There was no answer, and for a few minutes it was so still that Edmund could hear the wheezy and snuffling breath of the Badger.
“Who do you mean?” said Caspian at last.
“I mean a power so much greater than Aslan's that it held Narnia spellbound for years and years, if the stories are true.”
“The White Witch!” cried three voices all at once, and from the noise Peter guessed that three people had leaped to their feet.
“Yes,” said Nikabrik very slowly and distinctly, “I mean the Witch. Sit down again. Don't all take fright at a name as if you were children. We want power: and we want a power that will be on our side. As for power, do not the stories say that the Witch defeated Aslan, and bound him, and killed him on that very stone which is over there, just beyond the light?”
“But they also say that he came to life again,” said the Badger sharply.
“Yes, they say,” answered Nikabrik, “but you'll notice that we hear precious little about anything he did afterwards. He just fades out of the story. How do you explain that, if he really came to life? Isn't it much more likely that he didn't, and that the stories say nothing more about him because there was nothing more to say?”
“He established the Kings and Queens,” said Caspian.
“A King who has just won a great battle can usually establish himself without the help of a performing lion,” said Nikabrik. There was a fierce growl, probably from Trufflehunter.
“And anyway,” Nikabrik continued, “what came of the Kings and their reign? They faded too. But it's very different with the Witch. They say she ruled for a hundred years: a hundred years of winter. There's power, if you like. There's something practical.”
“But, heaven and earth!” said the King, “haven't we always been told that she was the worst enemy of all? Wasn't she a tyrant ten times worse than Miraz?”
“Perhaps,” said Nikabrik in a cold voice. “Perhaps she was for you humans, if there were any of you in those days. Perhaps she was for some of the beasts. She stamped out the Beavers, I dare say; at least there are none of them in Narnia now. But she got on all right with us Dwarfs. I'm a Dwarf and I stand by my own people. We're not afraid of the Witch.”
“But you've joined with us,” said Trufflehunter.
“Yes, and a lot of good it has done my people, so far,” snapped Nikabrik. “Who is sent on all the dangerous !, raids? The Dwarfs. Who goes short when the rations fail? The Dwarfs. Who—?”
“Lies! All lies!” said the Badger.
“And so,” said Nikabrik, whose voice now rose to a scream, “if you can't help my people, I'll go to someone who can.”
“Is this open treason, Dwarf?” asked the King.
“Put that sword back in its sheath, Caspian,” said Nikabrik. “Murder at council, eh? Is that your game? Don't be fool enough to try it. Do you think I'm afraid of you? There's three on my side, and three on yours.”
“Come on, then,” snarled Trufflehunter, but he was immediately interrupted.
“Stop, stop, stop,” said Doctor Cornelius. “You go on too fast. The Witch is dead. All the stories agree on that. What does Nikabrik mean by calling on the Witch?”
That grey and terrible voice which had spoken only once before said, “Oh, is she?”
And then the shrill, whining voice began, “Oh, bless his heart, his dear little Majesty needn't mind about the White Lady—that's what we call her—being dead. The Worshipful Master Doctor is only making game of a poor old woman like me when he says that. Sweet Mastery Doctor, learned Master Doctor, who ever heard of a witch that really died? You can always get them back.”
“Call her up,” said the grey voice. “We are all ready. Draw the circle. Prepare the blue fire.”
Above the steadily increasing growl of the Badger and Cornelius's sharp “What?” rose the voice of King Caspian like thunder.
“So that is your plan, Nikabrik! Black sorcery and the calling up of an accursed ghost. And I see who your companions are-a Hag and a Werewolf!”
The next minute or so was very confused. There was an animal roaring, a clash of steel; the boys and Trumpkin rushed in; Peter had a glimpse of a horrible, grey, gaunt creature, half man and half wolf, in the very act of leaping upon a boy about his own age, and Edmund saw a badger and a Dwarf rolling on the floor in a sort of cat fight. Trumpkin found himself face to face with the Hag. Her nose and chin stuck out like a pair of nut-crackers, her dirty grey hair was flying about her face and she had just got Doctor Cornelius by the throat. At one slash of Trumpkin's sword her head rolled on the floor. Then the light was knocked over and it was all swords, teeth, claws, fists, and boots for about sixty seconds. Then silence.
