The eastern border of Narnia had never depended on a wall.
The vastness of the grasslands made that impractical. The horizon stretched infinitely, appearing to roll on endlessly into the pale blue sky, even from the tallest hill. A stone wall could protect a gate, a road, or a city, but it could never effectively control the open plains. Harry had recognized this from the outset.
Thus, Narnia opted for watchtowers instead.
Numerous towers were erected along the frontier, each positioned on the highest ridges, staffed by trained sentinels who understood the grasslands as well as fishermen know the sea. They could differentiate between a dust storm and a herd of wild horses, as well as recognize the movements of traders, raiders, and a khalasar advancing without concern for being noticed.
Shortly before noon, one of these sentinels squinted toward the eastern horizon.
At first, the distant haze seemed normal. The plains often kicked up dust when the winds shifted. However, this cloud was different. It advanced against the wind, growing larger by the second.
The old watchman raised his telescope.
He remained silent for several heartbeats.
Then, he lowered it.
"Horsemen."
The younger soldier beside him tensed.
"How many?"
The watchman kept his focus on the expanding brown mass in the distance.
"Too many to count from here."
A moment later, black smoke spiraled into the sky.
The nearest western tower signaled back before the first group had completely formed up. Then another tower joined in. On the frontier, the warning spread swiftly from tower to tower, faster than any messenger could travel.
The Dothraki had arrived.
Several miles behind the watch line, Commander Thrain stood on the walls of a frontier fortress when the first signal reached him. He was a broad, calm man with greying hair and perceptive eyes. Among ordinary soldiers, his silence often felt weightier than shouts from others. Among Narnia's skinchangers, he was even more esteemed.
He observed the smoke rise and nodded slightly.
"So," he murmured, "they’ve chosen to challenge us."
A lieutenant hurried up the stone steps with a sealed message tube. "Commander, the eastern towers report a large khalasar. Their strength is estimated to be around twenty thousand riders, possibly more."
Nearby, several younger officers exchanged anxious glances. Twenty thousand Dothraki riders represented more than just an army. In open terrain, such a force was akin to a storm, something that had instilled fear in kingdoms for ages.
Thrain kept his voice steady.
"Sound the second bell. Implement the frontier pattern. No panic. Every unit follows the assigned plan exactly as rehearsed."
The lieutenant saluted and rushed away.
Once the officers began to disperse, Thrain closed his eyes.
To onlookers, it seemed he was merely lost in thought. In reality, his mind had already soared free.
High above the eastern plains, an eagle opened its golden eyes.
The world shifted.
The fortress disappeared beneath him. The ground beneath his feet transformed into air beneath his wings. Thrain ascended higher and higher, catching the warm updraft until the entire frontier spread out below him like a painted battlefield.
Through the eagle's vision, he perceived everything.
The khalasar swept across the plains like a massive, restless wave. Thousands of riders fanned out across the grasslands, their horses stirring up dust that dyed the horizon brown. Horsehair banners fluttered in the wind. Scouts ventured far ahead of the main force, followed by herds of spare horses, wagons, and clusters of warriors encircling the khal's central guard.
They were unhidden.
They assumed they didn’t need to conceal themselves.
That arrogance informed Thrain much.
The eagle climbed higher. From above, the forthcoming battle revealed itself clearly. Narnian patrols were withdrawing from vulnerable positions, not fleeing but strategically falling back along routes marked on every frontier map. Messengers rode west with brisk urgency. Infantry units were assembling beyond the low ridges. Archers took their positions on prepared ground. Reserve cavalry lay in wait, shielded from the enemy’s initial view by the gentle terrain.
Thrain’s eagle circled in the wind and surveyed the Narnian side.
Eight thousand Dothraki were assembling in an advance formation.
At their forefront rode Jogho.
