Oy! I know this one took awhile, but let's face it, fight scenes are HARD. Not writing them, but knowing the subject well enough. I seriously spent two hours on Wikipedia trying to figure out what swords the boys had and how to use them. But here it is now! Enjoy!
If there was one thing Edmund had learned about warfare, it was that you could determine the temperment of your opponent by their weapon of choice. It was a system that had never failed. Edmund understood most of his instructors simply by observing them: Oreius carried two arming swords, one strapped to either hip. Smaller than a broadsword (which he also carried, but seldom used), they allowed him maneuverability. He wielded them carefully, but not delicately, never wasting a move, conserving energy. It was parallel to his nature, to think before acting, to prefer a one on one battle to a full blown melee, to be concise in both word and deed. The soldier who understood his enemy could battle against overwhelming odds and still emerge victorious.
Which was why Edmund and his brother were here. The tournament stadium was still in production, unfinished, debris and unfinished walls everywhere. But in the midst of it all, it provided an excellent opportunity to learn. The two of them were supposed to be learning how to disguise their temperment by stealth. If the enemy could not see your weapon before you engaged him in battle, Peter had reasoned, he had less time to determine your temperment, and therefore less time to design a strategy aginst you. The entire thing had been Peter's idea, which wasn't surprising, given the rules.
The exercise had been organized in teams, Peter leading one, and Edmund leading the other, with a centaur mare named Cinilla moderating. The object was for both teams to hide themselves in the unfinished stadium, and by utilizing a stealth strategy, engage members of the other team in one on one combat until one team had lost all members, or its leader surrendered. Swords were to be dulled by wrapping them in cloth, so no one was seriously hurt. Backstabbing was not allowed. Stealth, not cowardice, was the lesson's point. It was very much a thing designed by the High King.
Edmund shifted his weight to peer around the large wooden panel he was concealed behind. A faun from his own team had just engaged in a fight against a faun on Peter's team, both creatures the last of their respective sides. Oddly enough, they had struck at the same time, forcing Cinilla to dub them both "dead" and pull them from the field.
Which left only Peter and Edmund.
Edmund groaned, as he watched both fauns follow the mare to sit with their fellow "dead" teammates on the sidelines. Their faces betrayed their excitement. A chance to watch the High King Peter battle was common enough; the same was true for King Edmund the Just. But to watch them battle each other was a welcome rarity.
Slumping back behind the panel, Edmund reviewed his position. He had his weapon of choice, a rapier, as well as an arming sword, somewhat smaller than Rhindon, and also a buckler. The buckler would be his first advantage. Peter's broadsword required both hands to lunge. His buckler would be cast aside to allow him more room to do so, leaving Edmund the more protected of the two. Unfortunately, his rapier was too slender to hold up against Rhindon. He'd have to rely on his arming sword.
He would have considered more pros and contras, but his eye caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye. Peter was close, but seemingly unaware of his brother's presence; he would have called out a challenge by now if he had noticed. Edmund couldn't resist a wicked smile. This was advantage number two, and he intended to use it to its hightest capacity. If he called the challenge, he was allowed to go on the offense first, which would save him a vicious attack from Rhindon. He was wearing mail, but not armor, and although Rhindon was blunted by a leather covering, a good swing from Peter would still leave a horrific bruise.
He saw Peter move again, crouched behind a pile of brick, and made his move. Edmund stood, reveling in his momentary superiority, and called out the simple challenge. "Narnia!" He yelled, pleased that his voice was lower this year than last, which made the call sound substantially more menacing. Peter's face registered shock for a moment, then became utterly enigmatic as he turned, bringing Rhindon to a defensive position.
Edmund charged, keeping his buckler across his chest (Peter's favorite target), his arming sword clenched tightly in his right hand. They had only been a few yards apart to begin with, and the space between them disappeared quickly. The arming sword swept forward in a powerful uppercut, forcing Rhindon to twist downward to catch it, then wrench back up to repel it. Edmund took a step forward, forcing himself closer to Peter. Rhindon allowed for little mobility. If Edmund, with his smaller sword, could get in close, Peter would have no room to lunge or swing, which would render it almost useless. Advantage number three, he thought, using his buckler to ram against his brother's arm, doubtless leaving a bruise. He slammed two more hits against Peter's side with his arming sword. By this point, the High King had been forced back several steps. The Narnians watching made hushed noises of excitement with each blow. So far, the younger king's plan was holding strong. Peter had little room to fight back, aside from the occasional use of his mailed elbow or forearm. But it was in Peter's blood to be a soldier. He had been nigh unbeatable since slaying Maugrim, and it didn't take long for him to determine a new strategy.
Edmund tucked the buckler back against his ribs just in time to deflect a hit from Rhindon's pommel, which forced him back a mere inch. But an inch was enough. Edmund began to feel a twinge of regret for having engaged the older boy at all. There were times when his brother was Peter, and times when he was the High King. This was, unfortunately, one of the latter. With that expressionless look of intense concentration, the High King advanced on his opponent, slamming Rhindon's hilt and pommel against the buckler, forcing Edmund back.
