Narnia's frozen climate couldn't be ignored. Even here, in this one valley where the weather still held at something close to temperate, the land's output was limited. Put bluntly—what the valley grew could barely feed the Centaur and Faun soldiers, and only at their current numbers. Let the mouths exceed the grain for even a moment and the entire food chain here would collapse.
Five hundred Centaurs, five hundred Fauns—those numbers weren't large because the populations were large. They were large because that was exactly what the valley could sustain. Narnia's actual long-term residents were the smaller creatures—the ones who needed less to live.
When the Beavers heard that Bella had taken up command and was gathering forces to strike the White Witch, they arrived at the camp with their tiny bows to join the fight. Bella had deep doubts about whether those little arrows could kill so much as a rabbit.
At present, the count stood at about two thousand on Aslan's side against the White Witch's three thousand.
The gap didn't look terrible on paper. In practice, the evil races hit far harder on average. Aslan's side—beavers, fox kits, fawns—were making up warm bodies. The real combat force on this side was the five hundred Centaurs and five hundred Fauns. One-to-three odds on actual fighting strength. That was Bella's real problem.
Magic was the obvious equalizer. Except the other side had magic too.
Coalition troops, individual soldier strength, and magical capability—all three axes were stacked against her right now.
Bella and the Centaur General talked strategy for half a day without finding many openings.
"Fight it out with that evil witch! Even in death, we'll make her understand that the will of the Narnian people cannot be broken!" The Centaur General had drive to spare, and his willingness to die alongside his men was admirable. But Bella shot down his plan to march outside the valley and fight it out in open terrain.
"We'll move to the river's mouth at the sea and deploy there. That's where we finish it." She was thinking out loud.
The Centaur General looked lost. "But the White Witch specializes in water magic. On the coast, her magic would be beyond anything we could counter by force of arms."
Bella studied the map of Narnia, thoughtful. "Funny coincidence. I also specialize in water magic. Still—your case for fighting inside the valley has merit. New order: we hold the valley and deploy here. Then this... then this... then this..."
She went to find Aslan. Through the captured wolf's eyes earlier, she had seen the plaza in front of the White Witch's castle—filled with statues. Those were Narnia's old rebels, frozen in stone. She needed Aslan to unfreeze them. A surprise force, held in reserve, decisive at the right moment.
"Agreed. Once the White Witch leaves the castle with her army, I'll wake the warriors." Aslan turned and moved off.
Bella understood her role clearly. Narnia's true king was still Aslan. She was, at best, the field commander. Once the pre-battle preparations were squared away, she told the Centaur General she would be briefly absent.
Even counting the rebels Aslan was going to wake, her odds of losing this fight were still around sixty percent. Summoning the ghost ship at the river mouth wouldn't be enough. She needed more allies.
The Extraplanar Locating spell still hadn't pinned down the material plane's coordinates. But there was one spatial coordinate she'd known all along: Senpou Temple, where Pyramid Head was stationed. Ashina.
That one didn't need locating. With a gesture she opened a gate, stepped through, and arrived at Senpou Temple—in a version of Ashina that was now close to the edge of Hell itself.
She sought out Ashina's lord, Genichiro Ashina.
"You once told me that if I ever needed help, I could come to Ashina for it?" She looked him straight in the eye.
This young warrior—competent at holding ground, less gifted at expanding it—was no longer the same man who used to imitate every move of Isshin Ashina.
He carried himself with gravitas now. Polite. Spine straight. "Of course. Where is the enemy?"
Ashina began mobilizing that same day.
Having absorbed a large number of warriors from the Interior Ministry's army, and being located on the edge of Hell itself, Ashina's standing forces had grown past three thousand. Of those, a solid three hundred were elite samurai. The rest were troops who had been through rounds of hard combat—a properly seasoned army.
Genichiro Ashina personally led fifteen hundred men through Bella's portal and into Narnia to join the battle.
The drums began.
Two white war bears pulled the chariot. The White Witch stood on its platform in a heavy robe of state, a crown of dragon-head design on her head, surveying the valley held by Aslan's coalition.
The mind poison hadn't fully cleared. The slime-green stain on her arm still ate at her composure. She had to wear gloves just to hide the shame.
That encounter had humiliated her. Once scouts reported movement in the valley, she mustered her full army. This would be the final battle for Narnia.
She raised her wand. The north wind howled at her back. Behind her, like a flood tide breaking its banks, her evil army surged forward.
Minotaurs. Minoboars. Orcs. Half-beasts. Giants. Countless others, no real formation, just a rolling wave of bodies slamming forward.
The coalition didn't meet them with a line-infantry charge. Under Bella's orders, they had set up three distinct phalanxes at the valley's southern mouth.
Fauns formed the infantry core, centered in the middle. Bella had scraped together every piece of usable armor in camp to equip them—barely.
Centaurs, who could serve as lancers with a spear in hand or cavalry archers with a bow, flanked the two wings.
Bella did not mount the Gryphon right away. She was wearing leather armor, longbow across her back, cross-hilted sword at her hip—dressed as a foot soldier. The coalition did have plate armor available, but it interfered with spellcasting too heavily. She wasn't going to pretend to be harmless by literally dressing as a sheep. That would have been stupid.
She watched the enemy formation closely. "Formation" was generous—they were charging in a disorganized swarm.
The White Witch's intention was simple. Use Minotaur shock force to crack the coalition line, then let the raw combat strength of the evil races win the hand-to-hand. Individual ferocity carrying the day.
The Minotaur General at the front of the charge was a piece of work. Massive. Heavy. A greataxe in his hands. He bellowed nonstop as he ran, clearly planning to punch through the coalition line single-handed.
"Amateur." Bella had no respect for that kind of brute approach. She overruled the Centaur General's impulse to counter-charge.
Not because she looked down on the Centaur General—but from the sheer impression of presence alone, the Centaur General would lose to the Minotaur General.
The Minotaur General stood over eight feet tall (around two and a half meters), wielded an axe the size of a cart wheel, and was packed with bulging muscle from crown to toe. That kind of creature was a human-shaped tank. If they let him reach the coalition formation unimpeded, he would carve a tunnel straight through it by himself.