The Gryphon of Anvard

It had been a dark moonless night, a night good for sleeping.

Riordan growled and trilled vaguely to himself, tucking his head deeper under his wing, trying to make sleep last just a little longer. Vague sliding shapes and the warm comforting drowsiness of dreams still beckoned and he luxuriated in slumber on his bed of deep straw and leaves. He had flown the upper reaches of the Winding Arrow only the day before, helping scout for the locations of the great elk, in time for the autumn hunt season. He had needed to sleep deeply.

Lord Cor and the Terebinthian Ambassador were expected in only a week and they were hoping to impress the Ambassador and his delegation sufficiently to gain a huge trade concession by raising Terebinthian ambitions of providing a Prince Consort to Archenland.

"Terebinthia in its sheltered position in the Bight of Calormen is caught in a warm current which results in balmy conditions all year round and is thus the centre of sea trade in the region. Their Royal Family is rich. But their sandy beaches, terebinth groves, damp warm forests, flowering trees, singing birds, palaces, carvings and carpets are really only on a small isle, the truth be told and cannot compare to the sweeping grandeur of the Archen Mountains with their boundless forest lands, wild beasts, talking beasts, sacred places and still unknown tracts of wilderness. On the other hand, Archenland is rich in many things but its agrarian subsistence economy is…" the litany drifted off to another part of his mind and stayed there, the voice of the Chatelaine of Anvard just a distant echo.

Riordan's dream state mind was much more occupied with other grander concerns such as guarding the royal treasure hoard, rescuing young fauns and dryads, or flying mysterious errands of heroic importance for Queen Esme and later being lauded in court at Armouthe. Like all his kind he was proud and more than a trifle vain. His sleeping dreams reflected his waking fancies.

A fox barked, its call carried on the pre-dawn late summer breeze which was just beginning to stir the valley below Anvard and rise up through the trees. Riordan's ears twitched. A meadow pipit perched on a nearby turret made its first tentative sounds for the day and a cuckoo, heedless of season began to declare itself from the orchard. The dawn chorus would soon be in full swing. The gully breeze wafted through the grate in the turret window in soft tendrils and brought with it a hint of a complex of strange vague odours. It was not the smell of the fox.

The nostrils in Riordan's cere flared and the tip of his tail flicked restively. Dreams still beckoned. The crowds were cheering and flapping their wings or rearing up in salute. He pushed his head further under his wing to soak up the adulation. But the odd odours intensified. He snorted and in a single motion, was on his feet, hackles bristling, wing feathers rustling, ears rigidly upright. He stared anxiously into the grey darkness through the grated window. Dreams were forgotten.

He slithered around on himself, slipped quickly up the short stair and onto the turret roof. He reared up, front claws onto the battlement, gazing south-west, breathing in deeply, panting slightly. A few stars glittered. Alambil was on the western horizon, sinking down over Telmar; Zardeenah not far behind and further South, both about to be swathed in cloud.

Moments later, Riordan was crouching on the tower battlement fully, and then cast himself off, sinking silently into the gloom, gliding over the soft grey mass of the main keep, over the kennels and stables, over the dimly seen grassy terrace, the huge walled kitchen garden and the expansive sweeping orchard. An owl called softly. Further east across the saddle, Anvard Village hugged the slopes of the next rise but there were no lights. All were still asleep. Behind him the castle walls gleamed slightly in the last starlight. A few more birds began to make themselves heard, but the full chorus was some time away yet.

Riordan turned and glided west sniffing the rising gully air again, searching for the complicated elusive scents again. It brought to mind all sorts of unpleasant things. If you had smelled them you might have thought of charcoal, baked resin, blood and bone meal, rancid fat, or rot. Smells of death. He scented them again. His crest feathers erected in anxiety. Where were they coming from?

Riordan turned his head and looked under his wings, left and right, seeking for the source, pivoting on his wings with careful adjustment in his wings and tail. At that moment the postern gate of the castle courtyard creaked open and there was just enough light to see the night guard stepping outside to relieve himself against the laurel shrubbery.

