Ravencaller

by David Dalglish

  Do you think there is no disagreement among our kind? Cannac asked. Do you think we are of one mind, and of one voice, upon waking into this changed world? You understand the complicated nature of humanity, yet think of all dragon-sired as simple as ants?

  Please, do not misunderstand, Albert responded. He seemed almost surprised by his own words. I am frightened, as are our people. You raise an army outside Londheim while others like you have brought an army within. We do not know your factions, your groups, or your disagreements. We only know that we feel attacked, and I am desperately hoping you will help remove our confusion before more people die.

  Even Tommy knew such honesty during a negotiation was terrible strategy. He had a feeling that Albert’s inner thoughts were spilling out regardless of whether or not he wished them to do so.

  I can only speak for whom I represent, Cannac replied. And our desire is for humanity to relinquish claims on all lands west of Londheim and north of the river you call the Triona. Respect our border, and we shall respect yours. Together, I hope to build a lasting peace.

  Albert’s face paled.

  All lands west of… that is insane. I could never convince anyone to accept such conditions. Not even if I wanted to.

  The darkness faded. The golden light vanished. Tommy startled as if waking from a dream. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, other than the presence of the towering dyrandar in an otherwise lavish and human surrounding. Everyone there seemed upset by such a revelation but for the Mayor’s son, who seemed enthralled by the dyrandar’s display.

  “My terms are not negotiable,” Cannac said. “All that is west of Londheim is ours. That was the agreement we reached before your Goddesses forced us into slumber, and it is the agreement we expect you to honor. Break it, and there will be blood.”

  “Are you threatening us?” Albert asked quietly.

  “It is not a threat,” the dyrandar said. “It is a statement of fact.”

  Another long, awkward silence.

  “Very well,” Albert said. He straightened his coat and gestured toward the door. “Please, return to the Wise tower. I must discuss these terms with my friends and advisors. Do not expect a decision anytime soon.”

  “He’ll keep staying with us?” Tommy asked. “I thought he would move in here with you.”

  “I cannot have a King of… foreign entities staying in my home when that King is capable of reading minds,” Albert said. “I mean no offense, but doing so would be unacceptably reckless.”

  “I understand,” Cannac said, though his tone certainly implied he did not like it. “Then let us go while you discuss.”

  The three made for the door, but a quick command from Albert changed that.

  “You two, stay.”

  They exchanged glances. Cannac dipped his head to the both of them.

  “I shall wait for you,” he said. “And if it makes you feel better, I shall wait in a form that will allow us a quiet, uneventful return to your tower.”

  He left the room, accompanied by the advisor, Scotti. Soren called for something stiff to drink, and servants from outside the room seemed to magically appear carrying a variety of options on a silver tray. Tommy shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as he waited for Malik to talk for the both of them.

  “My cousin told me some very interesting stories when he was setting up this meeting,” Albert said. He leaned against the fireplace and crossed his arms. “Stories involving you, Tomas, casting spells from your fingertips.”

  Tommy felt his neck and face starting to blush.

  “I, um, did he now?” he said.

  “Indeed. And I would like to know if he is lying through his teeth.”

  “He might pretend that he can’t,” Jarel muttered. “But I am telling the truth, Uncle. Why would I lie? A thought-reading man-deer just left the room, yet you wonder at spellcasting humans?”

  “I know little about whatever a dyrandar is,” Albert said. “But I know much about humans, and what they can and cannot do. I am eager to discover if my understanding is faulty.”

  Tommy glanced to Malik. They’d discussed several times how and when they’d reveal their magical abilities. Was it finally time to get on with it?

  “Go on, Tommy,” he said. “It’ll be all right, I promise.”

  “All right, everyone,” Tommy said. He cracked his knuckles. “Just… don’t judge me too harshly if I screw something up. I’m still learning.”

  After having shown so many different people his abilities, Tommy had learned a bit or two on how they might react. The flashier spells worked best, so he went with his tried-and-true bolt of flame. A whip of his wrist, a quick mutter of the words parvos fulgur, and a ball of fire shot from his fingertips and struck the interior wall of the fireplace. The little ball detonated in a plume, its flames safely contained within the stone.

