Beneath the Surface

The fortress grew bigger and infinitely more imposing as they approached it. The air grew thick with all manner of unpleasant smells until every breath they took threatened to choke them. Zia was left wondering if the drugs she'd been administered during her last visit had dulled her senses - she couldn't remember them ever being assaulted with anything this foul.

Tigran's eyes slid over to her as she grimaced. "Are you sure you want to do this? No one will judge you if you turn back."

She shook her head, pressing her hand over her nose. "It's a little hard to be frightened of something that smells this bad."

The doors loomed up before them; thick, solid and impassive. There was a great deal of shuffling and clinking of metal coming from the other side. Zia glanced nervously at Tigran. His face was a carefully composed expressionless mask. The other four Dryads looked at each other nervously, but Zia could see they trusted Tigran. Would they be there if they didn't? One of them, a young male, caught Zia's eye and returned her reassuring smile. The five of them jumped when Tigran raised his fist and banged loudly on the wood.

The shuffling didn't cease, but a gruff voice demanded, "What do you want?"

Before Tigran could speak, there was some kind of scuffle and a different voice spoke. The words sent a chill down Zia's spine. "The General is expecting you."

Tigran raised his eyebrows as though this was a pleasant surprise.

The doors opened inwards, surprisingly smoothly for things so massive, and a creature that looked like a warthog but moved around on its two hind legs stepped into view. He regarded the little group with amusement (if indeed he could experience human emotions) in his tiny black eyes.

"The whelps sent you, I suppose?"

It took Zia a few moments to realise he was talking about Edmund and Peter. Tigran, however, didn't skip a beat. "We come of our own accord. We wish to discuss an offer of peace with your … General, was it?"

The warthog squinted down at Tigran. "You're the one."

Tigran blinked. "Excuse me?"

By now some other creatures had gathered to peer at the visitors. They were all clad in some form of armour that, in some cases, was so ill-made that it barely fit at all, but hung off their strangely shaped bodies in a comical manner. This added to the fact that some of their faces resembled those of small rodents or toads and the overall effect was fairly ridiculous. Their wickedly sharp weapons countered the humour very effectively.

The warthog, who seemed to be some kind of overseer, waved them away like troublesome pests. "What're you lot gawking at? We're to pursue the whelps and their pathetic little army as soon as the General gives the word. There'll be punishment for any scumbag who isn't ready!"

The soldiers scrambled away and the warthog turned back to them. Zia glared at him, but inside she had begun to panic. If they didn't do something quickly, Edmund, Peter and the rest were as good as dead.

"Take us to him," she demanded in a loud voice.

Tigran gave her a look that clearly said she was supposed to leave the talking to him. The warthog, on the other hand, gestured for them to follow with only a fleeting suspicious glance in her direction. The crowd parted to let them through and Zia made a conscious effort to stare straight ahead. They made their way through the courtyard – which seemed full to the brim with soldiers – and up a short flight of steps. Then they were faced with another set of doors. These ones were decidedly grander than the others, clearly designed to signify that someone of great importance resided behind them. They stood wide open to allow people to come freely in and out. The small party were passed by several creatures - less evil-looking than the ones outside - with their arms (or whatever appendage they possessed instead) full of gleaming metal. Several glances were thrown their way; some were suspicious, some curious, and a few were outright sneers.

Zia kept close to Tigran's side. She tried to remember the way they had come, but the maze of corridors and stairs quickly made her head spin.

"How do you know we're not being led straight into a trap?" she whispered to Tigran. The thought had plagued her ever since they had arrived, and caused cold fear to twist her stomach into knots.

"I've planned for that." He said it as though it was the most basic thing in the world. "Let me give you a little tip: Always assume something is a trap until proven otherwise. Helps keep you alive."

"I'm sure it's not that simple."