Riordan grumbled to himself. "What is the fool doing, couldn't he have used a jar inside? What's he doing opening the gate now? There are strange smells about."

The guard took his time. "He must have been on guard a long time," he reflected.

Then his thoughts ran to "They're a rum lot these sons of Adam, all the power and responsibility in the world but no sense of smell… or decorum".

Then, just as the man was about to turn back to the gate, a loping figure leapt out of the shadows full upon the man and knocked him down. His first cry stifled by his throat being bitten. Silently, more vague dark figures of many sizes began to flood from around the west wall and slip inside.

Riordan was in shock. He whirled and swooped. There was no time to lose. He must call the alarm! Riordan flapped his wings hard and raced to get across the gateyard and to warn the castle staff and resident guard, before it was too late. The chatelaine was away in Armouthe but there were only a few less soldiers on hand than usual. He screeched loudly and flung himself over the gate arch and zoomed across the dim chasm towards the main keep. The strange smells were strong now and the mass of figures was converging silently on the several doors into the castle.

With no time to consider, he dropped shrieking onto one of the loping figures that was closest, trying to rake it with his claws. A man's grey haired face with protruding jaws and a mess of jagged teeth flicked its cold-eyed gaze up at Riordan in the dimness. A mace swung through the air, narrowly missing his front claws and striking a glancing blow against Riordan's abdomen, tearing a swathe of downy feathers and skin. He shrieked with pain.

"By the Lion's Mane, surely others must awaken now!" Riordan thought desperately as he beat his wings down hard and surged urgently upward. But he found to his further distress that his leg jesses had been grasped. A dwarf or sprite had jumped off someone and was trying to weigh Riordan down. Riordan flicked his claws hard, tipping the creature upwards into their grasp and curled them in hard. He felt sharp teeth pierce the flesh of his claws as he battled upwards in the air and let go his tormentor, who fell with a piercing cry. Riordan finally gained some height and flew at the nearest windows he could find, batting with his claws and wings. "Invaders!" he cried.

Riordan slithered his way across the walls, crying out more, flapping and clawing at buttresses and crenulations. His left flank throbbed and he knew he was lucky to be alive. Whether he could stay that way remained to be seen. Lamps and shadowy frightened faces appeared in windows as the mob below began to rattle the doors. A klaxon rang out. Someone was beating on a bell repeatedly with a hammer now.

In the dim light, Riordan thought he could see a great hulking man with a bull's head beginning to shoulder the great oaken door into the main Keep. Riordan knew it was heavily barred. He was being battled by three guards but they were tired after their long vigil and stumbled. They were quickly overwhelmed when two other bull headed men galloped up to join their fellow and the guards were pushed aside like skittles. Together the bullish men hurled their solid bulks at the Keep door, making hollow booms but not making a dent. Large rats began to swarm in at the main gate and ran helter-skelter looking for ankles to bite. Some began to climb walls looking for footholds and a purchase to the roofed walkway on the southern walls.

At the same time a cluster of grim figures in hooded cassocks and two of the wolfish looking men headed for the door of the Great Hall. There, they drew up and one of the hooded women trickled a few handfuls of dust about the door and drew arcane symbols on the door. A flame appeared from somewhere and within moments a blue fire began to lick the door.

This small group of the invaders began to chant in terrible voices and then hurled something into the blue flames. There was a sonic "boom" and they were thrown backwards, staggering and falling over. One of the wolfmen was thrown head over heels, his arm and neck broken. He lay there in a heap, twitching for a while and then stilled.

His fate was ignored. The door to the Great Hall of Anvard lay in splinters. The wolf men loped and the withered women in hooded cassocks hobbled up the steps, pushed aside the remaining door and disappeared inside.

By this time, a large mixed group of dishevelled archers had appeared on the battlements and parapet walk and began shooting in earnest, although in the dim but growing light it was hard to see their targets. Each bullheaded man got several arrows in their shoulders which made them bellow and numerous of the rats were shot dead quickly. A few of the hags were wounded badly, and lay groaning and screaming, but soon the archers were baffled and very frightened. Their arrows seemed to go through some figures completely without harm and they were being picked up by some others and stuck into quivers for later or shot back.

