Moreta (Dragonlady of Pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  "We're in a better position," she cried, knowing that Orlith would warn off the diving blue. She flicked open the nozzle of the flamethrower, leaning well left in her fighting straps as Orlith came up under the tangle. She pressed the button. The gout of fire found its mark but Moreta also had a blurred vision of blue wings and belly. "Too close, you fool. Who was that?"

  "N'men, rider of Jelth," Orlith said. "One of the young blues. You didn't singe him."

  "A singe would teach him discipline." Moreta fumed, but was relieved that the young rider was unscathed. "Reckless stupidity to fly so low. Didn't he see us? I'll have his eyes for polishing."

  "More Thread!" Orlith was off at another tangent. Lidora had also seen the Thread and she was nearer. Orlith desisted. "Kadith is diverting from cross‑over. The others are coming."

  The queens' wing reformed, flying north, fanning out as gobbets of loose Thread Fell in a curious order caused by the dragon's distortions of the air currents. That was work indeed for the queens!

  Moreta and Orlith were flying hard after this tangle, that patch, aware that Sh'gall had quickly redeployed sections of several wings to cover the upper levels. Cross‑overs were hard to avoid, with the different stacks of dragons flying at varying speeds, especially when the prime requirement was that wings maintain the proper altitude and interval. Then Sh'gall sent sweep riders north to make sure there had been no burrowing.

  The Fall continued as the wings reestablished their far‑ranging patterns. Riders called for more firestone and set meetings with the weyrlings riding supply. Moreta checked her flamethrower and found half a tank. And Fall continued.

  More casualties were reported by Orlith, none serious, wing tips and tails. Orlith and Moreta flew a watching level over the first of the snow‑tipped mountains along the irregular border between Crom and Nabol. Thread would freeze and shrivel on those slopes but the queens ranged while Sh'gall and Kadith ordered the wings between to the far side and Nabol.

  "Haura said that she and Leri needed new fuel cylinders for their flamethrowers and were dropping down at the mine hold."

  "Leri, please check with the watchwher!"

  "Holth says that the watchwhers are all stupid and know nothing of any use to us. I'll keep on asking."

  Any landing was a strain for Holth, who was no longer agile. Moreta watched anxiously, but Leri had allowed for Holth's incapacity and directed the old queen to a wide ledge close to the mine hold. A green weyrling arrived from between, cylinders hanging on both sides of her neck. She landed daintily. Her rider detached one tank and dismounted. He ran toward Holth, up her forearm, clinging to the cylinder straps with one hand and the fighting leather with the other. The exchange of tanks was made as Moreta and Orlith glided over. Holth took several steps forward, leaning into the free air and got in her first downward sweep.

  "They pace themselves. All is well," Oriith said.

  "Take us to Kadith!"

  They went between and emerged above a rough valley just as a mass of Thread split across the nearest ridge.

  "Tapeth follows!"

  The green dragon, her wings flat against her dorsal ridge, fell toward the point of impact, her flaming breath searing the crest. Just when it looked as if the dragon would collide with the ridge, she unfolded her wings and swerved off.

  "Take us there!" Moreta glanced down at the tank gauge. She'd need more to flood the ridge. No ground crew could get into the blind valley.

  Then they were above the sooted stone. Obedient to her rider's mental directions, Orlith hovered so that Moreta could flame the far side of the ridge. Tendrils of Thread hissed and writhed into black ash. Methodically she pumped flame into the area, widening the arc to be sure that not a finger‑length of the parasite escaped.

  "We'll land a bit away, Orlith. I'll need another tank now."

  "It comes!" Orlith landed easily.

  "I want to check that ridge. I couldn't see if it was shelf, sheet, or shale."

  Moreta released her fighting straps and slid down. Her feet, sore from the long ride and slightly numb despite the thick lining of her boots, were jarred by the impact of her jump. She slowly clambered on insensitive soles toward the blackened area, her finger ready on the flamethrower's ignition button. She began to sense the residual heat of the two flame attacks on the rock and moved forward more slowly as much to revive her cold feet as to be cautious. She never liked to rush in on a Thread site, not on foot. However, it had to be done and the sooner the better. Thread burrowed into any crevice or cranny.

  The eastern side of the ridge was sheer rock, unmarred by a split or crack to harbor Thread. The western face was also a solid mass. Tapeth's flame must have caught the stuff on landing.