  Albert’s clapping broke the ensuing silence.

  “Wonderful,” he said. “Absolutely wonderful. Malik, are you capable of the same?”

  “Sort of,” Malik said. “Though my specialization falls similar to what Cannac is capable of.”

  The Royal Overseer looked like he was barely listening. His smile stretched ear to ear.

  “Then the both of you shall join tonight’s raid. Your abilities may well be the tipping point between victory and defeat.”

  “Raid?” Tommy asked. “What raid? I don’t understand.”

  “The raid on Low Dock,” Soren chipped in. He swirled the ice in his drink and stared at Tommy, his expression unreadable. “We’re going to drive every last one of those monsters out.”

  The warm glow of having impressed men of such high station rapidly turned to fearful ice inside Tommy’s chest.

  “What? But I don’t…”

  Malik’s hand closed about Tommy’s wrist and squeezed so hard he feared it might bruise. Tommy slammed his mouth shut.

  “We are happy to lend our aid wherever necessary,” Malik said. “Do you mind if we leave now so we might prepare?”

  “Of course,” Albert said. “Scotti will inform you of the time and place. And say nothing to Cannac about this, nor give him any reason to think something is amiss. I believe him when he says he is uninvolved with matters in Low Dock, but that doesn’t mean he will stay uninvolved if he discovers our plans.”

  “Completely reasonable,” Malik said. “I bid you good day, Royal Overseer, Mayor.”

  Tommy followed his superior out the door and down the hall. The moment they were alone, he tugged on Malik’s sleeve to turn him about.

  “Why did you agree?” he asked. “That’s—that’s not what I want to do at all! Actually the opposite! I get so nervous during combat, you can ask Devin, we once faced a single giant owl and I failed so badly that I nearly—”

  “Tommy, listen to me,” Malik interrupted. He dropped his voice to a whisper and leaned in close. “Their minds were already made up before Cannac ever walked through the door. We don’t have a choice, not if we want to keep our heads. Please, will you trust me on this?”

  Tommy wanted to argue, to insist that reason could still win out, but in the end he succumbed to the wisdom of his superior.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll trust you.”

  “Good.” Malik clapped him on the shoulder. “Then steel yourself for the troubles ahead. Tonight is going to be extra ugly.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Evelyn halted before a dark stone tower tucked into a quiet corner of Belvua. A shudder trickled down her neck and fluttered out through her wings.

  “Home,” she whispered, as if the word were magic and could make it so.

  She yanked the ugly wooden door open. A modification by the human inhabitants, though she knew she should count herself lucky the building still stood after their long imprisonment. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her left sickle, Whisper, and pulled it free of its belt hook. Three quick slashes broke the door’s hinges and sent it toppling to the ground. Satisfied, she rehooked the sick
le and entered her abandoned home.

  The circular stone tower had originally been divided in half by a wall, and she saw the humans had broken a doorway through. The floors were spotted with dusty rugs, the walls were covered with painted plaster, and the windows had been built over with wood shutters. It was all… human. Evelyn spread her wings. That the first floor would be reclaimed was not a surprise, but what of the second? Stubborn hope sparked in her breast. There had been no ladder or stairs to reach it, for this was an avenria home.

  A single leap catapulted her to the ceiling and beyond. Her wings touched the stone and spread like black water, her feathers dissolving into star-filled magic to grant her passage. She emerged onto the second floor like a rising phantom. Her wings became feathers once more, and she landed upon solid stone. Evelyn gazed upon the room, her breath immediately taken away.

  Home. Yes, this was most definitely home. The walls were clean gray stone. The floor was a soft carpet of dark feathers plucked from the corpses of their family’s ancestors. A circular straw-stuffed mattress positioned inside a wood half-sphere, the avenria equivalent of a bed, occupied the room’s center. Two large dressers were stacked against one wall. An ornately carved crib was tucked into the corner, and her eyes teared up at the sight of it. There wasn’t even a layer of dust upon its polished surface.

