Zenor glanced over his shoulder to smile at Nalla, their eldest.
“Mummy hasn’t got a dragon,” little Zelar corrected.
“It’s the same thing,” Nalla protested.
“You two were supposed to be in bed,” Zenor said with a sigh. He turned, still holding Nuella’s hand. “But as you’re not, you can give your mother a kiss good-bye. She’ll return it when she comes back.”
Nuella’s hand tightened thankfully on Zenor’s. The two youngsters needed no further urging and rushed to their mother. Nuella bent over to receive their hugs and kisses.
“Now off to bed with you,” Zenor said, making shooing motions. “I’m surprised Silstra let you stay up this late.”
“She doesn’t know,” Nalla returned as she was leaving. “She was watching the baby.”
“Well, Sula, then.”
“She was making bread,” Zelar said, rolling his eyes.
After they had left, Zenor helped Nuella into the saddle he and Terregar had constructed specially for her. He strapped her in tight.
“No flying upside down this time,” he chided her.
“It musses up my hair,” Nuella responded, not—Zenor noted—necessarily ceding to his request.
“Bring her back,” Zenor said to Nuellask. “She and I have more babies to make.”
“Gladly!” Nuella responded with a laugh. “I want six, at least.”
“Excellent,” Zenor agreed, his eyes dancing.
“And Nuellask wants a few more clutches herself, I’m sure.”
“Which is a good thing,” Zenor said, “as it seems that your babies start with hers.”
Nuella smiled and said nothing. Zenor gave her hand one last tight clasp and then released her, stepping well back from the watch-wher.
“Fly safe,” he called fervently.
The gold watch-wher gave a loud cry, alerting all the other watch-whers in the compound, then sprang up into the air on her hind legs and disappeared between.
The night was silent, the air was still. Zenor shivered at the sudden cold.
The night air of Fort Weyr was torn by a cry Cisca had never heard before, but she reacted before she could think.
“Melirth!” she shouted as her eyes caught sight of the plummeting object. The great queen was airborne before any other dragon in the Weyr could respond, and swiftly brought herself up under the stricken flier.
Cisca grabbed a pot of numbweed automatically and raced across the Bowl. “K’lior!”
Alerted by her previous call, K’lior had already started toward her along with the rest of his wing’s riders.
At the last possible moment, Melirth moved to let the injured flier tumble gently to the ground. Two cries of pain, one female, one draconic, filled the night air.
“It’s Boll! You’ve got to come!” Nuella cried out as she heard the voices approaching. “The Thread is still alive! The air’s too hot; the watch-whers are getting slaughtered.”
Rineth! K’lior’s call was all that was needed.
Cisca clenched her jaw tightly as she caught sight of Nuella’s back, Thread-scored to the bone from right shoulder to left pelvis. The score continued on the left side of the gold watch-wher.
Get the healer here, Cisca told her dragon, oblivious to the sounds of the dragonriders forming up. She took a dab of numbweed and gently smeared it down the length of Nuella’s burn.
Nuella hissed first in pain, then relief. “Please, how bad is Nuellask? She says she isn’t hurt much but . . .”
“You took most of the score yourself,” K’lior announced as he joined his mate. Tintoval and Fiona rushed up, with Xhinna following slightly behind them.
“Always the rider, never the dragon,” Cisca added in a mixture of exasperation and admiration.
“We have to go back,” Nuella said, trying to find the buckles that strapped her to her watch-wher.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Cisca pronounced. “Except maybe to bed.”
“We’ll take it from here, Nuella,” K’lior reassured her.
“No!” Nuella said. “You can’t see the Thread, your dragons can’t see the Thread, it’s too dark. Only the watch-whers can see the Thread, and they scattered when we got hurt.
“We’ve got to go back, to rally them and get them to point out the Thread for your dragons,” she finished, struggling feebly.
Cisca and K’lior exchanged looks.
“Your watch-wher is not hurt too badly,” K’lior said consideringly. “She could guide us.”
“No, you’ll need me, too,” Nuella said. “Nuellask needs me to help her get the watch-whers under control.”
Cisca made up her mind and reached for the buckles of Nuella’s saddle. “If that’s the case, there’s no time to lose,” she said. “You’ll fly with me.”
She turned to K’lior. “Go on, we’ll be along presently.”
“But the queens shouldn’t fly!” K’lior protested as Melirth moved closer to her rider.
“This one is,” Cisca declared, unbuckling the last of Nuella’s straps and helping the WherMaster out of her saddle. She turned to Fiona, her eyes flashing in the night air and the younger Weyrwoman nodded in reluctant acceptance of the unspoken request—that if anything should happen to Cisca or Melirth, Fiona would continue on regardless.
“You’ll be all right,” Fiona declared staunchly, adding, “Talenth and I will guard the Weyr while you’re away.”
