Dragonsblood

by Todd McCaffrey

  Once, Lorana found herself grabbed by K’tan. “Wash your hands,” he told her. She noticed that her hands were covered in blood from the rider she had been tending. “Blood shouldn’t mix,” the Weyr healer warned.

  Lorana’s hand flew to her face but she stopped it just in time, eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t wash when I went from Jolinth to Lisalth.”

  K’tan shook his head and gave her a pat. “Dragon ichor isn’t the same. You can mix it any time,” he assured her. “It’s just human blood that can cause problems. People have different blood, and mixing it can cause fevers.”

  “I’ll remember,” Lorana promised, washing her hands in a bucket that one of the weyrlings had brought over at K’tan’s beckoning.

  Some time later, as Lorana rose from bandaging another dragon’s wing tip, she swayed and the world wheeled around her. Hands reached out and steadied her, and she found herself looking up into a face.

  It was Kindan. “When did you last eat?” he asked her.

  Lorana tried to remember but couldn’t. She feebly shook her head.

  “Come on,” Kindan said decisively. When Lorana tried to resist, he added, “K’tan’s back; he can handle things for a while.”

  “Eat!” K’tan agreed loudly from where he was working on a wounded dragonrider.

  “We’ll send you something, too!” Kindan promised as he led Lorana toward the caverns.

  “I have to get back as soon as I can,” Lorana said.

  “No,” Kindan replied firmly. “You need to rest. You’ve done enough, more than enough, for one day.”

  “But—but there’s a fracture to set on Aliarth,” Lorana protested.

  “K’tan will see to it,” Kindan said. “Or it will wait until I’m sure you’re up for it.” He shook his head in amazement. “You’ve been working for ten hours!”

  “So have you,” she retorted.

  Kindan was taken aback. “Well, so I have!” he agreed. “It’s a wonder I’m not fainting of hunger myself.”

  They were scarcely seated before they were served a hot bowl of thick soup and a mug of mulled wine. Fresh-baked bread with butter was set beside the soup.

  “There’s more where that came from,” their server told them with a broad smile. Kindan recognized her as Tilara.

  “Thank you,” he replied, gesturing for Lorana to eat.

  “There’s no need,” Tilara responded. She looked at Lorana and told her, “I saw the way you stitched up Jolinth’s wing.” She gave Lorana an admiring look. “I never would have believed it possible, but it looks like he’ll fly again.”

  Kindan remembered her as one of the women sweet on K’lar, Jolinth’s rider.

  “Is K’lar resting, now?” he asked.

  Tilara smiled wickedly and hefted a large pitcher she’d been holding in her other hand. “He is now. I doused his wine with fellis juice.”

  “Rest is what he’ll need,” Lorana agreed. K’lar had been scored, a nasty sear from forehead to cheek which fortunately required only a clean bandage and some numbweed for the pain.

  “Ah, look at me!” Tilara protested. “Here you’re supposed to be eating and I’m jawing away at you.” She turned away, then called over her shoulder, “Eat up, because I’ll be bringing seconds shortly. And dessert.”

  Lorana found that she was far hungrier—and thirstier—than she’d realized. The soup bowl was empty before she realized, and she reached for the bread and butter, only to have Kindan catch her hand.

  “Allow me,” he said, passing her the platter.

  Lorana nodded her thanks and proceeded to pile butter on bread. Tilara was back and had refilled their bowls before they noticed.

  “Would you be ready for something heartier after the soup?” she asked. “There’s a nice bit of spiced wherry just about ready. And tubers, and fresh peas.”

  “That would suit me very well,” Kindan said. He quirked an eyebrow at Lorana, who caught his look and nodded, her mouth full.

  “Food for two!” a voice called from nearby. Lorana recognized it as Tullea. She looked over. The queen rider looked fresh and rested. Beside her, B’nik made shushing motions.

  “You there!” Tullea shouted at Tilara, ignoring B’nik’s gestures. “Did you hear me?”

  “I’m busy,” Tilara responded. She added in a voice that only Kindan and Lorana could hear, “I’m helping those who helped the Weyr.”

  She took herself off, oblivious to Tullea’s shouts. Tullea rose from her seat and was about to go after Tilara when M’tal entered.

