A/N: Well, uh, two months is a lot longer than I wanted this chapter to take 😅 While I like my job, these busy periods really suck the life out of me. Anyway, you're here for the chapter, so let's get to it! This is the penultimate chapter of Heartworm, and I hope y'all are ready for some action 😈 Oh and this one's 9.1k, so this is officially the longest chapter so far, beating Chapter 54 by about 50 words. Enjoy!
Also, thank you to everyone who's been commenting, leaving kudos, subscribing, bookmarking, reading, all that. Y'all are the best.
Chapter 87 Content Warnings: appearance of snake, battle gore
Chapter 87: shadows and monsters
Addie
Food, clothes, winter cloak… Light, she needs light, in case a lantern's hard to come by.
Rifling through her desk drawer, she finds candles wrapped in thin paper. Addie stuffs handfuls into her bag, her fingers sticky with waxy residue. She'll tear a lantern from someone's hands if she has to, but that sickly blue glow is…
It's too pale. It's unnatural, meant for eyes that never see the sun. Fire's better, and it'll throw warmth. Further toward the surface, the caves are cool.
Next, a map.
By the fireplace's sputtering flare, Addie scribbles everything she remembers of the path here. Each time, Opheodra took a different route. The most recent journey was the fastest.
Think! There must be something besides darkness and dank earthen tunnels and hooves echoing on rock…
There was a deepwood forest. Trees shaped like mushrooms draped in glowing moss, and… and… bollocks, what else? Stone icicles… a cave that stank of sulphur near the pale beach.
God, her head.
A quick nap wouldn't hurt; she is a bit tired, and Opheodra won't need -
Her headache worsens, brings clarity.
No time for rest. Opheodra's asleep, her guard down; this is her chance. Maybe her only chance.
Or she could just… allow it. What's the use in trying anyway, after everything she's done?
Yes, a brief nap, to clear her mind. She's been terribly unwell lately, so -
NO!
With a hoarse cough, Addie bites the lip she's chewed raw this last hour until pain brings her back.
She's escaping; that's what she's doing. Packing, then getting the rings, then… then…
Why can't she think?
Her nose burns with sweet smoke.
It's the fire. It has to be!
Addie sprints to douse the hearth, grabbing the water bucket and throwing it on the flames. They sputter and hiss, tinting green as they arc away from the water.
Enchanted.
She should've known! What was she thinking, lighting it like some blundering fool?
No more water.
Addie snaps the coverlet from her bed and throws it on the fire, stamping until bitter smoke curls up and the haze she didn't even notice recedes.
When she's sure the fire's out, she kicks away the ruined bed cover and sweeps aside dark coals and charred logs. The ash beneath is greyish green, puffing up at being disturbed, and it reeks of incense and enchantment.
Idiot! Fire's not safe; it's been the very tool of her enslavement.
What if Opheodra put her herbs in the candles, too?
Squinting, Addie digs one from her bag and holds it to her window, the best source of light without the fireplace. Underland's bluish glow shows green and black flecks in the wax.
Addie dumps out the candles and puts them back in her desk. No fire. Too risky.
But if she can't get a lantern, she'll be wandering aimlessly in the darkness, lost for God knows how long.
No, no, can't give up now. She still has a chance.
Most of the first path was lit by moss or glow-worms. It surfaces in the mountains, another day's journey from the Northern River.
It sounds impossible. How will she cover all that ground on foot, in the snow, through wolf and Giant country?
She has to.
She'll find a way, because she has to. She made this mess, so fixing it is her responsibility.
Get the rings. Get the cordial.
Then run.
Addie dons her cloak, shoulders her supply bag, and creeps into the hallway.
The Lady's door handle is polished smooth against her palm, cool as cave rock. Addie swings it open fast for the first inch and painstakingly the rest of the way, just enough to slip silently through.
The hinges need oiling; she really should-
No.
Rings, cordial, run.
Three things.
Easy.
Addie inhales the relatively clean air of the hall until her lungs burn and her diaphragm sucks toward her stomach.
Rings. Cordial.
Her single breath shivers in her chest with every careful step.
Opheodra left the door to her bedroom cracked.
Can't make a sound. Can't so much as breathe wrong, or everything -
Rings.
Cordial.
Run.
Addie plucks the cordial and the velvet pouches from the mantle, careful to keep her skirt away from the coals.
She'd rather never see a lit fireplace as long as she lives.
The cordial goes into her pocket. The pouches, she ties around her neck and tucks into her bodice.
That's two out of three.
Run.
Addie scurries back the way she came, lungs burning for air. She'll get on a ship, swim to shore, follow a path to the surface, find Caspian, and -
Behind her, a rustle.
Addie's heart slams into her throat.
Just your imagination. Open the door and go.
But her hand is frozen on the handle.
A hiss.
Addie spins around, and the breath flies out of her.
A serpent as wide as Hallgrim's shoulders towers above her. Before she even thinks to scream, its body coils around her legs, ready to crack her like tinder-wood.
She's going to die.
She's going to die here, and Caspian will never know.
The snake hisses in her face, spitting venom that burns like fire, scales scraping her skin, leaving shallow, stinging cuts. Addie shivers, teeth clacking to hold back an apology.
She's not sorry; she isn't.
"Good luck," Addie says instead. "You'll never get past the Wood."
The snake's forked tongue flicks under her chin, a teasing kiss sizzling with venom.
It's smiling.
Addie closes her eyes.
She's prayed to Aslan only once, to no effect. What use is a silent, never-present god for anything?
But she's failed. And if Caspian believes in the Lion, then maybe…
Aslan, if you can hear me, fix this. Stop her, help Caspian stop her. And don't you dare let him die doing it.
She doesn't mean to whisper his name.
The snake hisses, jerks, and then she's falling.
Her head cracks into the fireplace ledge. The force of impact snaps Addie's eyes open.
She barely realises the yelp echoing around the room came from her; everything is a blur of black and green, and her hand comes away from her head sticky and red.
