(Warning: book and movie noncompliant.) Additional warning: contains strong subject matter, reader discretion advised. Narnia can sometimes be a harsh place.
As noted in earlier chapters, give credit where credit is due. I borrowed the name Akela from Rudyard Kipling's "The Jungle Book"
The Nail: suspension
Inspired by C.S. Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe"
Chapter seven
The Game is Afoot
Private Fain watched with growing apprehension his companions enter the Guardian.
No sooner had the last of them disappeared threw the breech in the wall when Akela roared, "Trooper, get in here we need you!"
Cutlass held at the ready the satyr stumbled into the gloom where he was greeted by a crescendo of shouts and screams. On the scout's right sergeant Akela was grappling one of the three witches.
Meanwhile, Petal danced around the feet of a Shambling Horror trying to keep the abomination away from the other wolf. Frozen hard as rock by the endless winter these magically animated corpses of Jadis were considered most formidable opponents. However, owing to the spring thaw this one had been reduced to little more than a maggot infested bag of bones.
A blood curdling scream on his left commanded the scout's attention.
His beak firmly clamped around her wrist Virga was attempting to drag another witch off her feet. Eyes gleaming in anticipation, Tempest waited nearby hoping for a chance to step in an assist her brother. In answer to his mistresses' cry of distress a werewolf lunged from the shadows aiming straight toward Virga. Gathering her courage, Tempest plowed into the werewolf sending them both tumbling across the ground where they came to rest almost at the private's feet.
The trooper taking aim at the interloper had his sword hand stayed by the sergeant's labored voice. "Private... By the stump... That's Deadeyes... Arrest her!"
Searching the ill-defined shadows for anything out of the ordinary the satyr spied a silhouette framed by an ethereal light. A grotto freshly hewn into the stump left behind by the Tree of Protection was being used by Deadeyes for some nefarious purpose. Possessed of an otherworldly glow, a depression in the center of the unholy tabernacle held what look like a shimmering black liquid.
Her palms firmly planted on the improvised alter, Deadeyes mumbled incantations at the radiant pool.
The grip of his sword jammed into his buckler burdened left hand, the trooper with a skip and a bound landed just behind the mage catching her completely by surprise, or so he thought. The stench of her unwashed body like to make his head spin, the ranger wrapped his free hand around the arms and waist of the beldam pinning her against his chest.
The flat of his blade pressed against the side of her throat, the private in a gruff voice demanded, "What's all this then, Witch. Tell us what's going on here and I just might let you live."
Jolted out of her meditations by the sudden interruption the mage cackled, "Wretched spawn of the cat, you are too late. What's done here is done and there's nothing you can do to stop it. When our queen returns all you heretics will be dealt with."
The witch having had her say, she slumped against her captor and returned to her chanting but this time her invocations sounded somehow different. Spoken barely above a whisper her words held no magic, of that the satyr was positive.
His chin resting on her shoulder the trooper cocked an ear to better hear what the hag was saying. Her recitation had a sing-song quality about it, almost like a nursery rhyme.
"-For the want of a message, the battle was lost.
For the want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.
All for the want of a nail."
His cutlass' blade rotated so its edge just nicked the witch's throat the private commanded, "What are you on about, hag. Where did your comrades go? Tell us what we want to know... Now!"
Deadeyes seemingly ignoring his threat repeated the verse, only louder this time.
"For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost.
For the want of a shoe, the horse was lost.
For the want of a horse, the rider was lost.
For the want of a rider, the message was lost.
For the want of a message, the battle was lost.
For the want of a battle, the kingdom was lost.
All for the want of a nail."
In an act of unbridled defiance, Deadeyes along with her two struggling cohorts began to repeat the sing-song ballad. Their asynchronous voices rose to such a level it seemed to make the air inside the chamber absolutely quiver.
"For the want of a nail, the shoe was lost.
For the want of a shoe, the horse was lost.
For the want of a horse "-
The trooper gave up trying to interrogate the witch and turned his attention to the puddle of oily liquid that had held Deadeyes so transfixed. What he saw in the reflection pool made his blood run cold. Just beneath the glass smooth surface was an image, but not like one a wood-block stamp might make on paper, or an illustration from a book page or even a finely rendered painting.
No. This image possessed length, and breadth, and depth, and movement.
He could see in the mystical porthole what appeared to be a building of perhaps three stories tall engulfed in flame, its gutted interior glowing like a crucible. The structures beyond this one fared no better. Tongues of fire licked at their empty window frames as thick columns of red tinged smoke filled the night black sky. Of greater concern to him, their bellies reflecting an orange glow from the fires, giant phantasms hovered in the air above the rooftops.
It must be Cair Paravel he decided. In all the world no other city boasts such grandiose architecture.
The image dissolved in a roiling mist as another took its place. The new one also showed clusters of buildings consumed by smoke and flame. In the distance, plumes of lightning continuously slashed at the horizon. The wall on the foremost building chose that moment to collapse showering brick and mortar on shadowy figures scurrying about in the street below.
A new scene resolved itself showing what he took to be a fiery phenix plummeting out of a night sky into the conflagration. Mercifully, this image receded into the vapers before the impact. The scene was replaced by a picture of mist rising up around the base of crumbling building walls leaning at impossible angles, all framed against a gray featureless sky.
The first of the images returned after that and the scenes began to repeat themselves.
Feeling he could endure no more the trooper turned his attention back to his immediate surroundings. He was surprise to find the chamber ominously quiet. It was Akela who broke the silence. The sergeant uttered just one word but it carried with it voluminous amounts of emotion. "Fain."
