Chapter Thirty-Eight : The End of Innocence
Susan's decision to wind the Horn had not been taken lightly. When Peter drew Rhindon it was with a casual ease that was terrible to see – and, oftentimes, it had been more of an effort to make him sheath it. Lucy would have healed the world if she could, yet she knew that every drop of the Fire-flower Cordial was precious and should only be used in the direst of situations.
Of course, she had used nearly a third of it after the Battle of Beruna saving the lives of those in Peter's army that could be saved . . . now Susan came to think of it, had any of the Narnians died at the Battle of Beruna? Certainly, someone should have done – and certainly they must have done. But she couldn't remember seeing a single body – she realized with a start as she knelt in the cold darkness of pre-dawn in her chamber that Aslan must have shielded them all from it.
Or, at the very least, shielded her and Lucy from it. She knew, better than anyone else now, the horror of war. She had come through it unbloodied but bowed, forever changed by her experiences.
Was this why she and Lucy had been given a finite supply of their gifts by Aslan? The Fire-flower Cordial would one day run out and she herself had shot the last arrow from her gifted sheaf that very morning.
She had winded the Horn once before – when that wolf snapped and ravened at her feet as she dangled from the tree, barely conscious and on the verge of fainting. And then her brother had swept in – as pale as her and perhaps more afraid – and his life had never been the same again.
He'd felt exactly what she had, hadn't he?
She looked at the edge of her golden sword – seeing the notches and dents in the razor-sharp edge where it had struck bone and steel. She spun the weapon in her hand and ran the edge of the blade through the lamplight. It caught it, sparkling and fracturing like stars rolling down a frozen river. Rhindon never chipped, never seemed to need sharpening.
Peter had never had a single doubt in his life.
Susan reached for the Horn at her hip, her fingers lingering above it and then shying away at the last possible moment. There was a fear in her heart that the magic of her Gifts was finite, that there would come a time when they were used up. Like arrows from a quiver or Cordial from a phial, there would come a time when she would wind the Horn and nothing would happen.
What help would come this time? She had sent letters to all the allies she had and we within range of aiding her. Aslan did not need to be called.
But this was not about what he needed, she realized with a light-headed clarity she scarcely recognized, this was about what she was told to do. She had been given the Horn to call for aid – why had she been given such a thing if not to use it?
She reversed the blade again, leaning her forearms on the quillons, imagining Peter and Edmund and even Lucy doing just the same thing at the same time – she knew pre-dawn rituals were an inevitable habit of the brothers when they were at war, and Lucy would be copying her eldest brother – and closed her eyes and tried to center herself.
Was the Horn truly enchanted? She had blown it once and Peter had heard it. Was the Fire-flower Cordial really magic – or was the juice of the berry merely a potent healing elixir? Perhaps Rhindon was just a sword forged by a master-smith.
She shook her head – it didn't matter. This wasn't about enchantments and magic – when she lived in a world where trees walked and animals talked and her General was a Centaur, enchanted ceased to mean anything. Her breakfast was magical because it was prepared by Fauns and Dryads. The question wasn't, Is this a miracle? but rather, What does it mean?
What was she supposed to do here? She had a Horn that would summon aid – mundane or magical, it was of no consequence. Why was she given this if not to call for aid?
I have brought my people home. I have done all I can. I have called for all the aid I think will come. Blowing the Horn is pointless – if there is any more aid to be had, then Aslan would call it himself. To suggest that the protection of the country he died to save depends on what I do or do not do is madness.
But the simple truth of the matter eluded Susan's conscious mind – aid would only come if the Horn was blown, and aid would come, because the woman who was Susan Pevensie could no more neglect her duty to obey than she could fly in the air.
"I am a creature of free-will," she said aloud to herself as she stood and sheathed her sword, taking the Horn in her hand as she walked towards the highest tower of the Cair, dawn blushing over the sea. "And I choose to obey. Behold the handmaid of the Lion."
oOo
Hylonome started awake as dawn washed over the island of Felimath. The last few days – since the devastating ambush and strike against the village – had been an enjoyable romp over the island. She had organized search parties to scour the ground, hunting out any of the Governor's forces that might remain there and meeting with the shepherds and carrying the message of salvation to them.
