Introductory Note

This story was originally written when there were still Narnia movies coming out (c. 2008–2009, in fact). I've decided to post it here again in the hopes that some may find it entertaining (despite how very extremely AU it is). If you do, please leave comments; and happy reading!

Prelude to Book One

YELLOW police tape cordoned off the old brown house in downtown Brooklyn. Two uniformed NYPD officers stood waiting by the open front door. A black sedan pulled up to the curb and rolled to a gentle stop. The driver's side opened and out stepped a man in his early 30s with dirty blond hair and searching eyes. Detective Investigator Pete Pevensie of the NYPD walked up to the front door and past the two officers. They fell into line behind the detective.

"What do we have?" asked Pete.

One of the officers took out a notepad and flipped a couple of pages. "A neighbor called. Said the old man hadn't left his home in a couple of days… figured he might've just croaked. The guy was over eighty."

"What was his name?"

The officer flipped back a page. "Kirke… Digory Kirke. British immigrant. History professor over at NYU."

Detective Pevensie had come into the living room by this time. He took a look around. Lots of clutter… historical artifacts and stacks of books, mostly. The kind of stuff that would just look tacky any other place… but here, it seemed to fit. It certainly made the place look like the living room of an octogenarian history teacher. He sighed. "The old man left a note?"

The second officer nodded and withdrew a clear plastic bag. The suicide note was sealed inside. "Here it is. I thought you might want to take a look for yourself, Detective. Pretty whacked, if you ask me."

"I didn't," said Pete. He sighed again. Some eighty-year-old fossil goes and does himself in with pills, and the precinct captain decides to pull a detective off of his real casework to look over shoulders and dot all the i's… New Yorkers' tax dollars at work. Pete walked over to the window and held the baggie up under the sunlight. The note had been inked in very neat cursive. It read: "Seventy years now. Can't go on. Can't wait any longer. It's hopeless. Want to go back, but I can't. It won't let me through. No way in. The Lion must not want me. My Wardrobe won't work anymore."

Pete gave a low whistle. "You weren't kidding. This Professor Kirke must've been a few doughnuts shy."

Two forensic technicians came down the stairs towing the body-bag between them. They didn't so much as nod at the detective. They just headed straight out the front door.

"Wait here," said Pete. "I'm gonna go take a look at the scene."

He left the two officers standing in the living room and marched slowly up the staircase. Creepy place, he thought. I'd probably off myself too, if I had to live here all alone.

A door at the top of the stairs stood half-open. Pete went in. It was the professor's study. Books and papers were stacked ceiling-high all over the place. There were more books on mythology and folklore here than on history. An outline made of white tape showed that Kirke's body had been found sitting in the red leather easy-chair by the fireplace. Pete made a cursory examination of the room and, finding nothing out of the ordinary, left.

He was just about to head back down the stairs, when something else caught his eye. There was another open door, this one at the end of the hall. Pete could feel a cool draught coming from that direction. Carefully, he made his way down the hall and pushed this door all the way open. Another staircase lay beyond, with narrow, steep steps, clearly leading up to an attic. Curious, Pete took hold of the rickety hand-railing and mounted this new flight of stairs.

The attic above Digory Kirke's house was almost completely bare. It was empty, save for one conspicuous piece of furniture: an enormous wooden wardrobe, set against the far wall. The cold blast of air was definitely coming from up here; probably a crack in the insulation, thought Pete. Then, he remembered the bizarre note. Kirke had mentioned his wardrobe. In fact, it was probably the last thing that the old man had ever tried to tell anybody. For that reason alone, it was worth a little look-see.

Pete crossed the attic, the floorboards creaking under his feet with each step. He tried the knob of the wardrobe; it was unlocked. The door swung open easily, noiselessly. Inside, there was nothing but coats. A whole row of big, brown fur coats. Pete shrugged. Pushing past the coats, he felt around, searching for the back of the wardrobe. The air up here… Pete shivered. It was just so cold…

Chapter One

PETE stumbled ahead, tripping headlong into the wardrobe. Only, instead of smacking his forehead on the back wall like he was expecting, he landed face-first in a pile of… wait a minute… snow? Pete scrambled to his feet. It was snow! He looked all about in confusion and shock. There were no more fur coats; only pine boughs. In fact, there was no wardrobe; up through the canopy of branches, Pete could see stars and open sky. He swallowed. "What the hell…?"

Pete shivered and clutched his trenchcoat tighter about himself. It was freezing out here! He'd catch his death unless he could find shelter, and soon. Pete pressed on through the oppressively close pine-branches, slogging straight through the snowdrifts, stumbling occasionally, and paying little heed to any thought or feeling besides the urgent need to be anywhere else but here. He soon lost all sense of direction, little realizing that in his confusion, he was wandering further and further away from the wardrobe and home with each step…

Eventually, Pete came to a clearing in the woods. Finally free of the poking, tickling pines, he stopped for breath and looked around. His gaze quickly landed on the unusual object in the center of the clearing: an old-fashioned lamppost of all things, just standing in the middle of nowhere, burning away (heaven only knew, burning what) to no discernible purpose! Detective Pevensie could do nothing but gape confusedly when confronted with this sight.

Then there came a distinctive sound: humming. Somebody was approaching the clearing. Pete cast about for a convenient place to hide, but there were none. So, quietly as he could manage, he reached for the .38 revolver tucked into the holster on his shoulder harness; and he waited.

Presently, the humming became clearer, and into the open came a man—but quite a little one, Pete saw right away, for although he had a wizened face and a long reddish-white beard, he stood not more than three feet tall. The little man was clad all in furs, and in his hands, he clutched a two-bladed axe. The very instant he appeared, both Pete and the little dwarf brandished their weapons, the dwarf gripping his axe in a defensive stance and Pete holding out his revolver in two hands.

"Don't move!" shouted Pete.

All at once, the dwarf's eyes went wide and he threw his axe down into the snow. Falling to his knees and putting up his hands, he pleaded, "Don't cast, don't cast!"

Pete stared. "Cast…?"

"From your crooked silver wand, Master! O mighty warlock, I beseech you! Spare this humble wretch, your servant! I couldn't bear to be hexed… or," here, the dwarf swallowed, "transformed."

Pete looked down at his pistol, more confused than ever. "Warlock? What in the living hell are you talking about?"

The dwarf looked at Pete curiously. "Am I to understand then, good sir, that you are not, in fact, a warlock?"

"No! What on Earth would make you think that I'm a warlock!?"

"Earth? On the earth? What a queer turn of phrase. What in Narnia, I think you mean; and to answer your question… well, you look like one."

"I… look… like one," Pete said slowly, glaring darkly at the dwarf.

"Well, you know," said the dwarf, standing up and putting his hat in hands. "All skin and no fur, except for your head. And basically dwarf-shaped, but about twice as tall. Or giant-shaped, and half as high. All depends on how you measure. Plus, you've got a silver wand."

Pete rolled his eyes and held out his .38 for the dwarf to see. "This isn't a wand, it's a weapon! It doesn't shoot curses; it kills!"

"A mighty device of magic indeed then," replied the dwarf. "You must be a wizard of some kind, Master, for what else could you be?"

"Uh… a man? A human being? Homo sapiens?"

The dwarf's eyes bugged, wide as saucers, stunned as he was by Pete's admission. "You mean to tell me that you are, in fact, human? A Son of Adam?"

Pete shrugged. "I guess you could put it that way. If you believe in old myths."

The dwarf ignored Pete and said to himself, thoughtfully stroking his beard, "Then… you will not oppose the Witch with her own kind of sorcery. The prophecy… might just be true!" Before Pete could sputter another question about witches or prophecies, the dwarf darted forward (paying no heed now to the human's "silver wand of death") and seized him by the hand. "Come, we must hurry! Haste and secrecy… that is the answer, good Master—oh, er, what am I to call you, then?"

Pete followed the dwarf away from the clearing, trudging once again back into the shadowy wood and drifting snow. "My name is Peter Pevensie. Detective Investigator Pete Pevensie."

"'Detective Investigator?' What in Narnia is that?"

"It means I'm a cop," said Pete. When the dwarf only turned and gave Pete a confused look over his shoulder, the human explained, "A police officer? A… uh… a constable? A sheriff? A bailiff? A gendarme?" he went on, trying every old word for "cop" that he knew.

"Ah!" said the dwarf at last, finally catching on. "A guardsman! A warden of justice! Well," he sniffed, "I suppose that's kind of like a soldier. Still, if you're all that's come…" his voice trailed off.

"What do you mean?" asked Pete quietly. "What the hell is going on? How did I get here?"

"…No, no, no!" the dwarf said to himself. "You must be it. There hasn't been a Son of Adam in Narnia for… for centuries!"

Pete opened his mouth to speak, but the dwarf stopped him in a tone more fierce and rebuking than he'd heard from the little man yet.

"No, Master Peter, no more questions! The White Witch has spies everywhere, and the trees… the trees have ears. Come with me, quickly and quietly. I'll lead you aright, upon my beard, or I'm not Lumpkin of the Red Dwarves!"

Pete followed Lumpkin through the woods until he came at last to a small hovel, little more than a tiny house built into the roots of a great gnarled tree. "This way, Master!" said Lumpkin. "It's not much, but it's home. Of course, nobody has much of anything these days, but still, we press on…"

Pete ducked his head through the front door and went in behind the dwarf. Inside the hovel, he saw what actually appeared to be a very cozy home. There were little dwarf-sized chairs around a dwarf-sized table, a little bed in the corner, and a couple of stools in front of a fireplace.

"Bless me!" said Lumpkin. "I went out for firewood, but forgot all about it when I saw you. Rest yourself for a bit here, Master Peter—"

"Whoa, okay, hold it with this 'Master' business, little guy. It's just Pete. You got that?"

The dwarf looked at Pete curiously and then repeated his name. "Pete. Yes, I suppose I'll manage, at that! Half a moment, then, Pete, and I'll be back with some wood for a nice, warm fire! Er… I suppose… the bed or the table might be big enough for you to sit on, only…"

Pete chuckled. "The floor's fine. Don't worry, pal, I won't risk breaking your furniture."

The dwarf grinned, bowed politely, and then took up his axe and left Pete alone in the tiny house.

When Lumpkin returned, Pete woke up and found himself sprawled on the cold floor. He didn't remember dozing off, but that impromptu hike through the winter wonderland had been more taxing than he'd known. He shivered and sneezed, even as Lumpkin rushed over to the fireplace to kindle a blaze.

"Oh dear, oh dear, this will never do at all! Let me get a fire started, and once you've warmed your bones a bit, then we'll have some cheer."

A short while later, the dwarf's home did indeed seem much cheered. Lumpkin set his table with some breads and cheeses and a few mugs of strong, dark beer. As they ate and drank, Pete carried on a conversation with the dwarf. "The thing is, I have no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember, I was in Brooklyn, in New York, looking around in an old house… and then, whoosh, I was in the woods, and there was a lamppost, and it was winter—"

"Well there's no surprise there, at least," commented Lumpkin. "It's always winter here."

"Where are we then, the North Pole? Somehow, you don't strike me as one of Santa's elves."

Lumpkin spat out a mouthful of beer. "Call me an elf, do you? Of all the insulting… look here, Sir! It is always winter in Narnia because our land is under a curse! While the White Witch reigns as queen in Narnia, it is always ice and snow… and the power of her magic keeps even the jolly old saint away. Can you imagine it, always winter, but never Christmas? No Santa, no presents, no happy times…"

"Well now I know I'm dreaming," muttered Pete. "Step through a wardrobe into another universe with magic and witches, and—and dwarves! And they have Christmas here, apparently, and you speak English—"

"Narnish," corrected Lumpkin. "I'm speaking plain Narnish, and I must say, you do quite well for a foreigner."

Pete just scoffed and made a rude noise. "But why did it happen? Magic's not real in my world. This defies explanation!"

"Ah, well," said the dwarf, "that brings us down to business at last. To the prophecy."

"I don't believe in prophecy."

"Well, you're here, aren't you? And what would be the point, if it weren't to fulfill the prophecy?" The dwarf glared at Pete. "Stubborn, that's what you are. Stubborn! Now, sit you there and listen well: the White Witch has cursed this land and made it winter for a thousand years, and the curse will last until the true king of Narnia sits upon the High Throne in the great palace of the east, Cair Paravel! And what's more, the true king can only be a Son of Adam or a Daughter of Eve—a human being! You're all we've got, my friend. Nobody can break the spell but you. You're it."

Pete fell silent at that. It all seemed too fantastic; too far-fetched, too unreal. This dwarf meant to make him a king? He couldn't be a king! He was just a New York cop! It all had to mean something else. Anything else. This king business was nonsense.

"Here, lad," said the dwarf, sliding Pete another mug. "Have a drink. You look like you need it."

"You're right," he said. "I do."

Pete took a generous swallow of the heavy beer and asked Lumpkin, "So what about this White Witch? She's certainly got you shaking in your boots. Is she a really wicked witch?"

"Oh yes," whispered Lumpkin.

"Then it's a pity I had to come by wardrobe," laughed Pete, "and not by cyclone. Then I could've dropped a farmhouse on her."

"Oh dear," said the dwarf. "I'm sorry, Sir Peter of New York, I truly am…"

"Wha—? What're ya talkin' about, Lumpkin?" Pete slurred.

"I told you about the witch and the prophecy, because I wanted to you know," said the dwarf. He frowned and wrung his beard in his hands and looked down at his shuffling feet. "I wanted you to understand why I did what I did. Because I had to, don't you see? The witch has spies everywhere. I couldn't hide you. I knew that you'd already been spotted. That she was already on her way."

"What the…" Pete lurched forward, but his vision was starting to blur. "The beer… you drugged… the beer…"

"I'm so sorry, Son of Adam. I should have had hope… but hope left these lands long ago."

That was all that Pete remembered before he slumped onto the floor and blacked out.

Chapter Two

WHEN Pete came to, he rolled over and groaned. His head was pounding like the mother of all hangovers. He tried his voice but only managed to gurgle something. He looked around. Everything was still blurry; his eyes didn't want to focus. "You little bastard," he rasped. "You… tricked me."

"Easy now," echoed a voice. "Sit up slowly."

Pete did sit up, but that caused his head to throb even worse. He winced. "Ow… this universe sucks."

"It's no use whining, my friend. There's no time. I mean it now, we must make all haste!"

Pete's vision finally cleared, and he realized that he was still in Lumpkin's hovel. The dwarf was standing over him with a bucket of cold water, and Pete noticed for the first time that he was sopping wet. He sputtered and reached for a towel (his groping hands found Lumpkin's bedspread) to dry his face with.

"Get up!" ordered the dwarf. "Dry off, so you don't catch your death outside; but there's no time to take any coffee, I'm afraid. You'll just have to walk off the drug." Lumpkin stepped forward to help Pete to rise, but he found the cold muzzle of Pete's pistol pressed against his nose.

"Get away from me," growled Pete. To emphasize the point, he cocked the revolver's hammer.

"Please! I only want to help you!"

"My head really can't take any more of your help," said Pete. "Just… back off!"

Lumpkin did as he was asked and backed away.

"That's it… now, get away from the door. I'm getting the hell out of here."

"As well you should," nodded Lumpkin, "but once you're out there, how will you avoid the wolves?"

At that moment, a distant howl pierced the gloomy stillness of the night.

"They are the witch's servants," said the dwarf. "They come for you. And for me."