Edmund was by no means small. The last year in Narnia had seen him grow taller and stronger than would have been possible on the old world. But Peter had years to his advantage. His shoulders were beginning to broaden out and his height and weight was still superior to his brother's. He was using his more developed physical strength to land blow after blow on his smaller opponent. Edmund could only defend against the onslaught. A last hit sent him stumbling backwards.
Rhindon was free to swing.
Edmund blocked the first two attacks with the buckler. Peter was pulling his blows a little, for the sake of precaution, but even so, they were agonizingly precise. Edmund's mind raced. The buckler was only wood, and if things continued on like this much longer, Rhindon was bound to crack it. He did a mental scan of his remaining two weapons. The arming sword, a reliable, sturdy weapon, but not nearly long enough to compete with Rhindon's reach…or the rapier. The idea formed quickly from there. He waited for Peter to bring his sword up again, and as soon as the gold lion on Peter's chest was visible, no longer protected by the broadsword, Edmund struck. In one, lightening fast move, he pulled the rapier from its place in his belt and lunged forward, aiming for the heart.
Peter realized his brother's intent a fraction of a second before the blow landed. He twisted his upper body away. The cloth swabbed tip of Edmund's rapier landed, in his upper ribs on the right side of his body.
The Narnians on the sidelines went silent. Cinilla, sounding almost surprised, said, "First blood goes to King Edmund."
"Would you like to surrender now, then?" Edmund panted through his faceplate, returning the fragile rapier to his belt and retrieving his arming sword.
Peter gave a breathless laugh. "Just remember when you're licking your wounds tomorrow that you started it."
Edmund tried to laugh back, but Peter was already coming at him again, and this time, Edmund noted with a twinge of morbid satisfation, he was not pulling blows. It was a silent compliment, a sign that Peter felt that his little brother was capable of handling himself.
Peter's next swing caught the edge of Edmund's buckler and ripped it off his arm. The leather straps stung as they snapped away from his forearm. Both of them now stood with no protection other than their respective swords. The fight, until now, relatively genteel, dissolved into a vicious cycle of slash, parry, swing, lunge.
In the end, it was Peter's experience that gave him the victory. Edmund whirled his sword in a half circle, giving his swing more power, but the older brother knew what that meant. All the younger king's concentration would be on his sword…not on his feet. Peter dropped to a crouch and swept Rhindon across, careful not to actually hurt him, catching the back of Edmund's knees, forcing them to buckle and the younger king to fall. Edmund's next view was of the sky, then Peter standing over him, Rhindon an inch from his throat.
Cinilla's voice rang out loud and clear. "The victory goes to High King Peter."
"Well done, Ed." Said Peter, offering a hand to his brother. Edmund, the breath knocked from his lungs, tried to muster the angriest mock glare he could, but took the hand anyway. He was about to deliver a smoking retort to his brother's chivalry when a screech from above jarred him from his state of mind. He glanced up as Peter pulled him to his feet.
"The eagles." He said, the falsely angry mask he had been wearing melting away to be replaced by a look of anxious excitement. Shielding his eyes with his hands, Edmund could see that the birds that circled overhead were indeed covered in the golden-brown feathering that marked them as part of the most elite sect of Narnian spies.
"They had to have found something to be calling like that." Peter paused, and Edmund noticed he was still shaking with the excitement of battle. "Cinilla," he called. The mare trotted gracefully to his side.
"Sire?"
"I have a task for you."
"Of course."
"Distract my sisters. Keep them occupied. You are Susan's archery instructor, correct?"
"Yes, sire."
"Make her training session longer today, and see to it that Lucy comes with her."
"It will be my pleasure." She bent her forelegs in a respectful centaurian bow and trotted away, shooing the various Narnians who still sat on the sidelines, eliciting a disappointed moan that the duel was over.
"That was a good fight, you know." Peter said, unwrapping Rhindon from its cloth cover and slipping it back into its sheath. His eyes flicked to Edmund and back to his work.
"Well, better on your part than mine." The younger brother felt blood rise to his cheeks. There was some part of him that always felt embarrassed accepting praise fom Peter. He started toward the castle, and heard his brother fall in behind him, hoping Peter wouldn't see the flush on his face.
"Really, Ed. You really only lost because you don't have as much experience."
"Be serious."
"I am."
"You're the best, Peter, everyone knows that. If I ever beat you, it'll be because you're blindfolded with both arms tied behind your back."
There was a brief silence. "You are stealthier. After all, you found me, not the other way around."
Edmund felt a prick of pride. "Well, I am quite good at that. That makes two points in which I demonstrate superiority."
"Two?"
"Stealth, and my ravishing good looks." He sprinted forward toward Cair Paravel, laughing, his sputtering brother at his heels.
"Report." A rough command, but the eagle seemed to take no offense at the High King's request. Instead, he bowed his head submissively. His voice, when he spoke, was choked and mournful.
"Forgive me, my king. I have failed you."