After spending – on Rumpledore's orders – the first day after the battle off her hooves to give her ankle and arm a chance to heal, she had lead the fastest of the parties herself, Publius jogging alongside her, his wind-purpled cheeks puffing with the effort. She had tried to be a good Centauride and not shout at the shepherds when they called her "Monster", but it was very hard not to.
Her mind was foggy, blurred with horsey dreams and inhuman desires. She lifted her torso from the dewy grass, pushing the blanket off her and rolled to her hooves. What had woken her? The dawn light was not yet bright enough to do so.
A memory of what had woken her twitched at her ears – a leaping, desperate musical tone, a horn winded at the very edge of awareness, distant and yet crystal clear. She looked around her, expecting to see her command starting awake and responding to what she thought was the raised alarum. But everyone was fast asleep.
Except the Lion.
He stood on the top of the little rise just to the east, the rising sun haloing him and making his mane into a corona of flaming gold around the eclipse of his massive body, larger than she remembered it. With a whinny of joy, Hylonome cantered over to him and drummed her hooves.
"Aslan!" she cried joyfully, "It's you! It's really you!" She danced and pranced around his immobile form, wanting him to romp around with her like he had before, a thunderstorm of golden-fur. "I got my first command, and I'm a Knight of the Table and . . ." She paused, for the Lion was deadly still, his eyes patient and a little sad, waiting for her to finish. Her voice trailed off.
"I know, little one," he rumbled, "you have done just as well as I knew you would." Hylonome stilled herself, waiting for him to speak. Somehow, she knew that the events of the crusade had truly changed her from the flighty foal she had been to the mature mare she now was. "But danger presses on Narnia," continued Aslan, "Cair Paravel is under siege and will fall unless help comes to her." Hylonome gulped and her horror washed over her face.
"But, General Oreius – and Queen Susan – are there!" she exclaimed. And then her brows drew together in consternation and her little mobile ears flickered and twitched. "But . . . but, Aslan, how am I supposed to help them? I mean, I want to, but I'm weeks from Narnia and I . . ." Her voice trailed off as the Lion growled.
"Little one," the said with the very edge of a snarl, "what are you?" She put her head on one side and considered.
"A messenger?" she said uncertainly.
"And what, then, do I expect you to do?" growled the Lion. Despite her current situation, Hylonome did what she always did when she was asked questions she did not know the answer to – she closed her eyes and imagined herself romping again with Aslan. The sensation was different – no less joyful, but not as light and as free as before. Like the shift from cotton and linen to leather and mail, the change from fruit cordials to heavy wines, the moment when the stick of green willow was set aside for the elegance of a steel blade, something had grown and altered within her experience and perception. She didn't feel like she was playing on the seashore with him any more – she felt like she was swimming out to unplumbed depths with his paws under her shoulders and girth.
"I'm . . . supposed to tell King Edmund?" she asked hesitantly. A seemingly-satisfied purr rumbled from his cavernous chest and he bent his head and licked her forehead, a warm delicious smell enveloping her. She swayed slightly, closing her eyes.
When she opened them, she was alone, with just huge footprints pressed into the soft turf in front of her. She turned, twisting her athletic torso around. The rest of the Narnians and the few shepherds with them were still asleep, the odd sheep visible on the distant slopes beginning to wake and crop the grass. She span around and cantered over to Quagloom, shaking the Marshwiggle awake.
"What!" he grunted, his muddy-complexioned face started out of sleep, "Are we under attack? It is a storm? Is King Edmund dead?"
"No," said Hylonome briskly, "Cair Paravel is under siege." She had a moment of brief satisfaction seeing the Marshwiggle outdone in his predictions of disaster by the actuality. It was probably only sleep that made him ask the question that no 'Wiggle would normally ask;
"Are you sure?" She nodded.
