, and Nadora leaned forward herself, readying herself. There’d be time for more discussion later, so long as neither of them died.
For awhile, a good long while, actually, there seemed to be very little risk of that.
She kept an eye on Peter, and for all his earlier frustrations, he kept an eye on her too.
They circled and passed each other, back and forth across their little square of the battle field, always keeping the other in their peripheral sight as they ensured their mutual safety. And strangely, Nadora thought it was something akin to fighting with Ilias or Halloran.
Or Gennady, even…
She had not felt the smooth trust of this sort of fight in years. Gennady had still been a boy when he died, but the pair had been in a similar situation, had they not? Both trying to protect the other from an oncoming attack.
As empty as her brain had been just moments before with nothing to fill it but memorized footwork and attacked and blocks formed from muscle memory, Nadora was suddenly thrown back to the vulnerable age of fifteen.
Ahead of her was Gennady, at thirteen years, pulling a younger Nadora up off the ground in the middle of the forest to push her along, forward and away to safety.
Blinking, the scene in front of her shifted. Gennady and the wood flickered in and out of view, and the roar of the bear behind him faded away. When the vision was gone, there was only Peter and the hag he fought. And behind him, was a wolf, ready to leap.
Even if he wasn’t otherwise occupied, Nadora didn’t think Peter would be able to turn quick enough to avoid the attack entirely. She herself was too far to intercept, personally, but she wasn’t so far as to be completely unhelpful. Legs already pumping, she lurched toward them, reaching for the small of her back to the last of her throwing knives.
“Peter!” She watched the knife fly past as Peter dipped out of the way.
She smiled as it lodged itself into the wolf’s flank, sending it squealing into the snowy marsh. And she kept smiling as she saw Peter’s head turn back to her. Before she could take in his face though, before she could even comprehend what happened, a blunt, explosive pain took over her entire right side and she became airborne.
Vaguely, she heard Peter call her name, but it was muffled by the ringing in her ears and then lost altogether as her head crashed into the ground. Her body broke through a layer of frosted snow, sharp thin ice scraping up what little skin she had exposed, before she slid into a a soft snow bank.
The pain was thunderous and immediate, and her entire right side is on fire. Strangely though, it burned only for a moment before settling under the calm relief that washed over her.
Unmoving, Nadora felt, perhaps, that this was it. That this would be the end of it all—and she was strangely content with that. For all the plans and hopes she had for her life and the future, Nadora felt strangely at peace. Having felt dread upon impending death once before, Nadora realized that this time, faced with the same possibility, she wasn’t upset in the least.
The first time, she hadn’t been able to do a single thing for herself let alone for Gennady. But this time… This time, she had done more than enough.
Getting hurt was worthwhile. Not ideal, but acceptable.
Just as she began to rest her eyes, a warmth settled beside her. Hearing already fuzzy, she saw Peter’s face before she heard his voice.
He was leaning over her, brushing snow from her face. He was saying something, and from the look in his eyes and the way his lips are moving, Nadora can tell it was something frantic. Was he shouting? What was the use in that? They were in the middle of a battle here, wasn’t he smart enough to know not to be distracted?
She tried to shush him, to calm him somehow, and she was certain she reached up to touch his face. But instead of soothing him, the action only seemed to frustrate him more, and suddenly, Nadora was lifted up and out of the snow entirely.
It was not a smooth maneuver, between their injuries and the snow, but Peter succeeded in it, muttering something along the way.
She thought she heard something like “such an idiot” and “what were you thinking” amidst his rambling. Which would have been infuriating if not for the fact that she had been thinking the same of him just a while ago, and somehow, it was amusing that they shared the same thoughts now.
It was nice, she thought faintly, to finally be on the same page again.
Later, once he was back at Cair Paravel, Peter would be able to find the words to adequately describe what seeing Nadora on the marshland did to him. He’d know to call the sinking pit in his stomach a ball of worry; the slight shake of his his hands would easily become indecision; and the ache in his chest would be something akin to helplessness.
But on the battlefield, between one angry swipe of his sword to the next side-step out of danger’s path, Peter had little time for words. And what words he found were largely inadequate.
Even Nadora’s name felt rough and wrong coming from his lips. Up until now, he’d only associated it with the soft crash of waves upon a shoreline, or the sashay of her dress through the ballroom. Her name shouldn’t have ever lingered in the air amidst clanging metal and grunts of pain. But Peter put it out there regardless. There was no other way to call attention to the wolf leaping her way.
“Nadora!”
His feet moved before he’d finished shouting, taking him to her despite knowing he would not reach her in time. Desperately, he watched her head came up, and his breath caught in his throat, before blowing straight out of him.
He clearly hadn’t been the only one to see or notice Nadora’s predicament, because from several long lengths away, Peter watched as Oreius charged between her and her attacker. The centaur took the animal with him as he cut across the way, and moved on, mind turned to whatever stood ahead of him.
Peter should have done the same. But even with Nadora now safe from immediate danger, he pushed on, closing the distance between them as quickly as his limbs allowed.
“What are you doing here?”
He had thought she was quick in a fight before—back in the tournament arena, where they were much safer and warmer and kinder to one another than they would be here. But Nadora was surefooted as well, dipping low and around to his other side even as he approached.
A full stop had been impossible, but Peter did manage to slow his movements, coming up short just beyond the place where Nadora just stood. Behind him now, he heard her snap back her reply.