Cisca grabbed Fiona in a quick, grateful hug before releasing her and turning back to Nuella.
“You’ll ride behind me,” she said, as she guided Nuella toward Melirth.
“That’s fine,” Nuella told her, trying not to wince as the torn leather of her flying gear rubbed against her wound. “With your eyes, I won’t have to worry about Thread.”
* * *
K’lior and the dragonriders of Fort Weyr arrived over Southern Boll Hold in darkness. K’lior ordered the Weyr to hold in place, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He had just started to make out the watch-whers in their desperate fight against Thread when Melirth burst from between.
Cisca wants to know what are you waiting for? Rineth relayed, getting Cisca’s impatient tone down pat.
We can’t see, K’lior responded.
Cisca says that the watch-whers will see for us, Rineth said, sounding confused. Nuella suggests assigning a half-wing to each watch-wher.
Precious moments were lost as the plan was implemented. The first watch-wher bolted between when it found itself guidon for over half a dozen flaming dragons, but it soon returned, giving the dragons a partly apologetic, partly challenging blerp and directing them toward another clump of Thread.
Even with the watch-whers guiding them to the clumps, the night fight was awful. Dragon after dragon bellowed in pain as unseen Thread scored and they ducked between. Some did not return.
The watch-whers fared worse. K’lior soon learned not to wince at the painful high-pitched scream of a fatally Threaded watch-wher.
Nuellask was everywhere, rallying the watch-whers, chiding the dragons, chewing Thread. She paid the price for her leadership and several times bellowed in pain before going between to rid herself of Thread.
When Nuella at last relayed that the Thread had moved on to fall over the sea, where it would drown, K’lior gratefully gave the orders to return to the Weyr.
Tell Nuellask that all injured watch-whers should follow us, K’lior added. And remind me to send a sweep wing to look for burrows in the morning.
For all their work, K’lior was certain that Thread had fallen through to the ground in the darkness. He shuddered at the thought of what the ground might look like in the morning.
Take us to the Hold, Rineth, K’lior said. I must speak with the Lord Holder.
Contrary to K’lior’s fears, Lord Egremer was effusive with his praise of the dragons and their riders.
“We’ll have ground crews out at first light, I promise,” he said. He looked nervously northward, toward where T
hread had fallen. “How bad is it, do you suppose?”
K’lior shook his head. “We did our best,” he said. “But the warm weather meant that every Thread was alive. The watch-whers were overwhelmed and we’d never trained with them, so our coordination was lousy.”
Lady Yvala’s eyes grew wide with alarm.
“We’ll have sweepriders out at first light,” K’lior promised. “As soon as we see anything, we’ll let you know.”
“I’d hate to lose the stands of timber to the north,” Lord Egremer said. “They’re old enough to be harvested, but I was hoping to hold off until mid-Pass, when we’ll really be needing the wood.”
K’lior nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
“And we’re grateful for all that you’ve done,” Egremer replied. Wearily, K’lior mounted Rineth and directed him home.
The morning dawned gray, cold, and cloudy. Even Cisca was subdued.
“The reports are in from T’mar on sweep,” she said as she nudged K’lior awake, handing him a mug of steaming klah. K’lior raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Cisca made a face. “Five burrows.” K’lior groaned. Cisca made a worse face and K’lior gave her a go-on gesture.
“Two are well-established. They’ll have to fire the timber stands.”
K’lior sat up, taking a long sip of his klah. He gave Cisca a measuring look, then asked, “Casualties?”
Cisca frowned. “Between the illness and Thread, twenty-three have gone between. F’dan and P’der will be laid up with injuries for at least six months. Troth, Piyeth, Kaderth, Varth, and Bidanth are all seriously injured and will also take at least six months to heal. There are eleven other riders or dragons with injuries that will keep them from flying for the next three months.”
“So, we’ve what—seventy dragons and riders fit to fly?”
“Seventy-five,” Cisca corrected. “And we’ve got over three seven days before our next Fall. I’m sure that we’ll have more dragons fit to fly by then.”
“Three sevendays is not enough time,” K’lior grumbled, rising from their bed and searching out some clothes.
“No, you don’t,” Cisca said sharply, getting up and pushing him toward the baths. “You smell. You’re getting bathed before you do anything else.”
K’lior opened his mouth to protest, but Cisca silenced him with a kiss.
“If you’re nice,” she teased, “I may join you.”
K’lior tried very hard to be nice.
Lord Holder Egremer scowled at the line of smoke in the distance. Forty Turns’ worth of growth, gone. Three whole valleys had been put to flames before the dragonriders and ground crews could declare Southern Boll Hold free from Thread.
The rains would come soon and the burnt land would lose all its topsoil. He could expect floods to ravage the remnants of those valleys. In the end, there might be a desert where once there had been wide forests.