"Aslan was just here and told me this." For a second, the Marshwiggle looked at her carefully, and then nodded. For all the Marshwiggles' dour grimness and tendency towards pessimism, there were few in Narnia with such a devotion to the simplicity of Aslan's mission for them. To a 'Wiggle – although they were convinced it was bound to end in failure and disaster and death or worse – carrying out Aslan's wishes were a given. Their pessimism was geared towards the personal – they were convinced that it wouldn't be to their liking. Their whole idea of "putting a brave face on it" was really just their way of making their desires conform to the world rather than the other way around. It was, perhaps, simply a recognition of quite how far everyone had to go in order to accept what was best for the world was perhaps not best for them. There were, truth be told, very few unhappy Marshwiggles. They found a contentment in their simple lives – a few helpings of eel-pie, a pipe or two of muddy tobacco and the chance to do the will of Aslan and they were happy.
"I must inform King Edmund immediately," said Hylonome. Quagloom nodded again.
"Ten to one you'll be too late," he moaned, getting to his webbed feet like a spider unfolding itself after a fall, "but no harm in trying I suppose. King Edmund is probably dead or captured by now – most likely it's just us few left on this island who are alive. I don't think it's a very salubrious climate here, do you? Bound to lead to rheumatics and brown-chitis and whatnot. And with the Cair under siege, why, that means the whole of Narnia is probably taken!" He rubbed his big frog-like hands together with a ghastly cheerfulness.
"Yes, well," said Hylonome, trying to not let her worries that he might very well be right show on her face. "On the off-chance that this has not happened, can you get the troops over to Narrowhaven? I'll get over to Doorn immediately." The Marshwiggle nodded, and then his gulp-mouthed smile widened, threatening to crack his face like a dry riverbed.
"I told you we'd need those boats," he gloated. "I can fish 'em out, but it'll take time. How are you planning to get over there without them?" Hylonome snorted and tossed her mane, fixing him with a flat-eyed stare.
"Swim," she said shortly.
oOo
Elizabeth yawned as she walked down the grand staircase of the Governor's mansion of Narrowhaven, trying to get oxygen into lungs starved of it by a night all-but untroubled by slumber. Rapine – appointed Marshal of the Lone Islands by the new Governor and with the blessing (although not without regret) of the King – padded alongside her, having slept curled at the foot of her bed for the past two nights.
Rapine had been appointed Marshal at the Liberation Day party, a celebration which had seen Magdala named Countess of Avra and the position of Admiral of Narnia bestowed on Pearl. Somehow, Michael and the troops (whom Elizabeth was certain he had given leave until noon the next day) had managed to clear the courtyard of corpses in a few short hours. The wine had flowed and the music had rung long into the night, but the Warlord had been conspicuous by his absence. Or, rather, Elizabeth had not noticed him – and had not noticed he wasn't there either.
She was beginning to realize she did that – she only paid attention to him when she needed him, and she began to hate herself for that. He was her friend – he'd saved her life more than once and although he could be harsh and unyielding and brusque, he was kind . . . well, no – kind was not the word for it. Just, perhaps; decent, humane. She was well-aware of the fact that he got the best out of his soldiers by simply doing what they did but ten times better, and she began to realize that his moral guidance was exactly the same. For the Warlord, everything was war, of one sort or another.
The next morning had – both she and Edmund (and, if the truth be told, the majority of the Narnians and Islanders) assumed – dawned bright and clear, for when they did awake at mid-morning from stupors that were half-hangover and half-exhaustion it was to a clear sky to the north, with few if any clouds scudding over the scrubbed blue. To the south a great cloud of smoke was rising – a vast pyre built on the Warlord's orders the night before, cremating the bodies of the Monsters. The perpetual spiral winds of the Bight of Calormen cyclone whipped from the north and bent the column of greasy smoke away from the city, curving through the flat sky like cream in coffee.
That afternoon had been sombre – the bodies of the Narnians and the human soldiers of the Governor who had been killed in the assault on Narrowhaven, and there were many of them, were interred in a grave on the hillside to the east of the city. Over two hundred soldiers – the majority the human servants of the Governor, but many Narnians who should have lived long years merrily in the cool woods of their homeland – were lain to rest in an old quarry, a vast cairn built over their corpses from the shattered remains of the walls. As the surviving Narnians and the newly-freed Islanders carried the stones cut into manageable chunks by Dwarfish tools, Edmund and the Lantern Waste elite – the King sombre in black silk and purple linen – lead the funeral dirge in mournful howls that sent shivers down the spine.
