Eustace sat on the grass, cleaning his sword. He was still ashamed of putting it back in its sheath messy like that. Even when he’d helped hack of the Green Serpent’s head, he had remembered to clean his sword.

Of course, She wasn’t exactly human. Eustace still felt a bit sick when he thought about how he—well—he had killed that fellow.

It wasn’t even so much fear, though he’d certainly experienced some of that. No, all sorts of strange thoughts had rushed into his head when he’d looked down to see that Calormene lying all bloody and—dead—at his feet.

What was the soldier’s name? Had he really been such a bad chap, or was he just serving his country? Did he worship Tash, and had he ever had the chance to know Aslan? Did he hate dwarfs, or was he just following orders?

King Tirian had congratulated him, but Eustace knew it was just blind luck on his part that he had won the battle. He still wasn’t quite sure how he had defeated a trained soldier some years older than himself. He had just closed his eyes and prayed desperately to Aslan, and somehow, had succeeded.

“Some knight,” he muttered, polishing away at the curved blade. “Practically funked my first real fight, and now I wish I hadn’t done it at all.”

He put all his energy into cleaning away every trace of blood from the sword and making it as shiny as possible. When he finished, he felt somewhat better.

After all, those dwarfs were heading to slavery and death. If he hadn’t helped King Tirian rescue them, they would be in Calormen right now!

A knight had to protect the land and the people, regardless of how he felt. This adventure wasn’t anywhere near as exciting or daring as the first two, but Eustace knew that it was just as, if not more, important as they had been. Everything he did here counted: he was no longer in Edmund’s shadow, or fighting with Pole for the role of hero.

He was here to serve his king—King Tirian—and to help lead Narnia back to Aslan. Narnian knight or English schoolboy, it didn’t much matter anymore which he was. He was both and he was neither: he was just here to serve.

In whatever way he could.

Eustace was glad to walk with Pole on their final trip to Stable Hill. Earlier, before Farsight had found them, he had enjoyed walking and talking to Poggin. He hadn’t had much experience with Narnian dwarfs (aside from Trumpkin, who called him useless and said he smelled), and for a little while, chatting cheerily with Poggin about Narnian and English plants, he could forget the horrible things happening around them.

Now, though, the horrible things were there, and he needed the comfort of an old friend. Despite their many spats, Eustace knew he had no friend like old Pole. Which was why he confessed to her something he never thought he could say to anyone.

“Pole, I may as well tell you I’ve got the wind up.”

“Oh, you’re all right, Scrubb. You can fight.” Pole had never paid him such a compliment, and at the moment Eustace only wished we was worthy of it. “But I—I’m just shaking, if you want to know the truth.”

Though Eustace was embarrassed to admit it, he could only reply to her confession with one of his own. “Oh, shaking’s nothing. I’m feeling I’m going to be sick.”

Pole turned slightly green and begged him to talk about something else. Eustace couldn’t stop thinking about their plans for that night. They were all going to die, he just knew it. He had faced death before, but never with such certainty.

His cousins jokingly called him a pessimist, but Eustace doubted even they could find a way out of this mess.

Well, maybe Peter.

But Eustace wasn’t the High King; he was nothing but a secret knight with a queasy stomach. And all of the sudden he realized he didn’t want to die, he was too young, he had too much of his life to live, he hadn’t done enough yet. He’d never even said goodbye to his mother. She had been angry with him for running off to spend time with the Pevensies and Pole during the holidays, instead of going with her to another one of her lectures.

Eustace hadn’t wanted to fight with her, so he just dashed silently through the rain to the waiting cab, figuring he’d make it up to her when he got back.

Now he wasn’t going back, and he had so many regrets.

He couldn’t stand thinking about it in silence anymore, and asked Pole a technical question that had been bothering him for days. Maybe she had a better idea of what would happen after they were dead—whether they’d be dead in England, too, or just what.

Pole expressed her usual horror as Eustace’s practical way of looking at the most dreadful ideas, and ended with, “I almost wish—no I don’t, though.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say that I wished we’d never come. But I don’t, I don’t, I don’t.” Pole was very emphatic about this, even stamping her foot down for emphasis. “Even if we are killed. I’d rather be killed fighting for Narnia than grow old and stupid at home and perhaps go about in a bath-chair and then die in the end just the same.”