  “Trapped in time along with us,” she whispered. She removed a glove and slowly felt the cradle’s surface with her dark, scaly fingers. Her claws clacked against the wood bars. A thousand memories crossed over her like a wave, and it took all her willpower to fight off sobbing.

  There was no door to the other room, for there was no need of it. Evelyn wrapped her wings about herself and walked straight through the stone. Her vision turned to star-filled darkness for but a moment as her wings gave her passage. This was her room, the smaller bed in the center her bed, the dresser in the corner her dresser, the painting along the wall her painting.

  It had taken her three years to finish the painting thanks to her obsession over detail. An orange sun set over the homes of Londheim. Several little avenria children played in the street with foxkin and lapinkin of similar age. Evelyn herself sat upon a stool, her hood pulled back from her head. Her feathers were dull compared to the vibrant shine of her children. Her hands, which were in mid-clap, showed little gray spots of discoloration, and its scales were rougher, the claws longer and sharper, than the silky smooth, clawless hands of her grandchildren. Even her beak looked cracked and weathered compared to theirs, a fact her oldest son had protested against.

  “You exaggerate your flaws,” he’d said. “It’s not true to life.”

  “I paint myself how I feel,” she’d responded. “And right now I feel very, very old.”

  Evelyn’s feet rooted in place as she observed the painting. Tears trickled down the sides of her beak as she soaked in every single face. Her cruel mind declared their fates.

  Died in battle. Died of a diseased wound. Murdered. Taken, presumed murdered.

  Yes, she felt old, and though her body had not changed a bit during the Sisters’ banishment, every one of the approximately eight hundred years that had passed weighed down on her like stone feathers strapped to her wings. She’d spilled so much blood with her two sickles, Whisper and Song, fighting against the ravenous swarm of humanity. And now she awakened to find it had all been for naught. Humanity had won.

  Of the dozen avenria she’d painted in the picture, only two still lived, having survived the wars against humanity prior to the Sisters banishing them into centuries of sleep beneath the dirt. She was one, her oldest son the other.

  “Come out, Logarius,” she told the silence. “I know you’re here.”

  Shadows pooled along the floor, and from within them rose her son. He shook out his wings and dipped his head in a mocking bow.

  “I figured it was only a matter of time before you returned here,” he said.

  Evelyn fought to keep a sharp edge from her voice. Logarius had never responded well to her parental scolding.

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” she asked.

  “I told the foxkin to keep an eye out for you, yes,” he said. “And I have ever since the waterkin informed me of your arrival in Londheim. You helped put an end to the chronimi plague. Why is that?”

  “No one deserved such a punishment,” she said. “Not even the humans. What you did was cruel and reckless.”

  Logarius took a step back. When he spoke, he sounded truthfully hurt.

  “Cruel? Reckless? I am yet to take a pittance of the lives that you claimed with Whisper-Song’s blades. Why do you berate me so? Why do you not join us in defending Belvua?”

  “Because of how you’re doing it,” she said. “Claiming the Book of Ravens as your own. Using it to wield angry, misguided humans as a weapon. You abuse your authority. You insult our very purpose.”

  “Our purpose?” Logarius seethed. “You’d have us go back to slavering over those pitiful creatures? We owe humanity nothing.”

  “We owe them our very existence.”

  “Yet without the humans’ cruelty, you’d still be a grandmother. Perhaps a compromise then. We kill the humans down to the same numbers that we ourselves remain. Would that suffice?”

  Evelyn recognized his bloodlust, his smug detestation, and his stubborn pride. It reminded her so much of herself when she was his age.

  “Do whatever it is you wish,” she said. “Lead these Forgotten Children, as you call them, into a war you cannot win. I am here solely to slay the men and women who have declared themselves Ravencallers.”

  “You know I cannot allow that. They are of use to me.”

  Her hands drifted to the hilts of her sickles, an act that did not go unnoticed.

  “You would fight me?” Logarius asked. “Fight your own feathers and blood?”