Edmund had spoken briefly over the cairn - his voice weary and weak with the exertions of the last few days – Elizabeth standing beside him, the crimson cloak of the Governor of the Lone Islands being lifted from the black velvet she was wearing underneath it by the perpetual, scouring wind. In silence, Narnians and Islanders alike drifted away into the night, leaving Michael standing guard alone by the grave until full darkness came and none could see where he went.
Elizabeth – despite the comforting presence of Rapine, who had even slunk into her very bed when her nocturnal twitching got too much – had not slept well and so it was with relief that she woke with the dawn and made her way downstairs, meeting with the commanders for the military planning session arranged in the great hall.
As she and Rapine walked through the doorway, being greeted with deferential howls from the two wolves standing like door posts to either side, the figures grouped around the large table in the center looked up. The room was high, with pillared walls supported by great carved columns between frescoed panels. A painted ceiling – a symbolic image of Jadis bringing the Everwinter to Narnia – gazed down on the marble floor below. Everything that was not painted was carved or gilded, and where there was an alcove there was a statue of Jadis or the Governor. Perversely, Elizabeth was reminded of old newsreel footage of the Nazi high command inspecting Les Invalides or the Athens Acropolis – military men in their finery walking through great halls of awesome beauty, coming as conquistadors and crusaders. Did Alexander and Ptolemy stand like this in Babylon? she wondered.
But here it was reversed – for although it was military men coming to a place of fantastic beauty, they themselves were of a civilization older and more noble than the one they had lain low. They were not the invading barbarians, but rather were the true bastions of nobility and power. They were not dwarfed by the monuments around them, as those in Paris or Greece were, but rather simply counterpointed its futile declaration of strength with their own presence.
For there was a terrible beauty in the figures gathered around the table – Michael, massive and immobile in his well-serviced but war-worn armor; Hedera, wearing a body grown less than three days before, looking as young as Spring but with eyes as old as Autumn and cold as Winter; Tullibardine and the other animals, seen here, amid the weak and flimsy trappings of human civilization, with their wildness made even more stark.
Even Elizabeth – tall and statuesque, dressed in the armor of a Queen and the cloak of a Governor – assumed an almost elemental presence. Marshal Rapine padded at her heels, his massive shoulders moving with casual power and his yellow eyes gleaming.
Physically, Edmund was perhaps the least imposing of the figures there – dressed in a simple gray tunic and breeches, the only sign of his rank and title was the thin golden circlet nestling amid the dark curls and his ornate amber and blue-steel sword – returned to him from the treasure rooms of the Governor – resting on his hip. Bruises and scars still marked his flesh, his lips still thick and split and one eye puffed black and blue. But there was something else about him – something that shone from his eyes, no, from every pore of his body – that caught Elizabeth's eyes and made her breath catch in her throat.
"Governor, Marshal," nodded Edmund, "Thank you for joining us. Breakfast will be served an hour after dawn – no-one eats until we have a strategy." There was a ripple of laughter around the table as Elizabeth stepped forward and looked at what was on it, Rapine placing his paws on the top and peering like a dog seeking scraps.
On the table was a map of a portion of the north shore of Doorn – Narrowhaven rested in one corner and in the center was marked a fortress placed in a clearing. Flowing around and between them were little rivers and valleys and small mountains, forests lying in their lowlands like fog. Elizabeth glanced around for a scale – there was none. She tapped the center of the map. "What's that?" she asked.
"About two and a half miles to the west." Michael answered the question she had wanted to ask, not the one she had. "It's the fortress the former Governor has fled to – a powerful military fastness in the center of Doorn." He swept the map off the table and unrolled another, drawn with charcoal on parchment and with rain- and snow marks marring its surface. "As you can see on this larger scale map, it is well-fortified – high in the central mountains, with excellent lines of sight over the approaches to the castle." He looked up from the table at Edmund, "I think this was built by King Gale, sire – certainly, the scouts said it looked Narnian." Edmund nodded.
"Well, a King of Narnia may have built it," said Edmund decisively, "but a King of Narnia is certainly going to tear it down. What are we facing?" Michael snapped to attention, answering the important – but unasked – question, as was his wont.