In the meantime, Riordan had half flown, half scrambled up onto one of the parapets and lay there panting desperately, his side aching and stinging. But so far there was only a little blood as far as he could tell. Three archers near him were loosing arrow after arrow and looked like they would soon run out. He needed to get inside and have his wounds dressed.

The rabble of monsters, some stuck now with arrows crossed the courtyard and began the process all over again with the door to the main keep. This proved a harder task and the door did not give way completely.

Once they had recovered from the second blast, the minotaurs jumped back to the weakened door and began shouldering it again. At that point, several pots of hot water were tipped over the parapet onto those below, there not having been time to heat oil for the purpose. Several figures yelped and bawled but the water had lost heat on the way down and they still held on, continuing to shoulder the door. Spears abruptly protruded outwards through the cracks and stabbed into the minotaurs who bellowed but instead of backing away like the wolfmen, hags and others had, they merely reached and grasped and wrenched the spears back out from their owners' hands and turned them back on their owners through the gaps.

Riordan lay on the edge of the parapet panting heavily, getting his breath back, and watching the events below with horror. The wolfman who had been twitching and then apparently died with a broken neck, began to move around again, then straightened out his own neck with an audible crunch, got up, and loped in after his companions into the Great Hall. Across the main yard, the door to the kitchens and mess hall for the men at arms was breached quickly by a hoard of shimmering burning efreets, freezing spectres, shadowy incubuses, and galumphing orknies. Sleepy and frightened cooks and scullery servants tried to defend themselves with pokers, cleavers and kitchen knives but they were of little use. The walrus-like orknies used force of mass and inertia to overwhelm and crush, whilst the efreets and spectres used the fire and ice of their respective natures to burn and freeze the defenders. They could not be touched. The incubuses went about rampantly assaulting all that were left, taking their time, treasuring the terror, pain and horror they were inflicting.

Riordan was in pain but managed to flounder his way panting along the parapet and into the doors to the west tower, but it was at the head of the stairs that he heard screams and shrieks from below. He knew it was already too late. With the heart of a lion and the sharp bladelike mind of an eagle, Riordan knew he had to make a fast decision but he was still beset with doubt. "Aslan, let it be the right one!", he moaned.

But at that moment, two soldiers came running up the stairs, pulling three children and two servant women with them. They slammed the doors and tried to find something to wedge and bar them with. The doors were designed to be defended from the inside, not the outside. The far door at the other end of the parapet was also flung open and more soldiers, courtiers and family of the chatelaine who had got upstairs, raced onto the parapet escaping from unspeakable horrors. Some carried bed sheets with them. Some might escape, but their fates did not look promising. It would only be a matter of time.

"Oh, by the Lion, a winged creature! Is that you Riordan? Please, I beg you, can you please help my children escape? You must take them to safety!" Lady Delina's night-chignon was undone, her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders, her breath gasping, her eyes wide with panic. She was distraught, but she had thought something through. "If the town is still safe, they might be looked after by my parents, but I fear these monsters will go there too! You must take them further."

" Lady, I must warn Armouthe as soon as I am able, but I can't take your children that far."

"The Talking Swifts have already left!" interjected one of the soldiers, a local man called Trystan, whose parents were weavers in Anvard Village. "They had just begun their dawn hunt and they saw everything, thanks to you. They've gone to tell the eagles, they'll be able to get to Armouthe quickly."
"But it will be at least three days before they can get a relief army here", thought Riordan to himself but he didn't dare speak the even darker thoughts that came to him.

At that moment two large rats were putting their paws and noses over the edge of the parapet having managed to claw their way upwards. The children went rigid with terror. The soldiers leapt at them. One of the rats hissed and chattered, mouthing threats and clambering up fully onto the parapet, launched itself at one of the soldiers, landing on his shoulder . He managed to dislodge it with his gauntlet whilst his fellow dispatched it. The other was pushed off with swords and plummeted, squeaking abominably on the way down. But there were at least ten others still on the way up.