  Her feet were beginning to warm up as she made her way back to Orlith. Just then a blue weyrling emerged. His claws were no more than a finger‑length from the top of the protruding rock thrust. The next instant the blue backfanned his wings to land. Orlith rumbled and the blue shuddered at the queen's reprimand. The rider's expression altered abruptly from delight to apprehension.

  "Don't be clever T'ragel! Be safe!" Moreta shouted at him. "You could have come out in the ridge, not on it! You've never been here before. Hasn't F'neldril drilled it in your skull to have air space landing as well as taking off?"

  The young rider fumbled with the straps holding the tank to his blue dragon's side as Moreta stormed over to him, still seething with the fright he had given her. "Caution pleases me much more than agility."

  She almost wrenched the tank from his hand.

  "Get down. To make up for your error in judgment, stay until the ridge cools. Check for infestation. There's moss just below. You know how to use a flamethrower? Good. What's left in my tank should suffice. But have your dragon call if you see anything moving on that ridge. Anything!"

  An hour or so's cold watch with fear as his companion would cool the young rider's ardor for fancy landings. No matter how often they were cautioned by the Weyrlingmaster and Weyrleader, weyrlings inexplicably disappeared and the older dragons grieved. The casualties were such a waste of the Weyr's resources.

  She remounted Orlith, aware that the boy had taken a sentry's stance, but as close to the comfort of his blue dragon as possible. They looked shaken and forlorn.

  "Kadith calls!"

  "We must be nearing the end of Fall!" Moreta clipped back her fighting straps, remembering to tug them secure. Her harangue would lose its force if she came adrift on take‑off.

  "B'lerion rides!"

  Moreta smiled as she told Orlith to get them airbound, to take them between to join the wings. She wondered, in the blackest of cold, just how B'lerion had fared with Oklina.

  Then they were on the western side of the Nabol Range with Thread falling thick and fast. Moreta had no time to express gratitude for the presence of the fresh dragons and their riders. Moreta and Orlith had just dispatched a low snarl of Thread when Orlith announced abruptly. "The Fall is over!"

  As the queen slowed her forward motion into a leisurely glide, Moreta leaned wearily into the fighting straps, the nozzle heavy in her tired hand. She felt the dull ache in her head from having to see too much at once, from having to concentrate on drift, and glide, and angle of the flame.

  "Casualties?"

  "Thirty‑three, mostly minor scorings. Two badly damaged wings. Four riders with cracked ribs and three with dislocated shoulders."

  "Ribs and shoulders! That's bad flying!" Yet Moreta was relieved at the total. But two wings! She hated having to mend wings, but she'd had lots of practice.

  "B'lerion hails us. Bronze Nabeth flew well." Orlith was admiringly craning her neck as the High Reaches bronze matched their speed and level. B'lerion waved his arm in greeting.

  "Ask him if he had a good Gather." Any diversion not to think of the Thread‑laced wings to be mended.

  "He did." Orlith sounded amused. "Kadith says we should get back to the injured wings at the Weyr."

  "First ask B'lerion what
he's heard of the epidemic."

  "Only that it exists." Then she added, "Kadith says Dilenth is very badly injured.

  Moreta waved farewell to B'lerion, wishing that Sh'gall or Kadith, or both, did not consider B'lerion and Nabeth rivals. Perhaps they were. Orlith liked B'lerion's bronze, and Moreta thought it would be far more pleasant spending the Interval with someone as merry as B'lerion.

  "Take us back to the Weyr."

  The utter still coldness of between acted as a bracer to Moreta. Then they were low over the Bowl, Orlith having judged her reentry as fine as that blue weyrling had earlier. The ground was studded with wounded dragons, each surrounded by a cluster of attendants. The piercing cry of wounded and distressed dragons filled the air and imbued Moreta with the most earnest desire to reduce their keening to a bearable level. "Show me Dilenth," Moreta asked Orlith as the queen swung in over the Bowl.

  "His main wingsail is scored. I will soothe him! Pity deepened the queen's tone as she circled as close as was prudent above the thrashing blue. Riders and weyrfolk were trying to apply numbweed to the injured wing, but Dilenth was writhing with pain, making that impossible. As Orlith obligingly hovered, Moreta had a clear view of the crippled wing, its forestay tip flopping awkwardly in the dust.