Sharp scales wrap around her ankle, a dozen knife-edges cutting down to bone, and a sea of unblinking green drags her under.
Caspian
At dawn, he assembles a small team.
Before leaving, Caspian confers with Glenstorm, Darius, and Segnos the healer in the relative privacy of the ruined library. The pale dawn is pink with promise, the sky crystalline-clear. A blessing from Aslan, perhaps?
He prays it is. Belated as Aslan's timing feels, he will accept any aid with nothing but gratitude.
Glenstorm and Darius listen to his account of Aslan's sign with the rapt reverence he's wished he could summon in full sincerity for years. Segnos looks as disquieted as he'd expect for a Telmarine.
Caspian shows them the book and tells little of the nightmare - only the roar.
The rest, they need not know. His private terrors have no bearing on this mission.
"I will follow Aslan's sign north, to the City Ruinous, with a dozen soldiers. Glenstorm, you must hold the defences here until the reinforcements arrive. With the storm subsided, they should reach this camp within two days." Caspian gestures to the minotaur. "Darius, you will accompany me. Segnos, you're needed here."
The healer speaks first, scratching his beard. "With all due respect, Your Great Majesty, your wounds are not yet healed. If you encounter resistance -"
"I do not travel alone," Caspian says. "But I will travel. Aslan spoke to me, and I must follow."
This is his mistake, the weakness Addie - or the witch - exploited. Aslan has shown him the path to setting it right, and by all the gods on Narnia and beyond, he will walk it.
Glenstorm shifts, hooves clacking on the broken floor. "And when you reach the city, you expect to find a path to Underland?"
"Yes." Caspian taps the transcribed inscription. "One of my spies saw the witch Opheodra near the Ruined City. Underland must lie somewhere beneath it."
Darius scratches his furry side, rumpling an herb-stained bandage with a grimace.
"The battle weakened us all," says the minotaur, glancing pointedly at Caspian's bound chest. "Lord Pirrus will arrive with reinforcements within three days. Should we not wait for more men?"
Caspian considers for only a moment, for courtesy's sake. His path was set in stone the instant Aslan roared.
"We cannot. I cannot."
"Sire, we will almost certainly encounter more Giants in the Wild Lands," says Darius. His three-fingered hand hasn't left his halberd since the battle. "A dozen soldiers, even your finest, against Giants…"
No Giants survived the manor battle, so there is no one to report the loss to Harfang. Moreover, Harfang lies to the northwest, while the City Ruinous lies northeast. Under cover of night, thirteen men can search the towering ruins unnoticed.
"Once we cross the river, we will travel only by night, quick and quiet," Caspian says. "If we spot sentries, we will hide, not engage."
It's risky, almost foolhardy, but he cannot - will not - wait any longer. By day, they risk Harfang's hunting parties; by night, werewolves. Between the two, a pack of ravenous werewolves is the lesser threat to a dozen well-trained men.
The alternative is letting Opheodra do as she pleases with the rings, the cordial…
Addie.
The witch's reign would be the worst darkness Narnia has ever seen. What is a hundred years of winter to the eternal slavery of a thousand worlds, without even the thought of opposition?
With a bow, Glenstorm agrees. "If this is the Will of Aslan, we will see it done."
They set out an hour later. Atop Destrier, Caspian turns north and sets his teeth against the cold, his cloudy breath drifting past his shoulders. Segnos bound his ribs and warned him twice not to strain the injury lest he risk a break - advice Caspian hopes to heed even as he doubts he'll be able to.
He left instructions with Glenstorm, should the worst come to pass. Trumpkin will sit as regent until a suitable successor can be found.
Through snow and icy moors they ride, stopping only when the horses require rest, scarfing down their own rations in the saddle to save time. They cross the Giant's bridge by the fading light of a blood-red sunset and continue into the mountains, slowing to heed the narrow, gravel-strewn path. Caspian's falcon and hawk scouts keep watch from the skies, circling in every direction. If anything moves in the Wild Lands, they will see it.
No moon rises; the sky is black and starless, blanketed by thick clouds promising another storm within hours. A distant howl echoes through the mountains, and Caspian draws his sword, praying it is not what he thinks. As troublesome as a pack of wolves would be, werewolves would be far worse.
His company continues through high passes and over icy bluffs, weapons at the ready. As they ride on in tense silence, Caspian stifles a cough, aggravating his already tender lungs. The mountain air is thin and sharp, and even deep, measured inhales cannot sate the pain in his chest.
At dawn, they make camp in a cave meticulously searched for dark creatures or deeper tunnels. By the Lion's blessing, they find neither.
Caspian lies waiting for sleep that does not come as morning crests and the mountain comes alive. Doves coo greetings to their fellows, a snowy fox yips, and somewhere a pack of mountain goats bleat crankily, no doubt hungering for what sparse vegetation survives beneath the north's winter.
The Wild Lands are a desolate country, yet life lingers here still.
Rubbing his eyes, Caspian wills his wandering thoughts to quiet. Though the warmth of his bedroll brings little comfort, he needs to sleep. Lion only knows when he'll get the privilege again - certainly not in Underland.
He must drift off, because a howl jolts him upright, sword already in hand. The two soldiers on watch stand by the entrance - the faun with a broken horn has an arrow on the string, and the Telmarine with shadows under his eyes brandishes his sword, steel glinting in the high-noon sun streaming into the cave.
A smattering of yaps reply, echoing through the mountain passes.
Silence follows.
As time drags on and no fang or foul beasts are forthcoming in the bright light of day, the guards relax, vigilant but no longer expecting immediate battle. Even so, Caspian keeps his sword close.
Would that he had a fortress in which to rest, and not a cave!
He drifts into a fitful sleep haunted by hazel eyes clouded with green.
The wolves trade barks and howls until late afternoon, when dark clouds choke out the sun and prematurely darken the skies. Caspian tries, but sleep does not come again - neither for him nor his men. At sundown - a grim affair with another gathering blizzard blotting out the sun's vibrant farewells - a falcon swoops into their cave with her report.