He flashed a dark grin. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

When they finally came to a halt, they were instructed to remain in the corridor whilst the warthog spoke with the General. Just in case they tried anything, a couple of guards were summoned to stand on either side of them. The guards were barely taller than Zia, stout and covered with too much pink flesh for their squat frames. Yellowed teeth protruded from their mouths and grey fingernails curled like talons around the handles of their axes. Their snouts were swinish and their squinting eyes reminded Zia of a Mole she had once met, although she doubted they would be as friendly as the Mole had been.

"What are they?" she asked Tigran as quietly as she could.

Surprisingly, it was the male Dryad who had smiled at her earlier that replied. "Boggles." He spat the name out as though it had a vile taste. "They may look stupid and slow, but they have incredible strength. They could cleave one of us in two with an axe as easily as swatting a fly. They also have very good hearing," he added as the Boggle on their left turned to glare at him.

They sat huddled together on the cold stone floor for what seemed like hours. Zia's thoughts refused to move away from the huge army waiting in the courtyard. She hoped against hope that Peter had managed to gather his troops and get away, but something in the back of her mind kept her from believing it. Tigran sat beside her with his head resting against the wall and his eyes closed, looking completely relaxed. She wondered who he was trying to convince that he had everything under control. He certainly wasn't convincing her.

The door that the warthog had disappeared through opened again quite suddenly, causing them all to jump. The warthog grinned menacingly but held up a horrible, gnarled hand when they started to rise.

"You." He pointed to Tigran with a dirt-encrusted fingernail. "You are to come with me. The rest of you will wait until you are summoned. In the meantime, you are to enjoy the finest sampling of the General's hospitality." He motioned to the two guards. "Take them to the dining hall and tell the kitchen staff to prepare something … suitable."

"Wait!" Zia cried, struggling against the hand that held her wrist in a death grip. "Why him? What do you want with him?"

Tigran turned to her with a tight smile. "Do as you're told, Zia. There's a good girl."

Too shocked to form a retort, Zia could only stare as she was dragged roughly away. She saw the warthog open the door for Tigran and usher him inside, then they rounded a corner and he was lost from view.

Peter paced back and forth, pressing his fingers to his temples to soothe his growing headache. It had been almost an hour and a half since Zia had left and they were still no closer to making any kind of move. Edmund was now sitting up with his injured leg stretched out before him. It was wrapped in white linen from his shin to the middle of his thigh, making it impossible for his knee to bend. He scratched at the bandage irritably, frowning down at it as though it was the cause of all their problems.

A single question hovered in the air between the two kings: what was going on inside the fortress?

"This is ridiculous," Peter said finally, throwing his hands in the air. "If it weren't for her stupidity we would be halfway home by now."

Edmund didn't look up. "Don't blame her. She was only trying to help."

"Yes, but now we're stranded with an army lurking just on the horizon because you're being so infuriatingly stubborn."

"And don't take it out on me. This was your idea!"

"But you insisted on bringing her along. Now look where we are!"

"If I could stand," Edmund said in a low voice. "You would have my sword at your throat for insulting either of us."

Peter put a hand over his eyes. Guilt weighted Edmund's chest as his brother's shoulders sagged. "I didn't mean it…" Edmund started to apologise.

Peter smiled wearily. "I know. But we really do need to work out what we're going to do about this situation we're in."

Edmund nodded. "She's alive, Pete. I can feel it."

"Well, that's a start. Can you feel how long she intends to hang around before we can leave? Is she planning on getting captured again? Do I need to organise a rescue party?"

Edmund shot him an icy glare. "Stop it. Nothing you say is going to change the fact that I would risk my life for her."

"By risking your life, you in turn risk the lives of those around you. Can you live with so many deaths on your conscience just for the sake of one girl?"

"I never asked for anyone's help. I would do the same if it were you or the girls."

"Of course you would." Peter couldn't hide the note of affection in his voice. "But, as I'm sure you know, there's a very fine line between bravery and stupidity. You have crossed it several times already."

Edmund sighed heavily. By the Mane, he hated giving up. But this was one of those increasingly frequent times when his brother made an inescapable point. "What do we do, then?"

"You're leaving it up to me?"

"Do you see any other High Kings around here?"

