Dragonquest

  “You’re out of order, Southern,” T’ron said in a loud voice, glaring at F’lar, not T’bor. “Can’t you control your riders, F’lar?”

  “That is quite enough, T’ron,” D’ram cried, on his feet.

  As the two Oldtimers locked glances, F’lar murmured urgently to T’bor, “Can’t you see he’s trying to anger us? Don’t lose control!”

  “We’re trying to settle the incident, T’ron,” D’ram continued forcefully, “not complicate it with irrelevant personalities. Since you are involved in this business, perhaps I’d better conduct the meeting. With your permission, of course, Fort.”

  To F’lar’s mind, that was a tacit admission that D’ram realized, however he might try to evade it, how serious the incident was. The Istan Weyrleader turned to F’lar, his brown eyes dark with concern. F’lar entertained a half hope that D’ram might have seen through T’ron’s obstructiveness, but the Oldtimer’s next words disabused him. “I do not agree with you, F’lar, that the Crafter acted in good part. No, let me finish. We came to the aid of your troubled time, expecting to be recompensed and supported in proper fashion, but the manner and the amount of tithing rendered the Weyrs from Hold and Craft has left much to be desired. Pern is much more productive than it was four hundred Turns ago and yet that wealth has not been reflected in the tithes. There is four times the population of our Time and much, much more cultivated land. A heavy responsibility for the Weyrs. And—” he cut himself off with a rueful laugh. “I’m digressing, too. Suffice it to say that once it was obvious a dragonrider found the knife to his liking, Terry should have gifted it him. As craftsmen used to, without any question or hesitation.

  “Then,” D’ram’s face brightened slightly, “T’reb and B’naj would have left before the green went into full heat, your F’nor would not have become involved in a disgraceful public brawl. Yes, it is all too plain,” and D’ram straightened his shoulders from the burden of decision, “that the first error of judgment was on the part of the craftsman.” He looked at each man, as if none of them had control over what a craftsman might do. T’bor refused to meet his eyes and ground a boot-heel noisily into the stone floor.

  D’ram took another deep breath. Was he, F’lar wondered bitterly, having trouble digesting that verdict?

  “We cannot, of course, permit a repetition of a green in mating heat outside her weyr. Or dragonriders in an armed duel . . .”

  “There wasn’t any duel!” The words seemed to explode from T’bor. “T’reb attacked F’nor without warning and sliced him up. F’nor never even drew his knife. That’s no duel. That’s an unwarranted attack . . .”

  “A man whose green is in heat is unaccountable for his actions,” T’ron said, loud enough to drown T’bor out.

  “A green who never should have been out of her weyr in the first place no matter how you dance around the truth, T’ron,” T’bor said, savage with frustration. “The first error in judgment was T’reb’s. Not Terry’s.”

  “Silence!” D’ram’s bellow silenced him and Loranth answered irritably from her weyr.

  “That does it,” T’ron exclaimed, rising. “I’m not having my senior queen upset. You’ve had your meeting, Benden, and your—your grievance has been aired. This meeting is adjourned.”

  “Adjourned?” G’narish echoed him in surprise. “But—but nothing’s been done.” The Igen Weyrleader looked from D’ram to T’ron puzzled, worried. “And F’lar’s rider was wounded. If the attack was . . .”

  “How badly wounded is the man?” D’ram asked, turning quickly to F’lar.

  “Now you ask!” cried T’bor.

  “Fortunately,” and F’lar held T’bor’s angry eyes in a stern, warning glance before turning to D’ram to answer, “the wound is not serious. He will not lose the use of the arm.”

  G’narish sucked his breath in with a whistle. “I thought he’d only been scratched. I think we . . .”

  “When a rider’s dragon is lustful—” D’ram began, but broke off when he caught sight of the naked fury on T’bor’s face, the set look on F’lar’s. “A dragonrider can never forget his purpose, his responsibility, to his dragon or to his Weyr. This can’t happen again. You’ll speak to T’reb, of course, T’ron?”

  T’ron’s eyes widened slightly at D’ram’s question.

  “Speak to him? You may be sure he’ll hear from me about this. And B’naj, too.”

