Raven's Flight

by Chrys Cymri

  Raven listened carefully. When she had finished, his mind was buzzing with new information. ‘But why does anyone bother? It all sounds very exhausting.’

  The merpeople laughed good-naturedly. ‘You’ll find out, lad, that the exhaustion is worth it!’ one merman called out.

  ‘Now, Hrafn, we must leave you,’ Abella said. ‘Most of our subjects sought refuge from the storm in the ocean depths. Only those who were ill, and their caregivers, remained above. We must gather together again and note our losses. Our personal servant, Milo, will attend to your needs.’

  Raven watched as she made her way to the edge of the platform and slid into the sea. He laid his head down on his forelegs as the merpeople started to repair their floating platforms. Abella had left him with much to think about.

  Chapter Nine

  Several days later, his belly filled with fish and the worst of his bruises eased by the merpeople’s ointments, Raven prepared to fly back to the valley. ‘I need to go there,’ he told Abella. ‘It’s where I’ve lived for most of my life.’

  She patted his foreleg. ‘Just remember that you are always welcome here.’

  ‘I will.’ Raven filled his gas chamber and rose from the raft. When he was ten feet above the logs, he extended his wings and used a steady beat to lift himself away. Muscles still ached from his wild flight. He kept to a slow pace, the ocean and then a green island sliding past below him.

  Several crossings later, he emerged over the lake. Spring flowers added bursts of yellow and white to the green grasses. Snow had retreated further from the mountain sides, and fawns huddled near their mothers.

  Raven landed near the building. For a moment he thought he could hear Audrey’s voice, raised in song as she moved through the house. But when he pulled the door open, there was no one inside. The floor was clean, the pots stacked on the shelves, the fireplace empty. Just as she had left it.

  He forced himself to go inside. The pouch Audrey had given him rested on top of his wooden box. Raven ran the leather straps around a hind leg, then opened the lid.

  The container was nearly empty. He stared at the few gems which huddled in the corners. The sides still held a touch of Audrey’s dusky scent. She had taken the jewels for herself.

  He upended the box over the pouch, carefully transferring the remaining gems inside. The outright theft made him growl, deep and long. One last glance around the building revealed that the nativity figures he had carved still rested on a shelf. Audrey had left them behind.

  Words she had spoken came back to him. ‘You’re an answer to prayer.’ ‘Thank God, he’s found a way for me to get to England.’ And his own prayer to God. God, if you are something that cares about humans and dragons, help me to grow big enough to take her to London. Audrey’s God had answered both of their prayers. And stripped away the only being who had ever cared for him.

  But had she really cared for him? More memories came flooding back. ‘Every dog is happy when his master is at home.’ ‘I know you’re not an angel, Raven, but animals can also be God’s messengers.’ And, as she dismissed him, ‘Go on, Raven. Time to find your own kind.’

  An animal. That’s all he had been to her. She had viewed him as he would a fish, or a rabbit, or a deer. Something alive, but not an equal. That was why she had been able to walk away from him. His abilities had served her purpose. His flight had taken her back to where she wanted to be. And he had no place in that world.

  Raven marched over to the shelf. His fingertoes were shaking as he grabbed the figures and dropped them into the pouch. He nosed the pouch flap into place, then used his teeth to tie it down.

  There was nothing left for him here. He stumbled from the house. The lake and mountains wavered through his unshed tears. This was not his home. This had never been his home. He had served his purpose and been discarded. The house had served its purpose, and was also no longer needed.

  His chest expanded. The gas chamber filled. And Raven swept flames across the wooden floor, the stone sides, the thatched roof. As the house began to burn, he turned away and launched himself into the sky.

  Aingeal had once told him that there was a place where he could go, a settlement where others like himself had gathered. Raven reached out with his senses. Where he could he find other search dragons?

  The familiar tingle travelled through his mind. Three longer flights and six crossings away. Time to lighten his body. Raven hovered above the smouldering house and evacuated his bowels. His droppings hissed as they dropped into the flames. Then he turned his snout towards the first crossing.

  Daylight, darkness, hot, cold, land, sea. Raven paid little attention to the landscapes over which he flew. The travel was only a means to an end. All he wanted now was a warm place where he could rest, far away from murderous mothers and uncaring humans.