Pete scrambled onto his hands and knees. "Why would the bad guys come for you? You tried to sell me out—didn't you?"

Lumpkin calmly replied, "Just be thankful that I've had a change of heart. Trust me or don't, it makes no difference now. But I can promise you this with all sincerity: you'll fare far better with me than you will at the tender mercies of Her Majesty's bloodthirsty enforcers!"

Another howl sounded in the night. The wolves were drawing closer. Pete looked out through the little window, out into the dark and the cold. He had to decide, right now, who to trust… "All right. But first, you have to tell me where we're going—"

"In due time, Sir Peter! Here, we cannot tell whether we are in fact alone. Therefore, we shall have to plan as we travel." As he spoke, Lumpkin hastily gathered food and clothes and stuffed them into a knapsack. Not having anything more productive to do, Pete only sat and watched. After a glance over his shoulder, Lumpkin shook his head at Pete and said, "Here, lad, get up!" Pete was shooed off into the corner of the room, while Lumpkin bent down to pry the carpet up from the floor. "Here now," he said, "put this on. It will have to do until we can find a proper cloak in your size." He handed the rug to Pete, who draped it on his shoulders, over his trenchcoat. Lumpkin wasn't done, though, for pulling up the rug had revealed a trapdoor in the floor. "This way, my lad; for if we take to the woods, they'll only find our scent and run us down!"

Pete followed the dwarf through the trapdoor and down into a muddy, root-lined tunnel. The passage had clearly only ever been meant for dwarves; Pete almost had to crawl to keep up with Lumpkin. "You still haven't answered me," grumbled Pete. "What would they want you for?"

Lumpkin said, "Oh, make no mistake, Sir Peter. I should be very well-treated indeed for turning the likes of you over to Her Majesty! At first, that is. They wouldn't harm me, you see; they'd recruit me. Those that prove their loyalty and their cleverness are rewarded with service—service in the queen's enforcers."

"So they'd make you a cop?"

"A thug. Or a spy. Or a killer. Certainly no keeper of the peace. And then, of course, it would only last until I proved too clever for my own good. After that, well…" Lumpkin fell silent when he pushed his way past a particularly thick batch of roots.

"Well, what?" Pete followed the dwarf through the tight spot in the tunnel.

"Oh, the same thing that happens to all that fall from the White Witch's favor: I would… disappear."

Try as he might, Pete couldn't get Lumpkin to elaborate on that point. But one thing was now perfectly clear: in saving him, the dwarf was still only preserving his own miserable hide.

They emerged from the tunnel covered head to toe in filth and grime. But for all that, at least the underground passage had been fairly warm and shielded from the wind. Now, the biting cold of winter struck with full force, making Pete doubly miserable. There was no time to waste on complaints, though, for the wolves were yet in pursuit. In fact, they had probably already made it to Lumpkin's home. Even now, the wolf-cries sounded in the distance. The pair hurried out into the night, taking care to make as little noise as possible. They were leaving tracks in the snow, of course, but there was nothing that either Pete or Lumpkin could hope to do about that. Soon, they came to a steep embankment that fell into a deep, rocky gorge which seemed to split the whole forest in half. There was no visible way to cross. "Great," muttered Pete. "Where to now, O fearless leader?"

Lumpkin shot Pete a look and said, "This way, to the right! The bank will get shallower as we move." And indeed, as they trekked along the side of the gorge, the crevasse itself became narrower, and the sides of the ridge became less and less steep, until soon there was hardly any gorge at all.

Then came another howl, ringing close and clear in the stillness of the woods, and suddenly the two fugitives knew that they weren't just found—they were set upon from all sides. Pete could see the glint of yellow eyes reflecting in the moonlight, spreading out, surrounding them, pairs of eyes in all directions in groups of twos and threes. "Quick!" cried Lumpkin. "Back, back, we must fly into the gorge!"

"Are you insane?" shouted Pete. "We'll be trapped!" Nevertheless, he followed the dwarf, hoping against hope that the little wretch knew what he was doing.

Lumpkin and Pete ran into the low creek-bed, while on either side of them, the banks rose up above their heads, boxing them in an ever-deepening canyon. It was dreadfully rocky, and often slick with ice, and at times, Pete had to pick his way carefully to avoid slipping. All the while, he grumbled and complained, and Lumpkin said nothing. At last, the dwarf pointed to the rock wall on their left. A small opening, barely four feet wide and high, sat in the canyon-side. "There! Take to the cave!"

Lumpkin climbed into the hole and walked comfortably inside. Pete didn't have to climb, but he did have to crouch to get in. "Where does this cave go?" Pete asked.

"Nowhere, I'm afraid," said Lumpkin, examining the back of the tiny cavern. "It's a dead-end. But at least it's defensible—at the cave mouth, we can make our stand where the wolves can't surround us!" To emphasize the point, the dwarf drew a long knife that served one of his height rather like a short sword.

Pete and Lumpkin went back to the cave mouth. It wasn't long before the sound of many paws on rocks came echoing down the gorge. Then, from around a boulder, there came a pack of gray-furred wolves running two-by-two. They were sniffing along the bed of the gorge, panting, yelping, occasionally crying out. Finally, they came to the cave and surrounded the opening in a half-circle.

"This is it," said Lumpkin. "Stand fast!"

"What are they waiting for?" Pete whispered. He'd never seen dogs this well-trained, let alone wild wolves.

"For Maugrim," answered the dwarf, "their chief."

Now the half-circle of gray wolves parted, and an immense black-furred canine padded its way into the open. It had a wild, frenzied look in its eyes, and its red tongue hung out the side of its mouth, while clouds of breath formed from its muzzle. Then it did something that really put Pete on edge: it spoke. "Here, kitty, kitty," it growled in a deep, mocking voice. "Come out and play with the pups!"

Pete gaped at Maugrim, then at Lumpkin. "Did… uh, did that wolf just talk?"

"Of course," said Lumpkin, never taking his eyes off of the wolf. "Many animals in Narnia are gifted with speech. Not all of them, of course—just the very intelligent ones. Like Maugrim."

Pete just shook his head and pulled out his gun. "Oh no. No. No, thank you! Dwarves, okay. Witches, maybe. But Disney animals? That's where I draw the goddamn line!" Lumpkin tried to hold him back, but Pete just shrugged off the dwarf and clambered out of the cave. He stood in front of the pack of wolves and pointed his pistol at Maugrim. "You there. Fido. You looking for me?"

The wolf laughed and growled, "Yeah. You're the one. Definitely," he sniffed the air, "different. It looks like the Queen wants to see you, so you're going to come with us. Right after," he licked his chops and snapped his jaws, "we play with the roly-poly little dwarf hiding in the hole."

"Right," said Pete. Then he squeezed the trigger and shot Maugrim twice between the eyes. The wolf fell dead, steam rising from the wound as blood leaked out onto the canyon floor. Pete turned his gaze on the rest of the wolf-pack and waved his pistol where they could all see it. "Anybody else got anything clever to say?"

The wolves, frozen in their tracks, looked at one another in confusion. Then, without a word, without a noise, they turned and ran back down the gorge, tails between their legs.

Lucky, thought Pete. But now I've only got four bullets left. Better make every shot count from here on.

Lumpkin climbed down from the cave and gaped at the dead wolf. In a quiet voice, he said, "A silver wand of fire and death…" Then, clapping Pete on the back, he laughed with joy and said, "You've done it! There's hope for all of us yet, oh yes, my word! You just might be the one to save Narnia after all!"

Pete was looking down at the dead wolf too, but he didn't feel Lumpkin's joy. It wasn't just some dumb animal he'd killed. It was… well, Pete didn't know quite what to think it was. But it wasn't good. And that gave him a really bad feeling about whatever was coming next. "What now?" he asked.

"Indeed, the very question!" said Lumpkin. "But I've an idea, if you'll bear with me." As he spoke, Lumpkin led Pete back out of the canyon. Soon they would regain the woods and resume their journey on the other side of the gorge. "Not far from here, only a few hours' walk to the south, the White Witch has a garrison. A fortress filled with soldiers!"

Pete definitely had a bad feeling. "Go on."

"These are no ordinary troops. It's a cavalry garrison. Centaur soldiers! They bear no love for the White Witch and only serve in her army because they are pressed into it. One look at you, though, and every centaur in Narnia will defect to our side! I'm sure of it!"

"Our side?" repeated Pete. "Just what side is that, exactly?"

Lumpkin paused and looked up at Pete. Lowering his voice, he said with reverence, "Aslan's side."

"Aslan?"

"Oh, plenty of time for all that soon enough," chuckled Lumpkin. "Come, Sir Peter of New York, slayer of wolves and savior of dwarves! Soon, you shall be praised as liberator of centaurs and, and—"

"Leader of the Rebel Alliance?" supplied Pete with a laugh.

"Rebel Alliance?" echoed Lumpkin with distaste. "Ah, well, it's your choice. I suppose it has a… certain ring to it."

Pete laughed long and hard at the poor dwarf's confusion.

Chapter Three

DAWN was still an hour away when Pete and Lumpkin emerged from the forest and took to hiking over open plains. A thin layer of ice had formed on the surface of the snow, and the two travelers crunched with every step. The cold had only grown worse as night had deepened into early morning, and Pete was honestly afraid that he might develop frostbite. But even for all his present misery, he was thankful, at least, to be safe from the wolves for now. His safety, after all, would probably only last until they got to where they were going. It was best to enjoy that while it lasted.

"It's not at all far now," Lumpkin said. "We've only got to cross this field and climb a small hill. The fort is at the top, near the opposite slope, where it can overlook the river."

Pete just nodded, sniffled, and sneezed. Lumpkin's rug didn't make a very warm winter coat.

After that, they trudged on in silence, making for the low and flat-topped hill that the full moonlight outlined in the distance.

When they crested the hill, Pete could finally see the garrison. The walls were wooden, built of tall timbers and fortified with palisades and battlements. Actually, it rather reminded Peter of the forts from old westerns and Civil War movies; except that the fortress's towers and flagpoles were all sporting some distinctly medieval banners. Each flag flying from one of the fort's parapets depicted a white snowflake on a field of icy blue, only just visible by the moonlight. This then, Pete decided, must be the symbol of the infamous White Witch—a person he'd never met who already wanted him dead.

"Stay low to the ground," said Lumpkin, "but don't dawdle! We must make the walls of the fortress by sunrise, or we'll be spotted for sure!"

Pete did just as Lumpkin said, but as they crept over the hilltop, Pete said, "I don't s'pose you've thought about how we're going to get inside?"

"As to that," said Lumpkin, "as long as we make it before dawn breaks… ah! There! Look."

Pete's eyes followed Lumpkin's pointing hand. They were close enough to the walls to make out the guard towers in some detail; but no sentries could be seen. From the outside, the fortress might have been deserted for all that mattered. But the dwarf was pointing lower, to a small ditch that ran from a gap in the fortress walls, all the way down the hill and into the river. It was a sewage trough.

"Aw, crap," grumbled Pete.

"Precisely," Lumpkin smirked.

Pete rolled his eyes at the dwarf and looked up at the towers again. "Why do you think nobody's keeping watch?" he asked.

"What for?" returned Lumpkin. "None live in Narnia that might dare oppose the witch, and foreigners never come here for fear of her power. This fortress has no defensive purpose! No, my friend, garrisons like this one exist for one reason only: to keep the tribes of centaurs, fauns, dwarves, and others all disunited and dependent on the Crown for their livelihoods."

Pete nodded. "Okay. And you think the people here just need a little kick in the pants, a leader to give them something to fight for, and they'll revolt? Just like that?"

"That's what I'm hoping," said Lumpkin. "Of course, it might take some convincing… but surely, the sight of a Son of Adam in Narnia shall be more than enough!"

"I sure hope you're right, little guy," said Pete.

"I'm sure I'm right!" said Lumpkin. "And I'll thank you not to call me 'little guy' in the future. That is, if you wish to retain my friendship!"

"Yeah, right," grinned Pete. "Whatever, lit—er, Lumpkin."

Covered in an unmentionable diversity of filth and waste, Pete climbed over the lip of the trough and rolled onto a floor of wooden planks. Reaching back down into the hole, he felt Lumpkin grasp both his arms, and he hauled the dwarf up behind him. They were in a wooden room, perhaps ten feet square and clearly meant to serve as a latrine for beings larger than humans or dwarves.

"Lumpkin," said Pete, casting off his makeshift cloak and fruitlessly wiping his begrimed shoes on the wood.

"Yes, Sir Peter?"

"Let's never speak of this again."

Lumpkin had been up to his waist in the runoff, so his discomfort literally dwarfed Pete's. "Agreed."

The two interlopers sneaked through a series of rooms which had been built along the inside of the fortress walls. At last, they came to a closed door, beyond which they could hear the sound of clanking and clattering. Lumpkin held a finger to his lips and cracked open the door. Then he and Pete peered through the crack. Ahead, the next room was a sort of kitchen. Stacks of barrels, crates, and coarse cloth sacks were everywhere. Pans and utensils hung from the walls and ceiling. A massive iron cauldron suspended from chains over a fire contained enough bubbling gruel to feed a small army. And tending to this oversized cookpot was a single small figure, not much taller than Lumpkin, but with green skin, long and pointy ears, a wart-covered nose, and slitted yellow eyes.

Pete heard a venomous growl issue from Lumpkin's throat. "Goblin," croaked the dwarf in an angry whisper.

The human laid a hand on Lumpkin's shoulder. "Easy there," he whispered back. "Don't go off half-cocked."

The dwarf just shot Pete a look of intense fury, and then he pushed his way through the kitchen door and stalked quietly towards the goblin. With superb stealth, Lumpkin drew his short sword from its scabbard. At the same time, the goblin's ears twitched, and it looked up from the cauldron. It whirled about and let out a yelp, only to be cut off by the dwarf's blade plunging through its throat. The cry became a gurgle, and the goblin died. Then Lumpkin put his foot on the creature's chest and gave it a good push, freeing his sword and sending the goblin's body tumbling backwards into the pot of gruel. It sank out of sight, and Lumpkin used a nearby dishrag to clean the black blood off his weapon.

Peter gaped at his compatriot. Lumpkin had dispatched of the goblin with such unhesitating swiftness… Once again, Pete was reminded not to underestimate the dwarf for his size. He came into the room and stood over Lumpkin, who looked back up at Pete and still wore that look of stone-cold anger. "I take it that dwarves don't like goblins very much?" Pete asked.

"No," said Lumpkin simply. "We don't."

Pete looked around at the kitchen. "You said this was supposed to be a garrison for centaurs."

Lumpkin walked over to the cauldron and stuck in a finger, drawing up a lump of the half-cooked foodstuff. Before Pete could react, Lumpkin licked the brownish-white glob off of his finger and smacked his lips. "Oatmeal," he said. "It's a favorite of centaurs. The goblin must've been the mess-cook, nothing more."

"So… you just whacked the cook? Because he was a goblin?"

"And because he might have sounded an alarm!" snapped Lumpkin. "Do not presume to judge me, human! Dwarves have long memories, and we hold deep grudges—"

At that moment, a bugle call rang throughout the fortress. Both Pete and Lumpkin could guess what that meant: dawn. Soon the soldiers would be awake.

Pete crept out into the courtyard in the center of the fort and ducked behind a stack of barrels. Lumpkin crouched beside him, and they both peered out from their concealment and watched. One after another, many centaurs, several dozen at least, gathered in the open yard and assembled in neat rows. Each wore mail armor with leather barding and carried both lance and sabre. In battle, knights such as these would make a formidable cavalry indeed.