“Are you all right, Ed?”
“I—I think so,” panted Edmund. “I've got that brute Nikabrik, but he's still alive.”
“Weights and water-bottles!” came an angry voice. “It's me you're sitting on. Get off. You're like a young elephant.”
“Sorry, D.L.F.,” said Edmund. “Is that better?”
“Ow! No!” bellowed Trumpkin. “You're putting your ' boot in my mouth. Go away.” `
“Is King Caspian anywhere?” asked Peter.
“I'm here,” said a rather faint voice. “Something bit me.”
They all heard the noise of someone striking a match. It was Edmund. The little flame showed his face, looking pale and dirty. He blundered about for a little, found the candle (they were no longer using the lamp, for they had run out of oil), set it on the table, and lit it. When the flame rose clear, several people scrambled to their feet. Six faces blinked at one another in the candlelight.
“We don't seem to have any enemies left,” said Peter. “There's the Hag, dead.” (He turned his eyes quickly away from her.) “And Nikabrik, dead too. And I suppose this thing is a Werewolf. It's so long since I've seen one. Wolf's head and man's body. That means he was just turning from man into wolf at the moment he was killed. And you, I suppose, are King Caspian?”
“Yes,” said the other boy. “But I've no idea who you are.”
“It's the High King, King Peter,” said Trumpkin.
“Your Majesty is very welcome,” said Caspian.
“And so is your Majesty,” said Peter. “I haven't come to take your place, you know, but to put you into it.” ,
“Your Majesty,” said another voice at Peter's elbow. He turned and found himself face to face with the Badger.
Peter leaned forward, put his arms round the beast and kissed the furry head: it wasn't a girlish thing for him to do, because he was the High King.
“Best of badgers,” he said. “You never doubted us all through.”
“No credit to me, your Majesty,” said Trufflehunter. “1'm a beast and we don't change. I'm a badger, what's more, and we hold on.”
“I am sorry for Nikabrik,” said Caspian, “though he hated me from the first moment he saw me. He had gone sour inside from long suffering and hating. If we had won quickly he might have become a good Dwarf in the days of peace. I don't know which of us killed him. I'm glad of that.”
“You're bleeding,” said Peter.
“Yes, I'm bitten,” said Caspian. “It was that—that wolf thing.” Cleaning and bandaging the wound took a long time, and when it was done Trumpkin said, “Now. Before everything else we want some breakfast.”
“But not here,” said Peter.
“No,” said Caspian with a shudder. “And we must send someone to take away the bodies.”
“Let the vermin be flung into a pit,” said Peter. “But the Dwarf we will give to his people to be buried in their own fashion.”
They breakfasted at last in another of the dark cellars of Aslan's How. It was not such a breakfast as they would have chosen, for Caspian and Cornelius were thinking of venison pasties, and Peter and Edmund of buttered eggs and hot coffee, but what everyone got was a little bit of cold bear-meat (out of the boys' pockets), a lump of hard cheese, an onion, and a mug of water. But, from the way they fell to
, anyone would have supposed it was delicious.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
THE HIGH KING IN COMMAND
“Now,” said Peter, as they finished their meal, “Aslan and the girls (that's Queen Susan and Queen Lucy, Caspian) are somewhere close. We don't know when he will act. In his time, no doubt, not ours. In the meantime he would like us to do what we can on our own. You say, Caspian, we are not strong enough to meet Miraz in pitched battle?”
“I'm afraid not, High King,” said Caspian. He was liking Peter very much, but was rather tongue-tied. It was much stranger for him to meet the great Kings out of the old stories than it was for them to meet him.
“Very well, then,” said Peter, “I'll send him a challenge to single combat.” No one had thought of this before.
“Please,” said Caspian, “could it not be me? I want to avenge my father.”