Delina spoke again. "Please Riordan, you are my only hope. There are no other winged creatures in the castle. Please, take my children to Fernwood and the sacred wells. If anyone can protect them it is the centaurs".

"But what about you? And the other servants here? How will you defend yourselves?" Riordan gasped, looking Delina's brave and terrified face in the eye. Her three children were clutching uncertainly at her skirts. Sleep still in their eyes, only the oldest, who was about ten, seemed to catch the drift of the conversation, and she stared at her mother terrified. The two little ones, twins, were howling miserably.

"As we must" she said heavily. "I can wield a sword if I need to".

"No Mamma, you must come!"
Delina hastily got down on bended knee, looking her daughter full in the face and kissed her forehead.
"I cannot come too my love, Sir Riordan cannot take me as well. I will help fight off the monsters and then I will come and get you. You must fly from here as far as he can take you. Come now…"

"Can you manage all three?", she added in a whispered aside.

"I will have to" he said. "But I beg you, I must have some harness for these children to cling to, else I may lose them off my back within minutes."

Delina and some others immediately began ripping up bedsheets and fashioned a crude harness around Riordan, knotting it skillfully around his body and constructing a little padding and some side strips for the eldest child to cling to and for the youngest ones to be tied to.

Other members of the household were busy tying bedsheets together and adding lengths of rope to help get themselves down to the ground on the outer perimeter and to make s run for the town. But if the castle and main keep were not safe…

The terrified children screamed and kicked but Riordan bravely stood his ground on the upper edge of the parapet, as the children were settled onto his back and tied to the harness. With a final urgent kiss, Lady Delina backed away and grasped a sword just as one of the doors burst open with a terrifying crackle.

There was no time to lose. Riordan launched himself off the parapet and without looking back left the desperate defenders of Anvard behind, three heavy children clutching fearfully and painfully to his neck hackles and ruff. He dropped quickly and brushed the tops of nearby trees before with effort managing to flap his way across the orchard, groves and fields, the small town that served and supported Anvard quickly looming closer. The sun was nearly up and the light revealed further terrors in that direction too. Riordan quickly swerved, hiding these visions from the already traumatised children. There was no haven for them there.

Riordan called to the three children, "Never fear, I will take you to safety now", and with that he flapped his wings hard, gathered what height he could and plunged off over the rocky heights and deep valleys of Archenland, heading toward Mount Pire, the trembling children silenced by the drama, the terror and the glory of the landscape that opened up below them. He realised that they had probably never seen the world from this height or speed before. "They're a rum lot these little wingless two-foot people, and no mistake", he thought to himself.

Riordan knew that Fernwood lay in a deep valley and the journey would take well over an hour with the children weighing him down.

He was glad the little ones had been tied. He dared not stop to rest. He could feel his flank smarting where he had been bruised and scraped with the mace and he knew that once he had rested, this would stiffen and make it hard to fly. He also was in some doubt about whether he would be able to take off again should he land for a rest. Either he landed on a precipice which might terrify them or he just had to keep flying.

Yes, there was only one thing for it. To keep flying until he got them to safety.

He felt torn. The blessed wells of Fernwood behind their stockade of charms and dreams were on the other side of Mount Pire; getting further from Armouthe than ever.

But he could not betray the charge by Lady Delina to deliver her children to safety, as she herself was unlikely to survive, so it took on extreme imperatives. Nevertheless, Riordan was sworn to the Royal Families first and he felt torn.

As his wing beats settled into a steady rhythm and the children settled, Riordan mulled over the options. In the end he decided there was only one thing to do. Once he got the children to Fernwood and got his wound dressed, he needed to fly helter-skelter to Narnia. It was his sworn duty.

By the Lion, Narnia was needed anyway, so it might as well be him that did the telling of the awful truth. It was at that moment he realised that in a way he was living his vain dream from the early morning and that in his way, Aslan always brought what people wished for.