-O-
When the fox hears the rabbit scream, he comes a running, but not to help.
- The Silence of the Lambs
-O-
The woods prove to be perilous.
The moonlight could barely pierce the canopies, leaving them running blind. Streams of mists reach down, finger like, as if to grab them into chokehold. Calla rights herself in the saddle as the horse revels in the speed, his nose blowing hard.
She looks back, dreading to see if the Narnian hordes are in pursuit of them.
The moment she makes the mistake of taking her eyes off the path in front of her, she fails to respond on time when a long branch strikes her in the face and sends her catapulting over the horse's back, dragging the King tied to her.
"Calla!" Bane yells as the horse side steps him and runs away, trotting to freedom. The fox is muzzling her by the time Calla props herself up on her elbows.
"There goes our ride… and our weapons" she deadpans, internally kicking herself for not putting the sword on her person at all times. All she has now is the dagger, but she looks at the Just King, stirring in his sleep-induced state, and decides that it's enough to do the job right.
"What will we do now?" Bane asks, eyes darting from tree to tree with reservations about their safety.
"We might not be able to make it out of here," Calla realizes. "We must do it in the forest."
Bane shakes his head. "This plan was doomed from the start. We should have called it off!"
"You're right, Bane. We can always just kidnap the monarchs another time!" She retorts. "I'm certain the Queen will understand when we return him and tell her 'Sorry, it was a bloody accident, we meant to kill you, not your brother—!"
"Wait!" Bane interrupts, ears perking up. "Shut up for a moment," He sniffs some more and his frozen expression morphs into a rictus of horror when he picks up a new scent.
"Narnians. They're following us?" Calla asks, despite knowing very well she's not going to like his answer.
"It's not them we should be worried about." A sinister howl echoes, and no one could point out where it came from. The most unsettling attribute of this forest are the sounds that seem to rise from the very underworld itself.
Bane instructs Calla to drag the Just King towards an underground niche where a slab of rock provided shelter.
Owlwood is the forest home to the creatures of Jadis that have descended into mindless savages, eating and killing everything on its path. Only fools blinded with either idiocracy or pride could have brought them to such merciless terrain.
"Do you remember when I said mercenaries should remember to dig two graves before they leave?" Bane gulps. "I'm beginning to think that the second one had always been for me."
"It was your decision to accompany me." Calla reminds him.
Bane snorts. "I hope I live to regret that."
There is a rustling in the far edge of the forest. Sounds of whimper and quiet growling, fleeting apparitions that disappeared within a blink of an eye. Everywhere they turn, something seems to move, hide or poke their heads out. Yellow eyes scurry from every direction and each second; they all seem to approach closer.
Calla knows they couldn't hide, nor could any fortes keep them safe from these wildlings. They are brutal, vicious, and most of all, hungry.
Calla turns to Bane, and she sees in the sibyls of his eyes the futile attempt at escaping.
"Listen, Calla." His stern voice draws her attention away. "If I distract them, you can finish the mission."
She frowns. "That's your plan? Martyrdom?"
Bane shrugs, "Believe me, I'd very much like another option if you have a better one."
"I can fight them off," she offers.
"I said 'better' not get us both killed."
"Come now, Bane, this is not the time for chivalry—"
"Oh, spare me, Calla. If I'm getting torn apart tonight, I might as well die with my dignity intact." He crouches lower, ears detecting the fast approaching footsteps.
"Besides, it's about time I live up to my name," he says, looking at Calla with wistful eyes. "To be truly a wolf's bane."
"Bane, don't!" Calla reaches out to grab his tail, but he has already bolted towards the incoming wolves ready to enter the alcove. He snarls, claws, and nips at them with an impossible reflex, trying to draw their attention away from his human. It seems to be working as the pack followed the fox away from the niche where Calla was.
There is only the sounds of erupting howls fading. She could feel the distance put between her and danger, but it drove a stake through her heart thinking about Bane fighting alone.
Then, she remembers what she's here for, what she and Bane have readily offered their lives to achieve. Calla walks over to the Just King splat on the ground, grabs the underside of his arms and drags him to a pile of rocks that had begun to glow with the feeble beams of the moonlight.
She begins to set everything up in place: a slave trader's currency dropped on the ground, a turban turned into a makeshift shackle to his wrists, and brings out a dagger carved with Calormene sigils.
She stares at him long and hard, as if the memory of killing him won't already be burned in the back of her eyelids.
His eyes are struggling to keep open, his haggard body succumbing to fatigue. And his breathing slows.
Standing above the king, she grabs the hilt of a dagger and lets the tip of the blade point directly at his chest. She tries to evade the thoughts that suddenly entered her mind; he looks very young, as if he has his whole life ahead of him to live. But Narnians didn't deserve such a fine life. Narnians only protect their own. And she must do the same.
She raises the blade, and takes a breath. "Where force rules, justice does not exist."
The blade sinks a violent thrust into his flesh and hisses when she draws it out. Blood oozes from his torso and pools on his tunic. When the young king—the boy—chokes blood and his hitched breathing suddenly drops, Calla refuses to look at him. As if she is almost afraid to feel any trace of remorse.
At least it has been quick.
Calla exhales in satisfaction. and drops the dagger, leaving it in plain sight. It is done. The Just King is finished.
"Calla!"
At the sound of her name, Calla's head turns to her left to see Bane half-limping, half-sprinting along the ground. His front paw is smeared in blood, and his fur is tainted from grisly frays. "You have to leave! There's more of them coming!" He pants, before plummeting to the ground, hind legs giving in to fatigue.
Calla leaves the young man and kneels down beside Bane. "You're losing too much blood."
