Dragon delivery service CH 89 Drunken Farewell

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Talvan was back on his feet, though he was still too sore for a long walk. His rune blade hung at his side again, but he knew he couldn’t fight just yet.

He stood by the quartermaster’s table, signing the last of the paperwork.

“And with that,” the quartermaster said, tapping the page, “your contract with the Iron Crows is over.”

Talvan finished signing, making it official that he was leaving on good terms. He pushed the papers back across the table.

“That’s done,” Talvan said.

Jack stepped forward and held out a hand. “Good luck with your endeavor. And you’ve got a place here with the Iron Crows anytime.”

He grinned. “What other mercenary group can claim they had a dragon hanging around with them?”

Talvan reached out and shook Jack’s hand firmly.

Talvan sighed, thinking back on the last few days spent catching up with Leryea. She and her knights had already left to check if the armored wyverns had shown up anywhere else.

An arm slipped around his shoulders from the side.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Reth said. “You’re not leaving without us throwing you a proper goodbye party.”

“Ow, watch the ribs,” Talvan hissed, pain shooting through his side.

“Sorry, dude, Reth, but everyone’s waiting for you.”

“Wha, what?”

Talvan looked around in confusion as Reth dragged him deeper into the Iron Crows’ camp.

Then he heard music, loud voices, and laughter.

A moment later, he was pulled into a huge party out in the open field. Lanterns hung between spear racks and supply poles. A fire pit blazed in the center, and half the company was already gathered.

ThePeople were drinking, singing, and shouting over each other. Someone, already half drunk, had fallen headfirst into a barrel with his boots sticking out, while others argued about whether to help him or just leave him.alvan stared. “If this is my party, you already started without me.”

Reth shrugged. “You tell mercenaries to wait, they look at the booze and forget the order.”

Talvan shook his head and winced at the movement. When someone handed him a mug, he made sure not to drink from it.

“So how are you doing, Talvan?” Ralv asked, eyeing the way Talvan held his side.

Talvan shifted on the bench, keeping one hand on his ribs. “Still bruised. Still sore,” he said. “But at least I can walk again.”

Ralv snorted. “That’s one way to measure success.”

Talvan managed a small smile, then looked past the firelight to the dark road beyond the camp.

“But I don’t know how I’ll make it to Oldar like this,” he said. “A short walk hurts. A long march might finish what the duel started.”

Ralv looked at him, his expression turning serious. “You won’t be marching like a line soldier,” he said. “Not if anyone here has any sense.”

Talvan raised an eyebrow. “That eliminates at least half the camp.”

“True,” Ralv conceded. “But the useful half is still here.”

HHe nodded toward the wagons. “Supply run leaves in three days. Covered carts, slow pace. You’ll ride instead of walking.”Talvan blinked. “You’d spare a wagon slot for me?”

Ralv shrugged. “You fought for us, bled for us, nearly broke yourself for us. That earns you a seat.”

From the fire, someone shouted, “And he brings the dragon stories!”

Ralv pointed. “See? Cultural value.”

Talvan let out a quiet laugh, then winced as his ribs protested. “I’ll take the cart,” he said. “And the insults.”

“Good,” Ralv said, clapping him gently on the uninjured shoulder. “Because you’re getting both.”

The fire crackled and sent sparks into the night while laughter echoed through the camp. Someone started playing a fiddle in the center, not well but loud enough, and nobody cared. Boots stomped in time, and a barrel had already fallen victim to someone’s excitement and clumsiness.

Talvan eased himself onto an overturned crate, protecting his ribs. The mug in his hand sloshed, still untouched. " Fire! " someone shouted. “Speech!”

A chorus followed. “Speech! Speech!”

Talvan looked up, startled. “No,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Ralv said, grinning. “You survived. That makes you qualified.”

Reth appeared behind him and raised Talvan’s arm before he could resist. Pain shot through his side.

Talvan hissed. “I will duel you next.”

“Put it on the schedule,” Reth said cheerfully.

The noise grew until Talvan saw they wouldn’t drop it. He stood up slowly, raising his mug a little.

“I don’t have a speech,” he called out.

“Too bad!” someone yelled. “You’re giving onTalvan let out a breath. Fine. He’d keep it short. Fine. Short.

“I came here broke,” he said. “Angry at the world. You lot gave me work… steel… and something that passes for family.”

A few approving shouts answered that.

“You also nearly got me killed six times,” he added.

“Only six?” came a heckle.

“Seven if you count the cooking,” Talvan shot back, and the camp roared.

His face softened a bit.

“You’re loud. You’re reckless. You drink like dying is a hobby. But you stand your ground when it matters.” He lifted the mug a little higher. “That’s rare.”

He stopped for a moment.

“To the Iron Crows.”

Mugs rose. Voices answered.

“IRON CROWS!”

They drank.

Talvan only pretended to drink.

When he sat down again, Revy slid into the seat next to him, glad to be out of the spotlight.

“You did well,” she said quietly.

“I kept it short,” Talvan replied. “That helped.”

She glanced at his untouched mug. “Still not drinking?”

“Still like breathing,” he said.

She smiled faintly at that.

Across the fire, another mercenary was loudly retelling the story of Aztharon getting stuck under a tree, using bigger hand gestures and making the story less accurate with each telling.

Talvan groaned. “That story gets worse every time.”

Revy nodded. “By next week, he’ll have been trapped under a mountain.”

Talvan glanced toward the edge of camp, where the road vanished into the darkness.

“Three days,” he said quietly. “Then I head out.”

Revy followed his gaze. “You’re really going through with it.”

“Yes.”

“Because of the dragon?”