"Werewolves in the eastern pass, Sire. They look to be moving to cut you off," she says. "Follow the northern path from here, and you will avoid them."
Caspian thanks her and watches her soar away, a white-brown blur against the clouds. Flurries are drifting already, the first threat of a storm that will force his scouts into shelter and ending his only warning system.
At his command, the company sets out when the world is grey, hoping to escape the mountains before nightfall.
Werewolves hunt most viciously at night, and he has no men to spare.
After evading the werewolves, the falcon leads them into a high pass to avoid a Harfang hunting party.
Strange, how normal their baying hounds sound from this distance. Were it not for the Giants' thunderous footsteps shaking the earth, the party would sound almost Narnian.
Caspian's hand does not leave his sword until the mountains open into foothills, and the City Ruinous stretches before him.
Did you see the ruined city? It's rubble by now, but Giant rubble probably looks like cliffs to humans.
Lady Opheodra led the group from the City Ruinous to Harfang.
Caspian shields his eyes against a wintery squall, and the pain in his cold-seared lungs is nothing to the raw beat of his heart.
The Ruined City of the Giants is exactly as Addie described - imposing rubble near-tall as cliffs, an ungainly sprawl of long-decayed opulence. Weathered debris the size of boulders litters the paved plateau, and broken columns and half-collapsed walls throw deep shadows over the only two words that remain of the Giant King's inscription:
UNDER ME.
They reach the City Ruinous deep into the night, led by a single, small torch. It risks drawing attention, but there is no moonlight, and they must search the ruins. The falcons have traded off with the nighthawks - they will call a warning if danger approaches.
Atop a hill to the northwest lies Castle Harfang. Its shadow darkens the surrounding landscape, its windows black save for those around the curtain wall. It's an audacious manor - though it has a thick gate and many towers, windows low to the ground riddle its outer wall, vulnerable to infiltration by any army brave enough to storm the hill. Clearly, the Harfangers fear no attack.
There is a conqueror's quest beckoning here - an opportunity for revenge, and to crush the evil that has long lurked in these lands.
But at the witch's manor, ten Giants killed eighty fighters, and Caspian's ribs remind him of the strength of a Giant's backhand with every breath.
For now, let them rot here. Let them feast on werewolves and harpies and dumb mountain goats. But they shall never make a meal of a human or a Narnian again. Of that, he will make well certain.
Caspian guides his company up the slope, where the terrain is rough but easier for horses to manage than the Giant steps, each as tall as he, leading to the city's centre. When the ground levels and broken pavement stretches before them, Caspian dismounts.
"Spread out," he says, lighting two more torches. "Search in pairs, and stay alert. Look for any sign of a tunnel or passage."
With brief salutes, the men disperse.
Caspian focuses on the letters, sliding into the straightaways with Darius' help and peering into every dark corner and earthen wall.
He's searched three letters - to no avail - when he hears a growl.
In the seconds it takes him to scramble to high ground and draw his sword, there's a snarl, a muffled cry of alarm, a snap, and a wet crunch.
"To me!" Caspian shouts, Darius echoing his command. "To-"
Bared teeth dripping blood lunge through the dark, snapping around Caspian's arm. Darius' halberd descends in a flashing arc, and the werewolf's body falls away.
Caspian tosses off its head, glad for the heavy vambrace that spared his arm. By the light of Darius' torch, he leaps toward the next werewolf he sees. Its fellow has backed one of his men into a pillar, and another werewolf advances from the side, its claws scraping on the pavement.
With a wild battle cry, Caspian attacks the second. It spins toward him, gusting the stench of rotting flesh and soured blood into his face. Caspian plunges his sword into its open maw.
"Sire!"
Its companion whirls at him, and Caspian jumps back. As Darius splits the creature in a half, Caspian's boot meets an edge, and his balance teeters.
As he falls, a third werewolf lunges from the dark.
"Darius, behind!"
His warning comes too late.
The werewolf bites. Darius bellows.
Caspian slams to the frozen ground.
He lies there gasping for only a moment, pain burning between battered ribs, before floundering to his feet. Above, the night bleeds with wolves' yelps, horses' screams, and his men's cries - some determined, some wounded.
He underestimated the wolves.
Caspian blinks, vision refusing to focus as he scrabbles back up the bank, praying the others are still alive.
"Your Majesty!"
Caspian accepts his soldier's hand and hauls himself upright with mumbled thanks. The soldier's little more than a boy, his cheeks smooth and unstubbled, and black blood splatters his face. Two others guard his back.
Ahead, six of his men have encircled Darius, and two more werewolves lie gutted on the flagstones. Only five horses remain.
The night is still again, as if cloaking yet more monsters. As if mocking the very breath that fills his aching lungs.
In the quiet, Darius breathes his death rattle.
Caspian sprints through his men and kneels at the minotaur's side. Blood spurts from Darius' neck and shoulder, staining the snow and watering the broken stone beneath.
The boy-soldier who pulled him up tears a piece of his shirt and puts pressure on the wound, but it's too late.
Only the cordial could save Darius now.
"May the Lion keep you," Caspian murmurs.
When the minotaur falls silent, Caspian reaches out and closes his eyes.
There is no place to bury their fallen. Digging graves for three soldiers and eight horses will cost time they do not have, and the ground is frozen solid.
Caspian swears to return for them and orders the search to continue, this time with only two groups of four or five.
The soldier - boy - Aimar - finds a passage in the spine of an E.
Before they venture forth, Caspian has the bodies brought into the tunnel - the closest shelter from the elements and hungry, roaming monsters he can afford them.
Caspian leads his surviving men into the darkness without the strength of his honour guard at his back.
They have rations for two weeks. That was all that could be spared from the manor's damaged storehouse.
Caspian mouths silent prayers to Aslan as the steep tunnel widens into a cool, damp cavern of twisting stone columns thrice as large as his castle's ballroom. The strange formations carry their footsteps in a continuous, overlapping echo that lingers long after they pause at the cavern's exit.
