The Dothraki khalasar charged across the grasslands with unshakeable confidence.
To them, victory felt imminent.
The Narnian cavalry had retreated, leaving a perceived gap in the center of the battlefield. All that remained beyond that opening was infantry—soldiers arranged in ranks armed with shields and spears. The Dothraki had always believed that no group of foot soldiers could withstand the might of a vast khalasar.
The khal threw his head back and laughed, shouting, "They're breaking!" as he raised his arakh high. "Ride them down!"
A chorus of voices responded, and the charge quickened.
Horses thundered forward, their hooves pounding the earth as dust billowed behind them like a storm, transforming the approaching cavalry into an overwhelming force of nature.
From his vantage point on the command ridge, Commander Thrain watched, unfazed.
With experience from numerous battles, he understood that momentum could be as perilous as any weapon. Once a cavalry charge reached full speed, altering its direction was nearly impossible. Riders relied on the trustworthiness of those alongside them to maintain formation, and when that trust was shattered, a charge could disintegrate in moments.
He lowered his telescope and turned to the infantry commander below.
"They're committed," he noted quietly.
A bugler beside him immediately sounded a single, clear note that echoed across the plains.
The infantry captain, hearing the call, slowly drew his sword. No shouts or frantic commands followed. His men had practiced for this moment countless times.
"Archers," he commanded.
The order flowed smoothly down the line.
Thousands of longbows readied at once.
Each archer took his position with practiced ease, grounding his feet and drawing an arrow from the prepared bundles behind him.
The captain kept his gaze fixed on the approaching cavalry, waiting.
One hundred and fifty yards.
One hundred.
Closer still.
He could now see individual faces. Warriors leaned low over their steeds, arakhs raised for the imminent blow. Their battle cries resonated across the grasslands like distant thunder.
Only then did he lower his sword.
"Loose."
The sound of thousands of bowstrings releasing filled the air.
A dark cloud of arrows ascended into the afternoon sky before descending.
For a brief moment, the riders continued their charge without concern. Then the arrows began to rain down.
The leading ranks vanished beneath the onslaught.
Some horses stumbled violently, instinctively attempting to evade the barrage, while others reared back in panic. Riders had no space to navigate, resulting in catastrophic collisions as the full-speed charge fell into disarray.
The unstoppable momentum that had surged moments before began to wane.
But the khal refused to decelerate.
"Forward!" he bellowed.
His bloodriders echoed his command, pushing the now-disordered formations onward.
The infantry captain raised his sword once more.
"Second rank."
New archers moved forward as the first rank stepped back to reload.
The movement was fluid, as if the entire formation breathed as one.
"Draw."
Thousands of bowstrings tightened.
"Loose."
A second wave of arrows soared across the battlefield.
This volley struck at riders already struggling to regroup. Horses diverged, forming smaller clusters that found themselves cut off from one another. Warriors who intended to charge in unison were now separated by large gaps.
From the ridge, one of Thrain's younger officers grinned.
"They're losing cohesion."
"They've already lost it," Thrain replied quietly. "They just haven't realized it yet."
Another horn sounded.
The third rank of archers advanced.
More arrows filled the sky.
There was no exhilaration among the Narnian soldiers. The archers simply executed the disciplined routine they had drilled for years.
Draw.
Loose.
Step back.
Reload.
Every action had become instinctual.
By then, the once-united charge had completely splintered.
While some Dothraki continued to push forward bravely, others hesitated, searching for nonexistent openings. A few attempted to regroup, but the relentless rain of arrows and the chaos of battle made communication nearly impossible.
Instead of a singular wave...
Hundreds of smaller groups approached the Narnian lines one by one.
The infantry captain watched carefully before issuing his next command.
"Shields!"
The sound echoed like thunder across the battlefield.
Thousands of shields clashed together, overlapping to create an impenetrable wall.
"Spears!"
Rows of spearheads dropped in perfect unison, converting the shield wall into a forest of steel.
The remaining horsemen instinctively slowed.
Even experienced warhorses hesitated before charging into disciplined lines of spears.
Some horses refused entirely, pulling away despite their riders' commands, while others swerved at the last moment, causing nearby riders to scatter.
The charge crumbled.
The captain nodded.
"Advance."
The shield wall moved forward.
One measured step.
Then another.
Farther out on the battlefield, the invading khal finally grasped the situation. His riders were no longer attacking a disheartened enemy.
They were now trapped between steadfast infantry in front and Narnian cavalry regrouping on both flanks.