  “Tullea, I was looking for you,” the Weyrleader called. Tullea turned to him, face still red with anger, but before she made any response, B’nik placed a hand on her arm, soothingly. None of the scene escaped M’tal’s eyes, tired though he was.

  “What are the casualty figures?” he asked Tullea as he closed the distance.

  “What?”

  M’tal rephrased his question. “How many riders and dragons are too injured to fly in the next Fall, and how long will it take for them to recover?”

  “I don’t know,” Tullea snapped. She thrust a hand toward Lorana. “Ask her.”

  W’ren, M’tal’s wing-second, entered the Cavern and placed himself beside his Weyrleader.

  “I am asking you,” M’tal said. “With the loss of Breth, you have become the Weyrwoman of Benden. It’s your duty to keep track of the injured.”

  Tullea recoiled from M’tal’s words and then, as the full import dawned on her, her eyes gleamed and she gave him a wicked smile.

  “That’s right, I am, aren’t I?” she said with unconcealed glee. She gave B’nik a knowing look and then returned her gaze to the Weyrleader. “And when Minith rises, who knows who’ll be Weyrleader then?

  “Mind your manners, M’tal, you wouldn’t want to upset your queen, would you?” Tullea purred.

  M’tal gave her a hard, penetrating look. “Your duty is to the Weyr, Weyrwoman.”

  “I’ll do my duty,” Tullea snapped, “when my queen mates. As for now, ask her.” She cocked her head toward Lorana.

  “Tullea,” B’nik said pleadingly. Tullea looked down at him and merely shook her head.

  “And there’ll be changes in the Caverns, too,” she said in a louder voice before she sat back down. “I’m tired, B’nik—get us some food.”

  The bronze rider looked between the Weyrleader and Tullea, sighed, and gave the Weyrleader an apologetic look as he rose and headed over to the hearth.

  K’tan entered the Cavern, caught sight of M’tal, and lengthened his stride to approach the Weyrleader.

  “Weyrleader,” K’tan said with a nod of his head.

  “How bad is it?” M’tal asked. He had some idea from the fighting itself and from the field of injured dragons and riders spread across the floor of the Bowl.

  The Weyrleader had not even tried to hide his tears as he went from rider to dragon, consoling, cheering, doing what he could to comfort and show that he shared their pain—and more. He felt responsible for each and every Thread score. Worse, he knew that his order that the coughing dragons fly Threadfall had immensely increased the losses.

  “Forty-five are known to have gone between,” K’tan said. “Another twenty-three are badly injured and will need at least a month before they can fly again. Another thirty-seven have more minor injuries and should be able to fly in the next sevenday.”

  M’tal slumped as though he’d been hit in the chest. Nearly a third of the Weyr’s strength had been lost in the first Threadfall. Behind him, W’ren gasped in surprise.

  I must think, M’tal told himself. He looked around the cavern and spotted Kindan and Lorana.

  “Let’s join them,” he said, gesturing the others toward them.

  Kindan spotted them first. He took in M’tal’s grim expression and waved them to seats nearby. Lorana looked up from her soup as the others sat down. Guiltily, she put her spoon in her bowl, waiting for the others to be served.

  “No, no, ea
t, Lorana,” M’tal said. “Someone will come with food soon enough.”

  “I’ll see to it myself,” Kindan said, rising to his feet.

  “He’s a good lad,” W’ren commented as they watched Kindan approach one of the cavern women and strike up an animated conversation.

  “It’s a wonder he never Impressed,” K’tan said.

  “Or a blessing,” M’tal added. The pain in his voice was obvious to all.

  “Come on, M’tal, it’s not all that bad,” W’ren protested. “We took losses, sure, but the Records show that every Weyr takes losses in its first Fall.”

  “One third of the Weyr?” M’tal’s response was full of pain and self-directed anger. He waved a hand toward the Bowl outside. “Did you not see them? They’re littered all across the Bowl.”

  “Not anymore,” K’tan responded firmly. When M’tal shot him a look, he explained, “They’re resting in their weyrs, now, Weyrleader.”

