“We bring eighteen hundred dragons, seventeen queens, and all that is necessary to implement our Weyrs.”
“And they brought flamethrowers, too,” Lessa put in excitedly.
“But, to come…to attempt it…” F’lar murmured in admiring wonder.
M’ron and D’ram and the others laughed.
“Your Lessa showed the way.”
“…With the Red Star to guide us…” she said.
“We are dragonmen,” M’ron continued solemnly, “as you are yourself, F’lar of Benden. We were told there are Threads here to fight and that’s work for dragonmen to do…in any time!”
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,
Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses
’Til the dawning Red Star passes.
Even as the five Weyrs had been settling around Ruatha valley, F’nor had been compelled to bring forward in time his southern weyrfolk. They had all reached the end of endurance in double-time life, gratefully creeping back to quarters they had vacated two days and ten Turns ago.
R’gul, totally unaware of Lessa’s backward plunge, greeted F’lar and his Weyrwoman on their return to the Weyr, with the news of F’nor’s appearance with seventy-two new dragons and the further word that he doubted any of the riders would be fit to fight.
“Never seen such exhausted men in my life,” R’gul rattled on, “can’t imagine what could have got into them, with sun and plenty of food and all, and no responsibilities.”
F’lar and Lessa exchanged glances.
“Well, the southern Weyr ought to be maintained, R’gul. Think it over.”
“I’m a fighting dragonman, not a womanizer,” the old dragonrider grunted. “It’d take more than a trip between times to reduce me like those others.”
“Oh, they’ll be themselves again in next to no time,” Lessa said and, to R’gul’s intense disapproval, she giggled.
“They’ll have to be if we’re to keep the skies Threadfree,” R’gul snapped testily.
“No problem about that now,” F’lar assured him easily.
“No problem? With only a hundred and forty-four dragons?”
“Two hundred and sixteen,” Lessa corrected him firmly.
Ignoring her, R’gul asked, “Has that Smithmaster found a flamethrower that’ll work?”
“Indeed he has,” F’lar said.
The five Weyrs had indeed brought forward their equipment. Fandarel all but snatched examples from their backs and, undoubtedly, every hearth and smithy through the continent would be ready to duplicate the design by morning. M’ron had told F’lar that, in his time, each Hold had ample flamethrowers for every man on the ground. In the course of the Long Interval, however, the throwers must have been either smelted down or lost as incomprehensible devices. D’ram, particularly, was very interested in Fandarel’s agenothree sprayer, considering it better than thrown-flame since it would also act as a fertilizer.
“Well,” R’gul admitted gloomily, “a flamethrower or two will be some help day after tomorrow.”
“We have found something else that will help a lot more,” Lessa remarked and then hastily excused herself, dashing into the sleeping quarters.
The sounds which drifted past the curtain were either laughter or sobs and R’gul frowned on both. That girl was just too young to be Weyrwoman at such a time. No stability.
“Has she realized how critical our situation is—even with F’nor’s additions—that is, if they can fly?” R’gul demanded testily. “You oughtn’t to let her leave the Weyr at all.”
F’lar ignored that and began pouring himself a cup of wine.
“You once pointed out to me that the five empty Weyrs of Pern supported your theory that there would be no more Threads.”
R’gul cleared his throat, thinking that apologies—even if they might be due the Weyrleader—were scarcely effective against the Threads.
“Now there was merit in that theory,” F’lar went on, filling a cup for R’gul. “Not, however, as you interpreted it. The five Weyrs were empty because they…they came here.”
R’gul, his cup halfway to his lips, stared at F’lar. This man also was too young to bear his responsibilities. But…he seemed actually to believe what he was saying.
“Believe it or not, R’gul—and in a bare day’s time you will—the five Weyrs are empty no longer. They’re here, in the Weyrs, in this time. And they shall join us, eighteen hundred strong, tomorrow at Telgar, with flamethrowers and with plenty of battle experience to help us overcome our ancient foe.”