With a sharp turn, he cried, "They're surrounding us!"
One bloodrider pointed toward the horizon, where Jogho's cavalry swept across the grasslands in wide arcs, closing in behind the invading force.
"It was a trap."
The realization rippled through the khalasar.
Warriors who had felt victory was theirs now frantically searched for escape routes.
Small groups began to break eastward.
Others fled north and south across the open plains.
The once-united khalasar that had crossed the frontier as a formidable force dissipated into disjointed bands of riders seeking escape.
Jogho observed the retreat from horseback, as several of his captains approached eagerly.
"Khal!"
"We can wipe them out!"
"They're fleeing!"
Jogho gazed at the retreating riders before slowly lowering his bloodied arakh.
King Harry's standing order rang clearly in his mind.
Protect the frontier.
Not your pride.
He shook his head.
"No pursuit."
His captains hesitated.
"But—"
"Our duty is complete."
The buglers immediately sounded the recall.
Across the battlefield, Narnian cavalry who had begun to chase down isolated riders pulled in their horses and calmly regrouped.
Even the defeated khal looked back incredulously.
"They're letting us go."
An exhausted bloodrider gasped.
"...Why?"
No one had an answer.
They simply continued riding east until the frontier faded from view.
The Narnian army wasted no time in celebrating.
Infantry officers restructured their companies while archers collected usable arrows from the field. Cavalry patrols scoured the surrounding grasslands to ensure no hidden enemy lurked nearby. Healers moved through the wounded, treating both riders and soldiers with impartiality.
Jogho eventually steered his horse toward the command ridge where Thrain awaited.
Dust covered both him and his mount, while dried blood stained the edge of his arakh. Despite the long battle, his demeanor remained calm.
"We held."
Thrain surveyed the battlefield before responding.
"You achieved much more than that."
Together, they observed Narnian soldiers working in unison.
Infantrymen offered water to weary riders while Dothraki warriors aided injured spearmen toward the medical tents.
The khal gazed toward the eastern horizon where the defeated riders had vanished into the vast grasslands.
"When I was young," he said quietly, "I thought strength meant outpacing every other khal."
He paused before continuing.
"Today, I learned that true strength can also involve knowing when to halt."
The defeated khalasar had scattered across the endless grasslands, fleeing in every direction to save their own lives. Victory belonged to Narnia, yet Commander Thrain showed no sign of celebration.
Without another word, Thrain closed his eyes. An eagle perched upon a nearby post spread its broad wings and launched itself into the open sky. Moments later, Thrain's breathing slowed as his consciousness slipped into the great bird's mind.
The world transformed.
With its impossibly keen vision, Thrain searched the plains mile after mile. Then he found what he had expected.
Camps.
The eagle circled silently overhead. Hundreds of tents dotted the landscape, surrounded by countless horses. Women, children, elderly men and women, slaves—those left behind while the warriors had ridden to war. They waited patiently for fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons.
When his consciousness finally returned to his own body, he slowly opened his eyes.
"I found them."
Jogho looked at him immediately.
"How many?"
Thrain took a moment before answering.
"Nearly forty thousand."
Silence settled over the commanders.
"So many..." one officer murmured.
Thrain nodded grimly.
"The warriors abandoned them. They don't know the battle is already over."
By late afternoon, several hundred Narnian riders approached the Dothraki camp.
The moment the lookouts spotted armed horsemen approaching, panic spread through the camp like wildfire.
"They're coming!"
"The enemy!"
Women rushed to gather frightened children into their arms. Elderly men reached for old spears and rusty swords they scarcely had the strength to wield. Slaves froze where they stood, expecting the worst. Several old women lifted trembling hands toward the heavens, crying prayers to the Great Stallion.
They expected slaughter.
Instead, the Narnian riders halted nearly two hundred yards away.
A single rider urged his horse forward.
Commander Thrain approached alone, his mount walking calmly across the open field until he stood before the frightened crowd.
When he spoke, it was in flawless Dothraki.
"There will be no killing today."
The words stunned them into silence.
An elderly woman stepped forward, her weathered face filled with desperate hope.
"Our men?"
Thrain met her gaze.
"They fought."
"They lost."
"They fled."
Several women collapsed where they stood, tears streaming freely down their faces. Others stared toward the endless grasslands, searching desperately for riders who would never return.
Thrain allowed them a moment before speaking again.
"I have no quarrel with women."
His gaze swept across the camp.
