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FLIGHTS

R EYN HAD NOT believed he could fall asleep in the dragon’s clutches, but he had. He twitched awake, then gave a half-yell at the sight of his feet dangling over nothing. He felt a chuckle from the dragon in response, but she said nothing.

They were getting to know one another well.

He could feel her weariness in the rhythm of her wingbeats.

She needed to rest soon. But for his presence, she had told him, she could have plunged down into shallows near an island, allowing the water to absorb her impact.

Because he occupied her forepaws, she sought a beach that was open enough to permit a ponderously flapping landing.

In the Pirate Isles, that was not easy to find.

The little islands below them were steep-sided and pointed, like mountaintops poking up out of the sea.

A few had gentle, sandy beaches. Each rest period, she would select a site and descend in sickening circles.

Then, as she got closer to the ground, she would beat her great leathery wings so fiercely that their motion snatched the breath from Reyn’s lungs while filling the air with dust and sand.

Once down, she would casually dump him on the sand and bid him get out of her way.

Whether he did or not, she leapt into flight again.

The turbulence of her passage was enough to fling him to the ground.

She would be gone for a few hours or half a day, to hunt, feed, sleep, and sometimes feed again.

Reyn used these solitary hours to kindle a fire, eat from his dwindling supplies, and then roll himself up in his cloak to sleep; if he could not sleep, he tormented himself with thoughts of Malta, or with wondering what would become of him if the dragon failed to return.

In the fading light of the winter afternoon, Reyn sighted a beach of black sand amid out-thrusts of black rock.

Tintaglia banked her wings and swung towards it.

As they circled, several of the black boulders littering the beach stirred.

Napping marine mammals lifted their ponderous heads.

The sight of the dragon sent them to galloping heavily into the waves.

Tintaglia cursed, finishing with, ‘But for carrying you, I’d have a fine, fat meal in my talons right now.

It’s rare to find sea bullocks so far north this time of year.

I won’t have another chance like that again! ’

The layer of black sand over the black bedrock proved to be shallower than it looked.

Tintaglia landed, but without dignity, as her great talons scrabbled on the beach like a dog’s claws on a flagged floor.

Lashing her tail wildly to keep her balance, she nearly fell on top of him before she managed to stop.

Once she dropped him on the beach, he scuttled hastily away from her, but she did not take off immediately.

She was still muttering disconsolately to herself about fine, fat sea bullocks.

‘Lean, dark red meat and layers of blubber and, oh, the richness of the liver, nothing compares to it, soft and hot in the mouth,’ she mourned.

He glanced back at the thickly-forested island. ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll find other game here,’ he assured her.

But she was not consoled. ‘Oh, certainly I will. Lean bony rabbits by the score, or a doe going to ribs already. That is not what I crave, Reyn. Such meat will keep me, but my body clamours to grow. If I had emerged in spring, as I should have, I would have had the whole summer to hunt. I would have grown strong, and then fat, and then strong again, and fatter still, until by the time winter threatened, I would have had the reserves to subsist easily on such lean and bony creatures. But I did not.’ She shook out her wings and surveyed herself dolefully.

‘I am hungry all the time, Reyn. And when I briefly sate that hunger, my body demands sleep, so it can build itself up. But I know I cannot sleep, nor hunt and eat as much as I should. Because I must keep my promise to you, if I am to save the last of my kind.’

He stood without words, seeing an entirely different creature than he had but a few minutes before.

She was young and growing, despite having lived a hundred lifetimes.

How would it feel, to step forth into life after endless waiting, only to be seized by the necessity for selflessness? He suddenly felt pity for her.

She must have sensed his emotion, but her eyes spun coldly. She tucked her wings back to her body. ‘Get out of my way,’ she warned him, but did not give him enough time to move. The wind of her wings sent a stinging cloud of sand against his abused flesh.

When he dared to open his eyes again, she was a flash of blue, iridescent as a humming bird, still rising into the sky.

For an instant, his heart sang with the pure beauty of such a creature.

What right had he to delay her in her quest to perpetuate her species?

Then he thought of Malta and his resolution firmed.

Once she was safe, he would be willing to devote all his efforts to aiding Tintaglia.

He chose a sheltered place in the lee of some boulders.

The winter day was clear, and the thin sunlight almost warm.

He ate sparingly of his dried food and drank water from his bag.

He tried to sleep, but the bruises from her claws ached and the sun was too bright against his eyelids.

He watched the sky for her return, but saw only wheeling gulls.

Resigned to a substantial wait, he ventured into the forest to look for fresh water.

It was odd to walk beneath trees on solid ground.

The lush Rain Wild growth towering over swamp was the only forest he had ever known.

Here the branches of trees swooped lower, and the undergrowth was thicker.

Dead leaves were thick underfoot. He heard birds, but he saw few signs of small game, and none at all of deer or pig.

Perhaps this island boasted no large animals.

If so, Tintaglia might return as empty as she had left.

The terrain became steeper and he soon doubted he would find a stream.

Reluctantly, he turned back towards the beach.

As he drew close to where the darkness of the forest was shot through with the light from the open beach beyond, he heard an odd sound.

Deep and reverberating, it reminded him of a large skin drum struck with a soft object.

He slowed his pace and peered from the brush before venturing out into the open.

The sea bullocks had returned. Half a dozen of them basked on the sand.

One lifted his muzzle; his thick throat worked like a bellows to produce the sound.

Reyn stared, fascinated. He had never seen such immense creatures at close range.

The creature lowered his massive head and snuffed loudly at the sand, apparently puzzled by the unfamiliar scent of dragon.

He bared thick yellow tusks in distaste, shook his head, then sprawled down in the sand once more.

The other dozing creatures ignored him. One turned over on its back and waved its flippers lazily before its face.

It turned its head towards Reyn, and widened its nostrils.

He thought it would immediately roll to its feet and wallow towards the sea, but it closed its eyes and went back to sleep.

A plan unfolded in Reyn’s head. Silently, he retreated from the beach.

Sticks were plentiful under the trees; he selected one that was straight, stout, and long, then lashed his knife firmly to the end of it.

He had never hunted before, let alone killed for meat, but he was not daunted.

How hard could it be to creep up on one of the fat, docile creatures and make an end of it?

A single spear thrust through the neck would provide fresh meat for both of them.

When his makeshift spear was to his satisfaction, he sharpened another stake to back it up, then circled through the woods to the far end of the beach.

When he emerged from the trees onto the sand, he bent low and raced up the beach to put himself between the creatures and their retreat to the water.

He had expected some alarm at the sight of him.

One or two turned their heads to regard him, but the bulk of the herd went on dozing and sunbathing.

Even the nervous fellow who had earlier bellowed at the dragon’s scent ignored him.

Emboldened, he chose a target on the outskirts of the scattered herd: a fine, fat one, scarred by a long life.

It would not be tender, but there would be lots of it, and he surmised that would be more important to Tintaglia.

His crouching stalk was a foolish waste of time.

The sea bullock did not so much as open an eye until Reyn was within a spear’s length of him.

Feeling almost ashamed for killing such dull prey, Reyn drew back his arm.

The creature’s wrinkled hide looked thick.

He wanted to give him a swift death. He took a deep breath and put all his weight behind his thrust as he stabbed.

A moment before the point touched flesh, the sea bullock rolled to its feet with a roar.

Reyn knew instantly that he had misjudged the creatures’ temperaments.

The spear that he had aimed at the animal’s neck plunged deeply in behind its shoulder.

Blood sprayed from the sea bullock’s nostrils.

He’d pierced his prey’s lung. He clung doggedly to his spear and tried to thrust it deeper as the entire herd stirred to sudden activity.