  “Good,” said D’ram, with the air of a man who has solved a difficult problem equitably. He nodded toward the others. “It would be wise if we Weyrleaders caution all our riders against the possibility of a repetition. Put them all on their guard. Agreed?’ He continued nodding, as if to spare the others the effort. “It is hard enough to work with some of these arrogant Holders and Crafters without giving them any occasion to fault us.” D’ram sighed deeply and scratched his head. “I never have understood how commoners can forget how much they owe dragonriders!”

  “In four hundred Turns, a man can learn many new things,” F’lar replied. “Coming, T’bor?” and his tone was just short of command. “My greetings to your Weyrwomen, riders. Good night.”

  He strode from the Council Room, T’bor pounding right behind him, swearing savagely until they got to the outer passageway to the Weyr ledge.

  “That old fool was in the wrong, F’lar, and you know it!”

  “Obviously.”

  “Then why didn’t you . . .”

  “Rub his nose in it?’ F’lar finished, halting in mid-stride and turning to T’bor in the dark of the passageway.

  “Dragonriders don’t fight. Particularly Weyrleaders.”

  T’bor let out a violent exclamation of utter disgust.

  “How could you let a chance like that go by? When I think of the times he’s criticized you—us—” T’bor broke off. “Never understand how commoners can forget all they owe dragonriders?” and T’bor mimicked D’ram’s pompous intonation, “If they really want to know . . .”

  F’lar gripped T’bor by the shoulder, appreciating the younger man’s sentiments all too deeply.

  “How can you tell a man what he doesn’t want to hear? We couldn’t even get them to admit that T’reb was in the wrong. T’reb, not Terry, and not F’nor. But I don’t think there’ll be another lapse like today’s and that’s what I really worried about.”

  “What?” T’bor stared at F’lar in puzzled confusion.

  “That such an incident could occur worries me far more than who was in the wrong and for what reason.”

  “I can’t follow that logic any more than I can follow T’ron’s.”

  “It’s simple. Dragonmen don’t fight. Weyrleaders can’t. T’ron was hoping I’d be mad enough to lose control. I think he was hoping I’d attack him.”

  “You can’t be serious!” T’bor was plainly shaken.

  “Remember, T’ron considers himself the senior Weyrleader on Pern and therefore infallible.”

  T’bor made a rude noise. Despite himself, F’lar grinned.

  “True,” he continued, “but I’ve never had a reason to challenge him. And don’t forget, the Oldtimers taught us a great deal about Thread fighting we certainly didn’t know.”

  “Why, our dragons can fight circles around the Oldtimers.”

  “That’s not the point, T’bor. You and I, the modern Weyrs, have certain obvious advantages over the Oldtimers—size of dragons, number of queens—that I’m not interested in mentioning because it only makes for bad feeling. Nevertheless, we can’t fight Thread without the Oldtimers. We need the Oldtimers more than they need us.” F’lar gave T’bor a wry, bitter grin. “D’ram was partly right. A dragonman can never forget his purpose, his responsibility. When D’ram said ‘to his dragon, to his Weyr,’ he’s wrong. Our initial and ultimate responsibility is to Pern, to the people we were established to protect.”

  They had proceeded to the ledge and could see their dragons dropping off the height to meet them. Full dark had descended over Fort Weyr now, emphasizing
the weariness that engulfed F’lar.

  “If the Oldtimers have become introverted, we, Benden and Southern, cannot. We understand our Turn, our people. And somehow we’ve got to make the Oldtimers understand them, too.”

  “Yes, but T’ron was in the wrong!”

  “Would we have been more right to make him say it?”

  T’bor bit back an angry response and F’lar hoped that the man’s rebellion was dissipating. There was good heart and mind in the Southern Weyrleader. He was a fine dragonrider, a superb fighter, and his Wings followed him without hesitation. He was not as strong out of the skies, however, but with subtle guidance had built Southern Weyr into a productive, self-supporting establishment. He instinctively looked to F’lar and Benden Weyr for direction and companionship. Part of that, F’lar was sure, was because of the difficult and disturbing temperament of the Southern Weyrwoman, Kylara.

  Sometimes F’lar regretted that T’bor proved to be the only bronze rider who could cope with that female. He wondered what subtle deep tie existed between the two riders, because T’bor’s Orth consistently outflew every bronze to mate with Prideth, Kylara’s queen, though it was common knowledge that Kylara took many men to her bed.