  “Food for three or five?” a pleasant voice interrupted. Lorana recognized Tilara, back again, laden with food. Kindan bore a huge tray behind her, like a beast of burden.

  “Set it for five, Tilara,” Kindan begged. “I couldn’t carry this food back again.”

  “That’s because you’re just a lazy harper,” Tilara retorted, but there was no sting in her voice. Quickly, she laid out plates, bowls, and mugs. Then she directed Kindan in the proper placement of the platters of food, pitchers of klah, and baskets of bread. She gave the table one long, satisfied look, then said to Kindan, “If you’ve ever a mind to change professions, you’d do well here in the caverns.”

  “Why, thank you, Tilara,” Kindan replied with a slight bow. “But I think I’ve found my craft.”

  Tilara laughed and patted him gently on the arm before heading back to her cooking.

  “Is that spiced wherry?” K’tan asked, looking longingly at a platter piled high with steaming meats.

  “It is indeed, good dragonrider,” Kindan said. He speared several slices and deftly transferred them to the Weyr healer’s plate. He turned to M’tal. “And for you, Weyrleader?”

  “I’m not hungry,” M’tal protested.

  “You’ll eat,” a voice said from behind them. It was a woman’s voice, firm. “You’ll eat and you’ll like it, old man.”

  “Salina?” M’tal cried, rising from his chair and turning around.

  The look they exchanged was so full of emotion that Lorana found herself looking away, fearful of intruding on their privacy. Her gaze brought her eyes to Kindan, who had also looked away.

  M’tal guided Salina to the chair beside him, which W’ren had vacated as soon as he’d seen Salina arrive.

  “Kindan, serve him some of that wherry,” Salina ordered. When Kindan stabbed three slices, Salina shook her head. “Make it five, and see if you can find some raw meat.”

  A faint smile crossed M’tal’s lips as he and his mate shared a private joke.

  W’ren gestured to Salina with the pitcher of klah. “May I serve you, my lady?”

  “Wait until I get this old flame stoked,” Salina told him. All the dragonriders grinned. Satisfied that M’tal’s dinner was laid out to her order, she told him, “Eat.”

  Salina sat back in her chair and simply watched M’tal until, with a long-suffering sigh, he started to carve up his meat and chew it.

  “Slowly,” Salina told him. M’tal nodded affably and, with great exaggeration, ponderously chewed his meal.

  Salina ignored the over-response. “Better.”

  “Klah, my lady?” W’ren repeated his offer. Salina accepted with a grateful nod.

  “And some soup, to start,” she said. Kindan and Lorana found themselves colliding in their haste to fill the Weyrwoman’s bowl. With a graceful gesture, Kindan let Lorana have the honor.

  “Please join me,” Salina said after she’d been served, “if you’re still hungry.”

  “I don’t think K’tan has yet eaten, my lady,” Kindan said before the Weyr healer could make any objections.

  Salina glared at him balefully until K’tan filled his own soup bowl, then she turned her attention to W’ren, who reddened and filled his plate with the still-hot spiced wherry.

  Satisfied, Salina filled her spoon again and brought it toward her lips. Before she sipped the soup, she said to Lorana, “How bad was it?”

  “Forty-five dragons went between,” Lorana told her.

  The Weyrwoman shuddered, forced herself to finish her mouthful. With her other hand, she gestured for Lorana to tell her the rest.

  “Twenty-three with serious injuries, and thirty-seven with minor injuries that will heal in two sevendays or less.”

  Salina nodded, placing her spoon back in her bowl. “How many were left dragonless?”

  “Four,” K’tan told her, his face tight with pain.

  “And they’re being tended?”

  “They are in the care of weyrmates or weyrfolk,” K’tan assured her. “With their loved ones whenever possible.”

  “Good,” Salina said. She looked at Lorana. “The dragons that went between—did you feel it?”

  “Yes,” Lorana replied, her throat tight with pain.

  Salina reached out and grabbed Lorana’s hand. “I’m sorry, that’s quite a load to bear,” she said.

  “We’re tough, my lady,” Lorana said, “Arith and I.”

  “That’s good, for these are tough times,” Salina responded. She looked at the Weyr healer. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “I’ll go back to the Records Room. There has to be something there,” K’tan replied, rising from the table.