R’gul regarded the poor man stolidly for a long moment. Carefully he put his cup down and, turning on his heel, left the weyr. He refused to be an object of ridicule. He’d better plan to take over the leadership tomorrow if they were to fight Threads the day after.
The next morning, when he saw the clutch of great bronze dragons bearing the Weyrleaders and their wingleaders to the conference, R’gul got quietly drunk.
LESSA EXCHANGED GOOD mornings with her friends and then, smiling sweetly, left the weyr, saying she must feed Ramoth. F’lar stared after her thoughtfully, then went to greet Robinton and Fandarel, who had been asked to attend the meeting, too. Neither Craftmaster said much, but neither missed a word said. Fandarel’s great head kept swiveling from speaker to speaker, his deepset eyes blinking occasionally. Robinton sat with a bemused smile on his face, utterly delighted by the circumstance of ancestral visitors.
F’lar was quickly talked out of resigning his titular position as Weyrleader of Benden on the grounds that he was too inexperienced.
“You did well enough at Nerat and Keroon. Well indeed,” M’ron said.
“You call twenty-eight men or dragons out of action good leadership?”
“For a first battle, with every dragonman green as a hatchling? No, man, you were on time at Nerat, however you got there,” and M’ron grinned maliciously at F’lar, “which is what a dragonman must do. No, that was well flown, I say. Well flown.” The four other Weyrleaders muttered complete agreement with that compliment. “Your Weyr is understrength, though, so we’ll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you’ve got the Weyr up to full strength again. Oh, the queens love these times!” And his grin broadened to indicate that bronze riders did, too.
F’lar returned that smile, thinking that Ramoth was about ready for another mating flight and this time, Lessa…Oh, that girl was being too deceptively docile. He’d better watch her closely.
“Now,” M’ron was saying, “we left with Fandarel’s Crafthold all the flamethrowers we brought up so that the groundmen will be armed tomorrow.”
“Aye, and my thanks,” Fandarel grunted. “We’ll turn out new ones in record time and return yours soon.”
“Don’t forget to adapt that agenothree for air spraying, too,” D’ram put in.
“It is agreed,” and M’ron glanced quickly around at the other riders, “that all the Weyrs will meet, full strength, three hours after dawn above Telgar, to follow the Threads’ attack across to Crom. By the way, F’lar, those charts of yours that Robinton showed me are superb. We never had them.”
“How did you know when the attacks would come?”
M’ron shrugged. “They were coming so regularly even when I was a weyrling, you kind of knew when one was due. But this is much much better.”
“More efficient,” Fandarel added approvingly.
“After tomorrow, when all the Weyrs show up at Telgar, we can request what supplies we need to stock the empty Weyrs.” M’ron grinned. “Like old times, squeezing extra tithes from the Holders,” and he rubbed his hands in anticipation.
“There’s the southern Weyr,” F’nor suggested. “We’ve been gone from there six Turns in this time, and the herdbeasts were left. They’ll have multiplied and there’ll be all that fruit and grain.”
“It would please me to see that southern venture continued,” F’lar remarked, nodding encouragingly at F’nor.
“Yes, and continue Kylara down there, please, too,” F’nor added urgently, his eyes sparkling with irritation.
They discussed sending for some immediate supplies to help out the newly occupied Weyrs, and then adjourned the meeting.
“IT IS A trifle unsettling,” M’ron said as he shared wine with Robinton, “to find the Weyr you left the day before in good order has become a dusty hulk.” He chuckled. “The women of the lower Caverns were a bit upset.”
“We cleaned up those kitchens,” F’nor replied indignantly. A good night’s rest in a fresh time had removed much of his fatigue.
M’ron cleared his throat. “According to Mardra, no man can clean anything.”