The sight brought Thrain more satisfaction than he let on. Few months prior, Jogho had been just another dothraki, son of a great khal, fierce, driven by the relentless hunger of the Dothraki Sea. Now he rode with the assurance of a man who had learned that discipline sharpens courage rather than diminishes it.
Behind Jogho, his riders stood in loose yet intentional formations. They wore their traditional braided hair and leather riding gear, with arakhs still resting at their sides. Their horses were restless, stamping and tossing their heads, eager to move.
Yet every rider also donned a red-and-gold headband tied securely around their brow.
A small detail.
An essential one.
From the ground, some had initially ridiculed it. However, from the eagle's view, Thrain understood its importance. In the chaos of battle, color preserved lives. It informed archers whom to avoid shooting. It told infantry where allies were positioned. It allowed Narnian commanders to distinguish their own from the enemy, even amidst dust and disarray.
Harry had advocated for it.
Not to erase their identity, but to ensure they survived long enough to evolve into something more.
Thrain relinquished the eagle's sight and returned to his own body atop the fortress wall.
The wind felt heavier now.
The world appeared smaller.
His lieutenant returned.
"Commander?"
Thrain opened his eyes.
"They are coming as anticipated. Their scouts are widespread but careless. Their center is confident, their flanks self-assured. They believe we will be intimidated by their charge."
The lieutenant gulped.
"And should we be?"
Thrain turned his gaze to the east, where the dust cloud had begun to taint the horizon even from the fortress.
"No."
His voice was low, yet every officer present heard it clearly.
"We’ll allow them to think they understand the battlefield. Then we will demonstrate that they do not."
By late afternoon, the Narnian army had positioned itself along the frontier plain.
Jogho rode slowly along the front of his eight thousand riders, his dark horse snorting beneath him. He didn’t rally them with grand speeches or promises of glory. His warriors didn’t need that; they had heard similar words their entire lives. What they required now was steadiness.
A young rider tugged at the red-and-gold cloth around his forehead, muttering, "I still don't like this thing."
Laughter echoed from nearby warriors.
Jogho turned his horse toward him. "You don’t have to like it."
The young man straightened. "Jogho—"
"But our archers appreciate knowing which heads belong to friends," Jogho countered with a slight smile. "If you choose to ride without it, I may need to explain to your mother how a Narnian arrow mistakenly found its way to your skull."
The laughter grew louder, easing the tension within the ranks.
Another rider touched his own headband. "It feels strange."
"So did battle strategies," Jogho replied. "So did learning to wait when every bone in your body urged you to charge."
He surveyed the lined-up riders.
"We are still Dothraki. We still ride. We still wield arakhs. We still weave our victories into our hair. But today we do not ride to plunder. We ride to defend what is ours."
Expressions grew serious.
Behind the Dothraki cavalry, several hundred yards away, the main Narnian infantry stood in disciplined silence. Shield walls extended across the plain in well-ordered ranks, their polished shields shimmering in the afternoon sun. Behind them, archers checked their bowstrings and counted carefully arranged bundles of arrows at their feet. Reserve cavalry remained further back, concealed by a slope and ready to move as Thrain commanded.
A young infantryman stared at the approaching dust cloud in the east, his throat dry.
"They're really coming."
The captain, an older soldier with a steady voice, did not divert his gaze from the horizon.
"There are so many."
"There always are."
The young man tightened his grip on his spear.
The captain finally turned to him. "Look left."
The soldier complied.
"Now right."
He followed the direction.
"What do you see?"
The young soldier swallowed hard. "My line."
"Good. Keep that in mind. You are not fighting twenty thousand men. You're holding your position alongside the men beside you. That’s all."
The captain's words steadied him more profoundly than any grand speech could.
Far ahead, the invading khalasar finally emerged from the dust.
The Dothraki appeared like a dark wave sweeping across the grasslands. Horsehair banners unfurled above them. Sunlight glinted off arakhs and spearheads. Their war cries surged over the plain long before they reached it, wild and triumphant, the sounds of men who believed the world had always made way for them.