Then, from another building within the fort, there appeared a female centaur. Her armaments were different from the rank-and-file troops: she wore plate armor that shone in the morning sunlight, with a matching helm and twin sabres sheathed at either hip. She trotted across the yard and took to inspecting the other centaurs as they stood at attention.

That must be their leader, Pete thought. He was just about to step into the open and greet the centaurs, when a tremor ran through the ground.

Thud.

And then another, and another. Thud. Thud.

In the center of the fortress was a keep of sorts, a large structure with two massive wooden doors in the front. The immense iron rings that served as door-handles shook and rattled with each new tremor, until finally the doors burst open, and a giant appeared. He resembled a man, but hideous in form and feature, and easily more than twice the height of Pete or any of the centaurs in the courtyard. The giant had stringy brown hair and a greasy beard; he was clothed only in furs and skins; and a tree-trunk sized club rested over one shoulder.

The female centaur in front of the troops quailed and saluted.

Okay, thought Pete. She's just the aide-de-camp. The man in charge is Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Ugly there. Pete swallowed. And he doesn't look like a very jolly giant.

Now the giant approached the troops, and Pete could see that even these centaurs blanched at the sight of him. The giant half-smiled, half-sneered and shouted, "IN-SPEC-SHUN!" The centaurs remained rooted in place as the giant stalked by and carried out his inspection.

Pete wasn't sure what exactly happened after that. At some point during the examinations, the giant became displeased for some reason, balled up his fist, and punched one of the centaur troops in the head. That centaur, and several others nearby, were all knocked onto the ground in a tangled heap. The armored centauress tried to protest, but the giant, now in a violent mood, reared up his club to strike her as well. That was when Pete emerged from hiding.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Big guy!"

The giant, startled, turned around. All of the centaurs, including the female in the shiny armor, just stared blankly at the newcomer.

"Yeah," Pete continued. "I'm talking to you!"

The giant drew himself up to his full height and shouldered his enormous club. "Who are you, little thing?"

Pete's knees were knocking together, and he was sweating bullets. But to his credit, he managed to keep his voice from quavering. He tried to tell himself that the bluster, the bravado, all the acting, was just like interrogating a suspect, something he'd done a million times before. He forced himself to sound casual. "Who do you think I am?"

The giant stomped across the yard and stood over Pete. "Tell me your name," he rumbled, "and how you got inside this fortress!"

"First, you tell me," said Pete, "how's the weather up there?"

The giant's face twisted with confusion.

"Is it chilly? Because I think it'd be kind of chilly at that elevation. How you keep from catching colds? Orange juice? Plenty of… vitamin… C…?"

Pete's voice began to trail off when the giant's mood darkened again. The glowering hulk bent down and stared Peter in the face. "Are you an agent of Queen Jadis? Have you been sent to usurp my command?"

"Ah… yes! Yes I am. Her Majesty sent me to… uh… take command of the garrison. Your orders are to… um… report back to the Queen's castle. Immediately."

The giant's eyes narrowed. "Show me the writ."

Pete stammered, "Um… the writ?"

"The orders," growled the giant. "I will relinquish command when I see the royal seal!"

"Oh, that writ!" said Pete. "Hang on. I have it right here." He reached for his pistol and muttered under his breath, "Well, it was worth a try."

The giant must have sensed the deception, though. Ether that, or he wasn't about to give up his position, even under royal orders. He stood up again and gripped his club in both hands, raising it up over his head.

Pete's immediate thought was, He's gonna squash me! So, Pete drew his gun and took careful aim at the spot between the giant's eyes. Have to make every shot count…

But Pete hesitated too long. The club came swinging down, and Pete had to dive and roll to get out of the way. He came up on his knees and aimed again, but the giant swept his club to the side, only clipping the human, and that was enough. The gun fired (where the bullet went, Pete would never know), but it was torn from Pete's grasp. As for Pete, he went sailing through the air at least ten feet. He hit the ground hard, rolling and skidding in the dirt. Bruised and battered, choking on the dust, he could barely stand.

The giant closed in again. Pete managed to get up on all fours, coughing. A sharp pain lanced through his chest—that grazing blow had broken some ribs! Pete looked up. Overhead, the giant grinned with malicious, victorious glee. The club came up again. This was it. Then Pete heard a voice… a woman's voice…

"Lances!"

The giant suddenly turned around. Pete couldn't see, but he heard the sound of clanking metal and clattering wood.

"Company! Charge!"

Pete heard the sound of galloping hooves and stout lances piercing giant-hide. The giant roared and raged, taking wound after wound, but soon, he screamed no more. Pete looked up again. The giant stood, his back to Peter, his body riddled with the centaurs' pole-arms. He was dead… and he was falling backwards.

"Aw crap," choked Pete. The giant's left arm landed right on top of him. He blacked out again.

Chapter Four

PETE jerked and snapped awake. "What the—? What happened?"

"Easy," said a voice. "You're really very lucky. Rather brave, a little clumsy, and obviously quite stupid; but most of all, lucky."

Pete tried to roll over, and a dull pain shot through his midsection. He looked down. His clothes were gone, except for his shorts. Stiff cloth bandages were wound around his chest. And he was in a bed, sort of. It was really just a large mattress sitting on the floor, with some sheets and blankets heaped on top.

"You've got some nasty broken bones; we've tended to those. And your clothes are being washed as we speak. What did you do, sneak in through the privy?"

Now Pete finally got a good look at his caretaker. It was the centaur woman from the yard. Her helmet was gone. Ringlets of golden hair ran down her shoulders. Large blue eyes stared at Pete with a mixture of fascination and scorn.

"You ordered your soldiers to kill the giant," said Pete. "You saved my life."

"Consider us even," said the centauress. "You probably saved my life as well, stepping in when you did. Still, it was damned foolish."

"You're telling me?" laughed the human. "I'm Pete, by the way. Pete Pevensie. What do they call you?"

"Penelope. It was Lieutenant Penelope, but now that Captain Grubash is dead—"

"Was that the giant guy?" interrupted Pete.

"Yes. Grubash was arrogant, cruel, and wicked. Naturally, he was one of the White Witch's favorites. And now that he's dead…"

"That's a good question. Now that he's dead, what are you going to do?"

Penelope stared at the human for several moments. Finally, she said, "That depends greatly on you, Son of Adam."

"So you already know that part?"

The centauress nodded. "We centaurs have kept the legends alive. This land of Narnia used to be ruled by humans, long ago, before the witches came from the north. We haven't forgotten. In fact, we've been waiting for you."

"Great. Peachy." Pete turned himself around and sat up, ignoring the throbbing sensation that shot through his body again. "Lumpkin said… hey, by the way, where'd he go?"

"You mean your dwarf?" asked Penelope. "He hid himself behind some barrels while you fought with Grubash. He was hiding there still when we found him."

"Should've known. That gutless little—"

"You should know better than to expect bravery from a dwarf," said Penelope.

"Oh, trust me," said Pete. "I've seen what that twerp is capable of. So where is he now?"

"In the mess hall," answered Penelope, "enjoying some breakfast. My soldiers gladly gave up their shares when they found the… extra ingredient."

"Wonderful. As if I wasn't already gonna hurl…"

The fortress's mess hall was a high-ceilinged wooden dining chamber of immense proportions. Long tables stretched across the room, lined by unusual benches that had to be low to the ground, and wide and sturdy enough for centaurs to recline upon. The centaur troops were milling about this chamber in no small degree of confusion, for the most part talking quietly amongst themselves. In all the room, only Lumpkin was eating. He had to stand on one of the benches to reach the table. When Pete entered the room, he saw the dwarf and had to fight to keep from thinking about oatmeal.

Penelope helped the injured human limp into the room and sit at one of the tables. Soon, all attention in the room focused on Pete. The only sound to be heard was Lumpkin, slurping away with depraved relish. Pete began to squirm under the gaze of all these strange warriors. They were looking at him expectantly.

"Go on," whispered Penelope.

"With what?" asked Pete.

"They expect you to address them. To take command."

"But… but I…"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Lumpkin at last. He pushed his meal aside and scrambled up to stand on the table. "My friends!" he announced in a booming voice. "Captain Grubash, servant of the White Witch and traitor to all true Narnians, is no more! You have freed yourselves from his tyranny, and the question now stands, what will you do with that freedom?"

The centaurs turned and faced the dwarf. They seemed ready to listen.

"Here among us, once again, is a Son of Adam!" Lumpkin gestured to Pete, and as he did so, he looked over his shoulder and winked. The human nodded and gave Lumpkin a subtle thumbs-up. The dwarf continued, "There has not been a human being seen in Narnia since Jadis became queen, and now, here he stands. Surely it is a sign from Aslan!"

At this, all of the centaurs began to whisper excitedly. And that made Pete very uneasy. Lumpkin spoke of this Aslan person almost as if… as if he were their god.

"The time is upon us," said Lumpkin. "We must rally behind this man, Peter Pevensie, for he and he alone can lead us to freedom from the White Witch! We will cast off the yoke of her oppression, the spell of winter she has laid upon our lands, and the stain of evil and corruption that lives everywhere in Narnia today! What say you?"

With every sentence, the dwarf had increased the tempo and volume of his speech, and the centaurs became more and more agitated with each word. Hooves and lances beat against the wooden planks of the floor, and at last, they raised their arms, pumped their fists into the air, and cheered their agreement. Twice more, Lumpkin repeated, "What say you?" and twice more, the centaur soldiers cheered.

Finally, with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, Lumpkin climbed down off the table and sat next to Pete. "Your turn."

Pete shot Penelope an "I-told-you-so" look. Then, slowly, he stood. The room fell silent. And somehow, Pete just couldn't find the right words. He cleared his throat, but nothing came. The centaurs waited patiently.

"Say something," growled Penelope under her breath.

Lumpkin waved her away and whispered to Pete, "You can do it, my friend."

Pete nodded to the dwarf. Then he turned and faced the crowd. "I don't know what you've heard," he said, "but I'm not a soldier. I'm not warrior. I'm not a knight. I'm… just a man. And I haven't been in Narnia all that long, but from what little I've seen, this White Witch has made things pretty bad for everybody. And it looks like she's pretty powerful. So, if you want to get rid of her and start this revolution… you're going to need friends, because I don't think you can do it alone. Right now, there's nobody but us. But if we can make some allies, then we can stand up to the witch, and then we'll have a chance."

Once again, silence fell in the room. Then, one of the centaur knights spoke up. "And what happens, Peter Pevensie, when the White Witch learns of our mutiny? Soon she will send another of her agents to take this garrison back by force."

"What's your name?" asked Pete.

"Cyrus," replied the centaur. "Mine was the lance that pierced the heart of Grubash and ended his life."

"Great," said Pete. "You're the new lieutenant, Cyrus. We need one of those, seeing as how Penelope here is your captain now."

Penelope's mouth fell open. "I thought… you were going to take command?"

"What, me? I'm no military commander!" said Pete. "Nope, that's got to be your job. Now, Captain Penelope, what you think our next move should be?"

The centauress was still stunned, but she managed to stammer out, "Er, well, we couldn't hold if the Witch sends a force to retake the garrison. So we'll need to move quickly to liberate other strongholds and turn them to our side."

"Just what I was thinking," said Pete. "Lumpkin, I take it you approve?"

The dwarf nodded. "Of course. You seem to be a natural at this, by the way."

"Heck, I'm still just improvising," muttered Pete. "Lieutenant Cyrus! Do we have any maps around here?"

The centaur nodded. "Several, my—uh—forgive me, sir, but how am I to address you, if you refuse to take a rank?"

"Actually, my rank is Detective Investigator," said Pete with a smile, "but that's kind of a mouthful. So why don't you just call me 'Peter?'"

"That will never do!" scoffed Lumpkin. "Captain Penelope might be your commander, but Sir Peter is your liege lord now, and you will accord him every honor!"

Pete shook his head and tried to quiet Lumpkin, but it was too late. The damage was done. Cyrus nodded and said, "Very well, Sir Lumpkin, Milord Peter. I shall fetch the maps."

Pete sighed. "All right. Fine. Listen up, people! We'll meet back here to make plans at… oh, how about 1400 hours?"

"What does that mean?" asked Penelope.

"It means two o'clock in the afternoon. Now, if you'll excuse me, my ribs are killing me, so I'm going to go take a nap."

That afternoon, the troops once again gathered in the mess, this time to plan their next move. "There," said Penelope, pointing at a spot on the map where the river bent back towards the Western Woods, six or seven leagues south of the garrison. "The Beaver Dam. That's the nearest stronghold, and they'll make good allies."

"Who'll make good allies?" asked Pete.

"Why, the beavers, of course!" said Lumpkin. "As we speak, they slave away to build an ever-growing dam over the Great River, but if we turn them to our cause, they can aid us in building fortifications anywhere."

"Right," said Pete. "Beavers. Uh-huh. And do these beavers talk, like the Big Bad Wolf did?"

"Their leaders do," said Lumpkin. "Like all animals in Narnia, the dumb beasts will follow the lead of the intelligent, talking ones. If we can sway Mr. Beaver to our side, the rest will come with him."

Pete stared at Lumpkin. "'Mr. Beaver?'"

"What?"

"Never mind," sighed Pete. I'm still not sure that this isn't all one big hallucination, he thought to himself cynically.

"The beavers are overseen by wolves in the Witch's service," said Penelope. "We must arm ourselves accordingly: bows, javelins, sabres. We'll have the best advantage if we can engage them on the open plains by the riverbank, so we need a plan to draw the wolves out into the open."

"That should be easy enough," said Lumpkin. "The Witch has already commanded her enforcers to find and kill Lord Peter." (Pete rolled his eyes at the honorific.) "One look at him, and the Beaver Dam will empty of wolves in no time at all."

"In other words, I get to be the bait," said Pete.

Penelope shook her head. "We can't risk you. There's got to be a better way."

"Nah, forget it," said Pete. "I'll do it. Just give me another two or three days to heal up. Then we march south."

Lt. Cyrus cleared his throat and said, "We have, at best, that long before the White Witch discovers us. With your leave, I'll post a watch and send out scouts. It must be seen to that our entire company is ready to march on a minute's notice."

"Agreed," said Penelope. "Make it happen."

Cyrus saluted and left the hall with most of the rest of the centaur troops.

"It's decided then," said Pete. "We march at sunrise, three days from now, unless we're found out sooner. In the meantime… I've got three days with nothing to do but wait. Have you got any good books around here?"

Penelope shook her head. "There used to be a library in the faun city of Silenopolis, but it was destroyed generations ago."

"The city or the library?" asked Pete.

"Both, probably," said Lumpkin.

"In that case… why don't the two of you start telling me all about Narnia?" Pete pulled a large map onto the table and gazed at the unfamiliar geography. All in all, Narnia was a pretty big country. It would take a long time for them to fight their way all across it. "Something tells me I'm going to need to know everything there is to know about this place."

Chapter Five

THREE days passed, and no sign came from any agent of the Crown. The leaders of the incipient rebellion considered themselves fortunate and marched out from the centaur garrison, now known as the Alliance Enclave, at dawn on the third morning. Huddling under heavy cloaks, they marched slowly at first, for though centaurs could cover much ground quickly, they had a dwarf and an injured human among their number. Captain Penelope feared that this might pose a problem, since their plan depended on secrecy, and secrecy depended on swiftness.