"Nor with children."
He looked toward the elderly gathered near the tents.
"Nor with old men."
Then his expression hardened ever so slightly.
"But slavery ends today."
Murmurs rippled throughout the camp.
"Bring them."
Several Narnian soldiers rode toward a fenced enclosure on the edge of the camp.
Inside lived thousands of slaves.
Their clothes hung in tatters. Their bodies bore scars from whips and beatings. Some were so weak they could barely remain standing, while others stared blankly ahead, too broken by years of suffering to hope for anything better.
When the gates were opened, none of them moved.
They believed another punishment awaited them.
Thrain dismounted and walked through the enclosure until he stopped before an elderly man whose wrists were bound by heavy iron chains.
"You're free."
The man blinked.
"...Free?"
"No one owns you anymore."
One by one, the remaining slaves stepped forward.
One by one, their chains were removed.
Some burst into tears the moment the iron struck the ground. Others simply stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had happened.
A young woman suddenly dropped to her knees.
Thrain gently shook his head.
"You owe me nothing."
He looked around at every face gathered before him.
"You may stay."
"You may leave."
"The choice is yours."
"No one will force you again."
Many openly wept.
For some, it was the first kindness they had received in years.
As more former slaves gathered together, Thrain noticed another group standing nearby.
Women.
Many wore clothing unlike the Dothraki. Some bore tattoos from distant cities, while others spoke languages unfamiliar even to the people around them. One woman clutched a frightened little girl tightly against her chest.
He already understood.
These women had not been born among the Dothraki. They had been taken during raids and forced into lives they had never chosen.
He addressed them next.
"You also have a choice."
"If you wish to leave, Narnia will protect you."
"If you wish to remain, no one will stop you."
For several moments, no one answered.
Finally, one woman stepped forward.
"My village no longer exists."
Her voice trembled.
"Where would I go?"
Thrain answered simply.
"Then come with us."
Another woman lowered her eyes.
"My parents died years ago."
"I have nowhere."
"Then Narnia can become your home."
Slowly, more women stepped forward.
Fear gradually gave way to cautious hope.
Not everyone accepted.
One older Dothraki woman folded her arms and glared at Thrain.
"My son will return."
Thrain regarded her kindly.
"I hope he does."
"I stay."
"So be it."
Nearby, an elderly man struck his wooden staff against the ground.
"We belong to the Great Grass Sea."
"We die here."
Thrain inclined his head respectfully.
"No one will force you."
Later that evening, Commander Thrain gathered his subordinates together.
Everyone turned toward him.
Thrain looked across the camp where hundreds of children played together. Some laughed despite everything that had happened. Others clung to their mothers, while many watched the Narnian soldiers with innocent curiosity.
"They come with us."
"All of them?"
Thrain nodded.
"Children learn what they're are taught."
"They still have time to grow into something better."
"The younger ones already smile whenever our soldiers smile."
One captain hesitated.
"What if their mothers refuse?"
"Then their mothers come too."
Thrain's answer came without hesitation.
"No child will be separated from a loving parent."
The following morning, the entire camp assembled before Thrain.
He looked over the thousands gathered before him.
"If you wish to build another life..."
"Narnia welcomes you."
For several long moments, no one moved.
Then a young mother carrying an infant stepped forward.
"I'll go."
Within minutes, the line stretched farther and farther across the camp.
Hundreds became thousands.
Freed slaves joined them.
Captured women stepped forward beside their children.
Many of the children gathered together, curiosity replacing fear as they looked toward the distant land they had never seen.
Only a small number chose to remain behind.
Mostly elderly. Old warriors too weak to ride.
Gray-haired women unwilling to abandon the memories of the lives they had built upon the Great Grass Sea.
One grandmother smiled sadly at Jogho.
"My sons will come looking for me."
"I must wait."
By noon, the great caravan began its journey toward Narnia.
Thousands of people walked beside wagons filled with blankets and simple belongings. Freed slaves carried the few possessions they still owned. Young mothers pushed handcarts while Narnian riders escorted the procession with quiet patience.
A little boy walked beside Thrain, glancing up at the skinchanger with wide eyes.
"Mister..."
Thrain smiled.
"Yes?"
"Are there really houses?"
"There are."
"Can everyone sleep inside?"
"Yes."
The boy frowned thoughtfully.
"Even children?"
Thrain laughed softly.
"Especially children."
The boy's face lit up with an enormous grin.
"I've never had a house."
"You will."
Author's Note:
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