Ahead, the path narrows and narrows until a crack half as wide as Caspian's shoulders lies before them. A brief search around the cavern's edge shows no other outlet.
It's too narrow for the horses.
Caspian blinks away salt as he untacks Destrier and strokes his stallion's muzzle. There's no time to turn back, and this is the only path forward. The horses will have to find their own way out. From there, the falcons will guide them out of danger.
Destrier whickers and snuffles into his hand.
"You know the way home," Caspian murmurs. "Lead the others."
Destrier headbutts his chest, and Caspian pushes him away.
"Go."
After a smack to his rump, the stallion obeys, trotting back in the direction they came, the other four horses following.
Caspian turns back to the fissure rather than watch them go.
His armour receives new scraps and scratches, but he squeezes through. Beyond, the tunnel spills into a cavern so large its ceiling is lost to darkness. A sparse forest fills the room. Pale, blue-green, glowing moss covers the floor and crawls up fibrous tree trunks, muffling his footsteps to a whisper. The trees themselves stand as silent sentries over dozens of winged, reptilian creatures.
Dragons.
Dragons as small as a door and as large as the castle drawbridge lie beneath the trees' mushroom-like canopies, all fast asleep.
Hand on his sword, Caspian holds his torch aloft and edges deeper into the cavern. Though his armour creaks and his footsteps are not wholly swallowed by the mossy floor, the beasts don't stir.
A stifled grunt heralds the first of his men.
Caspian hushes the one-eyed faun and gestures to the dragons. Wide-eyed, the faun quiets and passes the warning to the others as they emerge one by one.
Doctor Cornelius once told him stories of how these mighty beasts terrorised the north in ages past, when humans were few and Aslan often roamed Narnia's young forests, dancing with the trees and woodland creatures. While every shake from the Lion's Mane brought sunlight and spring to Narnia, dragons bathed the northern wilds in fire so hot it charred stone, darkening the mountains to this very day. The Doctor had no answer when Caspian asked where the dragons went.
As his company makes their way through the labyrinthine forest, careful not to disturb the slumbering creatures, Caspian wishes for Darius' solidity at his back, though even a minotaur honour guard would do little good against the might of dragons.
But Darius is dead, lost to him like so many others.
By the Lion's grace, their passage wakes no dragons. In the next cavern slumbers a Giant, with a snow-white blanket of a beard. His breath whistles on the inhale, an almost-snore swallowed by the massive space in which he sleeps.
Perhaps this is the throneless Giant king the city's inscription spoke of.
Caspian remains cautious, every footfall calculated and quiet. While this Giant has the rounder cheeks and more innocent visage of a Narnian giant, he was still a ruler of the Wild Lands. If woken, he would certainly be a foe, not a friend.
Caspian breathes easier when the next cave appears empty, populated only by knotty columns of rock glistening with cave water. But when one of his men jostles another, the stone stirs.
A fluttering blue glow races up the walls and columns, and the shapes move. The ring of drawing swords speeds the light's path, illuminating the room in seconds.
The light is similar to Lilliandil's.
Caspian inspects the wall and sighs in relief.
"Stand down."
It's only moths - silvery, blue-glowing moths. At a single touch, they swarm away, flying toward the refuge of the ceiling.
It's like walking in dancing starlight.
Five caverns and what must be miles of tunnels later, the dank underground chill has waned, giving way to a slow-creeping heat - not the heat of a Narnian summer, golden and brimming with endless music, but oppressive, metallic, like the stink of an ill-fanned forge. A heat that weighs as heavy as the miles of earth above.
Caspian wipes the sweat from his brow and leads his company down into the bowels of the earth with a bravado belied by his pounding heart. The How was safety, but this…
This is a tomb.
Here, hunger comes more sharply, as if his weary body insists on reminding him he is still very much alive.
Caspian chews his rations without tasting them and thinks only of forward - of onward and downward to the very bottom of the earth, if that is what it takes to stop the witch and save his kingdom.
He closes his eyes, thinking of the long journey here.
You failed me.
Not yet, he hasn't.
Seven ration-cycles from their entry into the caves, they find water.
Torch held high, Caspian frowns at the near-silent lap of ink-black waves. In his dream - nightmare - the sea was storm-tossed and violent, as furious as the Eastern Ocean in a winter tempest. This sea is whisper-calm, its surface like glass.
You could spend weeks lost in those caverns.
Has he led them astray?
"Sire, ahead!" Aimar points to a smattering of blue lights across the water.
Caspian squints, but the light is too dim to see much more.
It must be a ship. Down here, he can only assume its captain is allied with the witch.
Further exploration along the beach takes them to a rowboat that can accommodate all his remaining men. But ten against a ship of foes are not odds he relishes.
Caspian grips his sword, willing its leather-bound hilt to brand his palm with power and promise.
Varn spoke of a sea, and he dreamed of an underground ocean. The alternative to crossing these waters is turning back.
That, he will not do.
But for the sake of his men, he cannot be reckless. Many died at the manor thanks to his frantic chase, and he lost three more good soldiers at the City Ruinous by underestimating the werewolves' tenacity.
He cannot lose any more.
"We will row out to this ship and secure passage across the sea," Caspian says. "It must not come to battle."
As he lays out a plan, Caspian sends a silent prayer to Aslan for guidance and grace.
Not two days ago, the Lion spoke to him directly for the first time in years. He must believe Aslan is still listening.
The ship's ladder is extended already, its ropes salt-water stiff. Caspian ascends to the deck, his sword a comforting but cumbersome weight on his hip.
His instinct is to fight, to take over the ship and sail it himself, but he does not have the men to row it.
This will be a battle of wits, not of the blade.
A scraggly bearded man with skin like pale leather meets him on deck - the ship's captain, by his proud seaman's posture.
The captain squints at him. "You do not wear Her Ladyship's colours."
"I wear no colours," Caspian says, the necessary lie like sand on his tongue. "But I serve Her Ladyship just the same."