"How are you feeling?" she asked Pete, once they were out of sight of the fortress.

Pete shivered in the cold and answered, "I'm still stiff and sore, if that's what you mean. It's going to be a while yet before I can do anything but sit on the sidelines and watch."

"It's a pity we don't have more time," said the centauress. "Right now, you can't fight, you can't run; we'll have to protect you as we do battle."

"Well, you need me to be the carrot on the stick. Wait, bad metaphor. Sorry." Pete looked over at Penelope and saw that she was frowning at him. "This is just a guess, but you don't like me very much, do you?"

"I will admit that you're not what I expected."

"Oh? And what were you expecting?"

"Somebody more… imposing."

Pete just chuckled softly (and then swallowed when his cracked ribs protested the motion).

Penelope's gaze softened. "If you like, I could carry you on my back. You and Lumpkin are only slowing us down, after all."

"Centaurs don't have some kind of… rule against that?"

"Not that I've ever heard. Come on, climb up," she said, patting her backside. "I'll tell Cyrus to carry the dwarf."

Pete looked back over his shoulder. Lumpkin was walking alongside the lieutenant and chatting idly away. The poor centaur looked bored to tears. "And I thought Grubash was a cruel captain," quipped Pete.

Penelope just smiled. "Lieutenant!" she shouted. "Carry Sir Lumpkin on your back. We're going to march double-time!"

Cyrus said nothing, but the exasperated look on his face spoke volumes. He reached down one arm, scooped up Lumpkin, and set the surprised dwarf behind him with a grunt.

"Now you," said Penelope.

"I don't know. I'm not exactly light… and you're not exactly a Clydesdale." In fact, as Pete had noted several days ago, Narnian centaurs weren't much bigger than riding-ponies. He didn't doubt that Penelope could bear his weight, but it would probably make her uncomfortable while they marched.

"You know, you make a lot of jokes," said the centauress as she helped Pete climb onto her back. "I don't understand half of them, but I get that you're making fun. Why do you do that?"

"It's probably a defense mechanism," said Pete. "You know, a barrier between my fragile sanity and the full weight of my situation? It hasn't really hit home yet." He tried a few awkward places to put his hands, not wanting to hold the centaur woman around the waist or anything, until finally, Penelope turned her torso half-way, grabbed Pete's hands to keep them from wandering, and placed them firmly on her pauldron-armored shoulders.

"What do you mean, 'hasn't hit home yet?'" she asked.

"The fact that…" Pete's voice trailed off. This was the moment, he realized. If he said it out loud, it would begin to feel real. He took a deep breath and let it out. "…that I'm in a strange world, with no way home, and I'm probably going to die here."

The Beaver Dam was an impressive structure, Pete had to give it that much. Sure, it was made of mud and sticks, but the sheer scale of the construction just defied all reason. If the Hoover Dam had been made by beavers, it would look like this. In a word, it was ridiculously big. The Great River was a pathetic, frozen trickle of ice south of the dam; and it was a solid white sheet to the north. The water didn't flow here, so if there was any reason to keep the beavers working on building it, it could only be that the White Witch wanted them occupied and out of the way, laboring to no purpose but the spite and malice of the frigid mistress of Narnia.

As they approached over the frozen plain, Pete cupped a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. That didn't do much good, with the sun reflecting off the snow, but eventually he could make out moving shapes, spots of brown crawling all over the dam. They were beavers—and there were so many of them!

And then, too, there were grey specks coming out from the dam, running over the snowy ground in a wild loop. They were wolves, but only a few of them, perhaps half a dozen.

"There!" said Pete, pointing ahead. "They've sent out some scouts. Let me off! I have to walk out there so they can see me!"

"I have a better idea," said Penelope. "Hold on!" The centauress spurred herself to a full gallop, taking Pete along for the ride. He suddenly had to grip her torso tightly to avoid flying off—and it didn't help that he was riding without a saddle.

"I'm going to feel this in the morning, aren't I?" Pete groaned to nobody in particular.

Cyrus signaled for the other centaurs to hold their position, while Penelope dashed ahead. The wolves bounded over the snowdrifts, closing in on them with frightful speed. Then Pete felt a jerk, as Penelope turned hard and ran sidelong towards the river. The wolves turned, too, but now they were looping back to the dam. They disappeared inside, just as quickly as they'd appeared.

"Mission accomplished, Sir!" shouted Penelope over her shoulder. "They're sure to attack us in force now!" She turned again and headed back toward the company.

"Whoa, Nelly," gasped Pete, when Penelope finally slowed and came to a halt. "Next time… warn me… please!" Pete was breathless from his sudden ride.

Lt. Cyrus, still bearing Lumpkin, trotted up to his captain. "There, Ma'am!" he said, pointing out at the dam. "The enemy is wasting no time. See—they attack us already!"

Pete and Penelope turned around, and sure enough, a wave of gray was sweeping out from the dam. Wolves—dozens of vicious, slobbering, panting wolves—were heading straight at them. Penelope's voice rose over the others. "Archers! Arrows!"

Two ranks of lightly armored centauresses nocked arrows and drew back their bowstrings. "Steady!" came the captain's command. "Steady… Loose at will!" A hail of the deadly missiles arced into the sky, and several of the foremost wolves fell dead. Many more leapt over the corpses and continued running, even as the archers drew back for another volley.

Now Cyrus ordered, "Javelins!" He and the rest of the centaurs dashed forward, hurling the larger missiles before drawing curved sabres. All the while, Lumpkin clung tightly to the back of the lieutenant and kept his head down.

"I can protect you best if you stay right where you are," said Penelope. "Are you ready?" Another volley of arrows whizzed over their heads.

Pete nodded. "I won't move. Just go!"

Penelope hefted her javelin and charged into the fray. The gap between the centauress and the mass of wolves closed faster than Pete thought it would. Penelope quickly threw her missile into the enemy lines—it struck true—and then, the wolves were upon them. Pete didn't bother drawing his gun; there would have been no way to line up a steady shot in any case. Instead, he saw the two sabres dangling at either of Penelope's flanks, reached down, and drew one. Penelope drew her other sword at the same time and shot Pete a questioning glance over her shoulder. "I can be your second pair of hands!" said Pete. He hoped that it was true. At least riding on the centaur's back, he wouldn't have to move much or worry about aggravating his wounds.

There was no time to argue. Penelope drew a dagger from a sheath on her belt and held that in her left hand while she swung the sabre with her right. She careened into the mêlée and swept by a group of wolves which had climbed onto another centaur's back and were tearing into his flesh with claws and teeth. A swipe of the sword brought one of them down; a thrust from the dirk and another fell away. And then she was past them and swiping her weapons down at beasts rushing them from all sides.

Pete gripped the heavy sabre roughly in both hands. He was no swordsman; but if these centaurs had one weakness, it was the fact that they couldn't really guard against back-attacks, and the wolves were circling their foes and trying to surround them. The centaurs' only salvation was their speed, which let them cut through lines of wolves and dash past, only to circle back and charge again.

A pair of wolves appeared in the corner of Pete's vision. They were closing on in Penelope, nipping at her hindquarters. Pete swung the sword with all the strength he could muster—there was a sickening crunch and a splatter of red—and one of the canines fell. The other went for Pete's leg, snapping and growling, but Pete kicked. The wolf yelped and lost a few paces against Penelope. Then the centauress turned and swept back, cleaving the wolf's head with her own blade. "Thanks," she said to Pete.

"Thanks yourself!"

A howl sounded from the direction of the river. All at once, the wolves broke off the attack.

Cyrus ran past Penelope and shouted to the rest of the company, "They're retreating! Press the charge!" (From on the lieutenant's back, Lumpkin was waving his short sword in the air and shouting for the "slobbering cowards to come back and fight.") The cavalry gathered in a line behind Cyrus and ran after the fleeing wolves. Behind them, the field was covered with the bodies of countless wolves—and several centaurs.

By the time Pete and Penelope caught up to the others, the battle was over. The cavalry had cut down the last of the wolves, and the remainder fled away from the dam, turning instead along the river, to the north.

Cyrus gave a salute and said to Penelope, "This position is secure, Ma'am. The wolves have fled; the Beaver Dam is ours."

"Haha!" shouted Lumpkin. "The mangy buggers have fled with tails between their legs! We've won our first victory this day!"

Penelope didn't share the dwarf's celebratory mood. "Send archers after the last of the wolves," she ordered. "If there's even a chance that we can keep them from reporting back to the White Witch, we have to take it."

"Ay, Captain," said Cyrus with another salute. He let Lumpkin off of his back and then went to carry out Penelope's wishes.

Pete, too, dismounted. "How do we find the leader of the beavers?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't imagine that will very difficult," said Penelope. "We're rather conspicuous."

Pete grinned. "Yeah, and some of us are more conspicuous than others."

Sure enough, a pair of beavers were walking—on their hind legs—towards Pete from the riverbank. When they saw Pete, one of them exclaimed, "By the Lion!"

The other one, in a feminine voice, swatted the male beaver and said, "Father! Language!"

"Sorry, Mother. I'm sorry, dear!" They waddled up to Pete and bowed low. "Hello!" said the beaver. "I'm Mr. Beaver; this is the Mrs.; and you—I can hardly believe it's happened, at last—you are a Son of Adam!"

"Pete Pevensie," said Pete by way of introduction. "It's, uh, nice to meet you… Mr. Beaver." Pete suppressed the urge to make a wisecrack.

"We can't thank you enough for taking care of those bloodthirsty beasties," said Mr. Beaver.

"Vicious animals," agreed Mrs. Beaver. She shuddered. "The terrible things they would do to us…"

"Mostly eating a few of us whenever they fancied," explained Mr. Beaver. "So what's the story then, Mr. Pevensie? After all these years, is the war on at last?"

Pete was struck a little speechless by the nature of the question and the eagerness in the beaver's voice. (And, yes, by the fact that he was a beaver.) Luckily, Penelope answered for him: "Yes, good Master Beaver. War will be upon us soon, and we shall need your help."

"You've got it, then," said the beaver in all seriousness. "If there's any gnawing or building that you need done, you just call on us! Nobody builds like I beaver, I always say!"

"You never say that, dear," said his wife.

"I always say—"

Pete whistled. Both of the beavers turned and looked at him. "Whoa, okay there. Let's make this official. Mr. Beaver… from here on out, you are Chief Beaver of the Alliance Corps of Engineers. Both gnawing and building divisions."

Mr. Beaver's eyes gleamed and he snapped a smart salute. "Ay-ay, Sir! You can count on me, that you can!"

Pete nodded and turned to Penelope. "There's a good chance that most of those wolves got away, isn't there?"

"Yes," she answered. "I wasn't exaggerating when I said that war is upon us. It's only a matter of time now."

"All right then. Where to next? If it's war, we need soldiers."

"Silenopolis," offered Lumpkin. "The homeland of the fauns. You couldn't find better soldiers."

"I thought Silenopolis was destroyed," said Pete.

"It was," said Lumpkin. "But the fauns are a people of the forest. Their city might be destroyed, but the Western Woods are their domain, make no mistake. If we wish to make contact with the satyr-folk, that is where we must go."

"Silenopolis," said Penelope. She flagged down one of the centaur cavaliers and commanded, "Pass the word. We march for the city of the fauns on the morrow!"

Chapter Six

ANOTHER couple of days saw Pete, Lumpkin, Penelope, and company camped at the edge of the Western Woods. They had wasted no time at the Beaver Dam; it was a conspicuous location, and they had to keep on the move. But even centaur troops needed rest, and they couldn't march all the time. So now they waited at the edge of the woods.

Pete sat on a rock by a half-frozen stream, shaving the stubble off of his face with a razor he had borrowed from one of the centaurs. The human had gotten "scruffy," as he liked to phrase it, in the week or so that he'd been in Narnia; and he decided that it was high time he cleaned himself up. That was easier said than done in the dead of winter, but Pete managed to make do with what he had.

Pete turned his gaze up to the sky. Here, on the edge of the forest, the trees were sparse. The sun was high and felt warm on his face. Pete started. Warmth on his face…

He heard the soft clip of centaur hooves walking on cold ground. Penelope appeared and stood by the river. "My lord," she nodded.

"No," said Pete. "None of this 'milord' malarkey. My name is 'Peter.' Call me that."

"I… cannot, my lord. It wouldn't be proper."

Pete snorted. "Nothing about this world is proper. How is any of this even possible? Can you tell me how it is that a wicked witch can put a spell on an entire country to make it winter forever—but I can still feel the sun?"

Penelope looked up. Surprised, she said, "The sun is warm…"

"Yeah," said Pete condescendingly. "It's… the sun."

"You don't understand!" said the centauress. "I've never felt warmth like this out of doors! Never in my lifetime! It's as if… the winter is ending, and… and… then comes…"

"Springtime," offered Pete. "The season after winter is called spring."

Penelope looked down sheepishly. "I knew that."

"It wasn't exactly on the tip of your tongue. Not that I can blame you. I mean, I'm from New York, and it gets pretty cold there, but I can't imagine winter for a lifetime."

"Generations of lifetimes," corrected Penelope. "And now, it's almost as if… just your being here in Narnia is starting to break the spell!"

"That's actually a hopeful thought," said Pete. He picked up a nearby canteen and raised it to Penelope in a toast. "Here's to future victories… and warmer weather."

They broke camp and marched with caution into the thick of the Western Woods. Spirits were high among the soldiers, because word had spread that the White Witch's curse was starting to break. It was still winter, to be sure; but now the cold wasn't so bitter. It didn't sting the face and numb the fingers like it used to. And the sun… the sun felt warm.

"So this is the same forest where you found me, Lumpkin?" asked Pete while they hiked.

"Yes, but this is a deeper, darker part of it," said the dwarf. "My home is in the north of the woods. But here… even animals avoid this area."

"I'd wondered why it was so quiet," commented Penelope.

"But what are the animals avoiding?" asked Pete.

"As to that, it must be the ruins of Silenopolis," answered Lumpkin. "Legends say the Old City is haunted."

Pete couldn't help laughing at that. "Haunted by what? Ghosts? Spooks? Bogeymen?" Grinning wickedly, he deepened his voice and affected a corny Transylvanian accent. "Flesh-eating zombies? The restless undead, eternally thirsting for the blood of the living?"

Lumpkin swallowed. "Something like that," he squeaked.

"You are a very strange person," said Penelope to Pete.

"Yeah, well at least I don't believe in spooks," said the human. "Not until I see them with my own eyes, anyway."

"Hmph. You should try having some faith."

"Lady, you got the wrong cop from the wrong town for that."

They walked on in silence for a while. Then, out of the blue, Pete said, "There was a lamppost."

"What?" asked Lumpkin.

"Right before you found me. It was the first thing I saw when I came to Narnia. I was in an old man's attic in Brooklyn, and I felt cold air coming from inside his wardrobe. I opened it, fell in, and there I was. In a snowy forest, standing next to a lit lamppost."

"You came to Narnia… through a wardrobe?" asked Penelope in disbelief.

Lumpkin, though, didn't question Pete. "I know the lamppost. It's not far from my home, after all. It's said to mark the western border of the land of Narnia. Beyond that point, the Western Woods become the Western Wilds, and then…"

"Then what?" asked Pete.

"Well, nobody knows. No one has ever gone into the Western Wilds and returned."