  He dropped through another shimmer. The heat of the sun was welcome on his back. The mountain ahead was cone shaped, and tendrils of dark smoke emerged from its top. The smell reminded him of the rotten eggs which he had once found in an abandoned bird’s nest. Twisting black rock glistened below. The faint taste of salt told him that the sea was not far away.

  With a tilt of his wings, Raven skirted around the edge of the smoking mountain. He now saw the tents that filled the space within tall walls of black obsidian. A new scent came to his nostrils, and it took him a moment to recognise it. Dragon. Many dragons.

  He decided to land outside. As he jogged across the ground, his claws snagged on the uneven rock. Raven fought to keep his balance as the jagged edges cut skin away from his fingertoes. The sharp pain made him snarl in frustration.

  ‘Well, I can see that you’re new here.’

  Raven brought himself to an undignified halt. The high-pitched voice had spoken in Welsh, and he pulled a response from memory. ‘That’s some welcome.’

  ‘And your Welsh is very rough.’

  The dragon who stepped out from behind the wall was green-black, with tufts of feathers on her wings and head. An intricately carved necklace of glass rested around her neck and gleamed against her chest. And, Raven realised, she was female.

  He ducked his head. ‘I’ve spend most of my life speaking in English.’

  ‘Then let’s not have you butcher our mother tongue any further,’ the dragon said, switching to English. ‘I’m Tyra, gatekeeper for the settlement. And you are?’

  ‘Hrafn Eydisson, out of Eydis Asgersdottir by Wayland.’

  Tyra’s ears and horns drew back. ‘Surely Eydis Asgersdottir tried to eat you?’

  ‘That she did.’

  ‘Then why do her the honour of remembering her name?’ The other dragon snorted. ‘I would never speak of the one who tried to kill me.’

  ‘She gave birth to me,’ Raven said slowly. ‘Whether or not I speak her name, that’s where I came from.’

  ‘But not recently.’ Tyra cocked her head. ‘You’re much older than what usually fetches up here. A year old?’

  ‘Yes.’ Raven felt weariness pull at his shoulders. ‘Are there more search dragons here, and am I allowed to join them? It’s been a long flight.’

  ‘Any puffling who makes it here can live with us,’ Tyra said. ‘We have just a few rules. No fighting. We hunt away from this island. Everyone looks after themselves, so you’ll have to earn your tent and anything else you want. And it’s best to develop a trade.’

  ‘Trade?’

  ‘Trade, profession, talent, something you can do or make to sell or trade.’ Tyra arched her neck. ‘I’m one of the gatekeepers. Other dragons carve rock or weave fabric. Some have tents in which they serve tea or coffee. We also have brewers and one distiller, but we do not permit drunkenness.’

  Remembering Audrey on Christmas Day, Raven said, ‘I’m glad to hear it. How do I buy a tent?’

  Tyra chuckled. ‘You have gold stashed away in your stomach?’

  ‘I have some gems in my pouch.’

  A gleam came into her blue-green eyes. ‘There’s a dragon who look
s after our treasures. I’ll take you to him. Solveig! Report to the gate.’

  A smaller search dragon hurried out, giving them a quick bow before taking up his place beside the wall. Raven followed Tyra through the entrance. The rock under foot had been smoothed, and he was able to walk without catching any claws. A large fountain gurgled to his right, and Raven wandered over to drink from the deep pool at the base.

  Tyra led the way past an array of tents. The greens, reds, blues, and yellows were bright contrasts to the ever present black rock. Many of the entry flaps had been propped open. Raven glanced as they passed, intrigued. One dragon was carving wood with his golden claws. Another used the end of her tail to shape clay. A half-dozen dragons sat in one particularly large dwelling, sipping liquid from large wooden containers.

  A tent of striped white and black fabric rested near the wall. Tyra nosed up the flap and announced, ‘A customer for you, Niklas!’

  Raven followed her inside, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. A small dragon uncurled from one corner and limped over. ‘Coming, coming. I don’t often see you here, Tyra. Your wages are building up nicely, though. Did you wish to make a withdrawal?’

  ‘Not today.’ She turned her head to Raven. ‘This is Hrafn, he’s just arrived. Wants a tent. He says he has gems.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Niklas moved over to a low table. ‘Let’s see them, young Hrafn.’