“You're wounded,” said Peter. “And anyway, wouldn't he just laugh at a challenge from you? I mean, we have seen that you are a king and a warrior but he thinks of you as a kid.”
“But, Sire,” said the Badger, who sat very close to Peter and never took his eyes off him. “Will he accept a . challenge even from you? He knows he has the stronger . army.”
“Very likely he won't,” said Peter, “but there's always the chance. And even if he doesn't, we shall spend the best part of the day sending heralds to and fro and all that. By then Aslan may have done something. And at least I can inspect the army and strengthen the position. I will send the challenge. In fact I will write it at once. Have you pen and ink, Master Doctor?”
“A scholar is never without them, your Majesty,” answered Doctor Cornelius.
“Very well, I will dictate,” said Peter. And while the Doctor spread out a parchment and opened his ink-horn and sharpened his pen, Peter leant back with half-closed eyes and recalled to his mind the language in which he had written such things long ago in Narnia's golden age.
“Right,” he said at last. “And now, if you are ready, Doctor?”
Doctor Cornelius dipped his pen and waited. Peter dictated as follows:
“Peter, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, to Miraz, Son of Caspian the Eighth, sometime Lord Protector of Narnia and now styling himself King of Narnia, Greeting. Have you got that?”
“Narnia, comma, greeting,” muttered the Doctor. “Yes, Sire.”
“Then begin a new paragraph,” said Peter. “For to prevent the effusion of blood, and for the avoiding all other inconveniences likely to grow from the wars now levied in our realm of Narnia, it is our pleasure to adventure our royal person on behalf of our trusty and well-beloved Caspian in clean wager of battle to prove upon your Lordship's body that the said Caspian is lawful King under us in Narnia both by our gift and by the laws of the Telmarines, and your Lordship twice guilty of treachery both in withholding the dominion of Narnia from the said Caspian and in the most abhominable,—don't forget to spell it with an H, Doctor—bloody, and unnatural murder of your kindly lord and brother King Caspian Ninth of that name. Wherefore we most heartily provoke, challenge, and defy your Lordship to the said combat and monomachy, and have sent these letters by the hand of our well beloved and royal brother Edmund, sometime King under us in Narnia, Duke of Lantern Waste and Count of the Western March, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table, to whom we have given full power of determining with your Lordship all the conditions of the said battle. Given at our lodging in Aslan's How this XII day of the month Greenroof in the first year of Caspian Tenth of Narnia.
“That ought to do,” said Peter, drawing a deep breath.
“And now we must send two others with King Edmund. I think the Giant ought to be one.”
“He's—he's not very clever, you know,” said Caspian.
“Of course not,” said Peter. “But any giant looks impressive if only he will keep quiet. And it will cheer him up. But who for the other?”
“Upon my word,” said Trumpkin, “if you want someone who can kill with looks, Reepicheep would be the best.”
“He would indeed, from all I hear,” said Peter with a laugh. “If only he wasn't so small. They wouldn't even see him till he was close!”
“Send Glenstorm, Sire,” said Trufflehunter. “No one ever laughed at a Centaur.”
An hour later two great lords in the army of Miraz, the Lord Glozelle and the Lord Sopespian, strolling along their lines and picking their teeth after breakfast, looked up and saw coming down to them from the wood the Centaur and Giant Wimbleweather, whom they had seen before in battle, and between them a figure they could not recognize. Nor indeed would the other boys at Edmund's school have recognized him if they could have seen him at that moment. For Aslan had breathed on him at their meeting and a kind of greatness hung about him.
“What's to do?” said the Lord Glozelle. “An attack?”
“A parley, rather,” said Sopespian. “See, they carry green branches. They are coming to surrender most likely.”
“He that is walking between the Centaur and the Giant has no look of surrender in his face,” said Glozelle. “Who can he be? It is not the boy Caspian.”
“No indeed,” said Sopespian. “This is a fell warrior, I warrant you, wherever the rebels have got him from. He is (in your Lordship's private ear) a kinglier man than ever Miraz was. And what mail he wears! None of our smiths can make the like.”
“I'll wager my dappled Pomely he brings a challenge, not a surrender,” said Glozelle.