“What does it look like?!”
He didn’t have a change to turn around, raising his shield to block the spray of rock and dirt aimed at them.
“Lucy sent me,” came Nadora’s voice again, this time softer but no less firm.
“Lucy?” His youngest sister was the last person he expected to hear of, this far from the castle. But damn if this wasn’t exactly something she would do. “I’m going to kill her…”
“Let’s focus on getting out of here alive, first, shall we?”
Her voice held the same teasing tone as Lucy's would in such circumstances, and while Peter might have thrown a light-hearted retort of his own back to his sister, he did no such thing now.
Between the wolves and hags around them and the debris being knocked their way, there wasn’t time to do anything other than focus on the next and nearest opponent. And even if they weren’t in the midst of battle, Peter wouldn’t have taken the time to taunt or play around. He wasn’t familiar enough with Nadora’s speed or fighting skill—nor content enough with the safety of their current position. Fighting with her was not the same as fighting with Edmund or Lucy or Susan. It wasn’t even the same as fighting with Oreius or any of the other Knights of Narnia at his side. He’d stand to their side and keep them in his peripheral no matter the scope of the field.
But Nadora, he kept behind him. She could have been more skilled than any of his siblings and still he’d position himself in front of her. To cover all the space ahead of and around her to the best of his ability, because there was no one else who would.
What he hadn’t anticipated was for Nadora to do the same for him.
It took several long interactions with several of the Ettins’ ‘soldiers’ for Peter to notice that Nadora kept her back to his. Never so close as to trip each other up, but not so distant that either would be without cover.
At the realization, a warmth flooded through Peter, settling comfortably in his gut first before rising up through his torso and into the depths of his chest. And for a second, just a second, his focus lessened, his muscles ease.
But even half a second spent relaxed was too long a time when fighting for one’s life.
“Peter!”
Mind so focused on the expanse of trust in his chest, Peter barely registered the shout of his name in time to swerve out of the way of the blade hurled his way. Tracking the projectile, he watched it sink into the side of the wolf in the air just behind him.
He wondered, vaguely, if they had caught up with one another—was it one save for each of them? Or was one of them ahead? Did it matter?
Peter turned back to thank Nadora, with a look, at least, but what he saw, instead, was not her face. But the hard wall of an oncoming club.
He had just enough time to bring his arms up, catching the brunt of the giant’s swipe with his torso. Landing on his back, it was a miracle Peter hadn’t had the air knocked out of him. He did, however, feel the distinct pain of a broken rib or two on his right side, as well as the lack of his sword.
Peter pushed down on what he thought was solid snow to push himself upright, and cursed when his hand pushed through the thin crust of ice that had covered the soft snow below. With a groan, he rolled to his side instead, focusing first on getting upright and then his surroundings.
As he sat up, he realized two things. First, the clatter and noise of battle was too soft. Not just muffled as if he’d sustained damage to his hearing, but distant too. His first look around was far too quick, sending the entirety of the sky spinning around him. But when he did manage to look around, Peter confirmed it. He wasn’t on the battlefield anymore.
Standing hurt much less than he’d expected for being sent flying through the air like a ragdoll. Beside his ribs and his head, Peter seemed fine. All he had to do was get back to the fight and to…
“Nadora?”
His voice was raspy, with less sound and more air coming from his throat. Attempting to clear it, he tried again.
He was met with silence. Or near silence. He could still hear the dim, dull clatter and shouts of fighting—somewhere behind him. But ahead of him, to the left and the right, there was nothing.
“Nadora!”
His voice clawed its way out of his throat, as did the frantic breaths that came after it. He was moving now, shoving his feet forward through the snow. For how light it was, it was hard to move through. Peter gathered they must be closer to the mountains, where the snow wasn’t near as packed down as it had been on the marsh. Here, sunk in to the middle of his shins before hitting something solid beneath his boots.
He kicked his way forward through the powder, calling Nadora’s name and waiting for her response in turn. Again and again until finally, after what felt like an hour, or a day, or a week, he heard a soft groan to his left.
Peter tripped over himself in getting to her and finally just dropped to his hands and knees to crawl, avoiding properly falling over her. At first glance, she simply looked to be sleeping in the snow. But her eyes did not open as he called her name.
Fingers trembling Peter brushed snow from the side of her face and shifted what he could of her shoulder guards aside to touch her neck. The pulse at her wrist had been too weak to follow, but the one here was not much better.
Taking a breath, he stood once more and looked around. They were far enough from the fight for him to feel comfortable where they were—but night would be on them soon, and Peter didn’t think he’d manage to get them both back to the Owlwood.
They’d landed in a small basin, hardly larger than the whole of Narnia’s tournament grounds, and the more he took in of their surroundings, the more sure he was that they’d landed behind the Ettins—or at least to the side. He didn’t think they were that high up in the mountains—maybe only a half day’s trek, but they were definitely not in the marsh anymore.
There was no way he’d make it back to camp. Not tonight, anyhow.
Cursing yet again, he crouched down next to Nadora and dug both hands into the snow—one under her shoulders and the other under her legs. It took some doing, his limbs already heavy and his head dangerously fuzzy, but Peter gathered her into his arms and forced himself to move through the snow.
There was only one way to go from here, and it wasn’t back toward battle.
Instead, Peter made for the edge of the basin, hoping to find a ridge or something else tucked into the lower mountainside where they might have some shelter.