  Feeling somewhat self-conscious, Raven pulled the pouch from his leg and upended it. Four jewels bounced across the wood. The obsidian figures landed with a louder clang.

  Niklas reached out with his fingertoes and picked up a nearby brass object. He held the circular end over each gem in turn. Raven moved so that he could look over the smaller dragon’s shoulder. The ground glass set into the metal magnified the jewel, revealing each facet.

  ‘Good quality,’ Niklas said when he had finished. ‘Are you looking to sell? I’ll give you five thousand galleons for all four.’

  ‘What’s a galleon?’ Raven asked.

  ‘Lloegyr currency,’ Tyra explained. ‘The coins are made of gold. It takes me a year to earn a thousand galleons. And you can trust Niklas to be fair.’

  ‘I have a number of tents I can offer you,’ Niklas continued. ‘Do you have any preferences? Would you like one in the Christian quarter?’

  Raven drew his head back. ‘No.’ Then he glanced between them. ‘There are Christians here? Humans?’

  ‘There are only search dragons here,’ Tyra said. ‘And some of them are Christians.’

  ‘But you have to have a soul to be Christian,’ Raven said slowly. ‘And dragons don’t have souls.’

  Tyra snorted. ‘Who told you that rot? I worship Odin, and believe me, I know that my soul will go to Valhalla when I die.’

  ‘I’m just a simple banker,’ Niklas said mildly. ‘I don’t concern myself with anything that can’t be recorded on a balance sheet. I only thought you were a Christian because of the carvings. I’ve seen similar ones at their Christmas celebrations.’

  ‘I’m not a Christian. I have no time for their God.’ Several flashes of flame underlined Raven’s words.

  ‘I can offer you a tent in the Forn Sider quarter, if you’d like?’

  Tyra dropped her jaws open in a smile. ‘My tent is in the Forn Sider quarter. We have the best parties.’

  ‘There’s a particularly good tent there,’ Niklas continued. ‘Large enough for a workshop.’

  ‘Why would I need a workshop?’

  The small dragon picked up one of the obsidian figures. ‘This is your work? Yes, I thought so. It’s very good, very fine. A number of dragons carve obsidian with flame, but that doesn’t allow for this fine detail. I take it you use your voice? You could make a good living with this sort of work. Obsidian carvings are very popular in Lloegyr.’

  ‘We have trade links throughout Lloegyr, and beyond,’ Tyra explained.

  ‘The tent is two thousand galleons,’ Niklas said. ‘I can have a workshop fitted out, tables and suchlike, for three hundred galleons. An initial supply of best quality obsidian, six hundred galleons.’

  Raven felt slightly dazed by the pace of their discussions. But he needed somewhere to live, and something to do when not hunting. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Niklas raised his head. ‘Brock! Where is that rat? Brock, I need you!’

  A small brown creature scurried across the floor and up a table leg. ‘Summoned, I come,’ the rat squeaked as he rose up on his hind legs. Black wings, twisted and broken, dangled from his sides. ‘Ready!’

  ‘Hrafn,’ Niklas said. ‘Four jewels purchased by the bank for five thousand galleons.’

  ‘Hrafn, five thousand galleon deposit, check.’

  ‘Tent Purple Five, Forn Sider quarter, sold for two thousand galleons. Workshop fitments, three hundred galleons. Supply of carving quality obsidian, six hundred galleons.’

  ‘Hrafn, withdrawal two thousand nine hundred galleons, check.’ Brock twitched long whiskers and turned to look up at Raven. ‘Balance of account, two thousand one hundred galleons, check.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Raven asked the rat.

  ‘Double memory bookkeeping,’ Niklas replied. ‘Brock was a messenger rat.’

  ‘Wings destroyed by a freak storm,’ Brock said sadly. ‘My memory’s still good, don’t you worry about that. Sometimes we rats have to deliver messages as epic poems. Bookkeeping with Niklas is easy in comparison.’

  Raven glanced around the tent. ‘But where are these gold coins?’

  ‘You can withdraw them any time you like.’ Niklas tapped his head with one claw. ‘Otherwise, the value is noted and stored by the two of us.’