Pete looked down at the dwarf. "Do you think… maybe… if I were to find that lamppost again, I could find my way back home?"

Lumpkin shrugged. "Perhaps. Or, you could become lost in the wilds and wander aimlessly forever."

"Yeah, well, there's that too."

Cyrus held up his fist. It was a signal to the other soldiers: the scouts had spotted something. The company came to a halt. Nobody moved; nobody made a sound. Pete leaned over to Cyrus and asked, "What is it?"

"I don't know…" The centaur's eyes darted every which way, and he slowly drew his sabre. Penelope and Lumpkin unsheathed their blades as well.

"I really need to get myself a sword," whispered Pete.

Then they heard the creak of bowstrings being drawn taut; but it wasn't their archers. A figure stood up, appearing in the woods as if out of thin air, only a few feet in front of Pete and his officers. Then another appeared, and another. They wore cloaks of brown and deep forest green, and all had longbows at the ready, arrows aimed at Pete and the others. Through the brush and trees, yet another form emerged, but this one stepped boldly ahead and said, "You have entered satyr territory. Turn back now, or you will be shot." He took his hood off, revealing goatlike ears, a short beard, and tiny horns growing out the top of his head.

"They're fauns," said Lumpkin.

Pete stepped forward. "We're looking for the leader of the fauns," he announced.

"What for?"

"To propose an alliance."

The faun approached and looked Pete up and down. "And who are you, to propose an alliance with the fauns?"

"I'm Pete Pevensie. Who're you?"

"Marchwarden Phineas, captain of the Western Runners. But you didn't answer my question: what is Pete Pevensie, that he brings armed soldiers into our land?"

"Well, Warden, I'm the new sheriff in these here parts," drawled Pete. "And we were just on our way to Silenopolis, to rustle up some varmints. Seen any?"

Penelope cut in at this point, well-timed as always. "What Lord Peter means to say is: our purpose is rebellion! We fight to overthrow Queen Jadis. Will the fauns join our fight?"

The Marchwarden eyed Peter. "Does the horse-maid speak the truth? Are you mad enough to think that you can stand against the White Witch?"

"He is a Son of Adam," said Penelope. "He will defeat the Witch."

The faun scoffed. "This scrawny creature is a Son of Adam, a legendary human being? This… court-jester is the great war-captain who will lead us to victory?"

"I'm not a war-captain," said Pete.

"No, you certainly aren't," returned Phineas.

"But maybe you've noticed," said Pete with a twinkle in his eye, "that it's not as cold today as it was yesterday."

That gave Phineas pause. "Indeed… there is truth to that…"

"The Witch's spell begins to break," said Penelope. "The time is upon us! Now, if you will not join us, will you at least let us pass through to the Old City?"

Phineas looked out over the company of centaurs and said, "If it were up to me, you would have been dead before you'd ever set hoof in these woods. After all, we fauns never allowed ourselves to be bullied into the service of the Witch, just because she killed a few chieftains—"

Penelope drew her dagger and pointed it at Phineas. The fauns behind the Marchwarden all trained their bows on Penelope in the same instant, but Phineas signaled for them to hold their shots.

"Do not make light of our murdered ancestors!" hissed Penelope. "The centaurs' greatest elders and warriors lost their lives working against Jadis! We've been a leaderless people since the Witch took over, so don't blame us if we haven't been able to put up a better fight than you!"

Phineas looked the centauress in the eye. "At least we've kept trying."

"Hold it!" said Pete, stepping in between the two and putting his hands up to both of them. "Arguing and in-fighting… no wonder the Witch kicked your asses and took over Narnia! What is the matter with you people? You don't stand a snowball's chance in hell if you can't come together on this!"

Phineas gave another signal, and the other fauns lowered their bows. "Forgive my rudeness," he said, "and my suspicion. These are difficult times. But I believe you can be trusted, Peter Pevensie… although, you will have to prove yourself if you mean to earn the respect and allegiance of the fauns."

"I wouldn't ask for more than that," said Peter sincerely.

Phineas nodded. "I shall send Runners out to the other bands. Our elders must meet in council to discuss any alliances. In the meantime, I suggest you make camp here. I warn you, as a potential ally, that it would be wise to avoid the ruins of the Old City."

"Why?" asked Pete. "Who, or what, lives there now?"

"Nothing," said the faun. "That's the problem. It is a dead city, and the dead walk its broken streets and shattered halls. Or rather, they did until two nights ago. But now Silenopolis is emptied. The black lord of that cursed place rode out with a legion of ghoulish troops in the night. Whither they were bound, I could not say."

A chill that had nothing whatsoever to do with the winter fell upon the rebel company. Lumpkin elbowed Pete's leg. "Now do you believe in spooks?"

Chapter Seven

THE rebel company was forced to make camp in the Western Woods while they waited for word from the fauns' council of elders. Hours rolled into days, and Pete began to worry. Frustration grew within the camp. The centaur knights chafed at their seeming inaction, and Penelope was antsy enough for the lot of them. She constantly voiced her concern to Pete that every minute they spent waiting on the pleasure of the fauns was one more minute the Enemy had to act against them. Even Lumpkin was out of sorts, always with his face scrunched up in a pensive scowl, rarely speaking more than a word at a time to anybody. If Pete ever asked him what was wrong, the dwarf would merely waive all concerns with a few trite words and then go back to his brooding. Pete didn't know whether to be worried or suspicious.

On the evening of the third day since the Marchwarden had sent out his Runners, Pete stood alone in the woods. He was watching the water flow through a tiny rivulet that had formed in the center of a frozen creek. It had been doing this for two days now, thawing just enough to trickle along into the evening, only to freeze over again in the middle of the night. Pete shivered and hugged his cloak tighter. Off to one side of him, Phineas and the other fauns were gathered around a small campfire, the blaze barely visible through the trees. Elsewhere, the centaurs (and probably Lumpkin too) rested by a bonfire that shone brightly in the middle of a large clearing. Pete didn't feel like joining either group. He was, for all he knew, the only living human being in the world. That was a lonely and altogether depressing thought.

There wasn't much snow on the ground in this thick part of the woods, and it didn't take Pete very long to scrounge up some dry wood for kindling. Pete had never been a Boy Scout, and he'd never been the outdoorsy type: he was a life-long city-slicker, through and through. But he was also (and now he thanked his lucky star for it) a former smoker… nicotine-free these days, but he still kept his old lighter for a good-luck charm. That made short work of igniting a little campfire to call his own.

"Impressive," said a haughty voice behind Pete. "How exactly did you do that?"

Pete turned and saw Phineas watching him curiously. "Trade secret," smiled Pete. "It's… a human thing."

Phineas gave Pete an odd, indescribable look. "You're a very queer sort of being. Optimistic beyond all reason. You seem to believe that all of Narnia will rally to your side and unite under the banner of the Son of Adam."

"You don't think that can happen?"

"It is a fool's hope to hold," said the faun. "There is much of Narnian history that seems to elude you, Peter Pevensie. I hope that your ignorance doesn't prove your undoing."

"Then enlighten me!" said Pete. "Why do you seem to think that everybody has to stand alone?"

Phineas said nothing, but he nodded in a direction off behind Pete. The human looked over his shoulder and saw Lumpkin and Penelope approaching.

"Another fire?" asked the centauress. "Tsk-tsk. I had thought that we were supposed to be keeping a… a… what did he call it, dwarf?"

"A 'low profile', my lady," said Lumpkin, "which is why all your fellow centaurs presently huddle about a single tiny flame—"

"Tiny?" scoffed Pete. "That three-alarm campfire back there is bigger than you are! It's giving Smokey the Bear an aneurysm as we speak! You could roast Mr. Stay-Puft over that sucker!" When Pete was met with a round of blank stares, he hung his head and apologized. "Sorry. I'm trying to break the habit, but sometimes I just forget that I'm in Narnia now."

Penelope tucked her four legs beneath her body and sat on the cold ground, opposite Pete across the little fire. Lumpkin sat as well, and then Phineas followed suit. The centauress commented, "Your world must be a very different place, my lord. A strange place… but a wonderful one, to hear the way you speak of it."

"Ah, I guess it's not so special," said Pete, scratching his head. "I just miss it 'cause it's home, you know? Being among my own kind? That sort of thing."

"Was there anybody important that you left behind?" asked Phineas. "Family, perhaps?"

"A family?" echoed Pete. "Yeah, sure, I've got some family back home." With a fond chuckle, he then went on to tell his assembled listeners about his past life in New York: about his parents, who were both still alive but had moved upstate years ago; about his little sisters, Sue and Lu, both with jobs and fast-paced lives; Sue's husband and kids; and especially about Pete's "kid brother," Eddie. Pete and Eddie had always been close, but as Pete liked to tell it, Eddie was the one with brains—with "chutzpa." That was why Eddie had taken the bar and become a lawyer at the D.A.'s office, while Pete was just a "simple beat cop."

"…But man-oh-man, me and Eddie used to get into some kinda trouble when we were kids," laughed Pete, slapping his knee. "Like this one time? I must've been twelve, which means Eddie was maybe nine, and we snuck onto the D-Train and went to Coney Island—" But this story only caused Penelope and Lumpkin to interrupt with more questions, and so Pete was forced to launch into a lengthy explanation of what a subway was, and how it worked. Penelope could only listen, breathless, as Pete explained how humans had (so far as she was able to understand) tamed lightning itself to make it pull their carts for them, just as Narnians might do the same with a dumb horse or ox.

Pete was just getting to the good part of the story, where a deadly combination of footlong hotdogs, cotton candy, and amusement park rides had made Eddie barf twice—when a green-cloaked faun stumbled into the clearing. It was one of Phineas's woodland Runners—and as he collapsed on the snowy ground, all present could see the stains of red and the black-shafted arrow sticking out of his back.

At once, everybody stood. Phineas and Pete and rushed forward knelt by the wounded faun. "What's happened?" demanded Phineas. "Who has done this?"

"The… the dead," gasped the faun. He sucked in a labored breath and rasped, "An army of the dead… they walk, this night! And they march… for here…" Then a series of hacking coughs wracked the faun's lungs.

"Shh," said Pete, "don't talk. Save your strength—"

But the Runner shook his head and grabbed hold of Pete's shirt-collar, pulling the human down close. Pete was forced to look into the faun's eyes, and they were glassy and haunted. "The Elders," said the faun. "All dead… attacked by the dead… fauns are scattered. Run. Run away." And then that faun breathed his last.

Pete slowly stood and looked at each of his companions in turn. Lumpkin was openly frightened. Penelope was trying to put on a brave face, but she had gone pale, making her look uncharacteristically sickly in the flickering firelight. Phineas's face had gone hard. "It seems we face a dire choice," said the Marchwarden grimly. "The Enemy is almost upon us. We must decide whether to fight or flee." But he made it clear from the tone of his voice that he did not consider flight a worthy option.

"Penelope," said Pete evenly, "order the knights to douse the fire and gather their things. We're leaving. Immediately."

The centauress nodded and moved to carry out Pete's orders. Phineas, though, wouldn't have it. "If we run from them now, they'll only overtake us when we're too tired to fight—and the dead do not weary! We simply cannot—"

But Pete cut him off. "I'll tell you what we can't do! We can't face an enemy we know nothing about, not under these conditions! How many are there? What, exactly, are they? Can they see in the dark? Because we sure can't! Are they good at fighting in a forest? Centaurs aren't—and they're more than half our troops! They need an open battlefield, or else we don't stand a chance! Now maybe if you had some talented battle commander to work out a strategy, we could do something, but at the moment, you've only got me. And I say we have to get the hell out of Dodge!"

Lumpkin, meanwhile, had already put out Pete's campfire and packed his few belongings. "Sir Peter speaks nothing but the truth, distasteful though it may be," he offered. "I really do suggest you follow his instructions, Marchwarden… unless you want more faun blood to be spilled needlessly this night."

Phineas just looked sourly at Pete. "I thought you didn't believe in 'spooks'."

Pete tilted his head towards the body of the dead Runner. "Yeah, well, that arrow didn't come from Casper the Friendly Ghost. Now pick it up, Finny—we need to get a move-on."

The faun gave a glum nod and said, "Very well. I'll pass the word to my foresters that we must retreat. We should move south, make for the river. But, Lord Peter, I have one important condition if you wish to keep my loyalty and my service."

"What's that?"

"Never, ever call me 'Finny'. Ever again. Or I might just have to kill you, Son of Adam or no."

Hour after tense hour dragged slowly by in the Western Woods. The company had rested long enough in faun territory that fatigue wasn't an issue—yet. But whether or not the warriors were eager to see action, they were all wide awake and on high alert, marching warily through the chill night. Twice-frozen snow crunched underfoot, but apart from that, everything was dead silent. Oftentimes the slightest noise would bring the whole troupe to a halt, what with the sharp-eared fauns scouting the way and taking all caution; but Pete wanted to keep everybody moving, and so they would resume their quickstep march just as soon as the scouts signaled the "all-clear."

It was well into the early morning when Phineas ran to the head of the column, where Pete, Penelope, and Lumpkin—perched astride Lt. Cyrus, so as not to slow the company down—led the march. Phineas said, "Sir Peter, I fear the Enemy gains upon us."

"What makes you say that?"

"One of the rear scouts hasn't checked back with me. It's been close to half an hour now, and still she hasn't returned."

"I don't suppose she could've gotten lost in the woods?" Pete asked. The look he got from Phineas told him exactly how stupid that question was. "Okay, guess not. Killed or captured, then?"

"My guess as well. Which means that our foes draw near."

The faun's pronouncement proved to be well-timed and prophetic, for in that moment, the scouts once again warbled a signal of possible danger. This was no mere false alarm, though. On all sides, the bushes and low branches began to rustle violently, as if a pack of large animals were running breakneck circles around the company, keeping just out of sight. Then, all at once, the movement stopped.

The soldiers, too, came to an immediate halt. "What in the hell was that?" whispered Pete.

"I… don't know," said Phineas, and he sounded genuinely surprised by the fact.

The centaur knights and faun rangers drew in close, forming a tight circle. The centaurs had sabres at the ready (since lances were next to useless in woods this dense), and Pete stood sandwiched between Penelope and Cyrus with his .38 drawn. Then, with an unceremonious shove from Penelope's ponyish flank, Pete found himself pushed behind the line of knights. At the same time, Cyrus bucked Lumpkin, causing the dwarf to land next to Pete with a grunt.

"I never!" grumbled Lumpkin. "What rudeness—" but he was promptly "shh'd" by Pete. All around, the night was still… still as the grave.

Then, somewhere behind the company, a couple of dark shapes dashed by. Pete couldn't see them very clearly from inside the safety of the circle, but he caught the glint of yellow eyes and heard their guttural snarl—and they definitely ran on all fours. Wolves! was Pete's immediate thought.

The fauns and centaurs cast about in all directions, hoping to spot any sign of the wild animals. If they were surrounded, the beasts could attack from any side, or all of them at once… "There!" shouted Cyrus, pointing his sword high. "Behind us, up in the trees!" Those words would prove to be the brave lieutenant's last. At once, four or five agile forms—now they were moving more like apes than wolves—bounded down from the branches and landed in the middle of the circle of soldiers. The creatures never seemed to touch the ground for more than a fleeting moment. They just leapt clear over the heads of Pete and Lumpkin and careened headlong into Cyrus. Before Pete could even tell what was happening, manifold clawing hands grasped at the centaur and carried him bodily off into the forest. Dead silence rang in the night for a few terrifying heartbeats, only to be broken by the lieutenant's tortured screams. Then, as if to make his fate clear to everybody, a grotesque spray of red fluid shot out into the clearing, staining the snow dark in the shadow-broken moonlight.