  T’bor might be short-tempered and not the most diplomatic adherent, but he was loyal and F’lar was grateful to him. If he’d only held his temper tonight . . .

  “Well, you usually know what you’re doing, F’lar,” the Southern Weyrleader admitted reluctantly, “but I don’t understand the Oldtimers and lately I’m not sure I care.”

  Mnementh hovered by the ledge, one leg extended. Beyond him, the two men could hear Orth’s wings beating the night air as he held his position.

  “Tell F’nor to take it easy and get well. I know he’s in good hands down at Southern,” F’lar said as he scrambled up Mnementh’s shoulder and urged him out of Orth’s way.

  “We’ll have him well in next to no time. You need him,” replied T’bor.

  Yes, thought F’lar as Mnementh soared up out of the Fort Weyr Bowl, I need him. I could have used his wits beside me tonight. I could have used his thinking on T’ron’s invidious attempts to switch blame.

  Well, if it had been another rider, wounded under the same circumstances, he couldn’t have brought F’nor anyhow. And T’bor with his short temper would still have been present, and played right into T’ron’s hands. He couldn’t honestly blame T’bor. He’d felt the same burning desire to make the Oldtimers see the facts in realistic perspective. But—you can’t take a dragon to a place you’ve never seen. And T’bor’s outbursts had not helped. Strange, T’bor hadn’t been so touchy as a weyrling nor when he was a Benden Weyr Wing-second. Being weyrmate to Kylara had changed him but that woman was enough to unsettle; to unsettle D’ram.

  F’lar entertained the wild mental image of the blonde sensual Kylara seducing the sturdy Oldtimer. Not that she’d even glanced at the Istan Weyrleader. And she certainly wouldn’t have stayed with him. F’lar was glad that they’d eased her out of Benden Weyr. Hadn’t she been found on the same Search as Lessa? Where’d she come from? Oh, yes, Telgar Hold. Come to think of it, she was the present Lord’s full-blooded sister. Just as well Kylara was in Weyrlife. With her proclivity, she’d have had her throat sliced long ago in a Hold or a Crafthall.

  Mnementh transferred them between and the cold of that awful nothingness made his bones ache. Then they emerged over the Benden Weyr Star Stones and answered the watchrider’s query.

  Lessa wasn’t going to like his report of the meeting, F’lar thought. If only D’ram, usually an honest thinker, had seen past the obvious. He had a feeling that maybe G’narish had.

  Yes, G’narish had been troubled. Maybe the next time the Weyrleaders met to confer, G’narish might side with the modern riders.

  Only, F’lar hoped, there wouldn’t be another occasion for this evening’s grievance.

  CHAPTER III

  Morning Over Lemos Hold

  RAMOTH, Benden’s golden queen, was in the Hatching Ground when she got the green’s frantic summons from Lemos Hold.

  Threads at Lemos. Thread falls at Lemos! Ramoth told every dragon and rider, her full-throated brassy bugle reverberating through the Bowl.

  Men scrambled frantically from couch and bathing pool, upset tables and dropped tools before the first echo had rolled away. F’lar, idly watching the weyrlings drill, was dressed for fighting since the Weyr had expected to be at Lemos Hold late that day. Mnementh, his magnificent bronze, sunning himself on a ledge, swooped down at such a rate that he gouged a narrow trench in the sand of the floor with his left wingtip. F’lar was atop his neck and they were circling to the Eye Rock before Ramoth had had time to stamp out of the Hatching Cavern.

  Thread at Lemos northeast, Mnementh reported, picking up the information from his mate Ramoth as she projected herself toward her weyr ledge for Lessa. Dragons were now streaming from every weyr opening, their riders struggling into fighting gear or securing bulging firesacks.

  F’lar didn’t waste time wondering why Thread was falling hours ahead of schedule or northeast instead of southwest. He checked to see if there were enough riders assembled and aloft to make up a full low altitude wing. He hesitated long enough to have Mnementh order every weyrling to proceed immediately to Lemos to help fly ground crews to the area and then told his dragon to take the wing between.