Eustace couldn’t help but feel better. Pole might be overdramatic about some things, but in this case, he thought her exaggeration was right on the mark. She was right: they were going to die someday, and what better way for a knight to go out then fighting for his land? After all, he knew where he was going: Aslan’s country. He’d been there before, to the mountain on top of the world.

Pole was still looking upset, so he hastened to assure her he was in agreement. “Or be smashed up by the British Railways!”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Well when that awful jerk came—the one that seemed to throw us into Narnia—I thought it was the beginning of a railway accident. So I was jolly glad to find ourselves here instead.”

And still am, he could have added, but he didn’t need to. Pole understood.

Better to die for Narnia than live without Aslan.

Eustace looked around, blinking. He couldn’t understand where he was. One minute, he had been fighting desperately, putting all his love for Narnia and his anger at what the Calormenes were doing to it behind every stroke. Part of him really wanted to cut the dwarfs down for their murder of the Talking Horses, but the logical, rational part of him knew that they weren’t the enemy.

So he fought, and fought, and fought, but the toll of the previous battle began to show, and eventually one soldier got in under his guard and dealt him a blow to the head that dazed him and sent the blood running down his face.

Still Eustace tried to fight, but he was half-blinded by his own blood. He was determined to go out fighting, though, as became a knight.

He finished off the soldier who had wounded him and turned to face yet one more. This was the largest Calormene he had yet seen, and he had the face of a hardened warrior. Eustace knew instinctively that this was the one who would do for him.

“Aslan, into thy paws I commit my spirit,” he muttered, the lines half-remember from something he’d heard long ago, maybe even in England.

The soldier knocked Eustace’s shield flying with one blow of his scimitar. The next stroke sent Eustace’s sword spinning across the grass. Eustace fell to his knees and prayed he’d go out bravely.

But the warrior—oh, the indignity!—didn’t kill him. Instead, he picked Eustace up and tucked him under his arm like a parcel as he ran toward the stable. Realizing that he was going to be used as an offering to Tash, Eustace kicked and scratched, using every dirty trick he had ever learned at school to try to free himself. Anything was better than ending in the stable.

It was no use. The soldier just laughed, and with one heave of his mighty arm, threw Eustace through the gaping mouth.

Which was when he blinked, and wondered what had happened.

It was … yes, it positively was bright! And he didn’t feel the slightest bit thirsty or hungry or sore or anything.

He put a hand to his head and tentatively fingered his wound. It was gone, without even the slightest bit of pain or blood to show it had ever been there.

Eustace was still sprawled ungracefully on the warm grass when he heard a light laugh. He looked up.

“Lucy?”

It was indeed: Lucy and Edmund, and Peter, and Aunt Polly and the Professor. They stood there, looking at him with loving amusement in their eyes.

Eustace suddenly scrambled to his feet and bowed low. He realized he was in the presence, not of his cousins, but of Narnia’s greatest rulers and heroes.

“I say, old chap, you don’t need to bow to us,” High King Peter said, striding forward and raising him up. He peered anxiously into Eustace’s face. “Are you all right, then?”

Eustace swallowed back tears. He would not cry! “I failed,” he said, looking past Peter at Ed—Edmund, the king who had knighted him, the one who had believed in him. “I couldn’t save Narnia this time. I’m sorry.”

Edmund laughed and jostled Peter aside to hug Eustace. “You silly ass,” he said affectionately. “You gave your all for Narnia. Isn’t that enough for you?”

Eustace felt relieved; all the weight suddenly lifted off his shoulders, and he laughed out of pure joy. He looked around. “Where are we? And what are you doing here? I say, you really are kings and a queen, aren’t you?” gazing with frank awe at their crowns.

Lucy smiled and came forward, taking something off his head and showing it to him.

“Eustace—so are you.”

Eustace looked at the crown. He didn’t deserve it, he knew, but there it was, another mark of Aslan’s grace to him, the lowest of servants.

“Sir Eustace?” he whispered to himself, while Edmund grinned understandingly. “King Eustace!”

Author's Note: Wow, major writer's block hit long and hard with this chapter! Here it is, and with it the completion of the story. Thank you all so much for your kind and encouraging reviews.

Oh--in case any of you are bothered by Edmund's use of the word "ass," I am using it as Lewis did, as another word for donkey, and not the American use, as a swear word.