He waves up his men, a show of confidence and more swords he prays he will not need.
"We are expecting a shipment," says the captain. "Not outlaws. What errand do you claim?"
Caspian's palms go clammy. He's never been a good liar.
"I am not at liberty to share. My report is for Her Ladyship's ears alone."
The captain's hand creeps toward his sword, and the crew stirs at their oars. So many eyes, all flashing green in the space between heartbeats.
A strange thought cuts through him, one which ought to be unwelcome.
What would Addie do?
She marched into his castle as brazen as could be, and she got what she wanted despite his suspicion.
She would…
Caspian lifts an eyebrow as his men fan out behind him, ready but not openly aggressive as yet.
"Are you her Ladyship's confidante, Captain?" he asks. "I come bearing news of a victory in Ettinsmoor. Surely you would not delay the delivery of such glad tidings."
A young man stirs in the crew, back straightening as his blank frown quivers.
A breath later, he slumps into his former position, a perfect mirror of the other row-men. It's like watching the very life leech out of him, leaving only a shell behind.
Caspian looks away. There is hope, still, if such a slip of a man can waver.
The captain nods toward the two fauns in Caspian's company. "Come bringing prisoners, do you?"
"Loyal soldiers," Caspian corrects. "Eager to pledge themselves to the cause."
"Then they'll take a turn on the oars." The captain spins on his heel and marches updeck without waiting for agreement, shouting an order to cast off.
"Officer quarters're below," the captain shouts at him over the creak-splash of the oars. "Crew's quarters are astern. Four of your men will be added to the rowing rotation in six hours' time."
Everything in him longs to refuse and put the weathered captain in his place. His men will need their strength should battle await them ashore, and he has not had to take orders in… a long time.
But here, he is not a king. He is playing the part of a soldier, a lieutenant at best, one of Lion only knows how many the witch has subverted.
Caspian sends his most tired soldiers below to rest and stays on deck with the others to guard against treachery.
While his men might be able to take the ship by force should the need arise, they do not have strength enough to man twenty sets of oars and still fight whatever evil awaits them across the sea.
The crossing is long and bleak. There is no singing, no sailors' banter, no cheerful wind filling purple sails. Instead, the ship pulls through the unnaturally still water like a great beast labouring to meet its end, its timbres groaning with every oar-pull.
The air is wrong - damp and stale and chalky, so unlike the lively sun-salt breeze aboard the Dawn Treader. What little sea spray there is leaves a cool film over Caspian's skin, so unlike the Eastern Ocean's cheery, salt-crusted caress.
Caspian stays at the bow and sleeps only when he must. When his body's exhaustion can be ignored no longer, Addie chases him through his dreams, spewing green fire and screaming failure, farce, fool! Where is your Lion now?
He jolts awake and prays, bracing for the silence he has known so often.
To Caspian's shock, his next breath tastes of lilies and the sweet water at the Beginning of the End of the World.
"Thank you," he whispers.
Caspian restrains his awe as they approach the witch's port.
He was right to bluff his way onto this ship. Opheodra's lair is no mere castle - it is a city entire, half-built and sprawling down the underground mountain. Strange creatures dart in and out of the light of pale blue lanterns, the same type that light the ship. They must be the earth-gnomes Varn described. Their forlorn faces don't seem to have that cold glint of wickedness found in servants of the White Witch.
Their greyish skin is dull as ill-fired clay, and some are shorter than dwarves while others would rival Caspian's own height. Some bear horns or tails or both, and others do not. Some are bearded, others have no hair at all. Their faces are of every shape and size, so different they can hardly be assumed to be the same species. Humans are few and far between.
There is one feature uniting them all, no matter their species.
Every face is utterly desolate. A listless, empty sadness hangs about them like a second skin, as if everyone they have ever known or loved is dead and gone and they are entirely alone. These are faces of mourning, of despair, of misery - just like the crewmen labouring at the oars.
These are not enemies; they are victims.
Slaves.
Caspian's sword weighs heavy at his hip.
Despite their appearance, these people are under Lady Opheodra's sway. If they realise who he is and his true errand here, they will attack without mercy as the manor guards - and Varn - did. And he has only nine loyal men with him.
For the sake of these captives as much as his own men, it cannot come to battle.
When they make port, the captain speaks with the dock master, a squat gnome with the eyes of a cat and a curved horn in the middle of its slate-grey forehead. Caspian scarcely believed Varn when he'd first described the strange earthen people Opheodra had enlisted. Now, he's doubly grateful the northman was so forthcoming.
Caspian silently gathers his men and eases closer to eavesdrop.
"- to her Ladyship," the captain is muttering. "Says he brings news of a victory, but I've never seen him before. I was told to expect Varn."
Caspian swallows a curse. He should have said Varn sent him.
The dock master scribbles a note on his clay tablet and waves two more gnomes over before turning to Caspian.
"Many sink down, and few return to the sunlit lands," the dock master intones, as if making a funeral pronouncement. "State your business with her Ladyship."
Caspian draws himself to his full height and schools his face into the blank mask of a reporting soldier.
"I bring glad tidings of a victory in Ettinsmoor," he says. "The captain of the Lady's manor guard, Varn, sent me in his stead."
"And these soldiers with you?"
"New recruits," Caspian says.
The dock master scrawls another note, carving spidery runes into his tablet.
"Gnantir, Rullugum, escort this man to her Ladyship. Many sink down to the Underworld."
The two gnomes - one Caspian's own height, the other a beak-nosed halfling - bow.
"Few return to the sunlit lands," they parrot. They then turn to Caspian and gesture for him to follow with the apathy of underpaid wardens.
Caspian nods to his men. Their orders, as discussed on the beach, are to blend in and follow instructions until he signals otherwise or they are found out.
It is strange to follow the gnomes and leave his soldiers behind. He knew he'd likely have to, but to abandon them here, alone, in the very nest of the enemy -
They all agreed to this, his mad plan to infiltrate a witch's den. They know as well as he that this is not a battle that can be won by their swords.
