Stormrunner

But I've a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year,

And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

~ Private Alan Seeger, French Foreign Legion, Died 4 July 1916

~1918~

Pilot Officer Edward Pevensie couldn't hear anything but the steady growling drone of the Sopwith Camel's rolling engine. The prop was making rainbow colors in the early morning sunlight and before him, the handful of instruments he had to go by danced in the plywood of the panel.

Just to his right, another camel bounced on the wind waves, looking almost like a toy in the spreading rays that were just peaking over the French hills in the distance. Flying Officer Digory Kirke was flying that one. It was just the two of them and a handful of bombs on a mission to bomb the German aerodrome, twenty miles behind the German lines.

Edward glanced over his linen covered lower wing, past the vibrating guy wires and landing gear whose wheels were slowly rotating backwards in the turbulence. No-man's-land was beneath them, dead and charred, covered with coiling strands of barbed wire and pockmarked with water filled craters. Only one tree grew there, a once lordly oak, all the branches shot away by shell fire. No-man's-land gave way to the meandering German trenches, dark, like the exploits of a mole uncovered for all to see.

Edward remembered the British trenches well. He still dreamed about them, the mud to his knees, the little hole chocked up with boards that he'd tried to sleep in, the snow in winter…and the gas. He'd seen the gassed men, heads bent and eyes bandaged, each with his hands on the shoulders of the man in front; stumbling columns, going back behind the lines to be sent to a home they'd never see again.

Then the Royal Flying Corps, recently turned into the Royal Air Force, had come recruiting and saved his life. Six months ago, he'd been in the trenches, now he was the pilot of a high tech fighter, with three kills under his belt…not quite an ace, but almost.

The sky was misty ahead of them the sun's rays watery through layers of atmosphere. Edward glanced around, using the end of his scarf to wipe the fine spray of oil off his goggles; it didn't help, it was growing decidedly foggy. He sat there silent and puzzled, they'd been told that the weather would be perfect for their mission, the sky was going to be clear. Last night he'd seen the stars thrown across the sky like silver dust and known that the morning would be clear as glass. Why this fog?

Edward looked over at Digroy's plane and realized with a shock that it was growing hazy even such a short distance away, the sun shone golden on yellow fog that billowed up in cool mist beneath them, caught on lonely trees like shreds of blowing dandelion silk. The French hills were gone in grayness, the trenches had vanished, Flight Lieutenant Kirke's plane had been swallowed whole.

Edward had never flown in fog before and his cockpit only had five instruments some of which were notorious for being on the blink. He hadn't really learned instrument flying and the only ones he really used were the altimeter and the airspeed indicator. The altimeter, if it was right, was telling him that he was losing altitude rather quickly, but the altimeter hadn't been working since the day before yesterday.

The fog was dense and suffocating now, so thick that when he glanced behind himself, the tail of his plane looked misty. The ghost of a tree zoomed beneath him and he jerked up the stick, rising back into the mist. Time passed slowly, so slowly, yet his pocket watch raced in the little metal holder on the instrument panel. The grass rushed up almost before he saw it, gray-green in the mist, stretching in a little fading circle around him. A moment later, he'd set the camel down, the wheels bouncing madly over the imperfections in the field he'd landed on. The right wheel caught a boulder and his plane bucked in a ground loop before at last it came to a rest. With shaking hands, Edward cut the engine and leaned back to breathe a deep sigh of relief.

To his right, Edward heard to sputter of another engine, he recognized the note of it, the gravelly roar of a 130 hp British Clerget. A moment later there was silence as the other pilot cut his engine.

"Diggs?" Edward called, his voice sounding strange in the mist, "is that you?"

"Is that you, Ed, old chap?" a round Yorkshire drawl answered him. "You all right?"

"Perfectly, plane's in one piece."

"How much fuel have you got?"

"Half a tank."

"Same here."

"Look here, Diggs," Edward said, "I'm coming over. Keep talking, will you?"

Edward pulled himself out of the wicker seat and swung out of his cockpit, stepping gingerly on the fabric covered wing, to drop down on the grass. A moment later, he was walking towards Digory's voice. When he glanced back, his plane had already been swallowed by the mist and presently, as he walked, the ghostly form of Digory's plane solidified in the whiteness and Digory himself, sitting on the lower wing of his plane.

"Do you think we'll be able to take off again?" Edward asked, sitting down next to him.

"We landed all right," Digory said. "The tricky think will be keeping the eggs from going off."

"They didn't when we landed."

"Course, the Germans might just pick us up before we can get out," Digory added.

~o*o~

The fog lay on them heavily and they camped out under the wing of Digory's plane when it began to drizzle. Then the glow of the sun came again on the fog and slowly burned it away.

Edward realized almost with shock that he could see his own plane now, parked a couple of yards away, then the trees came out of the mist, standing like regiments of soldiers. Beyond the trees, mountains formed, purple mist in the rolling white.