Dragging Deadeyes along, the trooper whorled round to face the sergeant.
Her neck held in his jaws, Akela lowered to the ground the limp form of the witch he had been fighting. The sergeant looked over his shoulder towards the stockade of tree boles that made up the wall of the Guardian. Covered in ichor from the torn apart Horror, Petal was also staring in the direction the sergeant was indicating.
His eyes now accustomed to the gloom, the trooper saw them for the first time.
Bodies! Bodies of narnians. Narnians of every age, gender and breed imaginable. Pallid, withered forms strung up by their heels along the wall. Their throats cut, drained of all their blood in accordance with some detestable ritual.
'So this is what had become of Akelas missing citizens,' the soldier correctly surmised.
Overcome by uncontrollable rage at this injustice, the satyr let his sword bite into the side of the hag's neck. Deadeyes' eep' of surprise was cut off by a gurgling sound as the blade sliced threw her trachea. Her body going limp, he allowed the witch's lifeless form to slide to the ground. The trooper then plunged his fingertips into the pool of images and gave the liquid a vigorous stir. The illumination faded away leaving only rippling rings to mar its surface. The cold, clammy substance draining from his fingers back into the basin shifted from black to what looked like a rose red color. 'The color of... Blood!'
'The blood of the innocents,' he gasped.
Dropping to a knee the private used the hag's shabby remnants to wipe clean his hand and the blade of his sword. Climbing back to his feet he hissed at Deadeyes' unmoving form. "I only promised... I might let you live."
The trooper realizing what he had just done sought the sergeant's understanding. "Sir, I'm sorry. I know you said to take Deadeyes alive if possible. It's just seeing those bodies... I couldn't help myself."
"Put it out of your mind," the wolf said in an uncharacteristically charitable tone.
Staring down at the dead hag at his own feet, the sergeant mused, "This is, and always has been a military operation. As such, summary executions for the crime of murdering non-combatants would hardly have been out of the question. I doubt I'd have gotten much out of these zellets anyway."
Obviously relieved, the private pressed on, "So what now, Chief."
The Sergeant once again blew out his flews in frustration. "Nothings' changed, really. I've still got a bunch of fanatics running around loose out there planning the lord knows what. I don't know any more than I did an hour ago and on top of that, we're fast losing daylight."
Standing over the mulled remains of the third witch, Verga piped up, "Perhaps there's something on the bodies that might prove useful."
The wolves and the satyr turned to the griffin, a look of surprise on their faces.
Misinterpreting their expressions, the griffin hung his head in embarrassment for having spoken out of turn. Bruised, bloody, but still unconquered, Tempest stepped around the crumpled remains of the werewolf and joined her brother. Her wings protectively wrapped around Verga she gave the others a warning glare.
The sergeant's mood visibly lightened, he declared, "Good thinking master Verga, you'll make officer yet. Everyone, check these bodies for anything that might prove useful."
The ranger once again dropped to a knee and began searching Deadeyes body. Upending the scrip looped around her sash belt he spilled its contents onto the ground. Among the pile of bric-a-brac and sundries was a leather-bound diary. Deadeyes' book of spells? He would turn it over to the university's magic department when they got back to Cair Paravel.
'If they ever got back,' he thought sourly.
Thumbing through the pages of the tomb three folded sheets of paper slid out. Dutifully retrieving them the private noted the first one, by its rough texture and single tattered edge had in all likelihood been torn out of the book. The weak light in the Guardian precluded any chance of reading it so he tucked it between the last page and the book's backboard. The second note, obviously of a much higher quality paper, joined its companion there. The third missive, thicker than the other two unfolded to reveal a map rendered in the narnian style.
Besides a north indicating legend, a lopsided Ex in black ink took up most of the page. Orienting the map so north was pointing up the ink mark gave the impression of a contorted cross. The short line representing the head of the cross sat slightly off-center to the right. Its arms drooping slightly at the shoulders, the left arm warped slightly upward while the one on the right curved down in a like manor. The main trunk of the cross having a long sweeping bow to the left covered most of the rest of the page.
The satyr, his muzzle pressed against the paper looking for any recognizable landmarks, remarked. "It may not mean anything but Deadeyes was carrying this map."
"Does it look anything like this one," the sergeant asked over the scouts shoulder.
The wolf sitting up on his haunches held in his outstretched paws what looked like an identical map with an identical cross scratched across it.
"This witch also carries a map," Verga announced.
The trooper twisted around to his left to get a better look was surprised to find the griffin sitting upright in the manner of the sergeant. Gingerly gripped between the talons of his front feet Verga held out a sheet of paper. The only thing Fain could make out in the dim light of the chamber was that solid black cross.
"Three witches, three identical maps. It might prove significant," the sergeant said thoughtfully. "Trooper, Deadeyes was carrying that one, bring it along. If there's anything of any importance, she would be the one carrying it."
The sergeant without another word turned and bolted threw the opening in the wall with Petal at his heels. The two griffins in hot pursuit comically try squeezing threw the opening at the same time. The private took a moment to carefully fold the map and tuck it into the book as he ducked threw the breech. Preoccupied with securing the flap on his own belt pouch the satyr froze in his tracks. The sergeant, a serene expression on his face, sat bathed in the last light of the departed sun.
In a hollow voice he declared, "The game is afoot, trooper and I've a hankering to taste some blood."
He could not say for sure why, but a shiver ran down the privates back when he heard the wolf's pronouncement.