Chapter 1: Torman's Reach
It was a late summer afternoon in Southern Narnia.
A boy lay over a broad yellow rock, idly toying with green water weed under the water with a willow wand. He was watching the swirling tendrils as he moved the stick in the current, teasing some rainbow minnows which darted like living jewels after the bits of detritus that wafted into the water from his disturbances.
He was also enjoying the reflections of the slanting sun rippling and shimmering against the water surface and his rock, breaking up the shadows on the upstream side. If he looked very hard and shaded his eyes and squinted slightly, he also found he could see deep into the pool on his left and spy a large indigo river pavender lazily swaying in and out of the deeper shadows showing itself occasionally against the yellow stones, while it waited for an unfortunate minnow or two to dive down after some fast sinking morsel.
A red dragonfly skimmed the surface hoping for a catch of a water boatman.
The boy's name was Gwyn and he had been planning to catch some long armed river prawns in some of the small cataracts nearby, and take them home for his mother for soup, but he had not had any luck. They did not bite at the bait he waved at them, and kept firmly to their crevices.
Gwyn had no siblings, but knew many talking beasts, a family of deer, a few talking hedgehogs, hares and ravens as well as a clan of dwarves who live in a complex of caverns and mines over the next ridge. They mined gems and had a small hidden plantation of the slow growing gold and silver trees that had grown in Lantern Waste from the first day. These they guarded very carefully. They traded their beautiful jewellery for food and clothing at Beruna and sometimes tramped all the way up to Anvard in the summer to sell at the hunting meets.
Once a month Gwyn's family travelled to and from Beruna market with members of the clan, riding stock ponies down the riverside track, with panniers full of vegetables, herbs, fruits, buckles, knives, weapons and trinkets; sometimes returning with most panniers emptied but refilled with tipsy sleepy dwarves. Gwyn usually stayed for a few days afterward to attend school and came back home separately accompanied by one or the other of his parents.
At this moment, Gwyn's mother was weeding onions and bending their stalks to help harden them up before harvest. Gwyn's father was out looking for a trio of goats which had wandered off two days ago after being caught in a summer storm. Luckily he had the help of an irascible talking ibex buck called Rastus and a mangy old talking bulldog called Clive. They were expected to return home together driving the three goats before them and into the home pen before nightfall.
Gwyn was in his was favourite spot, Torman's Reach, a wonderful little side twist of the Archen River, the main channel of which was roaring between steep yellow banks of rock only forty yards away and a few yards lower down. The place was festooned with laburnum, ferns, broom, hazel, giant pink honeysuckle and the occasional splash of purple lasiandra. After it had tumbled down from the high tors and snowy peaks of Archenland, the Archen River and its many tributaries, frothed their way through steep forested valleys and rocky gorges, before the valleys opened into the gentler folds of the lands of Southern Narnia above the Great River.
This was one of those places where the main Archen River was beginning to open out to these gentler lands and from Gwyn's secret spot, because it was slightly higher up, he could see right across central Narnia and the Great River to the far moors, dimly rearing their bleak backs to the distant northern sky. If he looked north-east he could just spy out the hill of the stone table about thirty-five miles away, with the secret woods about Dancing Lawn nestled on the far side. There was also a glimpse of the Eastern Sea which at this time of day was dark blue.
Just as Gwyn was turning his gaze to look south-west towards the sun, he noticed what looked like a small bird against the bright light. He shaded his eyes and squinted.
Yes, it was a bird, but it wasn't small. It was hurtling down the valley of the Archen and it appeared to be an eagle. Probably about a mile away.
Gwyn had seen eagles before many times but had always seen them gliding and circling and occasionally diving and disappearing, no doubt to snatch some small hapless thing.
But this was different. The flight was headlong and turbulent and somehow sinuous. The wings were labouring to gain even more speed. Something was up. Gwyn caught the glint of copper and gold and after a moment, as it got rapidly closer he saw it wasn't an eagle at all. Behind the powerful sweep of the huge wings trailed a powerful set of hindquarters and a long feathered tail. It was a Gryphon.
Gwyn gasped and tensed. Gryphons were rare beasts and nearly all were in the service of the Kings and Queens of Archenland and Narnia.
His heart raced as he stood tensely, shading his eyes as he watched the approaching Gryphon against the south-westering sun. This hurtling creature of the air and high peaks swept down the last part of the valley and when it was quite close, it have a great shuddering cry and looked down at him. The cry seemed to have words but Gwyn could not make them all out except he got an overwhelming sense of urgency.
It passed directly overhead, so close, Gwyn could see the scarlet and gold leg jesses of the royal couriers dangling from its front claws. It bunched itself with folded wings, and in a graceful rolling tumble, its tail swinging out wildly as a rudder, took off sharply to the north-east, wings again labouring before settling in for a steady steep glide; down, down, down.
Gwyn watched it get smaller and smaller, bright gold against the sky, until with another roll it dropped right out of sight, into the soft shadows which the Archen mountains were just beginning to lengthen across eastern Narnia. It was clearly heading for Cair Paravel... and with utmost urgency. Something was afoot.
It was also getting late in the day. Gwyn stood, trembling, his heart racing. Quickly, he jumped across to the near bank, stooped down, grabbed his leathern bag by the strap, swung it over his shoulder and with one fluid leap, scrambled into the brush and disappeared, heading for home.