  ‘Gold you can’t see,’ Raven muttered. ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘This way, you don’t have to store it yourself,’ Tyra said. ‘All of us trust Niklas and Brock with our treasure. But it might be good for Hrafn to have some spending money. Say a hundred galleons?’

  ‘Withdrawal, one hundred galleons,’ Niklas said, limping over to the back of the tent.

  ‘Hrafn, withdrawal one hundred galleons, check.’ Brock confirmed. ‘Balance of account, two thousand galleons, check.’

  Raven followed Tyra from the tent, the gold coins a reassuring rattle in his leg pouch. They walked through several residential areas, all of which also featured shops selling anything from drink to intricate gold ornaments. The sheer number of dragons was almost overwhelming. And they all seemed to live together peacefully, sleeping, working, or drinking in close proximity to each other.

  ‘And this is yours.’ Tyra halted outside a large tent. Raven nosed the thick purple cloth to one side and stepped into his new home. A few wooden chests rested inside, and several rugs were piled into one corner. ‘Once your workshop is installed, you can decide what else you want to add.’

  Raven glanced around. For a moment he thought of a stone house, with a fireplace, and a table, and shelves lined with clay and metal pots. Then he shook his head, dismissing the memory. ‘What would I want to add?’

  ‘A table for games?’ She came to his side. ‘More rugs, in case you need a sleeping area large enough for two?’

  He snorted at the idea. ‘Sleep does appeal. I’ve had a long flight.’ The rugs were soft under his claws. He raked them into circle, then lay down with a soft groan.

  ‘Well, I’ll just let myself out, shall I?’ he dimly heard Tyra snap. And he was asleep even before the tent flap fell shut behind her.

  <><><><><><>

  His workshop was set up the next day. Tyra strode to his side as Raven watched other dragons erect tables and deposit large pieces of obsidian on the wooden surfaces. ‘They’ll be awhile,’ she told him. ‘Some of us are going hunting. Want to join us?’

  ‘I’ve never hunted with other dragons.’

  ‘So this’ll be a nice change for you.’ She nudged his shoulder with her snout. ‘Come on. I’ll vouch for you.’

  The hunting party had gathered together just outsid
e the settlement. Raven counted three drakes and four drakas. Several were several feet taller than him, and their claws were equally more impressive. He slowed as he approached the group. ‘Hrafn,’ he said. ‘Tyra invited me.’

  ‘I’ve heard about you, you’re the new one who uses English,’ said the largest drake. ‘I’m Tori. That’s Hagen, over there are Jormung and Embla.’

  ‘Geir,’ said the second largest drake.

  The smallest draka had been positioning rocks on a piece of smoothed obsidian. She glanced over at him. ‘And I’m Hillevi. We’ll all use English for Hrafn’s sake. Now, everyone, crowd around.’

  The dragons formed a circle around her design. ‘She’s the best hunt planner we have,’ Tyra murmured in Raven’s ear.

  ‘I thought we’d go for a large one today,’ Hillevi continued. ‘Everyone ready for a thunder lizard?’

  Tori dropped his jaw into a grin. ‘Great eating.’

  ‘We need to watch the tail,’ Geir said. Long scars glistened across his dark green back. ‘That tail can be a killer.’

  ‘So we plan our attack in this way.’ Hillevi pointed a golden claw at each rock in turn. ‘I’ll go after the eyes. Hrafn and Tyra the hind legs. Try to cripple the lizard.’

  ‘We’re in the most dangerous position,’ Tyra objected.

  ‘Which is why Tori and Hagen will be above you. They’re on tail duty. If all else fails, they drop down and pin it under their bellies. Jormung, you’re on the back. Go for the neck. And Embla, you’re still not up to full flight.’ Raven glanced at the large draka, noting that her left wing was folded awkwardly. ‘So you’re on gryphon watch.’

  ‘Gryphon?’ Raven repeated, thinking of Ysbaddaden.

  ‘One of the gryphon clans says that they own the hunting rights in that valley,’ Hagen said. She was nearly as large as Tori. ‘They chased us off last time.’

  ‘No hunt is important enough to fight over,’ Hillevi added. ‘If the gryphons come, we’ll go on to Green Isle and catch us some birds.’