The gnomes plod into the city.
Caspian follows.
Caspian waits until they lead him into the castle's empty, gloomy halls to attack.
The shorter one goes down easily - a swift, calculated strike to the head crumples him, but it alerts his companion. The second gnome brandishes his three-pronged trident, but Caspian is quicker. He dodges the gnome's strike, lunges behind him, and knocks him out with a hard blow of his sword pommel.
Caspian drags their unconscious bodies into a dark hall and prays they will wake free of the witch's enchantment.
He continues down the hallway, listening for strumming music or Opheodra's voice, that poison Varn warned him of. It is his nose that leads him to where he must go - the stench of evil magic, corroded and sickly sweet as rotting fruit, beckons him upstairs long before he hears her.
Opheodra's low, lilting croon drifts under the most ornately carved door in the hall, the words unintelligible but threaded with danger. Flickering green light slivers onto his boots as Caspian sends a final prayer to the Lion and closes his fist around the handle.
Aslan, be with me.
Despite his slow, careful push, the door creaks open. Inside, the room is adorned with tapestries of dark forests and winding caves. Opheodra sits on a velvet armchair, facing a roaring fire and leaning down as she speaks with a kneeling servant.
"- remember, the sun is brutal, sweet, and you mustn't - Not now, Warden. Return in an hour's time with your mutterings."
Caspian eases the door shut, clicks the lock, and steals closer. The room's thick rug quiets his steps.
"As I was saying, you mustn't venture aboveground. My world's two suns ensure there is no true night. Only the caves are - Are you deaf, Warden? Leave us, and return anon."
He ought to kill her, here and now, in a single stroke. Opheodra appears unarmed, and any moment, he will lose the element of surprise.
But as Caspian closes the distance, the kneeling servant's face comes into view.
His breath contorts around her name.
Addie is almost unrecognisable. Her skin is greenish-grey and unnaturally pale, as if the witch has bled her dry. A dried rust-red stain on Addie's dress suggests she may well have. The usually full cheeks he once cupped are sallow, her stare vacant, her eyes sunk into their sockets and framed in exhaustion.
And her eyes. Worst of all, her eyes - their hazel depths are gone, replaced by a swirling, smoky green.
Oh Addie, what has she done to you?
"Why, King Caspian, what a… pleasant surprise."
Caspian keeps his blade pointed at the witch as Opheodra stands.
"It ends here, witch," he snarls. "On pain of death, I command you to free this realm and all the creatures you have enslaved. Starting with her."
Addie does not look up. She kneels like a statue, staring at the armchair as if Opheodra still sits in it.
"Pain of death? Enslaved?" Opheodra's laugh is a breath of a song. "Dear sir, it is highly uncouth to barge into a lady's quarters and threaten her so."
Caspian keeps his sword pointed at her heart, advancing as the witch retreats toward the fire.
Addie still hasn't moved.
"You have travelled far," says Opheodra, in a voice so melodious it aches. "And through great duress, no doubt."
She takes a pouch from a box on the mantle as Caspian edges around Addie, who doesn't seem to notice he's even there, though he nudges her skirt aside with his boot.
In his distraction, he isn't quick enough to reach Opheodra before she throws the pouch on the fire.
A sweet, heavy smell floods his nose as smoke billows from the hearth, thickening to an oppressive fog in moments.
Ahead, green cloth flutters.
Caspian swings, but his sword finds no mark as it slithers away. The thick smoke burns his eyes, now so thick he can't even see the tip of his blade.
Opheodra's laugh mocks him.
"Stay your blade, King of Overland. You have no enemies here."
"Do you deny your crimes?"
Caspian strains, but he can barely see his own hand, let alone the witch - and he can't risk hitting Addie.
"Is it a crime to provide refuge to those in need? I rather thought your Majesty would be pleased at my initiative."
Coughing, Caspian follows the witch's voice to his right and spies a sinuous form. His lunge and graceless slash topple a table.
"Ah, that temper. Adelaine warned me of it."
"If you are as innocent as you claim, then show yourself!" Caspian swings once, twice, and still no mark.
Another laugh. "Sir, it is you who have invaded my chambers with steel and threats. Do not preach to me of innocence."
Caspian trips over the rug's edge as he nears a brazier. Its light catches on the green train of Opheodra's dress.
When he dives, he meets only the unforgiving stone floor. A sharp warning of pain flares in his ribs. Caspian ignores it and scrambles to his feet, choking on the fog.
"Dear king, you are not well. You must be exhausted, having come so far seeking me."
Caspian holds his side and follows her voice.
He is exhausted.
He is exhausted of betrayal and war, of battle and death and the very hilt in his hand - but he has only ever done what is necessary.
Hasn't he?
"I am quite well," Caspian grits out, "though your Harfang allies tried mightily to make me and my men otherwise."
"In times past, you offered me your aid. My lands were in great danger, and you came to save them. But you have been rather distracted of late, haven't you? I was forced to seek new allies."
"An alliance bought in blood!" Caspian charges ahead, chasing a ghost and failing, his chest burning for want of clean air. "How many have you sacrificed to the monsters of Harfang? Dozens? Hundreds?"
"Sacrificed? Sir, you are terribly mistaken." Opheodra's consonants lengthen, almost hissing. "I have only ever granted respite for those weary souls who earned their rest."
Is that what she intends for Addie? A so-called respite in the belly of Giants? Or do darker plans await?
His mouth is sour-sweet with incense, an herbal stink Caspian coughs up as thick bile, his ribs throbbing.
"Show yourself!" Caspian roars, spitting onto the floor. "If your cause is so righteous, face me properly!"
"In good time." Opheodra's skirts whisper over the rug, a sound he chases only to stumble over a settee.
Caspian rebalances and stills, straining for the slightest noise that could give Opheodra away.
"Why do you seek battle? We are much alike, you know."
"We are not," Caspian counters, turning toward her voice. His ribs are aching anew, protesting so much movement, and he ought to preserve his strength until the witch is in sight.