“How then?” said Sopespian. “We hold the enemy in our fist here. Miraz would never be so hair-brained as to throw away his advantage on a combat.”
“He might be brought to it,” said Glozelle in a much lower voice.
“Softly,” said Sopespian. “Step a little aside here out of earshot of those sentries. Now. Have I taken your Lordship's meaning aright?”
“If the King undertook wager of battle,” whispered Glozelle, “why, either he would kill or be killed.”
“So,” said Sopespian, nodding his head.
“And if he killed we should have won this war.”
“Certainly. And if not?”
“Why, if not, we should be as able to win it without the King's grace as with him. For I need not tell your Lordship that Miraz is no very great captain. And after that, we should be both victorious and kingless.”
“And it is your meaning, my Lord, that you and I could hold this land quite as conveniently without a King as with one?”
Glozelle's face grew ugly. “Not forgetting,” said he, “that it was we who first put him on the throne. And in all the years that he has enjoyed it, what fruits have come our way? What gratitude has he shown us?”
“Say no more,” answered Sopespian. “But look—herd comes one to fetch us to the King's tent.”
When they reached Miraz's tent they saw Edmund and his two companions seated outside it and being entertained with cakes and wine, having already delivered the challenge, and withdrawn while the King was considering it. When they saw them thus at close quarters the two Telmarine lords thought all three of them very alarming.
Inside, they found Miraz, unarmed and finishing his breakfast. His face was flushed and there was a scowl on his brow.
“There!” he growled, flinging the parchment across the table to them. “See what a pack of nursery tales our jackanapes of a nephew has sent us.”
“By your leave, Sire,” said Glozelle. “If the young warrior whom we have just seen outside is the King Edmund mentioned in the writing, then I would not call him a nursery tale but a very dangerous knight.”
“King Edmund, pah!” said Miraz. “Does your Lordship believe those old wives' fables about Peter and Edmund and the rest?”
“I believe my eyes, your Majesty,” said Glozelle.
“Well, this is to no purpose,” said Miraz, “but as touching the challenge, I s
uppose there is only one opinion between us?”
“I suppose so, indeed, Sire,” said Glozelle.
“And what is that?” asked the King.
“Most infallibly to refuse it,” said Glozelle. “For though I have never been called a coward, I must plainly say that to meet that young man in battle is more than my heart would serve me for. And if (as is likely) his brother, the High King, is more dangerous than he why, on your life, my Lord King, have nothing to do with him.”
“Plague on you!” cried Miraz. “It was not that sort of council I wanted. Do you think I am asking you if I should be afraid to meet this Peter (if there is such a man)? Do you think I fear him? I wanted your counsel on the policy of the matter; whether we, having the advantage, should hazard it on a wager of battle.”
“To which I can only answer, your Majesty,” said Glozelle, “that for all reasons the challenge should be refused. There is death in the strange knight's face.”
“There you are again!” said Miraz, now thoroughly angry. “Are you trying, to make it appear that I am as great a coward as your Lordship?”
“Your Majesty may say your pleasure,” said Glozelle sulkily.
“You talk like an old woman, Glozelle,” said the King. “What say you, my Lord Sopespian?”
“Do not touch it, Sire,” was the reply. “And what your Majesty says of the policy of the thing comes in very happily. It gives your Majesty excellent grounds for a refusal without any cause for questioning your Majesty's honour or courage.”
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Miraz, jumping to his feet. “Are you also bewitched today? Do you think I am looking for grounds to refuse it? You might as well call me coward to my face.”
The conversation was going exactly as the two lords wished, so they said nothing.
“I see what it is,” said Miraz, after staring at them as if his eyes would start out of his head, “you are as lilylivered as hares yourselves and have the effrontery to imagine my heart after the likeness of yours! Grounds for a refusal, indeed! Excuses for not fighting! Are you soldiers? Are you Telmarines? Are you men? And if I dog refuse it (as ail good reasons of captaincy and martial policy urge me to do) you will think, and teach others tan think, I was afraid. Is it not so?”
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