  Thread was indeed falling, a great sheet plummeting down toward the delicate new leafing hardwoods that were Lord Asgenar’s prime forestry project. Screaming, flaming, dragons broke out of between, skimming the spring forest to get quick bearings before they soared up to meet the attack.

  Incredibly, F’lar believed they had actually managed to beat Thread to the forest. That green’s rider would have his choice of anything in F’lar’s power to give. The thought of Thread in those hardwood stands chilled the Weyrleader more thoroughly than an hour between.

  A dragon screamed directly above F’lar. Even as he glanced upward to identify the wounded beast, both dragon and rider had gone between where the awful cold would shatter and break the entangling Threads before they could eat into membrane and flesh.

  A casualty minutes into an attack? Even an attack that was so unpredictably early? F’lar winced.

  Virianth R’nor’s brown, Mnementh informed his rider as he soared in search of a target. He craned his sinuous neck around in a wide sweep, eyeing the forest lest Thread had actually started burrowing. Then, with a warning to his rider, he folded his wings and dove toward an especially thick patch, braking his descent with neck-snapping speed. As Mnementh belched fire, F’lar watched, grinning with intense satisfaction as the Thread curled into black dust and floated harmlessly to the forests below.

  Virianth caught his wingtip, Mnementh said as he beat upward again. He’ll return. We need him. This Thread falls wrong.

  “Wrong and early,” F’lar said, gritting his teeth against the fierce wind of their ascent. If he hadn’t been in the custom of sending a messenger on to the Hold where Thread was due . . .

  Mnementh gave him just enough warning to secure his hold as the great bronze veered suddenly toward a dense clump. The stench of the fiery breath all but choked F’lar. He flung up an arm to protect his face from the hot charred flecks of Thread. Then Mnementh was turning his head for another block of firestone before swooping again at dizzying speed after more Thread.

  There was no further time for speculation; only action and reaction. Dive. Flame. Firestone for Mnementh to chew. Call a weyrling for another sack. Catch it deftly mid-air. Fly above the fighting wings to check the pattern of flying dragons. Gouts of flame blossoming across the sky. Sun glinting off green, blue, brown, bronze backs as dragons veered, soared, dove, flaming after Thread. He’d spot a beast going between, tense until he reappeared or Mnementh reported their retreat. Part of his mind kept track of the casualties, another traced the wing line, correcting it when the riders started to overlap or flew too wide a pattern. He was aware, too, of
the golden triangle of the queens’ wing, far below, catching what Thread escaped from the upper levels.

  By the time Thread had ceased to fall and the dragons began to spiral down to aid the Lemos Hold ground crews, F’lar almost resented Mnementh’s summary.

  Nine minor brushes, four just wingtips; two bad lacings, Sorenth and Relth, and two face-burned riders.

  Wingtip injuries were just plain bad judgment. Riders cutting it too fine. They weren’t riding competitions, they were fighting! F’lar ground his teeth . . .

  Sorenth says they came out of between into a patch that should not have been there. The Threads are not falling right, the bronze said. That is what happened to Relth and T’gor.

  That didn’t assuage F’lar’s frustration for he knew T’gor and R’mel as good riders.

  How could Thread fall northeast in the morning when it wasn’t supposed to drop until evening and in the southwest? he wondered, savage with frustrated worry.

  Automatically, F’lar started to ask Mnementh to have Canth fly close in. But then he remembered that F’nor was wounded and half a planet away in Southern Weyr. F’lar swore long and imaginatively, wishing T’reb of Fort Weyr immured between with Weyrleader T’ron fast beside him. Why did F’nor have to be absent at a time like this? It still rankled F’lar deeply that Fort’s Weyrleader had tried to shift the blame of the fight from his very guilty rider to Terry. Of all the specious, contrived, ridiculous contentions for T’ron to stand by!

  Lamanth is flying well, the bronze dragon remarked, cutting into his rider’s thoughts.

  F’lar was so surprised at the unexpected diversion that he glanced down to see the young queen.

  “We’re lucky to have so many to fly today,” F’lar said, amused despite his other concerns by the bronze’s fatuous tone. Lamanth was the queen from Mnementh’s second mating with Ramoth.

  Ramoth flies well too, for one so soon from the Hatching Ground. Thirty-eight eggs and another queen, Mnementh added with no modesty.