With in a split second, instinct took over in Susan's mind as she ran to her saddle bag, retrieved her quiver and bow and then primed it in one swift movement. She stood, ready to unleash an arrow at anyone who dared raise a blade to her people and herself. Mentally she scolded herself for letting Father Christmas' gifts leave her side.
There was the sound of swords unsheathing from those with thumbs and the carnivorous animals in the party bared their teeth as the sound of hooves approaching grew nearer. With in a few moments, a party of ten men dressed in quilted armor and cloaks carrying some crest on a metal clasp entered sight. Still on her guard, Susan kept her bow raised. The rare sensation of adrenaline pumped through her and she was aware of only herself and those who threatened her.
A gilded silver litter came into view, strapped to four horses rather than men. It was a closed contraption, privacy granted by curtains made of the most beautiful and delicate blue fabric Susan ever saw. The bow remained primed to fire as a ghostly pale and delicate hand drew back the curtain. A beautiful woman, finely clothed looked down at Susan. The woman's auburn hair was coiled tightly in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her brown eyes looked haughtily on the party and a thin eyebrow lifted beyond her hairline. This woman had a noble brow and high cheek bones and absolutely no motherly aura about her.
She stayed in her place as she saw the group of weather worn (and seemingly hostile) Narnians. With the simple word to call on her guards, all ten bows were aimed at The Narnians. "Your Grace!" a voice called urgently referring to the woman in the litter, "I beg you to reconcider."
A look of recognition spread across her face, though she did not smile. "What brings you into my land, Waylon son of Ezekiel?" She wondered more to herself than the one who addressed her. "My royal husband sanctioned you to guide the human refugees back to Narnia. Not bring in a band of rag tag immigrants."
At the woman's word's Susan's head reeled. Did she refer to her royal husband? Her royal husband as in the King? But then that made her…suddenly Susan felt silly standing in the damp with her bow raised. What a first impression to make on the Queen of Archenland! Surely she would fail in her mission and Narnia would be ripe for rebellion or invasion. Waylon continued to explain, much to the young Queen of Narnia's unease. Why did the lad have to talk so much?
"…May I present Queen Susan Muriee Pevensie of Narnia?" Waylon continued. The sound of her name seemed so common compared to everything. The beauty of Rosaleen, the grandeur of her carriage, even her ladies maids made Susan feel backwoods. Waylon coughed a painfully loud reminder of what she was to do when she met with Archenland's queen as was custom. And certainly holding her at bow point while the fashionable gown was muddied and the once pristine hair that had since gone limp and out of the coil, was certainly not the right first impression. Realizing her place as was the custom of Archenland, Susan requivered her arrow and gave a flourished courtesy to the queen with the awkward mumble of "Your Grace."
Rosaleen waved her guards away and examined the so called eldest Queen of Narnia. She was but a child. A child left to run about wild. The girl's dress was wet and rumpled, her face streaked with sweat and mud. The wind had tangled her damp locks around her dainty golden crown. 'Surely this is a joke', Rosaleen thought to herself, raising an eyebrow.
From behind the makeshift umbrella one of the Peahen chicks whispered, a little too loudly, "I think we blew a good first impression, Mama."
XXXX
As Peter and Dashaunn drew nearer to the sharp bend in the stream, the air grew progressively heavier and fouler. Every fiber in Peter's being kept screaming for him to turn back. No sunlight dared reach the ground of this part of the wood. The trees were too thick to even let in a fraction of light. The trees branches reached out to touch each other, reminding the High King of a game he and his classmates used to play where they made a knot with each other's arms and then tried to untangle themselves as a team.
Dashaunn insisted on leading the way and was a few feet ahead of Peter when the man stopped dead in his tracks and with a stricken face, was gazing in a mixture of shock and horror to his right. Peter's sword went out with a hiss, ready to meet any foe but was stayed by Dashaunn's shaking hand. "Resheath your sword, my king. It was naught but my mind playing tricks on me." Peter did so and the two continued walking.
"What did you think you saw, Dashaunn?" the High King wondered but was answered by a shake of the head.
" 'Twas nothing, my lord." Dashaunn replied a little shortly, "For a moment, I thought I saw a pair of golden eyes glower at me from the brush. But as I said, 'twas naught but my mind. Never matter, the spirit dwells yonder." The man pointed to a small grove of willow trees as old as Cair Paravel itself. Clear water sprung out in torrents from the black rocks on the far side of a small stream. "Do you recall what I told you, my lord?" Dashaunn wondered in a tense whisper as if the rocks would over hear.
"I'm to be over specific, not cross the water and not look into his eyes."
"Yes. No matter what, don't look him in the eye. Folk around these part say that when one makes eye contact with the Spirit of the Wood, one will see the inner workings of his soul. And that could kill you."