"Ah, but we are. Did you not once fight your own people to claim your rightful crown?"
"Narnia will never be yours."
"Narnia? Fret not, I have little interest in your throne - only my own," the witch says, soft as a lullaby. "I merely seek to reclaim that which is mine, in the land of my ancestors. Long have my people suffered under a misguided ruler."
"You make slaves of your people," Caspian says. "Or corpses."
"And how many corpses have you made on your journey here? How many have bled their last on my lands, in the halls of my manor?" Opheodra's words whip past him, circling like a vulture he cannot see.
Too many, but it was not his machinations that brought their end.
Caspian stalks through the smoke as quietly as he can. Opheodra's silhouette lies ahead, a wavering shape creeping back toward the hearth.
"Perhaps, despite your penchant for violence, we can come to an understanding." Opheodra's treacherous, melodious words cast rippling echoes. By sound alone she would be impossible to find, but he spies her shadow bending down to kneel at her fire. "Would you not rather resolve this dispute with diplomacy?"
The time for diplomacy is long past.
Caspian inches closer and prepares a death blow.
"You can have her."
A pocket of smoke gusts away, and Caspian stares in horror at Addie's statuesque form, kneeling at his feet.
He almost…
His sword lowers.
Opheodra's voice sweetens, as sharp and deadly as a werewolf's bite.
"For a price, of course. You may have your heart's desire in exchange for mine."
Caspian speaks to the glittering emerald eyes shining through the gloom.
"What do you want?"
The witch smiles. "You are a warmaker, King Caspian. I have not forgotten your victory against the Giants, when my reign in Ettinsmoor was young. Come to my lands and make such war as they have never seen. When my rightful crown is returned to me, I will leave your realm in peace."
This is her price? Are the Harfang Giants and the werewolves not at her command?
"Make your own war," Caspian says. "Are you not practised enough in dealing out death?"
Somewhere, a door clicks.
Caspian whirls, careful not to turn his back on Opheodra as he squints, anticipating an attack. But none materialises from the dense smoke.
"Come, Adelaine."
At the witch's command, Addie stands. Though Caspian tries to grab her, she's already out of reach.
"She really is an angel of obedience." Opheodra tucks a curl behind Addie's ear, a vicious, taunting tenderness as she keeps Addie between them. "Are you so shocked, King Caspian? Did she never offer you such fealty?"
In times past, she -
No, Addie's mind and will were always her own, and obedience was never her way. And he loved…
Not always. There were many times he cursed Addie's obstinance.
Caspian grits his teeth and shakes his head to clear it. The fire is to Opheodra's back, Addie guarding her front, but her sides are vulnerable. He sidles closer, testing her defences.
"Let her go."
Opheodra strokes Addie's hair, smiling with wicked benevolence at her unwitting shield. "Adelaine, this Overland king would have you for his own. What do you think, sweet? Shall we oblige him?"
"If you wish it, my lady."
Lion, Addie's voice is so… hollow. Hoarse. Empty, as if all the fire and steel that made Addie herself has been sucked out.
How much of her is still left to save?
I'm sorry, Addie, I'm so sorry.
Eyes stinging, blade raised, Caspian edges around them, trying to flank the witch. Opheodra anticipates his every move, constantly shifting Addie to stand between her and his sword.
"It must have infuriated you," Caspian says. "How much she fought your manipulations."
Opheodra's hands slide over Addie's shoulders and turn her to face him.
"Ah, but she didn't. A pinch of patience, a sprinkle of indulgence, and she was mine. She responds best to a gentle touch, you know."
He should never have let Addie go to Ettinsmoor. He should have sent guards to fetch her the moment he discovered she'd left.
Look at me, Adelina. Please.
Addie's blank stare is fixed on nothing, passing through him as if he is nothing.
"Decide quickly," says the witch, stroking Addie's cheek with a bone-white finger. "I will not offer again."
Opheodra offers what she cannot rightfully give. What she asks of him… Does she think he will send his army to a foreign world on a witch's errand, where she will surely invade their minds and erase their selves as she's done to Addie?
Accepting, even pretending to, would give Opheodra the greatest gift of all:
Time.
Time to bring the evil she's wrought here to all of Narnia. Time to make slaves of his soldiers - of his entire kingdom, if it suits her whim.
Caspian's breath is a wet rasp, his throat tight with inevitability.
He cannot accept. He cannot condemn Narnia to Addie's fate. It would be the end of his people, and the people of Opheodra's world.
But if he denies this offer, wretched and faithless though it is…
Addie's shape blurs in his vision.
Caspian swallows sorrow and does not pray; he knows what Aslan's will would be.
But then, with a shock of sudden clarity, he realises what Addie's will would be.
Caspian, don't! Don't listen to her!
A lifetime ago, when a hag and a treacherous dwarf held a knife to her bleeding throat, Addie begged him not to surrender. Eyes wide, fear scraping her voice raw, she begged without a thought for her own life.
He did not listen. And she almost died.
"Addie," he murmurs. "I -"
"A pity." Opheodra sighs, pulling Addie with her into the smoke. "Very well, little king. If battle is what you crave, then battle you shall have."
Thudding footsteps are his only warning.
Steel sings through the air, and Caspian has no time to parry. He ducks and throws himself back as a massive broadsword whistles overhead and shatters one of the sitting room chairs. The wielder, shrouded in smoke, steps forward.
Hallgrim.
The towering northman bares his teeth and charges, readying another swing with ease as his armoured boots thunder in the small room.
Grunting, Caspian rolls, his ribs grinding in protest as he scrambles to withdraw. Hallgrim's downswing crashes to the floor, steel slicing the rug and ringing off stone. The northman releases his two-handed hold on the blade, lashing out with a gauntleted fist.
The punch snaps his head back.
Caspian disengages with a pained gasp, wiping a fresh, stinging cut before it drips blood into his eye. Hallgrim presses the attack with a vicious upswing that slices past his neck and cuts his cheek.