“Do you think you’ll be up to riding tomorrow, F’nor?” F’lar asked solicitously. He was keenly aware of the stress of years showing in his half brother’s face despite his improvement overnight. Yet those strenuous Turns had been necessary, nor had they become futile even by hindsight with the arrival of eighteen hundred dragons from past time. When F’lar had ordered F’nor ten Turns backwards to breed the desperately needed replacements, they had not yet brought to mind the Question Song or known of the Tapestry.
“I wouldn’t miss that fight if I were dragonless,” F’nor declared stoutly.
“Which reminds me,” F’lar remarked, “we’ll need Lessa at Telgar tomorrow. She can speak to any dragon, you know,” he explained almost apologetically, to M’ron and D’ram.
“Oh, we know,” M’ron assured him. “And Mardra doesn’t mind.” Seeing F’lar’s blank expression, he added, “As senior Weyrwoman, Mardra, of course, leads the queens’ wing.”
F’lar’s face grew blanker. “Queens’ wing?”
“Certainly,” and M’ron and D’ram exchanged questioning glances at F’lar’s surprise. “You don’t keep your queens from fighting, do you?”
“Our queens? M’ron, we at Benden have had but one queen dragon—at a time—for so many generations, that there are those who denounce the legends of queens in battle as black sacrilege!”
M’ron looked rueful. “I had not truly realized how small your numbers were, till this instant.” But his enthusiasm overtook him. “Just the same, queens’re very useful with flamethrowers. They get clumps other riders might miss. They fly in low, under the main wings. That’s one reason D’ram’s so interested in the agenothree spray. Doesn’t singe the hair off the Holders’ heads, so to speak, and is far better over tilled fields.”
“Do you mean to say that you allow your queens to fly—against Threads?” F’lar ignored the fact that F’nor was grinning, and M’ron, too.
“Allow?” D’ram bellowed. “You can’t stop them. Don’t you know your Ballads?”
“‘Moreta’s Ride’?”
“Exactly.”
F’nor laughed aloud at the expression on F’lar’s face as he irritably pulled the hanging forelock from his eyes. Then, sheepishly, he began to grin.
“Thanks. That gives me an idea.”
HE SAW HIS fellow Weyrleaders to their dragons, waved cheerfully to Robinton and Fandarel, more lighthearted than he would have thought he’d be the morning before the second battle. Then he asked Mnementh where Lessa might be.
Bathing, the bronze dragon replied.
F’lar glanced at the empty queen’s weyr.
Oh, Ramoth is on the Peak, as usual. Mnementh sounded aggrieved.
F’lar heard the sound of splashing in the bathing room suddenly cease, so he called down for hot klah. He was going to enjoy this.
“Oh, did the meeting go well?” Lessa asked sweetly as she emerged from the bathing room, drying-cloth wrapped tightly around her slender figure.
“Extremely. You realize, of course, Lessa, that you’ll be needed at Telgar?”
She looked at him intently for a moment before she smiled again.
“I am the only Weyrwoman who can speak to any dragon,” she replied archly.
“True,” F’lar admitted blithely. “And no longer the only queen’s rider in Benden…”
“I hate you!” Lessa snapped, unable to evade F’lar as he pinned her cloth-swathed body to his.
“Even when I tell you that Fandarel has a flamethrower for you so you can join the queens’ wing?”
She stopped squirming in his arms and stared at him, disconcerted that he had outguessed her.
“And that Kylara will be installed as Weyrwoman in the south…in this time? As Weyrleader, I need all the peace and quiet I can get between battles…”
From the Weyr and from the Bowl
Bronze and brown and blue and green,
Rise the dragonmen of Pern,
Aloft, on wing; seen, then unseen.
Ranged above the Peak of Benden Weyr, a scant three hours after dawn, two hundred and sixteen dragons held their formations as F’lar on bronze Mnementh inspected their ranks.