Pete was incensed. He was too enraged to even remember that he ought to be horrified. He was only vaguely aware of Penelope screaming Cyrus's name and Lumpkin urging immediate retreat. Pete only said to Phineas, through gritted teeth, "How far to the river?"

"Not far," said the faun, a slight quaver in his voice. "We've almost made the old garrison at the ford."

Now those creatures came stalking out of the woods again: openly, deliberately, and in greater numbers. Some stood upright and others moved on all fours, but they all crept with the deadly grace of predators. They all had the same sunken yellow eyes, and skin of sickly purple that made them look as if they were covered head to toe in bruises. It was hard to make out more detail than that in the wan moonlight, but Pete was sure of one thing—these ghoulish monsters were shaped like human beings. Like human corpses.

"Right," said Pete with a little too much calm. He hoped that his voice wouldn't be lost to the terror he was feeling now. "On my word… RUN! Run south, and make for the ford!" With a yell, Pete tore ahead at his best running speed, Phineas hot on his heels. Penelope turned to scoop up Lumpkin, depositing the dwarf roughly on her back. The rest of the company broke ranks and followed—and not a blasted minute too soon, either, because black-feathered arrows started coming down like hailstones. A handful of knights and rangers were struck down by that first volley of shafts, never again to walk among the living.

Pete spared a glance over his shoulder, but he quickly came to wish that he hadn't. Their sudden charge past the stalking ghouls had left the creatures confused, but not for long. Now those things were bounding after the fleeing troupe like a pack of wild dogs, though some brachiated like gorillas, while a few had paused to gnaw upon the bodies of the arrow-felled soldiers. Pete shuddered and suppressed the urge to puke. Facing forward, he tried instead to focus on not running headlong into a tree-trunk.

Then, all of the sudden, the trees were gone, and Pete almost felt the ground give way underneath his feet. They had broken out of the thickest part of the woods and come into a great clearing, a valley that sloped steeply down to a winding river, of course frozen. Pete looked up and saw the sky—a full moon and stars. And after spending days on end living underneath a canopy of trees, the open space made the human feel agoraphobic and vulnerable. Behind him, Phineas and Penelope dashed out from the tree-line and down the slope, followed closely by the rest of their soldiers. Up ahead, at a bend in the river, Pete saw several stone structures on the near bank. The old garrison… their only hope for cover, and the only place to turn and make their stand.

Chapter Eight

FOR reasons unknown, the ghouls quit their chase at the tree-line and refused to leave the cover of the woods. The valley was completely clear of trees, leaving the rebel army wide out in the open as they came to a halt at the foot of the slope and turned to face their pursuers. "Now what could they be waiting for?" asked Lumpkin. "Why don't the beasts attack while they've still got the high ground?"

"Maybe it's some kind of trap," said Pete darkly. "Phineas, is there any chance that those ruins up ahead are haunted, like you guys's old city?"

"None whatsoever," said the faun with certainty. "These twice-damned spirits have never in living memory wandered so far from Silenopolis and the halls of their ancient conquest. I don't know what force compels them to do so now, but I do know that the ruined outpost should be safe enough, at least for the time being. If something foul does lurk there, it would be wholly unknown to my people… and that is not likely."

"That still doesn't explain what the rotten beasts are waiting for," said Penelope coldly. "They certainly murdered Cyrus without such hesitation."

Pete looked at Penelope and saw that she was gazing up the hillside at the waiting undead with vengeance in her eyes. The ghouls were stalking along the tree-line, but still they advanced no further than that. "Hey!" said Pete, snapping his fingers at the centauress. "Earth to Penny!"

Penelope trained an evil glare on the human.

"Uh… I mean, Narnia to… um, never mind." Pete fumbled for the right words before he finally said to her, "Look, you'll get a crack those creepshow rejects soon enough. They're probably just regrouping, or waiting for their archers to catch up, or whatever. We need to take some cover and case out our new position, like, five minutes ago. What do you say, Captain?"

Wordlessly, the centaur-woman nodded and pranced toward the stone ruins. Pete chased after her, but the others followed behind with a little more caution.

The rebels entered the ruined outpost neither slowly nor recklessly. Time might be against them, but neither would it pay to stumble into unexpected peril. From the outside, it could be seen that high stone walls once surrounded this place, long ago, but they had been breached or all but destroyed in so many places that standing sections of wall were sparse. In places, the fortifications had been razed so low that not a single brick peeked out from beneath the blanket of snow. Between the rubble and the snowdrifts, these areas would make difficult terrain for the centaur knights, but beyond the walls, the garrison's courtyard seemed open enough for charging maneuvers. When the rebel soldiers took possession of this place, they looked around and saw that a number of low buildings stood along the inside of the wall, more of them clustered by the riverbank on far side of the outpost. Most of these buildings were half-way caved in, and some were utterly collapsed, but a few were still intact. The largest of these was the garrison's keep, which still stood about a storey taller than the highest section of wall. All around that sturdy fortification, fallen columns and the demolished base of a sentry tower formed a layer of debris that gave the place an ancient and forbidding appearance.

"Okay, Captain," said Pete. "Take a couple of knights and check out that big fort, but watch yourselves. The rest of the cavalry, you're with me." Penelope nodded her assent and trotted off with a pair of male centaurs, while Pete continued, turning to the company's centauress archers. "Ladies, you're working with Phineas. I want all of our archers, centaur and faun, positioned behind those two chunks of wall by the gatehouse. Shoot when the Marchwarden gives the order, but remember, these things are already dead, so arrows will probably only slow them down."

"Are you certain of that, Sir Peter?" asked Lumpkin.

"Nope," said Pete quietly to the dwarf, "but if horror movies have taught us anything, you have to shoot a ghoul in the brain, stake a vampire through the heart, or chop a zombie into tiny little pieces before they finally give it up. And don't even get me started on Jason and Freddy."

The dwarf just muttered "bah!" and drew his dagger.

In that moment, Pete realized that he wasn't very well armed. All he had was his little revolver, with three bullets left. Granted, that was the only weapon he actually knew the first thing about using, but still, there was no guarantee that bullets would work any better on these critters than arrows. "One more thing," he said, now addressing the centaur knights. "…I think I need to borrow a sword."

There emerged from the thick of the woods another sort of undead soldier. These had pallid gray skin but none of the animalistic agility of the ghouls. They came shambling awkwardly out from the forest and down the hillside, their arms held out straight in front of themselves like victims of some mass hypnotic trance. In the dusk of the early morning, Pete could just make out that these undead, like the ghouls, carried no weapons and wore little more than scraps of cloth.

"What in the world are those?" mused Lumpkin.

"Zombies, if I had to take a guess," said Pete. "Huh." Maybe he should have been scared stiff, but by this point, the bare fact of zombies creeping out of the woods was almost… expected.

Then, behind that shambling corps of corpses, there appeared yet another company of the dead, and these answered the riddle of who'd been raining arrows on the rebels: skeletons, clad in the tattered remnants of rusty mail, and each carrying a long yew bow and quiver full of black-feathered barbs. Just as ungainly as the zombies, the skeletal archers fell into a mechanical lockstep and tramped down into the valley. Behind them, the ghouls finally emerged from the woods, and they circled off to the east like a wild wolf-pack that had just scented easy prey.

All in all, the rebel forces seemed to be outnumbered at least three to one. At least these ruins were kind of defensible, Pete thought. The human heard the clip-clop of centaur hooves coming over the frosty ground behind him. "Well, Captain?" he said without looking back. "What do you think about the fort?"

"It's empty, my lord, and we might be able to defend it from within…" said Penelope.

"But?"

"It is a dead-end," she said frankly. "If we try to make our stand there, we shall be trapped and slaughtered to the last soldier."

Pete nodded and casually fingered the hilt of the sabre that he'd been loaned by one of the other knights. He had led these people into this situation, and now, one way or another, they were about to pay the price for the decisions he'd been forced to make. Some had already paid the ultimate price. Pete swallowed. "We'll fight outside then. You're in the courtyard with the rest of the knights."

Penelope nodded. "Ay, my lord. It's… it was nice, you know. To have hope. If only for a little while."

"Save it," grumped Pete. "Save it for after we get out of this mess."

Penelope said nothing to that, but she went to take her place at the front of the line of centaurs. There she stood, twin sabres drawn, and the rest of the knights lowered their lances.

"Phineas!" shouted Pete. "You saw those ghouls trying to sneak off to the east?"

"Ay, Sir Peter!" returned the faun from his post up near the remains of the gatehouse. The Marchwarden gave a signal, and the female centaurs standing at the easternmost section of standing wall all trained their longbows in that direction. The fauns aimed their own missiles uphill at the column of zombies and skeletons slowly advancing from the north.

About half-way down the slope, the skeletons came to a halt and nocked arrows to their bowstrings. This is it, thought Pete, feeling the heft of the borrowed sabre as he raised it up in two hands. "Give the order, Marchwarden!"

Phineas also drew his bow and sighted in a target. "Loose at will!" shouted the faun, and at once a steady stream of twangs and whistles accompanied the flights of the Runners' shafts. The low ground put them at a real disadvantage, though, because most of the arrows never flew as far as the line of skeletal archers. If the missiles found their marks at all, they simply stuck in the limbs and bodies of the zombies; and while one of them might stumble or fall back occasionally, most of the undead just ignored the arrows sticking out of their limbs and torsos and heads, and they kept on marching down the hill.

The skeletons returned fire now, raining a deadly volley on the fauns' position. From behind the section of wall, the fauns were mostly protected; only one was struck, and that proved to be a mere flesh wound. When it became clear that they wouldn't do much good where they were, Phineas called the order to fall back. "Back to the yard!" The fauns, a pair of them helping their wounded comrade, went to take deeper cover. The centauress archers held their position at the other wall, but they were waiting for the flanking force of ghouls to appear.

Set and ready in the garrison-town's open center, the knights waited for their foes to reach the level ground. Reach it they did, showing neither fear nor emotion—the zombies were mindless puppets, marching to the slaughter-grounds. Penelope held her tandem blades aloft. The gray sky, visible overhead through the great gap in the trees above the valley, was entirely clear and still. "Company!" shouted the captain. "Charge!" Lances leveled, hooves thundered, and the centaurs galloped forward. All too soon, they crashed into the advancing line of undead. At the same time, the skeletons loosed again, raining arrows down upon the mêlée—arrows which did practically no damage to the zombies, but which prematurely ended the charges and the lives of two more centaurs.

Pete and Lumpkin ran behind the knights, but the dwarf wasn't particularly fast—and neither was the human, whose past injuries still weren't entirely mended. They both breathed a little easier when they saw Penelope rear up and charge again—she wasn't among the wounded. Indeed, she continued to fight valiantly, chopping away with her two blades and trampling foes under her hooves, while the rest of the knights ran down some dozens of zombies more. The undead fought back with their bare fists, which meant about as much to the centaurs as arrows did to the zombies.

Right away, Pete realized that these corpse-soldiers were little more than fodder, something to keep the knights busy while skeletons picked them off a few at a time from a safe distance. Pete skidded to a stop and shouted, "Back! Fall back, get away from the archers!" Up ahead, Penelope heard the order and relayed it to the knights. She raised one of her swords in salute to Pete, and the centaurs started to pull away from the slow-moving zombies.

To Lumpkin, Pete said, "Go find Phineas. Tell him to put his men on the riverbank and watch out for those ghouls!"

"At once, Sir Peter," said the dwarf. He saluted by touching his knife to his forehead and then went off to find the fauns.

Peter then ran to where the squad of centauresses was positioned. Their bows were longer than those carried by the faun Runners. "Shoot the skeletons!" he instructed. The archers did as commanded and aimed at the bony foes which now marched down the hill behind the zombies. Arrows flew into the skeletal ranks, but most only became tangled in their empty rib-cages. "Aim for the skulls," said Pete. "Try to knock their blocks off!"

Then the human turned and ran again—he'd had no idea that directing a battle could involve so much running about!—and he caught up to Penelope and rest of the returning knights.

"We can make our next stand at those buildings by the riverside!" said Penelope. "Draw them into ambushes!"

"Lead the way, Captain!" said Pete.

Behind them, the zombies marched past the gatehouse and into the garrison yard. Several fauns darted in and out of the alcoves and alleyways between buildings, occasionally firing arrows at zombies' legs and then disappearing out of sight again, all the while slowly working their way back to the river. Phineas appeared with two arrows nocked, fired both at once, and tripped up a zombie which had come within a few yards of Pete. He winked at Pete and Penelope and then followed his men to the east.

Pete stumbled around the corner of another broken piece of wall and nearly ran into Lumpkin. "Mission accomplished," gasped the dwarf breathlessly. "Phineas will watch our flanks."

"Right," said Pete. The situation was rapidly devolving into a kind of chaos that he just couldn't wrap his head around. Neither did it help that the initial adrenaline rush was wearing off, and all the exertion was starting to make Pete's cracked ribs ache like the dickens.

Penelope's knights came galloping around the wall and formed ranks. "The dead are inside the garrison," said one of the centaurs. "The skeletons are among them. Our archers withdrew and joined up with the fauns."

"Then we fight them in close, building to building, and draw them towards the keep," ordered Penelope, "but if they press us that far, don't go inside."

"If that happens, cross the river," said Pete. "At that point, we'll be in full retreat."

Penelope saw that Pete was gripping his sides. The human looked more pained than tired. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said Pete. "It's no—"

"Captain! The enemy!" cried a knight. At his warning, the zombies appeared in view, stalking around the side of a collapsed barracks-house.

"Hit 'em and run!" shouted Pete, and that became the company's motto as they were slowly but surely driven deeper into the ruins.

The knights met up with the centauress and faun archers just outside the gates of the keep. The archers had been running a fighting retreat from the sudden and ferocious attack of the ghouls, peppering them with arrows while they fled. The ghouls seemed more vulnerable than the zombies: when they were wounded, they actually fell. But the rest of the pack would just leap over the fallen and continue the chase like the ravaging beasts they were.

Now reunited, the whole rebel army drew together in front of the keep as a loose band of fauns and centaurs (and one man and one dwarf). They were tired, they were wounded, and they were surrounded. Ghouls, zombies, and skeletons all formed tight ranks and closed in on three sides. And then a voice rose above it all—a chilling, unfeeling hiss of a voice—and it said, "Hold, my children. A moment, before we dessstroy them!"

The rebels looked around in confusion, wondering whence came the voice which had momentarily halted their foes. Then the ranks of the dead reverently parted, and a dark rider appeared: a black-cloaked figure astride a hellish phantom of a steed. The horse, if it could be called that, was black and scaly, with eyes like tiny glowing pin-points of red. The figure in black looked like the very avatar of death. The voice came from beneath his iron helm. He demanded, "Ssstep forward, Ssson of Adam."

Lumpkin, Penelope, Phineas, and others all stood in front of Pete, but the human waved them aside. He limped to the front of the company and said, "Who are you?"

A rapid hissing sound came from the rider, and Pete realized that it was laughter. "Ss-ss-ss-ss-ss. Sssuch presumption, to make demandsss in his position." Here the black knight doffed his helm, and Pete saw a face—pale white, with a black beard, and glassy eyes—clearly dead, but also clearly human. The fiend smiled, and Pete saw a pair of fangs. "I am called… Count Ssserpensss."