Peter chuckled. The sound came as such a relief to Edmund that he felt his entire upper body relax. "Stay here and rest. I'll sort everything out."

A short while later the army was ready to move off. Peter hated to leave the bodies of their dead lying on the grass, but all he could do to deliver them into Aslan's country was bury their bodies under a mound and offer prayers for their safe passage. Once that was done, he sent orders for the able-bodied soldiers to arrange transportation for the wounded – the Centaurs were happy to oblige, just on this one occasion. The remainder of the Dryads glanced in the direction that Tigran had vanished. They were unhappy about leaving him to his ill fate, so Peter granted them leave to linger on the outskirts of the woods for a while in case of his return. Peter helped Edmund onto Philip's back, which took far less time than anticipated due to Philip's endless patience. Seren, too, stood by as they loaded as much baggage onto her as she could carry.

Eventually everything was ready. As Peter made his way back over to Philip, Edmund dropped his eyes to the Horse's neck. He felt his cheeks flush and hoped his brother wouldn't notice the direction in which his gaze had been fixed. Peter's fair hair was dishevelled and stuck to his temples. His face was a little pink and blotchy, but his eyes were bright and happy.

"Ready to go?" he asked cheerfully, rubbing Philip's neck.

"Yes," Edmund said, forcing a smile.

Peter regarded him for a moment and, when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly tender. "She'll be okay Ed. Tigran will look after her."

A familiar feeling swelled in Edmund's chest. Suddenly, he and Peter were children again. Peter was wiping away his tears and assuring him that everything would be alright – he would be there the next time the bullies picked on him. The same warm, brotherly tone that had been in his voice then was back. His smile was one of the most genuine and loving Edmund had ever received from him.

"Pete…" Edmund called to his brother as he started to turn away. He felt the need to thank him in some way, but there wasn't much he could do from the back of a horse.

A look of understanding came into Peter's eyes. He rested his hand on Edmund's knee, briefly, and then lifted it away again. Then he moved off to the front of the group to walk beside Oreius. Edmund took one last longing look behind him, and the party turned homeward.

The room behind the door turned out to be some kind of office. The walls were lined with bookshelves, but somehow Tigran doubted any of the books had ever been touched. A huge window framed by embroidered curtains was the second thing he noticed. The view beyond the glass was beautiful. He could see right across the marshes to the mountains rising up like proud warriors, their peaks touching the cornflower blue sky.

Unfortunately, the view to the left of the window was a lot less appealing. A huge, shaggy creature sat behind a large desk with its mud-caked hooves resting on the wood. A smile – if it could be called that – appeared on its ugly face when Tigran's eyes fell upon it. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The warthog stationed himself in front of it, arms folded and legs planted apart. There was no getting out that way, unless Tigran was prepared for things to get very messy.

Neither Tigran nor the General spoke. Tigran was sure they were engaged in some sort of stare-off. The Minotaur was sizing him up; not that there was much point – he probably thought he could snap Tigran's neck as easily as breaking a tooth pick.

"I've heard a lot about you." The Minotaur's voice was so deep that every word was a growl.

"Really? I've never heard anything about you."

The General shook his head in amusement. "Apparently you made short work of breaking those plant-girls out of my dungeons. I'm impressed."

"Most kind of you," Tigran murmured. He stepped up to the desk and ran his finger along the varnished wood. The desk was huge – he wondered how many trees had had to be felled to construct it. "But I'm almost positive you didn't bring me here just to express your admiration."

"You have a quick tongue," the General observed. "No doubt it's hereditary. Although a rare skill such as you have with a sword must be learned from somewhere. Who was your tutor?"

"I come from a clan of Dryads living in Western Wood. I learned everything I know from them."

"Those woods are full of nature spirits. What was the name of your leader?"

"Why do you want to know?" Tigran snapped, growing tired of the interrogation.

"I'm merely curious," the General replied, in a tone that suggested that was far from the truth.

Tigran cocked an eyebrow. "You're not the only one. I want to know what you and your gang of brutes are planning and what you want with the Kings and Queens."