Talvan didn’t answer right away.

“Because of the promise,” he said at last.

When the music got louder, Talvan tried to stand again, not wanting to look weak at his own farewell. He managed three steps.

His leg buckled.

Ralv caught his elbow before he hit the dirt. Talvan sucked air through his teeth as pain flared along his ribs and side.

“Still too torn up,” Ralv said quietly. “You can swing a sword. You can’t march.”

“I can march,” Talvan insisted.

“You can limp dramatically,” Ralv corrected. “Different skill.”

Talvan took another step, slower this time, but it hurt even more. The camp noise carried on, but a few nearby mercenaries noticed and quieted down.

“…Oldar’s a long road,” Revy said gently. “You won’t make it on foot like that.”

Talvan clenched his jaw. “I’ll find a cart.”

“You’ll rattle apart in a cart,” Reth said, walking up with a strange grin. “Good thing we planned.”

Talvan frowned. “Planned wh—”

The camp chatter shifted. Heads turned toward the dark edge of the firelight.

Aztharon stepped into view.

The gold dragon moved slowly and a bit stiffly, as if unsure he should be interrupting. Firelight glimmered on his scales and on the leather gear fitted around his torso and shoulders.

A dragon saddle.

It was high-backed and reinforced, with double straps and a padded seat. Not crude, but carefully crafted. The saddle was shaped to fit his body and the angle of his wings. The leather was deep brown, polished with oil and wax, with metal rings and travel loops along the sides.

On the flank plate was burned and dyed the Iron Crow sigil:

A crow carrying a sword.

Talvan blinked.

Aztharon stopped a few paces away, uncertain, wings tucked tight.

“I…” the dragon began, then stopped.

Lyn stepped out from behind him, smiling softly, one hand still resting on the saddle strap as if reassuring a nervous horse.

“Easy,“Easy,” she murmured to the dragon, not to the people. “You look handsome. Let them see.”aron’s crest twitched.

“The Iron Crow leatherworker made it,” Lyn said. “Mostly at night. Lots of measuring while you slept. Strap refits in November, full shaping this past week.”

Reth puffed up with pride. “Took six hides, three broken needles, and one screaming argument about wing clearance.”

“It was two arguments,” the leatherworker protested from the crowd.

Talvan stared. “You… made that for him?”

Reth shrugged. “You can’t walk far. He can’t carry you safely without gear. Problem met solution.”

Aztharon lowered his head slightly toward Talvan, shy now that all eyes were on him.

“I figured,” the dragon said quietly, “if you’re helping me learn to fly properly… I can help you travel.”

Talvan swallowed.

“I can’t help you walk,” Aztharon finished, “but I can carry you.”

Up close, Talvan could see the details: reinforced load bands, chest straps to spread the weight, quick-release knots, and travel hooks for bags and bedrolls. It wasn’t just for show. It was built to last.

“You measured him while he slept?” Talvan asked.

Reth nodded proudly. “Three times. He rolls.”

Aztharon’s head snapped up. “You what?”

The camp burst into laughter.

“You snore,” someone added.

“I do not,” Aztharon said, scandalized.

“You whistle,” Lyn corrected gently.

Talvan stepped closer, one careful step at a time, and rested a hand on the saddle leather. It was warm from the dragon’s body heat and smooth from finishing oil.

“High-quality work,” he said quietly.

Reth folded his arms. “Iron Crow standard.”

Talvan looked up at Aztharon, noticing his shy posture, hopeful eyes, and all the effort he’d put in.

“…Thank you,” Talvan said.

Aztharon’s tail gave a small, pleased flick.

“Don’t thank me yet,” the dragon murmured. “You still have to trust my landings.”

From the fire, someone yelled, “He crashes less now!”

“Not helping!” Aztharon called back.

The party noise came back, louder and warmer, but the group around them felt a different kind of quiet now.

A send-off gift.

Not booze.

Not coin.

A way forward.

Talvan looked around the Iron Crow camp and really took it in this time.

They were loud. Crude. Half of them were already drunk, the other half were working on it. They cursed like it was their native language and treated broken bones like bad weather. Someone was singing off-key. Someone else was arguing with a barrel.

They fought hard.
They laughed harder.
And when things went bad, they never ran alone.

Every one of them would step into danger for the one beside them without thinking twice.

Reth saw the look on Talvan’s face and smirked. “Careful. You’re getting sentimental. That’s illegal in three provinces.”

Talvan snorted and finally took a real swig of his ale. It burned going down, but in a good way.

“You’re all terrible,” Talvan said.

A few nearby mercs cheered. “We know!”

“Uncivilized,” he added.

“Proven!”

“Loud,” he finished.

“Proud!”

He shook his head, then smiled despite himself.

“But you always had my back,” Talvan said more quietly.

Reth’s grin softened at the edges. “That’s the only rule that matters.”

Talvan raised his mug a little, glancing over the firelight, the stacks of armor, the patched tents, and the battered banners with the crow-and-sword symbol.

“You know what,” he said, voice rougher now, “I think I might actually miss you idiots.”

A boot thunked against his good leg.

“Too late,” Reth said. “You’re Crow-marked now. That never washes off.”

Jack raised his own mug from across the fire. “Doors open if you ever come back.”

Ralv added, “Try not to bring fewer dragons next time.”

Aztharon perked up. “Fewer?”

“More are also acceptable,” Reth said solemnly.

Lyn laughed under her breath.

Talvan lifted his mug a bit higher. It wasn’t a grand speech or a knight’s toast, just something honest.

“To the Iron Crows,” he said.

The camp answered in one ragged, roaring voice:

“IRON CROWS!”

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