  It was a serious injury. From elbow to finger joint, the leading edge of Dilenth's wing had taken the brunt of the havoc wrought by Thread. The batten cartilages had wilted and were crumpled into the mass of the main wingsail; Moreta thought there was also some damage to the fingersail between the joint and batten ribs, where Thread had glanced off as Dilenth had tried to take belated evasive action. More damage marred the lub side of the wing than the leech. The spar sail appeared relatively whole. Nor could she discern if the finger rib was broken. She devoutly hoped it wasn't for without ichor to the head of the mainsail, the dragon might never regain full use and fold of his wing.

  Dilenth's injury was one of the worst a dragon could sustain since both the leading and trailing edges of the mainsail were involved. Healed wing membrane might form cheloid tissue and the aileron would become less sensitive, imbalancing the dragon's glide. First Moreta would have to sort the puzzle pieces of the remaining tissue and support it, hoping that there was enough membrane left to structure repair. Dilenth was young, able to regenerate tissue, but he would be on the injured list for a long time.

  Moreta saw Nesso bustling about in the group attending Dilenth. His rider, F'duril, was doing his best to comfort the dragon but Dilenth continually broke loose from his rider's grip, flailing his head about in anguish.

  Orlith landed just in front of the blue dragon. As soon as her hind feet met the ground, Moreta released the fighting straps and slid to the ground. Weyrlings appeared to take the agenothree tank, her outer gear.

  "Where's redwort to wash in?" she demanded loudly, more to mask the sound of the keening that beat between her ears. "Orlith, control him!"

  The intensity of Dilenth's cries dwindled abruptly as the queen locked eyes with the blue. His head steadied and he submitted to his rider's ministration. The relieved F'duril alternately entreated Dilenth to be brave and thanked Orlith and Moreta.

  "Half the noise is shock," Moreta said to F'duril as she scrubbed her hands in the basin of redwort. The solutions stung her cold fingers.

  "The lacerations are major. The wingsail is nothing but rags and shreds," said Nesso at her elbow. "How will it ever mend?"

  "We'll just see," Moreta replied, resenting Nesso for airing the doubts she herself entertained. "You can get me that bolt of fine wide cloth and the thinnest basket reeds you've got. Where're Declan and Maylone?"

  "Declan's with L'rayl. Sorth took a mass of Thread on his withers.

  Maylone is somewhere or other with a dragon." Nesso was distracted by so many urgent requirements. "I've had to leave the injured riders with only their weyrmates and the women to tend them. Oh, why did Berchar have to be sick?"

  "Can't be helped. Haura will be back shortly to help you with the riders." Moreta took a firm hold on her frustration and banished impatience as a useless luxury. "Just get me the cloth and the basket reeds. I'll want my table here, in front of the wing. Send me someone with steady hands, oil, and thin numbweed, then get back to the riders. And my needle case and that spool of treated thread."

  As Nesso rushed off, shouting for helpers, Moreta continued her survey of the injured wing. The main wingbones were unscathed, which was a boon, but so much numbweed had been applied that she couldn't see if ichor was forming. Fragments of the leading sail dangled from elbow and finger joint. There might just be enough for reconstruction. Any shred would help. She flexed her fingers which were still stiff from the cold flying of Fall. Dilenth's keening was muted but now another sound, a human one, penetrated her concentration. "You know I had my feeling! You know we've both been uneasy. I thought we weren't flying true!" F'duril's litany of self‑reproach reached Moreta. "I should have held us between a breath longer. You couldn't help yourself. It isn't your fault, Dilenth. It's mine! You'd no air space to dodge that Thread. And I let you back in too soon. It's all my fault." Moreta rounded on the man to shock him out of his hysterics.

  "F'duril, get a grip on yourself. You're upsetting Dilenth far more than, " Moreta broke off, suddenly noting the Threadscores on F'duril's body. "Has no one tended you yet, F'duril?"

  "I made him drink wine, Moreta." A rider in soot‑smeared leathers appeared from Dilenth's left side. "I've got numbweed dressings for him."

  "Then apply them!" Moreta looked around in exasperation. "Where is Nesso now? Can't she organize anything today?"

  "How bad is Dilenth?" the rider asked while capably slitting away the remains of F'duril's riding jacket. Moreta now identified the slender young man as A'dan, F'duril's weyrmate. He spoke in a low worried voice.

