Author's note: The scripture passage is from the book of Revelation 18. I've always felt it fits Charn quite well. One word in the story is from a made up Charnish language I and others have been working on. And like always I own no part of Narnia. Please enjoy and review.

'Woe, woe, the great city, she who was clothed in fine linen and purple and scarlet, and adorned with gold and precious stones and pearls;

For in one hour such great wealth has been laid waste!'

"And the sound of harpists and musicians and flute-players and trumpeters will not be heard in you any longer; and no craftsman of any craft will be found in you any longer; and the sound of a mill will not be heard in you any longer;

And the light of a lamp will not shine in you any longer; and the voice of the bridegroom and bride will not be heard in you any longer;

Step in time, shields up, spears held aloft. Refrain from giving thought to the burning cold ring concealed around my neck, the only reminder of a life not of war. We are not men, we are tools sent out to the beat of a drum to fight their wars, it really doesn't matter on which side you fight; the outcome is the same, brothers fighting brothers, fathers fighting sons. What does it matter now? You are either a loyalist or a rebel. You are with her, or her, Jadis or Crilus, The tyrant or the witch. Me, who do I fight for? Does it really matter? I am just a piece of equipment, a means to an end, no different than a chariot or an arrow.

Soon it will be over, this killing and endless marching, the siege of Charn has ended. The gates are breached. Thus enters the princess Crilus, the beautiful, the younger, the harsh and cruel despot. Face covered in war paint, eyes set like stone upon the sprawling palace complex. She rides on, a fire in her wake sending those few women and children not called into battle fleeing for their lives. The city goes silent as the Wrag drawn chariot of Crilus comes to a halt. Decked in midnight blue and silver she rises and with her the hundreds of thousands of soldiers behind her drop to the ground. I am one of them. I am a soldier, I am hers even if I wasn't before, for who can stand against the victor. She speaks holding her spear high towards the deep orange sun. "Sanfer!" she shouts. Victory. Ha! Victory at the cost of a nation, an empire, a world. It is all at her feet and it is all spent.

Atop the royal balcony was Jadis, the older, the statuesque, proud, high and exalted Queen. Captured, she stands with two swords crossed before her swarthy neck. Yet her expression is calm, too calm even for her. I can see that this is not the end of this struggle for the throne of the world. I curse the Ancestors for bringing forth such despicable children. "Yes victory," said she, "but not yours."

With a quick motion of her wrists the guards are laying dead on the floor of the balcony and Jadis stands smug and tall, taller it seems than the ancient towers on either side of her. Her head is flung back as she speaks a word I can't make out, long, rambling, and it hurts, Oh it hurts! It suffocates. The air within merushes out of my lungs up and into her. All the air in the world seems drawn up and towards her as though she was breathing it all in, speaking while inhaling. I gasp for breath, my arms drawn towards my chest. I can no longer think as the crushing power of the word draws to an end. The Deplorable Word.

The ground is littered with the shells of over two hundred million tools.