"Count… Serpens?" repeated Pete in disbelief. "That's your big scary villain name? Why didn't you just call yourself Count Dracula, or Baron von Doom? I could come up with something better than that in five minutes."

The undead rider frowned and said, "And you, human? I wish to know the name of the insolent wretch whose lassst wordsss were an infantile jessst."

"The name's Pete Pevensie. And I haven't picked any last words yet." From behind his back, Pete suddenly pulled his gun. The Count quirked an eyebrow in confusion and surprise, and Pete grinned as he took aim and squeezed the trigger. The pistol let out a report… but the Count remained motionless. His horse hadn't even shied from the noise. Now it was the Count's turn to smile. Bewildered, Pete aimed again and fired off his last two bullets. It wasn't even like they struck the demon ineffectually… there was simply no wound, no bullet hole, as if they were passing through his otherwise solid form.

The Count let out his rasping, hissing laugh. "Mortal weapons cannot harm me! A valiant effort, to be sssure, human. But you fail, and now you die!" The Count raised a gauntlet-covered hand, and the ranks of the undead, which had been kept at bay until now, prepared to throw themselves upon the rebels.

"Wait!" said Pete. "There's one more thing!"

"What?" snapped Serpens impatiently.

"You're a vampire, right? Sucking the blood of the living, not too fond of sunlight… and your troops here, all undead? Children of the night and all that jazz?"

The Count just fixed Pete with a blank stare.

"Because, I've got to tell you, man… sunrise was, like, an hour ago. Maybe you've been hiding in the darkest part of the forest for a thousand years, but this place, where we are now? It's a great big clearing. And it's gonna get real bright, right… about… now."

Count Serpens paused to look up at the sky, and indeed, the gray of dusk had given way to the orange of dawn. Narrow beams of light began to shine their way through the tree trunks. The sun had indeed been creeping above the horizon all throughout the battle, and in mere moments the light of day would flood the valley and the ruins. The vampire gave an angry roar and spurred his steed, charging at the soldiers. Pete dove aside and the rebels cleared the way. Count Serpens disappeared into the shadows of the old keep. Similarly compelled to retreat from the dawn, the whole mass of undead creatures surged toward the fortress gate, and the rebel soldiers stood aside to let them go.

Lumpkin walked over to Pete with an ecstatic grin on his face. "We won. We won! Sir Peter… Lord Peter, you were positively magnificent!"

Pete let out a heavy breath. He was pale as a sheet. He really looked like he'd just been scared stupid. "We were lucky," said Pete. "I had no idea what I was talking about."

Phineas approached and put a hand on Pete's shoulder. "There are worse things to have on one's side than luck."

Penelope gazed into the darkness after their enemy. "We should go in there. Destroy them while we can."

Phineas shook his head. "If you go in there before sundown, you won't find anything to fight. According to legend, the undead are evil spirits; during the day, they have no physical substance."

Pete gave the word, and Penelope led a troupe of knights into the keep. As Phineas predicted, all was empty—neither sight nor sign of any creature. She returned and related this strange fact to the others.

"That's it," said Pete. "It's over. Time to count our blessings and get the hell out of this God-damned place."

Chapter Nine

THE rebel company emerged from the Western Woods at a ponderous pace, burdened by many wounded and teetering on the very edge of exhaustion. On Captain Penelope's advice, Pete kept the march slow and restful, because it simply wouldn't do to push the demoralized and overtired soldiers, not under their present circumstances. Furthermore, the winter was yet bitter, and a spent army was in far greater danger than a hale one of succumbing to the effects of exposure. But a far greater danger, all knew, lurked behind them in the woods: that the vile Count Serpens and his Army of the Dead might venture forth from their dark lair once nightfall inevitably came. Pete and the rebels had no hope of concealing their trail over the snowy plain; so if the enemy wished to track them, they would be able to do this without difficulty. And if they were overtaken on this upcoming night, wearied as they were, they would be obliterated to the last. The rebels' only chance at survival, Pete knew, was therefore to keep moving over the open plains and count on the lack of cover from the sun to dissuade their undead pursuers. On the plains, the dead could only follow them during the night. Even though they risked been seen by other servants of Jadis, it was their one chance at escape—their only hope.

That evening, the fatigued and nerve-wracked company pressed onward, stopping only briefly for rest and food. While they paused, one of the centaurs with more severe wounds—he had been both arrow-pierced and ghoul-rent—passed away from the cold and a sudden onset of fever. The fauns had some modest skill at healing, as might be expected of a people of foresters all, but that availed them little in such straits as these. Before the rebels moved on, Penelope insisted that they burn the body on a pyre, even though there was no time to spare for a proper funeral. Phineas warned that a bonfire out on the open wold would make their position visible for miles and leave a telltale sign for anybody of a mind to track them. Lumpkin disapproved as well, saying, "Often in times of war must the dead wait on the living. What of those that lately perished at the battle in the Western Woods? They shan't be mourned until our task is all but finished and their lives are thus avenged!"

Pete shook his head at both of them. "No, the captain is right. This has to be done now. A fire won't make our position any worse than the trail we left in the snow, and we definitely need to do something to honor the fallen. Maybe we can't have a service for everybody, but I have to do something to remember them, because I'm the reason they all died!"

"No, you are not!" growled Lumpkin suddenly. "The coming of a Son of Adam or a Daughter of Eve was foretold long ago, by Aslan himself, or so they say! Whether it were you or another, a human would be in Narnia now to fulfill that prophecy; and all true Narnians would fight for his cause—fight and die if need be—because his cause is their cause, their hope for freedom! So dispel such foolish thoughts of guilt, Lord Peter, and if still you find that somebody must bear the blame, save the hatred in your heart for the frozen bitch-queen Jadis and all her foul brood. To flatter yourself with blame only dishonors the slain—and absolves their slayers!" That said, Lumpkin spoke no more, but he put the hood of his cloak up over his head, low enough to hide his face, and he went off to be alone, for this was how dwarves mourned fallen comrades.

Penelope looked gratefully at Pete and mouthed a silent "thank you." Then, after shooting Phineas an evil glare, she went to help her knights prepare a pyre.

As luck would have it, the next couple of days came and went with no signs of pursuit by their horrible foe. The company had finally been able to make a proper camp and take some much-needed rest, and now they marched southeasterly at a more comfortable pace. "The village of Pyskis must be our next destination," Penelope had advised, "for the sprites have no love for the White Witch, and rumor has it that their magic has kept them hidden and out of her power all these long centuries."

For a week they marched ever southward, and ever did the dark of the Western Woods shrink into the distance—but as long as that dreadful shadow loomed within sight behind them, so did the fear of that place whisper in the soldiers' hearts. Then, at last, the forest dwindled out of sight altogether, and the country they traveled through grew rugged and rocky. Though the way was harder now, the hearts of many were gladdened to be free from the view of the ill-favored wood. Indeed, none among the company were more cheered than Lumpkin, who explained that even though he had long made his home in the tamer, northern parts of the Western Wood, he was nevertheless a dwarf—and a dwarf was only truly happy among rocks and mountains. These rocky foothills were a sign that the Red Mountains drew nigh, though they still lay many more leagues to the southeast.

"What do you know about the Red Mountains?" Pete asked Lumpkin. "Have you ever been there?"

But to that question, the dwarf would give no answer beyond a doleful sigh.

Onward they pressed, until the land began to slope downward once again, and the softer soil here allowed silver-barked saplings to rise from the ground, though still leafless and hibernating through the forever-winter. "I deem we approach the River Telmar," said Phineas, "and Pyskis Village rests upon the near bank. The sprites are slow to trust, and very often they will only have dealings with nymphs and fauns. It is probably best if I do the talking. No offense to friend Lumpkin and good Captain Penelope, of course."

"Of course," said Lumpkin with a chuckle.

Penelope looked as if she were about to offer a less gracious comment, but Pete put a staying hand on her arm. He said, "Anything else we need to know, Marchwarden?"

"Yes. You, Lord Peter, must tie a scarf about your head, so as to hide the roundness of your ears."

"My ears?"

"If you are lucky," explained the faun, "the sprites will take you for an elf, and you will be treated distantly, but with courtesy."

Pete swallowed. "And… if I'm not so lucky?"

"Then they will think that you are witch-kind, and they will not be so courteous."

"Well… crap." Pete shoved his hands into his pockets, but then he felt a gentle tap on his arm.

Penelope had reached back and torn a green sash of cloth off of her barding. "Here," she said, offering the ribbon to Pete.

"Thanks," said the human, tying it around his head. If this didn't work… well, at least Phineas had offered to do the talking.

The company followed a path that wound between a jagged outcrop and a cairn of boulders. Up another hill they trudged, and when Phineas reached the peak, he stopped. Soon, Pete and Penelope crested the hill, and then so did Lumpkin—and the dwarf let out a gasp of shock and dismay. There, down in the basin of the valley, a tiny village was nestled by the riverbank—a village of blackened and burned-out husks, mere shells where huts and houses once stood. All was surrounded by a field of black spikes jutting up from the ground—the charcoal remains of a grove of silver trees.

Pete was suddenly struck by this grim sight with a memory, a quotation that he had heard once, and now he gave it voice: "'Our list of allies grows thin.'"

While the rebel army camped on the hilltop, Pete took Lumpkin, Penelope, and Phineas down to the ruins of the sprite-village. Except for Lumpkin, they all stood taller than the tallest of these houses ever had—but that didn't shrink the anger that Pete felt welling up inside of him, having at last witnessed the cruelty of Jadis first-hand.

Lumpkin came up to Pete with a puzzled expression. "Well, my lord, I have peered into many of these houses, but I have seen no bodies. Not one blackened bone remains to help tell the tale of what happened here!"

"It's quite obvious what happened," scoffed Penelope. "The White Witch! She must have tired of the sprites' defiance… and ended it."

"Or," said Pete, "she knows that I'm here, and she didn't want the sprites making friends with us."

That thought threw everybody into an uncomfortable and ominous silence. Then, Phineas's ears began to twitch, and the faun looked to the riverside.

"What is it?" asked Pete. "Do you hear something?"

"Yes," said Phineas, taking on a queer and curious look. "Weeping. I hear somebody weeping."

They found her kneeling by a dozen or so tiny mounds of freshly-dug earth, a spade lying nearby and her fingers caked with the cold dirt. Her blackened hands covered her face, and the tears ran down her fingers in brown streaks. Her hair was long and snow-white, but the garb she wore was of a soft green—a gauzy dress, too sheer to offer any protection from winter's cold. She didn't seem bothered by the temperature.

Phineas raised an arm to hold Pete and the others back. "She is a nymph," he said by way of explanation—yet there was wonder in his voice.

As for the nymph, as soon as she heard the faun's words and saw the four companions approaching, she leapt to her feet and brandished the spade like a spear. "Who are you?" she spat. Pointing the makeshift weapon at Pete, she added, "And what is that?"

Phineas put up his hands. "Be calm. We are not the enemy. We only wish to know what happened to Pyskis Village—when it was destroyed, and by whom."

"And him?" repeated the nymph.

But Pete was already removing the scarf from his head. "My name is Pete Pevensie. I'm human… or rather, what you call a 'Son of Adam.'"

The white-haired girl stared at Pete, pure awe painted on her face. Phineas retook her attention by saying, "The village, nymph! What happened? Speak quickly!"

"My name," she replied coldly, "is Cynthia. Not 'nymph.' And as for Pyskis, it was attacked but two days ago, by a regiment of gremlins. All were slain." She indicated the fresh graves with the point of her spade. "These… were all that I could find. Some of them were my friends… sprites that I had known since…" Cynthia choked back a sob and wiped her cheek with a grimy hand.

Pete leaned close to Penelope. "Gremlins?"

"Wicked fairies," whispered the centaur. "They carry a charm of ill luck. It must have been strong enough to counter the magic of the sprites. Gremlins love spreading misfortune, and needless to say, they willingly serve the Witch."

Pete shook his head and groaned. "Great. William Shatner's Twilight Zone nightmare, and we've got to deal with a whole freaking regiment."

"Whence did the gremlins come?" asked Lumpkin. "And whither did they go after the slaughter?" The dwarf's voice held an edge as he spoke—not one jot of compassion did he carry on his tongue.

Cynthia sniffled and looked up at the dwarf. Her quavering words were thus: "They came from the west. From the barrens. There was—there was no warning. I wasn't here. I only heard the attack. Heard the battle. I came running—but it was too late. They were gone. Back to the west, into the wastelands, I think."

Penelope listened to this speech with some suspicion, but her aloofness was countered by the steely anger in the eyes of Pete, Lumpkin, and Phineas. She could tell that they all had vengeance on their minds. "There is nothing more we can do here," she said. "Pyskis is gone. Our mission has failed. We must move on."

"What?" Pete turned his gaze on the centaur. "We can't just—"

"We cannot go running off after every tragedy and every wretched foe! We are still too few to risk open war, and we cannot defeat a concerted force of gremlin fairies!" Penelope drew a long-suffering sigh and looked understandingly at her three comrades. "I know what you think you must do. I want the same. But we would fail. We need allies."

Phineas, meanwhile, had taken his canteen and was helping Cynthia wash off some of the dirt. The distraught nymph murmured a quiet "thank you" to the faun and tried to regain some of her composure. "Wherever you go," she said, "please, take me with you. There's nothing here for me now. My home, my friends… they're all gone."

Phineas looked about and saw the charred remains of the grove that surrounded the village. "These trees… they were in your care?"

Cynthia nodded and gazed after them. "For all this long winter. And they were murdered as they slept. At least… at least they died more peacefully than the sprites."

Phineas turned to the others and said, "Our road must now take us far to the south. To Archenland."

"Archenland?" echoed Pete, looking at each of his friends in turn. "What's that?"

"It lies beyond the Red Mountains," said Penelope. "It is the elf kingdom."

Pete nodded, but he still wasn't sure what to make of that. "Elves? Okay. Are those elves, as in, 'Legolas killed more orcs than Gimli?' Or are they the 'Keebler cookies and Santa Claus' variety?"

Penelope leaned in close to Pete's face and pronounced, "You are a very odd little man."

"You're right," said Pete, meeting her gaze with a brazen smirk. "There's no such thing as Santa Claus. Whatever was I thinking?"

The centaur just "hmphed" and trotted away. Phineas shook his head at Pete and followed her back to the camp. Cynthia stared at the human and asked, "What's a… 'Santa Claws?'"

Pete said, "You know: Saint Nick. Father Christmas."

"Oh," said Cynthia, "Father Christmas! Of course. But, why would you say that there's no such thing? Of course there's a Father Christmas!"

Pete only shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Never mind. Come on, let's go introduce you to the troops."

That left Lumpkin standing alone by the riverbank. The dwarf turned and gazed upriver, for he knew that this flow, the Telmar River, originated in the distant peaks of the Red Mountains. They were the ancestral home of his people, the Red Dwarves… and he shuddered to think of returning to that place.

Chapter Ten

THE long march carried Pete and his friends even farther to the south and east. For another week and more did they travel, now with a range of rust-red mountain peaks rising in the distance ahead. Since the army had crossed the River Telmar, they had been neither halted nor delayed by any hostile incident, and in this, all judged that they had been fortunate indeed. As the Red Mountains loomed ever nearer, Lumpkin grew more and more somber and despondent—but Pete never remarked on it, because he was altogether taken with their newest traveling companion.