The General laughed. It was a deep, rumbling laugh that sounded like booming thunder. Tigran immediately hated it. "I'm not sure I appreciate your calling us brutes. We are merely humble servants. As for what we're planning, you must be one of us to know that, and you're not."

"Is that so? Why am I here, then?"

"I want you to join my army."

Tigran jolted as though he'd been shot in the chest. It was very difficult to truly take him by surprise - he had always been proud of that - but he was certain that his shock was justified this time. The only word that would come out steadily was, "Why?"

The General raised his meaty arms. "Was I not complimentary enough of your skills? Would you like me to continue?"

"No," he said quickly. "If that's all you want from us, what are you going to do with my companions?"

"I believe it's a wonderful stroke of luck that charming redhead has made another appearance," the General replied with the hint of a leer in his eyes.

"You think she's charming?" Tigran screwed his nose up. "I suppose, if you get past the fact she's so reckless it borders on frustrating, and she seems to know so little about the world that you feel obligated to protect her from her own naiveté -" He snapped his mouth shut with a clack.

The entertained expression hadn't budged from the Minotaur's face. Tigran found it a little disconcerting that Minotaurs could manage to look anything except angry.

He cleared his throat. "Why should I accept your offer?"

The Minotaur shrugged, as though the conversation had grown dull. "You seem like a smart boy, work it out."

Tigran snorted at the word 'boy'. "I'm probably ten times your age."

He made a gesture as though to brush off the comment. "I haven't got all day."

"If I agree, will you let the others go?"

"So we're striking a deal now?"

"Seems that way. How badly do you want me in your army?"

The General sat back, swinging his legs to the floor. "You're a tough man to please. I let your friends go, and in return you get to be my second-in-command. That seems like a one-sided agreement to me."

"But you said yourself you're in awe of my skills," Tigran pointed out, trying to keep his voice from rising in excitement. He could never resist the lure of leadership power. "And from the looks of the rest of your warriors, you could use someone like me to set an example."

"As much as it frustrates me, you're right."

He stood up and walked slowly around the desk. His hooves made resounding clopping sounds on the floor; they echoed in Tigran's head, perfectly with the beat of his own heart. The General extended his huge hand. Tigran tried very hard not to think about what else it had touched as he shook it.

"You must swear allegiance to the Queen before you can officially join us, but I'm sure that won't be a problem."

Tigran shook his head and grinned. "No problem at all."

Zia and the four Dryads were escorted mercilessly into a spacious, sparsely-furnished room. It was occupied solely by a huge dining table and a total of twenty-two chairs. A huge chandelier, hideous in its bulk, hung from the ceiling directly over the centre of the table. It seemed far too heavy to remain attached to the thin chain and immediately cast an uneasy atmosphere over the room, lest it suddenly come crashing down on their heads. The walls were hung with a heavy-looking material. It was the colour of blood and elaborately embroidered all over in gold. The patterns were all harsh lines and sharp points, as though they had been carved into the material with a knife. The window offered a meagre view of the other side of the fortress across an inner courtyard much larger than the one inside the gates.

Five places had already been set at the table, but there was no sign of any form of cutlery. Zia grimaced as a horrific mental picture of what meals were like filled her head. The Boggles practically pushed them down into chairs and one of them disappeared, presumably to bark orders at the kitchen staff. Zia was unsure whether they could even speak; they seemed only to be able to utter guttural grunts and snorts.

Three of the other Dryads – Zia only now noticed they were all male - were looking around at each other with frightened eyes. The fourth – the one seated next to Zia - was staring down at his knees. His lips were moving rapidly as though in prayer. As though sensing her eyes on him, he looked up at her face. Zia glanced round at the rest of the small group; all of their faces wore expressions depicting varying stages of defeat.

"There are only two of them," Zia whispered to her neighbour. "And there are five of us. We could take them down easily!"

"They took all of our weapons," he reminded her, glancing mournfully to the corner where their precious effects had been carelessly dumped. "Even if we got past these two, this place is crawling with hundreds, maybe thousands more. How would we get out?"