Edmund gave his brother a confused look. Failure? It was impossible.The eagles had returned faster than expected, and looking hale enough. Peter shrugged his shoulders in response and turned back to the eagle.
"We flew north, sire, for many days, and yet I can tell you next to nothing."
"Nothing?" Edmund interrupted. He furrowed his brow in disbelief.
The eagles all seemed ashamed, now. The first eagle burrowed his head under his wing, hiding his face. Another with long, sharpened talons spoke up. "Yes, sire. We saw the army, and there is a force, but we cannot tell you more."
"We are sorry, my king." The first eagle untucked his head long enough to speak, then thrust it back under his wing in an obvious sign of disgrace.
Peter stood frozen, unsure of what to do. This was not the first occaision that a subject had come to him with his tail drooping between his legs, or her weapons held out in front of her, begging for the High King's forgiveness for a task done wrong. Usually, however, there was no actual forgiveness necessary, as in the instance only a few days ago when a female horse had ambled up to him with her ears drooping and told him that she had failed in her task. The task? To accompany Susan on her morning ride. Her failure? She had been two minutes late. Needless to say, Peter had dismissed her with a smile, and the incident had been soon forgotten. This was the first time when it actually sounded as though a subject actually had failed. The reason for the eagles dispatch was to bring back information. If they had not…
He shook his head to clear it. "Nevermind that for now. Tell me what you know." The first eagle brought his head back out of its hiding place, but he kept it respectfully bowed.
"Your suspicions were very correct, your majesties. There was a force, ninety thousand or so strong, perhaps, gathered on the shore, moving slowly south, toward the Ettinsmoor."
"And you see their race, or what they were doing?" Edmund said, his rational and concise nature chafed by the eagles serene report.
"No, sire. I am sorry."
Peter looked dissatisfied. He thumbed Rhindon't hilt. "The attacks on the merfolk must have been under the hand of a competent general. Could you see anyone who looked to be in charge?"
"Alas, no. We did try, but there were archers, hundreds of them. They shot three of our kin."
"I'm sorry." Said Edmund. It distressed him to think that three of these noble creatures had only the Wild Lands for a resting place.
"For Narnia, sire. There is no need to be sorry." The eagle said.
Peter's fingers itched for something to polish Rhindon with. In times of great crisis, he thought, wistfully remembering the expression in Aslan's eyes when he'd given that particular bit of advice. "Forgive me," He said, after a moment. "But it seems that there has been no offense.You have brought us back more information than we had before, and confirmed our suspicions."
"Yes, sire." The eagle paused and took a shuddering breath. "But they…became aware of our origins." His golden eyes sank to the floor. His followers did the same.
"You mean…they knew you were from Narnia?" Edmund bit his lip, torn between disappointment and fear. Disappointed that the eagles, who had been unfailingly perfect spies had chosen this particular moment to slip up, and fear for what their mistake implied. If it truly was Jadis's army, under the direction of a competent leader, their response to the presence of Narnian spies would be immediate…and terrible. And judging by what they had done before being provoked…Edmund couldn't fathom the kind of havoc they would wreak now. "How?"
"We flew in pairs, sending only two at a time, thinking that a pair of birds would be a common enough sight that they would take no notice of us. They did, sire. They shot down Metar and Letar, and Hetan later, as they pursued us. We… we all carry your colors, High King, as a part of your army." He lifted one enormous wing, revealing a small patch of fabric nestled in the downy feathers where the wing met the body. It was indeed the red and gold of Peter's crest. "Any creature who was a part of…Her army will remember it."
There was a long silence. Then Peter nodded slowly, as though making up his mind about something. "Thank you, my good eagle. You are free to take your leave."
"Yes, your majesty." All three of them stretched their wings and disappeared throught the window, seeming almost disappointed that the High King had not tortured them right then and there for their crime.
"Ninety thousand?" Edmund questioned.
"Larger than I expected."
"Mm."
"I suppose there's only one thing to do, then."
"Tell Oreius to be ready at dawn?"
"Before dawn, hopefully." Peter shook his head. "The eagles really have made a mess of things. We might have gotten another week or two before that army started marching toward Narnia. They're probably already moving, now." His eyes drifted to the window, up into the blue of the sky.
"What are we going to do about them?"
"I don't know. I hate to punish them, they've already lost three of their comrades, but you know birds. They aren't going to let it go. You remember the time that poor little swallow accidently flew into you? We ignored the whole thing, and she started to pull her feathers out."
"She thought because we didn't punish her, we meant for her to punish herself." Edmund snorted. "Narnians are still stuck in the same mindset about monarchy they had when Jadis was calling herself queen."
"They are indeed." Peter straightened up. "I suppose I'll see you at supper, Ed."
"Where are you going?"
Peter's eyes left the sky and dropped down the pommel of his sword, a lion's head, mouth open in what could be either a war cry or a gentle smile, and seemed to change by the hour. After all, it didn't symbolize a tame lion.
"To pray." He said, and swept out of the room.
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