Their khal rode at the front beneath a tall black banner. Upon seeing the waiting riders before Narnia, he threw back his head and laughed.
"They send Dothraki against us!"
His bloodriders joined in the laughter.
"Slaves in colored cloth!"
"Riders who have forgotten the sea!"
The khal raised his arakh, and twenty thousand voices erupted in unison behind him.
Jogho heard them.
He did not respond.
Instead, he glanced back toward the Narnian infantry, the red-and-gold banners, and the frontier that had become a home to children who spoke both the old tongue and the new.
Then he drew his arakh.
The curved blade reflected the sunlight.
"Ride," he commanded.
Eight thousand Narnian Dothraki surged forward as one.
The thunderous sound of thousands of hooves rolled across the grasslands like an approaching storm.
The gap between the two khalasars closed at a frightening speed.
Dust rose behind each rider, making the afternoon sky appear hazy and transforming the golden sunlight into a soft glow that enveloped the battlefield. Horses snorted and strained against their reins, sensing the thrill of their riders. Curved arakhs caught the light as they were drawn from their sheaths.
Jogho led the Narnian riders at the front.
He didn’t urge his horse into a dangerous sprint.
Instead, he kept a steady pace, allowing the warriors behind him to maintain their formation, a lesson that Commander Thrain had emphasized.
A cavalry charge isn’t won by the swiftest rider.
It’s won by those who approach the enemy together.
The invading khalasar held a different view.
Their front lines surged forward, eager warriors aiming to be the first to achieve glory. The formation became uneven as ambitious riders raced ahead, creating gaps that widened with each second.
From a nearby ridge, Thrain observed through a polished brass telescope.
“They’re behaving exactly as we anticipated.”
A lieutenant next to him nodded.
“They’re faster.”
Thrain lowered the telescope.
“Speed without discipline opens gaps.”
He pointed at the enemy's advancing line.
“Watch.”
The two armies clashed.
The impact resonated across the plains.
Thousands of horses collided, breaking apart into a chaotic swirl of movement. Riders charged past each other in opposing directions, their blades flashing as they struck, parried, and turned their horses for another assault.
The battle did not coalesce into one large melee.
Instead, it fragmented into numerous smaller skirmishes.
Groups of ten, twenty, thirty riders.
Each vying for an edge before being engulfed by another nearby fight.
Jogho leaned low over his horse's neck as an enemy rider approached with an arakh raised high.
Their blades met with a resounding clash.
Rather than forcing the confrontation, Jogho allowed the momentum of both horses to carry them past one another. As they crossed, he twisted in the saddle and struck with the back of his blade, sending the enemy’s weapon spinning harmlessly to the ground.
Before the disarmed warrior could regain his footing, two Narnian riders rushed in, surrounding him and forcing him from his horse.
They continued forward without breaking formation.
This, too, had become second nature.
Years ago, every Dothraki warrior would have stopped to finish off an opponent and claim personal glory.
Now, they fought for the battle itself.
Not for individual glory.
Nearby, another Narnian rider faced two adversaries at once.
One attacked from the front while the other tried to circle around.
Before either could strike, three riders adorned with red-and-gold headbands broke from the main formation.
One intercepted the rider closing in from behind.
The other two flanked the remaining attacker.
In mere seconds, the enemy duo found themselves retreating.
Across the battlefield, the invading Dothraki began to recognize the difference.
“They fight in unison!”
One bloodrider exclaimed.
“They have each other’s backs!”
His companion scoffed.
“Then break them apart!”
Small experienced groups started to infiltrate the Narnian formations, attempting to isolate individual warriors.
For a short time, it worked.
Several Narnian riders found themselves encircled.
One young warrior was pushed back as three enemy horsemen attacked from different angles.
His horse stumbled.
The enemies grinned.
Then a horn blasted.
A sharp, short note echoed across the battlefield.
The cornered rider reacted instantly.