"The mountains are awfully high around here," Edward said, half puzzled. "We must have gotten blown off course in the fog."

Digory did not reply, his face had taken on a strangely tight look and he stood up, bumping his head on the wing, to stare across great reaches of trees and fields, adrift in mist, to one tall hill, crowned by a lordly castle.

"We must be off course," Edward said again. "That must be the German outpost they were telling us about."

"Um…Edward…" Digory's trailed off. "You're going to think I'm daft, but I'm not."

"What's wrong?" Edward asked, glancing at him.

"We're not in France anymore."

Edward stared at him, "The wind wasn't so strong that we could have made it to Belgium. We weren't up that long."

"We're not in Belgium either…" Digory looked at him hard. "Would you believe it's possible to get out of one world into another?"

Edward didn't have time to respond. A crashing came from the underbrush and a moment later, a strange man came rushing towards them, a spear in his hands. Digory recognized him at once as a faun and glanced at Edward as the latter made a strange strangling noise.

"It's all right, old chap," Digory said as Edward sagged. "Pull yourself together."

"I think I believe you," Edward said weakly.

"Stand and be recognized!" the faun shouted.

"We're friends!" Digory called.

"Who are you and what are these strange devices that hunch so menacingly on the ground behind you? Are they friends as well?" the faun wondered.

"They are if we tell them to be," Digory said with a laugh, extending his hand. "I'm Digory Kirke and this is Edward Pevensie. You?"

"I am the faun Aetos," the Faun explained, clasping Digory's hand in an altogether friendly manner. "What brings you to these parts? By your dress you are travelers from a distant land."

"A very distant land," Digory said. "What is the castle on that hill?"

They all turned to look at the tall walls of stone that lay sprawling across the hilltop overlooking the distant sea.

"That is the house of the King, Cair Paravel, the jewel of the sea," Aetos said.

"Would you be so kind as to show us the way?" Digory asked.

"Gladly," Aetos said.

~o*o~

Edward followed in a kind of daze while Digory talked easily with Aetos. Creatures joined them, animals that talked and asked him his name. He couldn't help wondering if he might have actually crashed, was near death and hallucinating.

"Digory, pinch me."

Digory laughed and obliged. Nothing changed.

They climbed the winding road that lead up the ragged hill of the castle. The sea spread sparkling away to their right, endless and beautiful. The centaurs- yes, centaurs- at the gate saluted them and let them pass and before long, they were climbing the steps of the Throne Room.

It was strangely dark in there. The tall windows at the end of the hall had been shrouded by black curtains and in the gloom; they barely saw the throne and the hunched figure on it.

"That's the King," Aetos whispered. "Lately he's been short of temper. Tread lightly with him."

They went forward, just the two of them until they stood before him. The King was a young man, of their own age, not more than thirty. Yet his face was haggard and his eyes were strangely bright.

"Sire," Digory said, dropping on one knee, "Are you perhaps the son of King Frank?"

The King laughed a short laugh, "King Frank has been dead for a thousand years."

Digory recoiled, his face stricken. "A thousand years? You're joshing!"

"What do you want?" the King asked. "Out with it, then go. You tire me."

To their right, a shaft of light sliced across the throne room, lighting dust moats in the still air. The King squirmed, as if pained by it and they turned to see a magnificent centaur standing in the doorway.

"Sire, I beg you to hear me," the centaur said, coming to stand before the King. "The thrones must be built!"

"Out!" the king screamed, "Out! All of you! Out!"

"I think we'd better take his advice," Edward whispered.

"Out!" the king screamed again, throwing the pillow he had been sitting on. It struck the centaur full in the face. With a disgusted look, the centaur turned and left the hall. The others followed, closing the door behind them.

Digory reached up to grab the centaur's arm, "How much time has passed since King Frank ruled?"

"Which King Frank?" the centaur asked, looking down at him.

"The first one, I suppose," Digory said.

"A thousand years." The centaur said dully, "and he's rolling his grave. Why did you desire to speak with the King?"

"I have a strange tie with this place," Digory said, his voice heavy, "But something tells me that he is the wrong chap to tell. Who are you, sir?"

"I am Stormrunner," the centaur said. "I am known as a prophet among my people, yet the King no longer sees me as such. All worlds draw to an end, but a noble death is a treasure no one is too poor to buy. I fear it is all I have left."

"What?" Digory cried, "Is this world already in its death throes? Am I to see it begin and end?"

"Who are you?" Stormrunner asked.

"He came in a flying contraption," The Faun Aetos offered as he stood against the wall.

"I am the boy who brought evil into this world," Digory said heavily.

"You are Lord Digory?" Stormrunner exclaimed, seizing his hands. "Am I so honored?"

"I'm Digory, but not a lord." Digory said. "Tell me everything, why is Narnia in such dire straits?"

Disclaimer: All rights, characters, places ect... have been stolen from C. S. Lewis and we're not going to give them back. :)

What's the point of a disclaimer anyway? I've always wondered.

~Psyche