110 FIFTH AIR WAYS

Makalaurë cringed as she swung the bow back into line. "You shot me," he hissed. "Do you expect me to simply lie here? My leg bleeds, and if my collarbone is not fractured, then I'm Ungweliantë. Since you are apparently inclined simply to gloat over my suffering, I must tend my own wounds."

Susan considered this, but not too seriously. Yes, he had tried to attack her – but now he was incapacitated, and whether she was Queen Susan of Narnia, or Susan the Socialite, she wasn't inclined to let an injured man – or magical being – suffer.

Leaning her bow against a log, she unslung her quiver and advanced. She grabbed the knife Makalaurë had dropped, partly to get it out of his reach, but mostly to use. It had a strange curve to its blade, with delicate patterns traced on it, and an intricately carved wooden handle, but most of all, it was sharp. Bending over Makalaurë, Susan grasped the shaft of the arrow.