Instead of keeping his retreat, he turned his horse sideways.
An opening emerged.
Out of nowhere, six Narnian riders surged through the gap like a spear, splitting the surrounding enemies before they could react.
The surrounded warrior slipped neatly into the center of their formation.
Together, they galloped away, only to strike another section of the enemy line.
Watching from the ridge, one of Thrain’s younger officers blinked in surprise.
“They're using rescue formations.”
Thrain nodded with quiet satisfaction.
“Precisely as they practiced.”
The lieutenant smiled.
Below, the battle continued to spread across the plains.
Dust clouds swirled between the fighting groups, sometimes obscuring entire clashes before revealing them moments later.
The cacophony was unending.
The pounding of hooves.
The clashing of metal.
The shouts of riders urging their horses onward.
The piercing blasts of signal horns carrying commands across the battlefield.
Despite the apparent chaos, the Narnian cavalry remained strikingly organized.
Every few minutes, another horn sounded.
One long note.
Two short.
Three in unison.
Each conveyed a different message.
Shift left.
Close ranks.
Advance.
Withdraw.
Signals that had seemed superfluous when Harry first introduced them now enabled thousands of riders to react almost as one.
The invading khalasar had nothing comparable.
Their orders depended entirely on shouting.
And shouting was drowned out by the din of battle.
The khal finally realized something was amiss.
He stood in his stirrups, scanning the battlefield.
His warriors fought valiantly.
Many still gained victories.
Yet each success felt fleeting.
Whenever one group advanced, another Narnian formation materialized.
Whenever they tried to corner isolated riders, disciplined reinforcements appeared.
Months ago, when the Narnian Dothraki had begun training alongside infantry, many resisted the change.
They deemed formations cowardly.
They believed discipline dulled bravery.
Harry disagreed.
“A brave man who dies alone makes little difference,” he once told Jogho.
“A brave man who survives with his comrades can protect a kingdom.”
Jogho had never forgotten those words.
Now, as he guided his horse through another swirl of combat, he witnessed their truth playing out before him.
His people remained fierce.
Still fearless.
But now, they were also reliable.
He raised his arakh high.
A signal horn responded.
The nearest cavalry formations shifted position immediately.
Instead of continuing scattered skirmishes, they gradually began to drift apart, creating the appearance of a widening gap at the center of the battlefield.
The enemy noticed right away.
“They’re breaking!”
Several bloodriders shouted excitedly.
“Their center is opening!”
The invading khal laughed triumphantly.
“I knew it!”
He pointed directly at the perceived vulnerability.
“Through the middle!”
Thousands of enemy riders cheered loudly before urging their horses toward the breach.
From the ridge, Thrain smiled quietly.
“They've taken the bait.”
His lieutenant looked toward the widening gap.
“Our cavalry is withdrawing?”
“No.”
Thrain’s gaze remained fixed on the battlefield.
“They’re inviting.”
The enemy riders eagerly streamed into the opening, convinced that the Narnian line had finally begun to falter.
They failed to notice that the gap remained perfectly straight.
Nor did they see the disciplined shield wall waiting a few hundred yards beyond the cavalry engagement.
There, beneath fluttering red-and-gold banners, thousands of Narnian infantry stood completely still.
Their shields locked together.
Their spears held upright.
Behind them, ranks of archers quietly prepared fresh arrows from their bundles.
The infantry captain watched the approaching riders without a trace of panic.
He simply placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and waited.
“They're coming,” a young lieutenant whispered.
The captain nodded once.
Behind the infantry, reserve archers calmly stepped into their assigned positions.
Bowstrings were checked once more.
Arrowheads glimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
The enemy horsemen continued their charge, believing victory was finally within reach.
None of them realized they were riding right where Narnia wanted them to be.
Far behind the shield wall, Commander Thrain crossed his arms as the distance steadily closed.
“Now,” he murmured.
“The real battle begins.”