"Your majesty, the Narnian forces number less than two hundreds – few are uninjured and many of them are seriously hurt." He turned to Elizabeth, "Governor?" She started and then, realizing what he was asking, gestured at Rapine.
"My Marshal is better equipped to answer that question, Warlord," she stammered. Rapine twitched his head upwards as he replied.
"All told, we have some three hundred swords – but in the main these are untrained and unskilled, although their zeal is unquestioned." He paused, "Many of those who are the most skilled are former soldiers of Jadis – although it sorts ill for wolf who has lead the Lantern Waste elite to say this, I do not know how well we can rely on them." Edmund nodded judiciously. "If needed, I could broaden my recruitment strategies – but this would mean including those who have seen too many Winters, or too few." Edmund shook his head.
"As for our foes," said Michael, "they are not so numerous – our best estimate, based on casualties and the reports of scouts, is some two hundred – with maybe three score of those are Minotaurs and Ogres. The rest are Black Dwarfs and humans in the main – perhaps a few Harpies."
"The fortress?" asked Edmund. Michael glanced at Brocklewine, who lifted a model from under the table – a representation of the castle they were planning to assault made of trimmed lengths of wood and bits of chopped log skewered together with pins and wooden wedges. The Dwarf placed the model in the center of the table and Michael began to gesture at it, Hedera occasionally interrupting and offering her eye-witness insights.
Elizabeth didn't really listen – she wasn't a strategist. She could fight, certainly, but the art and planning of war wasn't something Susan had managed to teach her during their conversation. All she could do was stare at the little model of the castle – a wonderful little model of a fort that a grandfather might have made for his grandson to play knights and dragons with old lead toy soldiers on – and watch the great warlords of Narnia gaze down on it, seeing not wood and bark, but stone and iron and enemies. She smiled, it was true – people did do it like that! Just like they did in the movies.
She stopped and realized that she had forgotten where she was – she herself was in something as unreal as any movie. The pain in her body, the exhaustion, the deaths of those under her command and the funeral last night had almost hidden that. She had a vision of Narnia that was split in two – half-based on the sanitized version of the books, half on her own experience in this world. One was bloody and hard and terrible, and the other was somehow . . . lacking?
Try as she might, should could not recall piles of corpses and logistics and walking-wounded in the battles in the books. She tried to remember if the fighting had sounded so hard, if the enemies had been so terrible. Perhaps, she wondered, if you were a child . . .
She started as iron-shod hooves clattered through the doorway, spinning with the rest of the commanders to face the dripping Centauride cantering under the archway. "Hylonome?" asked Edmund, incredulous, "Whatever are you doing here?"
"Your majesty, Lady Elizabeth, sirs," she panted, bobbing her head to them all like a bird collecting seeds, "I swam the straits to get here – Quagloom said that it was ten to one that there were currents and eddies and whatnot and if there weren't there would be sharks and squid and sea serpents, or maybe a tidal wave, but I came anyway."
"And you would be most welcome, Lady," said Edmund silverly, "with your customary skill you have come just in time for breakfast – but for the fact you were supposed to remain on Felimath to command the forces there." Hylonome blushed and dipped her head.
"Sire, I realize that I have disobeyed orders and lay myself open before your fullest censure, but I beg leave to report." Edmund gestured at her to continue. "Sire, Aslan has appeared on Felimath." The heads of the commanders snapped up and looks of joy spread over their faces, looks of joy that were swiftly swept away by her next utterance. "He says that Cair Paravel is under siege and will fall unless aid comes to her."
Edmund's face assumed a slack-jawed expression of shock and horror – for a second, he looked to be utterly at a loss. "Susan . . ." his lips articulated silently. And then he turned to the Centauride. "That's it? He didn't say any more?" She shook her head.
"No, your majesty," she said. Edmund nodded and turned back to his commanders, his mind immediately made up.
"We are agreed we act on this?" he asked. All of them nodded as Edmund turned back to Hylonome and snapped his fingers. "Get me Admiral Pearl in here now." She bowed and was gone in a clatter of hooves. "Michael, your assessment of this fortress?" The Warlord's voice was grim.