Despite the horror so lately witnessed by the lovely nymph, she recovered quickly in the company of the rebels. Every male in the group, from Lumpkin to the last centaur knight, seemed under a charm—as if Cynthia's mere presence were a magic spell. They were enthralled by her beautiful, elfin face; by her merrily infectious laugh; and also by her spirited will to join the fight. At one point, she borrowed a longbow from one of the centauresses in Penelope's retinue, and she squared off against Phineas in a friendly archery competition. All were impressed to see the nymph match the faun, shot for shot, both of them hitting the bullseye every time—and thereafter, she was gladly welcomed into the company as an archer and a scout in her own right. All in all, Cynthia managed to single-handedly lift the battered morale of all the rebels (or, at least, all the male rebels), and in turn, their camaraderie helped her to leave behind the memory of Pyskis Village.

One evening, some time later, the company made camp just as a freezing drizzle blew in from the northeast. Stinging water-droplets fell from the sky and froze solid on contact with the ground. The soldiers rushed to put up tents and thereby shelter themselves from the miserable weather. They could only hope that it didn't persist through the next day, or worse, turn to hail in the night. As it was, this sleet-storm would coat the ground in a slick layer of ice, making the next day's march a dangerous prospect for the hoofed fauns and centaurs.

That night, Pete sat alone beneath a hastily erected lean-to, wrapped tightly in a coarse blanket and shivering beside a small fire that sputtered and sizzled every time the wind kicked up and spattered it sidelong with a blast of freezing rain. In his hands, he held the sabre of the knight who had died on their trek south from the haunted region of the woods. He had carried the weapon ever since that day. Now he sat by the dying fire, trying to convince himself that it was a matter of practicality, and not some piteous reminder of misplaced guilt.

"You look very sad," said a sweet and girlish voice.

Pete looked up. Cynthia stood outside the small shelter, totally unconcerned by the icy droplets. Her gauzy dress and sable hair clung to supple, youthful curves. "How are you not f-freezing to death?" Pete asked, sincerely curious.

The nymph took in the human's words and then giggled softly, a sound so merry and pleasant that Pete couldn't help but crack a smile himself. "Cold doesn't bother me," Cynthia said. "No more than it bothers the trees."

"But you don't hibernate in the winter?" asked Pete, smiling at his own statement of the obvious.

Cynthia's tinkling laugh rang out again, and she crept under the cloth roof of the lean-to to sit next to Pete. "No," she said, "we don't. We dryads are tree spirits, and so we are quite like the trees, but not so very like them." The nymph stretched out her hands and her bare feet, warming them by the flickering fire. She didn't need the warmth, but she liked how it felt. A minute or so passed by in silence. Then she asked, "Why don't you tell me what saddens you?"

"I've just got… things on my mind," said Pete, turning the sword over in his hands. "I… I don't know why I'm doing… any of this."

"You do it because you must. You are a Son of Adam, and it is your destiny."

"Everybody keeps telling me that!" said Pete. "But I don't know the first thing about… fighting a war, or leading, or any of this! Whatever it is you people want me to be, I'm not that guy!"

Cynthia tilted her head and looked at the human out of the corner of her eye. "Then learn," she said. Taking the sheathed sabre from Pete's hands, she drew the blade and angled it so that his eyes and hers reflected in the metal, glinting in the firelight. "Become a warrior worthy of the faith that they place in you."

Pete picked up a stick and poked idly at the little campfire. "A warrior? In a world full of destinies and witches and magic spells? Sounds less than useless." And that was exactly how Pete felt—useless—ever since he had wasted the last of his bullets on the fearsome Count Serpens. At length, he sighed and said, "Penelope and Phineas are the ones running this show. I'm just along for the ride. I'm making it all up as I go…"

Cynthia smiled. "It's no mean thing to be flexible. Like a tall pine that survives a storm by bending in the wind, you can adapt." She carefully slid the knight's sword back into its scabbard and handed it back to Pete. "I think you will adapt. I think you will surprise yourself."

Pete looked over at Cynthia and smiled weakly. "Thanks. That's… I mean, except for Lumpkin, you're really the only encouraging person I've met since coming here."

The nymph frowned at that and shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "No, I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

Cynthia looked into Pete's eyes and explained with solemnity, "Lumpkin is the only encouraging person you've met, because you and the dwarf are the only 'persons' in this company. I am not a person—I am a spirit."

"What?"

"As I said, the nymphs are tree spirits—and spirits are not people. Such was the decree of the Emperor in the East, when Narnia was created."

Pete's face scrunched up with confusion. "Well, then, what about all the other guys—the fauns and the centaurs?"

"They are beasts," said the nymph. "But you are human—a Son of Adam. And Lumpkin is a dwarf, a Son of Earth. But the rest of us… we are lesser creatures. Our rule was given over to your kind, long ago."

Pete shook his head. "I really don't like the sound of that. It… it just hits kind of close to, well… God, I don't think I could explain this to somebody who didn't grow up with my country's history, but… doesn't that all just sound kind of, I don't know, wrong to you? Calling people 'lesser' and 'beasts' and 'not persons?'"

"It doesn't matter how it sounds," said Cynthia. "The Emperor over the Eastern Sea, Aslan's father, has made it so—and so it is."

"Hmph. Emperors and kings and all that jazz, and on top of it, I've got to be everybody's frigging savior. 'Help us, Obi-Wan Pevensie! You're our only hope!'" Pete shook his head and tossed the sword roughly onto ground. "I don't want this job. Even if we win, I could never be a king."

Cynthia then leaned over to Pete and touched her lips to his cheek. "That, I think, is why you're meant to be our ruler. And I think you will make a great king." Rising from her seat, she gave another soft giggle at the stunned look on Pete's face. Then, twirling with the grace of a prima ballerina, she danced back out into the rain, and out of sight.

Pete touched his cheek where the nymph had kissed him. "Huh. It's good to be the king."

The next day, as the rebel army resumed its march, Pete jogged to the front of the column to catch up with Phineas. "Hey, buddy. Can we talk for a bit?"

The faun looked surprised. "Don't you usually converse with the dwarf when we travel?"

"Yeah, but he's been kind of sulky for the past couple of days, and anyway, you might be able to tell me more of what I want to know."

Phineas glanced at Pete, but only briefly, so as not to take his scouting eyes off of the horizon. "What do you want to know?"

"Well, uh… nymphs, I guess. I mean, um, I want to know about nymphs. I'm curious—and, if I'm going to be a king like everybody keeps telling me, I have to get to know the people in this country, right?"

"I see," said Phineas evenly. "And would this sudden curiosity have anything to do with the charming Lady Cynthia?"

"It might," grinned Pete. "Why do you ask?"

"I suppose I'm curious as well. Of your intentions towards the lady, that is." The faun was quite serious as he spoke, mirroring none of Pete's flippancy.

"My… intentions? What are you, her father all of the sudden? Anyway, you don't have to worry about me and her. That… could never happen." The thought hadn't really entered into Pete's mind until now. He couldn't… could he…?

"And why couldn't it ever happen?" asked Phineas.

"Well, for one thing, she looks like a sixteen-year-old kid. I'm twice that age! Back where I come from, we'd call it 'statutory.' Or 'jailbait.'"

Phineas quirked a small smile. "You think she is a youth? A child? Mi'lord Peter, nymphs do not age as you and I do. She is more than a thousand years old, at least!"

"Doesn't make it any less weird," retorted Pete. "Still… I guess… it's just, you've got to understand where I'm coming from, all right? I haven't seen another human being in… how many weeks have I been in Narnia now? More than a month, anyway, and, well, Cynthia is the first girl I've seen in all that time who's not… um… furry on the bottom. No offense."

Phineas threw back his head and laughed aloud at that. "None taken!" he said. "Believe it or not, I quite understand. It has been many a year since I myself have seen a nymph. They are…"

"…Indescribable," supplied Pete. "Yeah, I noticed that. But at least you've got females of your own species around! There are girl-fauns right here in our little army, but—"

"Faunas," corrected Phineas. "A female of my race is called a fauna."

"Right, okay. Faunas. Point is, there aren't any human women here, which kind of puts my love-life up a creek."

Phineas finally took his attention away from the terrain and looked at Pete intently, one eyebrow raised. "While you are correct, in that there are no Daughters of Eve that I am aware of in Narnia, you will someday be king of this land. And you will be expected to take a queen. Naturally, she will have to be of some race other than human."

Pete looked back at Phineas, the color drained from his face. "Whoa," he said. "That's… a wild thought."

"So… back to my question," said the faun. "Your intentions towards the lovely Cynthia?"

Now it was Pete's turn to give Phineas the funny look. Suddenly, he snorted and burst out laughing. "Hey, I get it! You… you're sweet on this chick!"

"I beg your pardon?"

Pete lowered his voice to a whisper, but he was still chortling. "You like Cynthia? Listen, don't worry about me! I'm definitely not looking to settle down and pick out curtains anytime soon, so—"

Phineas interrupted Pete, but he was puzzled: "So… you do not intend to pursue her?"

"Nah," said Pete. "Like I said, she's not my kind. And, I'm gonna level with you here, buddy. I do not plan on sticking around after we ice the Witch. First chance I have to go back home? I'm gone."

Phineas and Pete were some distance ahead of the column by now, scouting on near point. They were trekking over open plains, not following any particular road, but always aiming for the highest of the ruddy peaks in the distance. When the human made his pronouncement, Phineas gave him a sour look and said, "This word you keep using, 'buddy.' What does it mean?"

"'Friend,'" said Pete. "It just means 'friend.'"

"Well then, Peter, my 'buddy,' if you do not mean to rule Narnia, why would you fight for us? How can we trust you to commit to our cause, if you promise to be 'gone' at your first chance?"

"Don't get me wrong," said Pete, throwing up his hands. "I'll fight the good fight as long as I'm stuck here. I mean, who wants to live in some ice-box of a country, with a Wicked Witch in the White House? I want to be very clear about this part, though: someday, I will find my way home. Then, it's no more nature hikes, no more sword fights, no more destiny, no more king. Just beer, pizza, and cable TV for me. ¿Comprendes, amigo?"

"Yes," said Phineas, fixing his angry gaze on the agitated human. "Yes, I think I comprehend you perfectly for once."

They walked on in silence for several more minutes. Then, out of the blue, Pete gave a low whistle. "A thousand years," he said. "I've got to tell you, bro, she's pretty cute for her age. Good luck." When Phineas didn't respond, Pete asked, "By the way, just out of curiosity, how old are you?"

The faun glanced at Peter. "Me? I'm quite young yet, as fauns go. A mere one-hundred-and-thirty-seven years. In fact, I am the youngest faun ever to be made a Marchwarden of the Runners," he added with a hint of pride.

"Jeez. And I haven't even hit forty yet. I guess everybody in this world is going to outlive me: nymphs, dwarves, centaurs…"

"Not centaurs," offered Phineas. "They are a short-lived race. I would guess that Captain Penelope is no older than you. As I might have guessed: you both have a certain brash youthfulness about you, my boy."

"Very funny, old man."

To speak of the devil, at that very moment, the good captain herself trotted up to the pair from behind. Pete looked over his shoulder and saw the centauress coming. He gave her a casual wave. "Yo."

"And what are you two discussing so intently up here?" she asked. Now the three of them were some fifty yards ahead of the rebel force.

"Nothing," said Pete. "Just… talkin' bout my generation. And our newest ally."

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Yes, the nymph seems to be on everybody's tongue at the moment. Quite the popular conversation topic. Personally, I think it's rather convenient that she appeared when she did, just as we arrived at the vanquished sprite-town."

Pete looked at Penelope and saw her staring back impassively. "You don't trust her," he said. "You think she might be a spy?"

"Preposterous," said Phineas. "She was digging graves when we found her. A spy—"

"Would do anything to appear harmless and garner our sympathy," said Penelope. "Males! Always thinking with your—"

"Hey now," said Pete, "no need to go there. Some of us can keep a clear head. Watch each other's backs. Right?"

"Yes," said Penelope, "some of us can. What about you?"

"I…" Pete paused and looked down at the sabre buckled to his hip. "I need the two of you to teach me."

"Teach you?" echoed Phineas.

"Teach me everything," said Pete. "Fencing, shooting, tracking, tactics. Whatever you've got, I've got a feeling that I'm going to need it."

"All right," said Penelope. She nodded her agreement, and so did the faun. "I'll start to teach you the sword when next we make camp."

"And I, the bow," said Phineas. "In the meanwhile, your instruction as a tracker begins now…"

The company now marched beneath the very shadow of Mount Pire, the tallest peak in the Red Mountains. To the west, the Archen River flowed down from those peaks, and beyond that, the Telmar as well. The Archen River and the Red Mountains together formed the boundary between Narnia and Archenland, and now, to continue their journey, they would need to find a pass through these rugged heights.

"Friend Lumpkin," said Phineas, when the company halted at the peak of a foothill, "Yon mountain is called Pire, and I do believe that it is a stronghold of your folk, the Red Dwarves?"

Lumpkin nodded. "Yes, it is."

"The passes over the mountains are all going to be blocked by snow," said Penelope. "Centuries of winter will have seen to that. The only way for us to get into Archenland will be to go around these mountains, or to go under them."

The dwarf looked down and scraped his boot on the frigid soil. "Yes. This is also true."

Pete sighed. "All right, Lumpkin let's have it. We've been putting up with the Droopy Dog act for two weeks now, so what's your deal already?"

"I… I…"

Cynthia, too, was near at hand, and she knelt down in front of the dwarf. "It is all right, whatever you have to tell us."

"Well," began Lumpkin, "as you all know, I am a Red Dwarf. My folk are not renowned as warriors; but as miners and smiths, we are unparalleled. The Black Dwarves, who come from the north, are warlike and fierce, but little skilled with hammer and forge. And they side with the White Witch."

"All this, we already know," said Phineas.

"Some of us," said Pete. "Anyway, keep going."

Lumpkin nodded. "Yes. I… it was many, long years ago when I was made to leave my home and resettle in the Western Woods. The reason you found me there, Lord Peter, the reason that I had to leave Mt. Pire… is because I was exiled from my kind. I am not welcome in the Red Mountains."

Penelope put her hands on her hips (or her withers, at any rate). "What did you do, dwarf?"

"I was exiled… for collaboration. For teaching a Black Dwarf how to forge weapons. It is a high crime among the Red Dwarves."

Penelope and Phineas seemed stricken, while Cynthia remained unaffected. But they all looked to Peter for a decision. "How long ago was this?" asked Pete.

"About… seventy years ago," said Lumpkin.

"You know, I haven't forgotten how we met. You almost sold me out."

"But I didn't, not in the end!" said Lumpkin, falling to his knees.

"As a last-minute dodge, to save your own hide!" shouted Pete. He sighed again. "Look, shorty. If we're going to be friends here, we've all got to trust each other. No more secrets or skeletons in the closet, okay?"

The dwarf, nearly on the verge of tears, sniffed and nodded.

"All right," said Pete, "here's what we're going to do. The dwarves of Mt. Pire are our best shot to get through the mountains, so—"

In that moment, a cry of terror rose up from the soldiers. Faun and centaur alike were pointing into the air, and several were shouting "Alarm! Alarm, we are under attack!" A centaur galloped up to where Pete and the others had been holding conference. "Look to the sky!" he shouted. "Attack from above! Harpies!"