Below in the Bowl were gathered all the weyrfolk and some of those injured in the first battle. All the weyrfolk, that is, except Lessa and Ramoth. They had gone on to Fort Weyr where the queens’ wing was assembling. F’lar could not quite suppress a twinge of concern that she and Ramoth would be fighting, too. A holdover, he knew, from the days when Pern had had but the one queen. If Lessa could jump four hundred Turns between and lead five Weyrs back, she could take care of herself and her dragon against Threads.
He checked to be sure that every man was well loaded with firestone sacks, that each dragon was in good color, especially those in from the southern Weyr. Of course, the dragons were fit but the faces of the men still showed evidences of the temporal strains they had endured. He was procrastinating and the Threads would be dropping in the skies of Telgar.
He gave the order to go between. They reappeared above, and to the south of Telgar Hold itself, and were not the first arrivals. To the west, to the north and yes, to the east now, wings arrived until the horizon was patterned with the great V’s of several thousand dragon wings. Faintly he heard the klaxon bell on Telgar Hold Tower as the unexpected dragon strength was acclaimed from the ground.
“Where is she?” F’lar demanded of Mnementh. “We’ll need her presently to relay orders…”
She’s coming, Mnementh interrupted him.
Right above Telgar Hold another wing appeared. Even at this distance, F’lar could see the difference: the golden dragons shone in the bright morning sunlight.
A hum of approval drifted down the dragon ranks and despite his fleeting worry, F’lar grinned with proud indulgence at the glittering sight.
Just then the eastern wings soared straight upwards in the sky as the dragons became instinctively aware of the presence of their ancient foe.
Mnementh raised his head, echoing back the brass thunder of the war cry. He turned his head, even as hundreds of other beasts turned to receive firestone from their riders. Hundreds of great jaws masticated the stone, swallowed it, their digestive acids transforming dry stone into flame-producing gases, igniting on contact with oxygen.
Threads! F’lar could see them clearly now against the spring sky. His pulses began to quicken, not with apprehension, but with a savage joy. His heart pounded unevenly. Mnementh demanded more stone and began to speed up the strokes of his wings in the air, gathering himself to leap upward when commanded.
The leading Weyr already belched gouts of orange-red flame into the pale-blue sky. Dragons winked in and out, flamed and dove.
The great golden queens sped at cliff-skimming height to cover what might have been missed.
Then F’lar gave the command to gain altitude to meet the Threads halfway in their abortive descent. As Mnementh surged upward, F’lar shook his fist defiantly at the winking Red Eye of the Star.
“One day,” he shouted, “we will not sit tamely here, awaiting your fall. We will fall on you, where you spin, and sear you on your own ground.”
By the Egg, he told himself, if we can travel four hundred Turns backwards, and across seas and lands in the blink of an eye, what is travel from one world t
o another but a different kind of step?
F’lar grinned to himself. He’d better not mention that audacious notion in Lessa’s presence.
Clumps ahead, Mnementh warned him.
As the bronze dragon charged, flaming, F’lar tightened his knees on the massive neck. Mother of us all, he was glad that now, of all times conceivable, he, F’lar, rider of bronze Mnementh, was a Dragonman of Pern!
About the Author
HARRY TURTLEDOVE was born in Los Angeles in 1949. After flunking out of Caltech, he earned a Ph.D. in Byzantine history from UCLA. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and he has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. His alternate-history works have included many short stories, the Civil War classic The Guns of the South, the epic World War I series The Great War, and the Worldwar tetralogy that began with Worldwar: In the Balance. He is a winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Alternate History for his novel How Few Remain.
MARTIN H. GREENBERG is a veteran anthologist and book packager with over 700 books to his credit. He lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin, with his wife, daughter, and four cats.
A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Introduction and compilation copyright © 2001 by Harry Turtledove
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
“Among Thieves” by Poul Anderson. Copyright © 1957 by Poul Anderson. Reprinted by permission of the author and his agents, Chichak, Inc.
The Best Military Science Fiction of the 20th Century Page 66