  “I have seen what my legacy has become,” Evelyn said. “I will not indulge it further. The Cradle belongs to humanity. Accept that, and we might still craft a peaceful future.”

  Logarius drew his long, curved daggers from his belt.

  “I don’t want a peaceful future,” he said. “I want Whisper-Song. They belong in the hands of the clan leader, a role you are not worthy to hold. Stop this posturing and pretended moral superiority and maybe we can be a family again. Give them to me, or I shall take them by force.”

  “Do you think you can?” Evelyn asked. She pulled her sickles free of their hooks and lowered into a combat stance. “You forget who trained you to use those blades.”

  “I will never forget,” Logarius said. His wings closed tightly about himself. “But that proud, vicious avenria is gone. What I see before me is an old woman too tired and stubborn to defend her people in this hostile world.”

  It was Logarius who attacked first. Evelyn should have expected it. Between the two, she had always been the more sentimental one. His two daggers curled in from either side, aiming for her shoulders—nonlethal targets. A little chirp of laughter died in her throat as she fell backward. Perhaps she wasn’t the sentimental one after all. She should have hit the wall, but her wings turned to shadow, and she passed right on through to the other bedroom.

  Logarius followed soon after, but he had to wrap his wings about himself first, allowing her to steal the initiative. She spun in a tight circle, Whisper slicing upward starting at Logarius’s ankle, Song echoing behind it with a cut that would carve out half of Logarius’s waist. The hit would be lethal, but she both trusted her son to properly block as well as understood that fighting at a limited intensity would only guarantee her loss.

  Sickles met daggers, their steel scraping against one another as each jockeyed for positioning. Logarius’s elbow clipped her beak, her knee caught his side, and then they broke apart with a flash of sparks as their weapons danced. She had the better angle, which forced Logarius to leap toward the wall, kick off it, and vanish into the ceiling. Evelyn lunged after him, her wings curling above her head to grant her passage to the to
wer’s third floor. When she emerged, her son was ready, and he struck the top of her head with the hilts of his daggers.

  “Damn it,” she swore as she staggered away. Logarius stalked her, his daggers twirling in his gloved hands. They stood in what had been a gathering place for eating and storytelling.

  “You can’t win this fight,” Logarius said. “Surely you understand that.”

  He thrust for her rib cage. She rolled over the table, knocking red-wax candles to the floor, and stumbled back to her feet. An armoire halted her momentum. Dishes clattered and broke inside. Logarius hopped atop the table, and she was reminded of when he’d done the same as a small child. Back then he’d laughed when she yelled at him to get off for the hundredth time. He was not laughing now.

  “Don’t you understand?” she told him as he prepared a leaping attack. “I’ve made all the mistakes you’re about to make. I’ve fought this war. I’ve buried the bodies. I’ve cried over the dead. The only thing awaiting you is misery, my son, and I want to spare you that pain.”

  “I will suffer any misery if it grants a home for my children,” he said. “I thought you felt the same. I was wrong. Deep down, you were always just a bitter, angry coward.”

  He lunged. Her anger gave her strength where her old limbs could not. Would he mock her entire brutal legacy? She’d given everything for him. She’d slaughtered human men, women, and children. Hundreds of souls had returned to their Goddesses because of Whisper-Song’s blades. How dare he? How dare he?

  Evelyn stood strong against his attack, her sickles expertly parrying away his thrusts. Her son positioned his knee to strike her abdomen upon landing, but she adjusted with the tiniest movements, deflecting the force away. He landed awkwardly, his daggers pushed out of position. Evelyn rammed the long hard edge of her beak into his temple, and as he stumbled, she kicked him for separation.

  Finally she had her opening, and she swung her two sickles in a high, powerful arc. Their blades flared with blue light. In an age past, firekin had blessed the weapons with their magic, granting their edges a searing heat when called upon. She could cut through stone like butter, and even the steel of her son’s daggers would crumble and crack against their power. It was why Whisper-Song was given only to the clan leader of the avenria, and why Logarius sought them so desperately.