Once Caspian is standing at one side and the gunslingers at the other, all of them facing the rising moon, now a great ruddy disk in the sky, the Lion lifts his head, shakes his mane, and roars.

It starts low and throbbing, like a note played on an organ, but grows louder and louder until the very sky and ground seem to shake with it, until the trees of the wood bend before it and clouds scud rapidly away. The roar rolls like thunder, like the crash of a cleansing river smashing through a dam, and fills their ears and chests and lungs.

The black shadows that had been slinking and lurking in the woods can't hold their ground in the face of the Lion's roar, and when it finally dissipates and leaves them in ringing silence, the heavy wrongness of before seems to have lifted entirely. Even the moon only looks like a small silver coin once again, instead of the bloody circle it had been.