  “Sit, sit,” Salina ordered, gesturing him back into his chair. “You’ve fought Thread, tended the ill . . . you must be exhausted.”

  K’tan met her eyes and nodded frankly.

  “You’d miss more than you’d see,” the Weyrwoman continued. She looked at M’tal. “When is the next Threadfall?”

  “For our Weyr?” M’tal asked.

  Salina nodded.

  “Not for another three days. But I don’t know how the other Weyrs will do. Telgar Weyr fought Thread over Igen Weyr today, as well. I wonder how they fared.”

  “I—” Lorana began. The others glanced at her. “I think they did badly,” she said. Her eyes gleamed with tears. “There were many dragons who went between.”

  “And you felt them all?” Salina asked in a voice filled with awe. Lorana nodded.

  “My poor dear,” the Weyrwoman replied, reaching for Lorana’s hand once again. “And to think I grieved for one.”

  “I—I don’t think I feel their loss as strongly as I would the loss of my own dragon,” Lorana protested.

  “And I hope that never happens,” K’tan told her fervently. All the others nodded.

  “But even so, the loss of so many dragons,” Salina said, then stopped. “How many dragons, do you know?”

  “I don’t,” Lorana confessed. “Maybe a hundred.”

  “A hundred,” W’ren exclaimed.

  “Maybe more,” Lorana added.

  “At the beginning of this Pass, to lose a hundred dragons,” K’tan murmured, shaking his head.

  “There were less than three thousand dragons on all Pern,” M’tal said, speaking for the first time. “If a hundred are lost every Threadfall . . .”

  With a roar of anger, D’gan slammed his hand against the table in the Council Room. “How many did you say?”

  “Fifty-four are severely wounded and will take six months or more to heal, eighty-three are lightly wounded and may be able to fly in the next three months,” V’gin repeated.

  “And we lost seventy,” D’gan added, his anger spent in that one loud outburst. It had been a rotten Fall. The Weyr had been arrayed perfectly, but the air currents over old Igen Weyr had always been difficult and they roiled the Thread up and down unpredictably. Once the wings had taken their first losses, D’gan’s brilliant array of dragons had flown apart and things had only gotten worse.

&nb
sp; This was supposed to be his triumph, his first Threadfall, his chance to show everyone who had doubted, after all the success in the Games, after all his tireless efforts, that he, D’gan of Igen Weyr, was the proper Weyrleader of Telgar.

  He remembered the sad day when Morene had died and the last queen of Igen had gone between. He remembered how V’lon had grown old, his face seamed with age, practically overnight. How Telgar, Benden, Ista, and Fort had begged off providing Igen with a replacement queen. How in the end, D’gan’s suggestion that Igen ride with Telgar was grudgingly accepted. But on that day, over twenty Turns ago, D’gan had vowed that he’d show them all, that he’d prove to the doubters that Igen riders were the best. He’d vowed to become Telgar’s Weyrleader, to fly their queen and show the rest of Pern his mettle.

  And he had. He’d worked tirelessly, still was working tirelessly. But on the way, perhaps after the first mating flight, or even before, D’gan had found that his aspirations had changed. He was more than just a displaced rider finding a home in a new Weyr, he was a Telgar rider and he was a Weyrleader. He would show them—M’tal, C’rion, that young boy, K’lior, all of them—what a true Weyrleader was like.

  It had been his Weyr that had won all the Games. His Weyr had the most dragons, his Weyr had the most queens, and his Weyr was responsible for the most territory on Pern.

  And now this. He turned to V’gin. “How many dragons will I have to fight the next Fall?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “There are fifteen more dragons showing signs of the fever—”

  “They’ll fly the Fall,” D’gan interjected.

  V’gin grimaced. “We don’t know how much the sickness contributed to our losses, D’gan.”

  “Exactly,” D’gan said, “we don’t know. So they’ll fly. ‘Dragonmen must fly, when Thread is in the sky.’ So, Weyr healer, how many dragons will fly with me over Telgar Weyr and Hold in six days’ time?”

  V’gin sighed. “If you include the fifteen sick dragons—”

  “And any others that get sick in the meantime,” D’gan said pointedly.