Peter nodded in grim acknowledgement. His every fiber was shouting for him to turn back tenfold louder than it was before. Convincing himself that it was for the betterment of his country and to ensure his family's safety, he pressed on.
The grove was empty of any person of animal and after standing there for a moment, Peter looked over at Dashaunn. "Do you have any idea of how we are to summon this spi-" Peter's words were never spoken as a great wind filled the grove, expelling dirt in the air. When it subsided, a fearsome being stood on the other side of the stream.
It was a shapeless black from what Peter could see (he did not look beyond the knees) and though he dared not look up, the High King could feel intense eyes on him. He could not recall a fear more permeating than the fear that radiated from the Spirit of the Wood like a sick warped sun radiating heat. The horrors of Hitler's bombing of London seemed like a childish nightmare, long past and it took all of Peter's strength to not turn and run. Dashaunn didn't seem to be fairing any better. His brown eyes were locked firmly on the ground and his face was completely ashen.
"State thy business, Sons of Adam." The Spirit demanded in a raspy and stale voice. The fearsome noise that deprived the young king of any hope for life. He could see the candle of his short existence wane when ever the spirit addressed him. Peter felt that he had nothing to look forward to but misery, torture and death.
Closing his eyes to drive away the blind fear that had taken hold in his heart, Narnia's High King swore he heard the faint roar of a lion. Whether it came from his memory or if it was real, Peter could not discern. But he felt the warmth of hope tingle in core as it swiftly traveled to his limbs. What had he to fear? By the lion, he was the High King after all. Peter lifted his head and fixed his gaze on a willow beyond the black shape. "I am High King Peter Pevensie of Narnia. Your country requires your aid."
The creature let out a withering his and beside Peter, Dashaunn grew paler by the moment. "You have humor boy to think that a mere child can demand such a notion." It hissed in anger. "Do you not fear me, Son of Adam?"
The answer came quietly but with a surprising amount of strength. "No."
"And why not?" It questioned, clearly angered at the lack of intimidation. It swept across the stream and Peter swore he saw a glimmer of a sinewy arm flail slowly from the unknown depths of the deceiving stream. Dashaunn gave a slight whimper as he stumbled to back up against a tree, his eyes never daring to leave their vigil on the ground. "Answer me, Son of Adam." It threatened, "You try my patience."
Raising to his full height, Narnia' High King answered evenly, "Because Aslan own the land on either side of this stream."
"Aslan!" It scoffed indignantly, returning to hover above the stream. The sinewy arm before was not imagination as the full bodies of beautiful young women floated from the unknown depths. Their bodies were like corpses as the water moved their hair much like seaweed. Suddenly the bodies writhed in painful motion as if in excruciating pain. "Aslan has long since exiled me to this forest, letting me ruefully keep those who foolishly seek me out to intrude in my solitude. I leave Aslan to his and mine he leaves me. So has it been since I came to this land. Tell me, High King, why seek me out when you are so clearly with Aslan?"
"I need your aid to ensure victory on my part." Peter returned and continued explaining in detail the entire situation and what he required of the Spirit of the Wood.
After he had said his piece, the spirit was silent in thought. At length it answered. "Though not by my doing, the remnants of the White Witch's army will not attack for another fortnight. They are scattered and need to regroup. This shall give you enough time to bolster your fortress. It will mean nothing, however, with out my help. The come in masses that you could not imagine remains in your kingdom. Do I have your word that you will allow me to collect my due with out neither question nor deadline?"
"Yes."
At this, a portion of the Spirit's black mass turned into a human hand and extended it to seal the agreement. "Then let it be done and set in motion." Peter paused momentarily, briefly wondering what the payment would be. But the initial need and the reality of defeat spoke louder than any apprehension and so the High King reached out and shook the corpse cold hand of flesh.
XXXX
The still of the morning to come hung like a drape in the air as Clement snuck as fast as his dwarf feet could carry him to the tower. He opened the old wooden door with a small grunt and with a like one, closed it behind him.
"King Edmund has pardoned the wolverine with the condition that she stays confined with her pups for the remainder of the resistance." Clement announced upon entering.
His companion, the dappled captain of the guard gave a short snort. "Leave her. Her loyalty lies with her stomach. I will personally make sure that she does not reveal anything to that fool Oreius. Concentrate on getting control of the mines as swift as possible."
"The boy is one minded." Clement returned hardly, "Concerned with the safety of his sister at the moment and nothing else."
The captain of the guard reached into a concealed hole in the stone and pressed a small metal vial in the trembling dwarf's hand before suggesting that he remedies that, a cold grin embellishing his harsh features.
A/n: chap 11!!! Woo. Poor ending to the chap I know but I made a promise to reveal the perpetrators of Lucy's near assassination. Well, please review and thank you for those who did.