Coughing against the smoke's bitter, cloying film, Caspian shoves a table between them and throws a vase of dead flowers at the northman's face. He misses, but Hallgrim's flinch buys him time to disappear into the smoke.
The thick carpet muffles his footsteps, and he is glad for his leather armour, quiet as it is. Still, quick movements will make it creak and reveal his position.
"Come and meet your fate, King of Overland. If you will not accept the Lady's mercy, you will face her judgement."
Caspian treads softly, easing away from a brazier's betraying light. A burning cough tickles his throat, but he swallows it and fights the punishing itch.
The northman's heavy footsteps advance. Caspian inches behind a desk as Hallgrim's hulking silhouette draws nearer and ducks as his eyes - glowing, flickering green like all the witch's servants - drift over his hiding place.
Breath held, Caspian waits. The only kill stroke open to him will be to sever head from shoulders; Hallgrim's armour is too thick for any blow to the torso.
But… this man is a slave. He knows not what he does, any more than Addie knew what she wrought in his castle. It was not truly her.
Caspian grasps his sword hilt and centres himself.
He should not kill this man. Like Varn, like Addie, like the others, he is an unwilling pawn.
Caspian wills away the memory of the northman kneeling between Addie's legs.
If freed from the witch's enchantment, Hallgrim's strength and knowledge could prove the balance in defeating Opheodra.
When Hallgrim's back is turned, Caspian rises and swings with the flat of his blade. It crashes into the northman's helm, and Hallgrim goes down with a disoriented curse.
Caspian eases from behind the desk and braces himself on its edge, struggling to control his breathing, favouring his injured ribs.
Grunting, Hallgrim staggers to his feet, broadsword hanging loosely from one hand while the other presses to his head. Blood trickles from under his helmet, staining his neck. When his gaze lands on Caspian, his eyes are wary, but clear of green.
The spell is broken.
Caspian nods at him. "Now you are free of her sw-"
Hallgrim's gauntleted blow crunches the breath from his lungs. Searing, white-fire pain sends Caspian stumbling back, clutching his side as Hallgrim spits blood at his feet and raises his broadsword.
"I need no magic to serve my lady," the northman snarls.
No mercy, then.
Caspian lunges under and past Hallgrim's brutal swing, pain slowing the motion enough that steel whips by his ear. And there, in a precious half-heartbeat of opportunity, Caspian glimpses a flash of bare skin at Hallgrim's neck.
He slices.
Warmth splatters across his face, and Hallgrim's head and armoured body collapse to the floor, neatly cleaved.
Exhaustion drags him down like a riptide, pain like fire in his chest. Caspian slumps to his knees, lead filling his limbs, uncaring of the northman's pooling blood as his awareness narrows to his breaths.
Wet, rasping, difficult, every wisp of air burning.
His ribs are definitely broken.
Caspian clears his throat against a cough, and even that burns, Lion, it burns!
But he cannot stop. He cannot rest, not now, not yet.
Not yet.
Stand up, Doctor Cornelius once snapped at him. You are a king.
His people are depending on him.
And Addie is… Addie needs…
If there is anything left of her, he will not leave it to rot here.
Cradling an arm to his broken ribs, Caspian stands, swaying as his head swims. He squints against the haze and forces one foot in front of the other, dragging his sword. Right, left, right… left.
Dimly, he makes out the fireplace ahead, that bed of accursed, sickly flames. He entered from the left, but the witch disappeared the opposite way.
Caspian staggers through the smoke and finds another door - double, less grand than the main entrance.
He prays the reinforcements Opheodra must have summoned by now do not lie in wait. Some almost-sound is ringing in his ears.
With a mighty heave, Caspian throws the doors open.
The witch is lounging on her bed, strumming a mandolin and humming. The cordial hangs from a tie at her waist, and the rings' velvet pouches lie beside the rich curtain of her hair.
"What an exciting battle," says she, with a strum, strum and a smile. "You must be quite spent."
Oh, he is. He would almost trade his sword for a day's respite.
But that, he shall not have. Not while this… not this lady, this witch still lives!
Words come stiffly to him, every utterance a struggle through bared, clenched teeth.
"Where is Addie?"
"Hush now, warrior. You must rest. Are you not exhausted by so much violence?"
Caspian coughs and tastes blood. His nose itches, and a glance behind confirms the smoke is following him into the room.
"Let her go," he says. "Let them all go."
He nearly drops his sword trying to raise it.
Aslan, give me strength.
Like a sea breeze to sails, it comes.
The witch's strumming quickens as Caspian points his bloody sword at her heart and slowly closes the distance.
"Let them go? To where, exactly?"
Caspian edges closer. To strike down a lady in cold blood…
No. A witch.
Opheodra continues playing, unperturbed. "You would have me abandon my loyal subjects and give them over to you? I could never be so cruel. I am the only kindness they have ever known."
"A paltry kindness indeed." Caspian thinks of hazel and lye and shared bread broken on a kitchen floor, and almost strikes then and there. But the moment he winds back, his ribs grind painfully and he gasps. "Where. Is. She?"
"That is enough, little king. You will make many more battles I am sure, but first, you must rest." White teeth flash - a witch's mocking smile. "Perhaps I shall let you see her when you wake."
Gripping his sword, Caspian summons his remaining scraps of strength to sprint the final few steps and end it all.
"No. You will die."
The witch tuts. "You are a formidable fighter, my lord. But your greatest weakness is already turned against you."
A flash of steel.
Caspian spins to meet it, nearly dropping his sword in his surprise as Addie leaps through the smoke, her dagger aimed at his throat.
A/N: I should apologize for that cliffy, shouldn't I... I really should 😇 Chapter 88 is coming to you sometime in October! My NaNoWriMo plans dictate I finish Heartworm before the end of this month, so let's hope 88 doesn't clock in at 9k like this one.
Chapter 88 Preview:
"Addie, please."
Barely words, that - a bloody tangle of a beg, gasped by lips tinting blue.