His voice was full of despair. Zia ground her teeth in frustration. These were the finest warriors Tigran could find? They had all given in as soon as their captain was no longer present!

"Anything is better than just sitting here waiting," she hissed.

A raspy sound like the clearing of a throat caused her head to jerk up. The Boggle that had remained in the room was standing a few feet to her right, leaning leisurely on his axe. As she watched, he tauntingly ran a yellow claw down the edge of the blade. The gesture alone was enough to make Zia's mouth snap shut and her head tilt down to stare at the scarred tabletop.

When she looked up again there was a large silver platter on the table. It was covered with a silver lid; one of the Boggles was smirking as he stepped forward to lift it off. A fetid stench filled the room, groping down Zia's throat and almost making her gag. Covering her mouth, she gazed in horror at the mound of steaming filth in the centre of the table.

The Boggles began to laugh. It was a squealing, grating sound that hurt Zia's ears, but she daren't cover them - that would mean taking her hand away from her face.

"What's the matter? This stuff's perfect for trees," sneered one of the Boggles. He stuck his finger deep into the pile of muck, and then held it under one of the Dryads' noses. He looked younger than the others and far less experienced. He tried hard not to let his face slip, but the way his features twisted only spurred the Boggle on. He grabbed his chin and tried to force his mouth open, guffawing hideously. The boy's eyes searched the room desperately before landing on Zia's. They were moist and pleading. The sight filled Zia with fresh determination.

"Enough!" she cried. Rage carried her to her feet, and in a moment of surprise both Boggles turned to gawp at her. She looked from one of them to the other, her hands balled into shaking fists. "Leave him alone!"

The Boggles exchanged smirks and laughter, then one of them spoke. "The girl's right, we're supposed to be guarding them, not playing with them."

The second Boggle looked indignant but obeyed. He wiped his finger on his tunic and huffed.

"Make her be quiet," the first added as a lazy afterthought.

Zia tried to duck out of the way as the creature's arms swung for her, but she was just a little too slow. Her shoulders were caught and razor-like nails dug into her flesh. Her arms were wrenched behind her so sharply that she cried out, and something rough sawed at her wrists until she couldn't move them.

"Keep still now, or I'll bind your legs, too," her captor snarled in her ear before shoving her roughly back into the chair.

Looking helplessly down the table, Zia caught the eyes of the tormented boy. His mouth formed a pained but grateful smile before they closed tight. His shoulders were trembling.

Zia's own eyes stung. Desperation and loss were causing moisture to build up in them. She forced her lids not to close; she would not allow the tears to fall. She'd heard somewhere that Human tears tasted salty, and realised she couldn't recall her own tears ever tasting of anything.

All the times she had felt a heart beating in her chest, a stomach trembling in her abdomen, or a pair of lungs burning, those feelings were mere echoes of what she would feel if she were human. Perhaps that was why she had been so drawn to Edmund and the other Pevensies – and Alex – in the first place. They were full of powerful emotion that drove them in whatever they did. Dryads, and other beings of nature, although capable of becoming very old and wise, simply could not contain such fire inside themselves. Watching other beings be so at the mercy of their souls was fascinating, and Zia continued to be enticed into their midst no matter how much time she spent around them. Humans never failed to surprise her.

That single thought brought her mind back to her present predicament: What she needed most now was for Edmund to decide that his feelings for her were more important than whatever orders Peter barked at him and come bursting through the door to rescue them all. But the longer the silence stretched on, the more that hope dwindled. He had let her down before and he could do it again, no matter what he promised.

Hope – another human wonder. It was bewildering to Zia how one emotion could cause people to do often unlikely things: Edmund searching far and wide for her in hope that she would return; Pelerine growing closer to Edmund in the hope of forgetting her heartbreak; Alex setting off for Archenland with hopes of a better life; herself, sitting on the floor of that cold and lonely dungeon, hoping for Edmund to come and save her.

She had never given it much thought before, but the human tendency to rely on simple hope had played a big part in her life since she had met the Pevensies. And now, she decided, definitely wasn't the time to let it go.