Bane slunks his head, unable to stop his eyes from closing. "Well then, you better leave. I don't want to lose anything else."
The cries of wolves are fast approaching. The ground shakes at their arrival. Calla looks around, realizing she is left alone to survive.
She turns her head, the wolves are already surrounding them in formation. One of them crouches in front of her, baring its teeth and snarling. They wanted to finish off the live one first instead of indulging in a meal that fights back.
Another wolf tries to nip at Bane's leg to haul him away. Calla grabs the dagger and swings it at the wolf but it leaps at her feet instead. She drops her only weapon in the process and shrieks, as it is her turn to be dragged.
Calla screams for help, but the cries only disappear in the otherwise peaceful, vast, and empty night sky.
Its fangs digs onto her heel while another one joins mauling on her shoulder. Calla's hands are hopelessly searching the earth for Bane's paws that aren't there.
Until she feels the hilt of the dagger on her palms. She yanks it towards her and swings in a broad arc over her head, driving it through the wolf's skull.
The sound of steel cracking on bone made the others pull back in caution. Sitting up, she faces another one on her heel and drives the sword to its head. It yelps before dropping to the ground, motionless. The wolves back away, keeping a safe distance from her, until they finally decide she is too weak to fight back.
Calla's vision blurs. She is sure they were coming in again for another round. She is too tired to even check.
Her eyes flick over to where Bane is. His breathing is barely audible. She could hardly see the rise and fall of his chest. He must be dead too.
Her grip on the dagger slackens as she lays her head back in surrender; she has done what she had to do tonight. She served her country and delivered it with a Narnian monarch's blood. And what an honor to be transubstantiated from human flesh to wolf, to live in their spirit that will cause nothing but mayhem. And look , the sun is rising, as if to welcome her in paradise.
The wolves howl in triumph, before flashing their fangs to sink them in their prey.
Suddenly, a cry of soldiers shakes the very ground itself. Shrieks of animals and whinnies of horses all together make the wolves angrily driven away in a startled cluster.
Calla sees the bright light of the dawn approaching, before her vision fades to darkness.
She wakes to the sun streaming in her face through tall windows.
Squinting against the sunlight, Calla stirs her body, hoping to feel that her limbs are somehow still attached.
"Oh, you're finally awake." She hears the voice of a woman greet her.
Calla shakes her head. "I didn't—I didn't die?"
"No, but—" the woman takes her hand, and cups it with her own. "—you almost did. You must have been through so much pain."
I—I made it out alive, she thinks. The last thing she remembers is being cornered. Bleeding.
But there is one scenario she couldn't shake out of her head. It is so vividly etched in her memory.
She remembers wielding a weapon stained by blood. His blood . Finally, after how many years she spent waiting for that moment, she has done the impossible.
She rests back on her pillow, her worries slightly allayed. Calla reaches for the bandages donned to her shoulder. Crimson is surfacing up the cloth and she can feel the itch of the dried blood. But when she lifts the bandages, the wound is barely visible. There is not even a scar.
"Where am I?" Calla asks, gazing at the room to inspect her surroundings. It's definitely too clean to be Calormen, and Archenland would much rather do with marble than stone.
"The Narnian infirmary," she answers, with as much hospitality she could muster. Calla feels her heart drop from her rib cage.
She could not be safe here. Not after what she's done.
"You were nearly dead last night," the woman remarks as if that had been the most important fact. "Had I not used my cordial to heal you, I do not think you would have pulled through."
Cordial? There's only one person in the land equipped with the rare and potent juice of the fireflower.
"You're Queen Lucy?"
"It's alright. There's really no need for titles." The Queen—unrecognizable by the chainmail and armour she wore—insisted with humble providence. "Just my name will do."
Calla's blood roars in her ears. The woman that has been marked for gleaning is right in front of her. She wants to jump at her and take her chance, but Calla knows she is in no condition to attack an armoured queen. The moment she tries to use her limbs to stand, she backpedals and folds in pain.
"Oh dear, my cordial may have healed your injuries but you're in terrible condition," the Queen takes a moment to pour a pitcher of water into the cup next to her. "Please drink this. But I do not suggest getting up. Your conscious body needs time to return from the nether."
"The w-what?" Calla asks, sputtering the drink. She bends over to keep herself from screaming.
The Queen must be trying to distract her, as if it weren't obvious that she has clearly tried to incapacitate her. "When my cordial heals someone so very near the brink of death, sometimes, it drains so much energy from the vessel," She explains, gesturing to Calla's body. "To coerce the soul back."
What Calla would have given to not be in the condition hampering her from decorating the stone floor with spilled blood. But if she acts too reckless too soon, and too underprepared, she may not get another chance. Calla decides to restrain her ambitious thirst.
"You think my soul left my body?" she decides to ask in mockery and disbelief.
"That really depends what you believe in. Everyone I heal forgets where they've gone. But I like to think our souls tread the very border of Aslan's country himself," the Queen half-answers, half-ponders herself. "But those are matters for the departed. What matters is that you're alive and well."
Calla is surprised at the lengths they had gone to retrieve her from the clutches of death itself. Although she couldn't receive all the credit, she had barely escape with her life, if only at the expense of—
"Bane!" Panic seizes her when she remembers the horror that had happened to them that night. She props herself up on her elbows and proceeds to sit up, though it makes her wince in agony.
Lucy rushes to her side, prompting her to sit down. "If you mean your fox, then he's resting in the room across yours."
"How is he? Is he alright?" Calla asks her weakly and desperately as she sits down.
"He's fine. My cordial works miracles," she assures, and Calla feels like she could breathe again. "In fact, all three of you survived because of it. "
Calla pauses. Her voice drops a hoarse whisper.
"Three?"