"It is not impregnable, but it cannot be taken in less than a week once the siege begins – and there are no siege engines on the island."
"Of course not," said Tullibardine, "an island-nation has no need of them – they will be being besieged, not doing the besieging." Edmund nodded.
"So a week after we construct siege engines?" he asked. His commanders agreed and he shook his head. "Too long – the Cair may have fallen by then."
"Sire," said Hedera's purring voice, "the Cair will have fallen by the time we get there – we can offer no aid. Narnia is on her own." Edmund glared into the Dryad's smile – avuncular, explaining, slightly patronizing. "We are several weeks from Narnia, sire," she said.
"Three," said Pearl, running into the room followed by Hylonome, "unless a real squall blows up. There be ships out there i' the harbor an' me crew can sail 'em – but 'tis three weeks at the very least to the Cair wi' these winds." Hedera returned Edmund's stare.
"We cannot make it, sire," she purred.
"Damn you, Dryad!" Edmund snapped. "We will try!" Hedera was exasperated.
"Sire, listen to reason – the siege will take two weeks at the very least, another three to return to Narnia . . ." Elizabeth interrupted, stamping on the Dryad's words, thinking that simple action might still win the day.
"Edmund, take your troops and go – I have sufficient men to lay siege to the fortress." He shook his head.
"No, Elizabeth – you do not. You have the numbers, but not the skill. You would fall." He saw the look of hurt on her face and a spasm passed over his. "Forgive me," he said, laying his hand on her arm, "but I speak the truth. I cannot risk leaving the Lone Islands in the state they were before this crusade began. I will finish what I started."
"It is the fortress that is the problem," said Brocklewine. "We could bury them in the field – we have the numbers and the skill to do that. Even with their greater knowledge of the terrain, our victory would be assured."
"Yes," snarled Hedera, "so how about we just go knock on their door and ask if they wouldn't be so nice as to meet us in open and honorable battle this afternoon? I'm free – how about the rest of you?" Brocklewine snorted and turned away from her sarcasm. Edmund raised a hand for silence.
"We march on the fortress as soon as we are able," he said decisively, the monarchical tone of his voice plain but perhaps misused. "It is possible they will make a sortie and face us."
"They will be fools if they do, sire," said Rapine doubtfully. Edmund sighed and nodded – this had all happened too fast. He was being rushed – needing to accomplish what would take a fortnight in a day, and even then arriving weeks too late. He knew the resources of the Cair – two weeks of supplies at most. There was no way his forces could make it back to Narnia in time – yet he still knew he had to try.
"I know – and that is what I am hoping." Hedera snorted in derision.
"The great King Edmund, the strategist of Narnia, relying on his opponent's stupidity?" She laughed, "I never thought I'd see the day."
Edmund span to face her. "And what do you suggest, Dryad?" he snapped, "What is your brilliant strategy in this regard?" Hedera's face assumed a look of blank incomprehension that he could be so stupid.
"Build siege engines, lay siege to the castle. We cannot be at Narnia before the Cair either falls or the siege is lifted – you know this, sire! If we march to open battle we will break like water against the walls of that fortress – you will throw away the lives of my people to defend your family!"
Edmund swallowed, his eyes closed, anger working in his face. "They are not your people, Dryad – they are mine. And I will throw no lives away."
"Then wait!" cried Hedera, "This assault is folly!"
"No," said Edmund quietly, his calm confidence beginning to return. "No – why would Aslan appear on Felimath unless we were supposed to act on what he said?" But is that action supposed to be what I am doing? a quiet voice asked, and would I know if it were not? Am I so beloved of Aslan that whatever I do – provided I do it with true heart and with faith in him – is his will? "Trust in him, and all will end as it should." He paused. "Have a little faith, Hedera." The Dryad looked around the table, seeing the trusting looks on the commanders, and shook her head in amazement.
"I have faith in Aslan, sire." The King felt the omission and he swept the room with his gaze, looking over the commanders he would be relying on in the forthcoming battle that might see the deaths of them all. What he saw did not surprise him, but still humbled him.
One face was missing. "Where's Hylonome?" he asked.