  "Bad enough!" She took a longer look at A'dan, who was coping deftly with the dressings he wrapped about F'duril. "You're his weyrmate? Have you a steady hand?"

  A solicitous weyrmate was preferable to no help, and certainly more acceptable to Moreta than Nesso's moaning and pessimistic outlook. Beads of ichor were beginning to seep through the numbweed on Dilenth's wingbone.

  "Where are my things, Nesso?"

  Moreta had taken but one pace toward the cavern to collect her requirements when the stout Headwoman floundered into view, laden with reeds, a pot of thin numbweed liquid, the jug of oil, and Moreta's needle box. Behind her marched three weyrlings, one of them carrying a hide‑wrapped bolt of cloth as tall as himself and a washing bowl while the other two wrestled the table close to the blue dragon's wing.

  "Oh, a long time healing if it heals whole," Nesso moaned in a dismal undertone while shaking her head. She took one look at the expression on Moreta's face and scurried off.

  Moreta took a long, settling breath then exhaled and reached for the oil. As she began coating her hands against contact with numbweed, she issued instructions to A'dan and the weyrlings.

  "You, D'ltan." She pointed to the weyrling with the strongest looking hands. "Cut me lengths of that cloth as long as Dilenth's leading edge. A'dan, wash your hands with this oil and dry them, then repeat the process twice, just patting your hands dry after the third. We'll have to oil our hands frequently or get benumbed by the weed as we work. You, M'barak." Moreta indicated the tall weyrling. "Thread me needles with this much thread," she held her oily hands apart to the required length, "and keep doing 'em until I tell you to stop. You, B'greal," she looked toward the third boy, "will hand me the reeds when I ask for them. All of you wash your hands in redwort first.

  "We're going to support the wing underneath with cloth stitched to the wingbone and stretched from the dorsal to the finger joint," she told A'dan, watching his face to see if he understood. "Then we must, if you have to get sick, A'dan, do it now and get it over with. Dilenth and F'duril both will find it reassuring to have you helping me. F'duril knows you'll be the most loving and gentle nurse that Dilenth could have. A'dan!" She spoke urgent
ly because she needed his help. "Don't think of it as a dragon wing. Think of it as a fine summer tunic that needs mending. Because that's all we'll be doing. Mending!"

  Her hands oiled, she took the fine‑pointed needle from the weyrling's hand, willing A'dan to fortitude. "Orlith?"

  "I can only speak to his green, T'grath." Orlith said a bit tartly. "Dilenth needs all my concentration and none of the other queens has returned to help."

  In the next second, however, A'dan shook himself, finished washing his hands, and turned resolutely to Moreta. His complexion was better and his eyes steady though he swallowed convulsively.

  "Good! Let's begin. Remember! We're mending!"

  Moreta jumped up on the sturdy table, beckoned him to follow, and then reached for the first length of cloth. As Moreta made her first neat tacks along the dorsal, Dilenth and A'dan twitched almost in unison. With Orlith's control and all the numbweed on the bone, Dilenth could not be experiencing any pain. A'dan had to be anticipating the dragon's reaction. So Moreta talked to him as she stitched, occasionally asking him to stretch or relax the fine cloth.

  "Now I'll just fasten this to the underside. Pull to your left. The leading edge of the wing will be thick, no help for it, but if we can just save enough of the mainsail ... There! Now, A'dan, take the numbweed paddle and smear the cloth. We'll lay on it what wingsail fragments remain. This is a very fragile summer tunic. Gently does it. M'barak, cut me another length. That tendon's been badly stretched but luckily it's still attached to the elbow. Orlith, do stop him flicking his tail. Any movement makes this operation more difficult."

  Moreta was grateful when Dilenth's exertions abruptly ceased. Probably another queen had arrived to support Orlith. She thought she saw Sh'gall but he didn't stop. He wasn't attracted to this aspect of Threadfall. "Retaining that tendon is a boon," she said, realizing that her verbal encouragement to A'dan had faltered. "I'll have those reeds now, B'greal. The longest one. You see, A'dan, we can brace the trailing edge this way, using gauze as support. And I think there're enough fragments of membrane. Yes. Ah, yes, he'll fly again, Dilenth will! Slowly now, very gently, let's lay the tatters on the gauze. M'barak, can I have the thinner salve? We'll just float the pieces ... so ..."