It would be worse for his holders. They had expected years of work and income culling the older trees, planting new, and working the wood into fine pieces of furniture. Now Southern Boll would be dependent upon its pottery, spices, and the scant foodstuffs it could raise for its trade with the other Holds.
The Hold would take Turns to recover.
“I’m sorry, Egremer,” a disconsolate K’lior repeated. “If there’s anything the Weyr can do to help—”
Egremer sighed and turned back to the Weyrleader. K’lior was a good ten Turns younger than himself, and while Egremer wanted desperately to blame someone, he knew that it would be unfair to blame the dragonrider.
He forced a smile. “I appreciate that, K’lior,” he replied. “And there might be more that you can do than you know.”
K’lior gave him an inquiring look.
“If I could have the loan of a weyrling or two, to help scout out the damage and maybe haul some supplies . . .”
“Weyrlings we have a-plenty,” K’lior said. He shook his head. “It’s full-grown dragons that are scarce.”
“I’d heard that your losses are high from the illness,” Egremer replied. “Is there anything we can do for you, Weyrleader?”
For a moment, K’lior made no reply, staring off into space, thinking.
“Nothing,” he said at last, angrily. “You can’t give us more mature dragons, or heal our wounded more quickly.”
Egremer’s face drained. “How long do we have, then?”
K’lior’s face grew ashen. “Fort is lucky. We don’t have another Threadfall in the next three sevendays. We’ll probably be able to fight that,” he answered, adding with a shake of his head, “but I can’t say about the next Fall.”
The despair that gripped the Weyrleader was palpable. Egremer looked for some words of encouragement to give him but could find none. It was K’lior who spoke next, pulling himself erect and willing a smile back on to his face.
“We’ll find a way, Lord Egremer,” he declared with forced cheer. “We’re dragonriders, we always find a way.” He nodded firmly and then said to Egremer, “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Certainly!” Egremer replied. “I’ll see you out. And don’t worry about those weyrlings, if it’s too much bother. Having them would only save us time.”
K’lior stopped so suddenly that Egremer had to swerve to avoid bumping into him.
“Time!” K’lior shouted exultantly. He turned to Egremer and grabbed him on both shoulders. “That’s it! Time! We need time.”
Egremer smiled feebly, wondering if the dragon’s sickness could affect riders as well. K’lior just as suddenly let go of the Lord Holder and raced out of the Hold.
“Thank you, Lord Egremer, you’ve been most helpful,” he called as he climbed up to his perch on Rineth.
“Any time, Weyrleader,” Egremer called back, not at all certain what he had done, but willing to use the Weyrleader’s good cheer to elevate that of his holders rather than depress them more by looking at the Weyrleader as if he were mad.
* * *
“Cisca, it’s time!” K’lior yelled up from the Bowl to their quarters as soon as he returned between from Southern Boll. “That’s what we need, time!”
Cisca stepped up to the ledge in Melirth’s quarters and peered down to K’lior. “Of course we need time,” she agreed, mostly to humor him.
“No, no, no,” K’lior shouted back. “The weyrlings and the injured riders—they all need time to grow and recover.”
“Make sense, K’lior,” Cisca returned irritably.
K’lior took a deep breath and gave her a huge smile. “We’ll time it. Send them back in time somewhere so—”
“So they can recover!” Cisca finished with a joyful cry and a leap. “K’lior, that’s brilliant!”
“There’s only one place we can go,” K’lior told the assembled wingleaders. “Igen. It’s the only Weyr that’s empty. And we can’t go back too far—we don’t want to have to worry about the Plague.”
“I’d recommend going back ten Turns,” Tintoval, who was there at Cisca’s invitation, said.
“Why not just three?” M’valer asked querulously.
“Three gives no margin for error,” Tintoval replied.
The bronze riders exchanged looks, and K’lior said, “Ten Turns, then.”
“If this works, won’t you want to offer the same chance to the other Weyrs?” Tintoval asked.
“It makes sense,” Cisca said. “But there’s no reason we can’t have an overlap.”
“Not with D’gan,” T’mar murmured. M’valer glared at him, but before he could say anything, M’kury said with a smirk, “No, indeed!”
“No one knows if this is going to work, anyway,” H’nez said. K’lior glanced sourly in his direction—H’nez had been late in joining the fight the night before.
“That’s why we’re going to try it ourselves before we suggest it to the other Weyrs,” K’lior said. He grimaced. “It’s a pity we’ve only got twelve weyrlings able to go between.”
“But we’ve got seventy-seven
injured riders and dragons who can manage,” Cisca pointed out. “Together, that will give us nearly three full Flights of dragons.”
“If they survive,” H’nez reminded her. “If something happens to them—”
“Then we’ll be just as shorthanded as we are now,” Cisca cut him off.
K’lior turned to T’mar. “When can you be ready?”
“In two hours,” T’mar replied. “When do you need us back?”
“Excuse me,” H’nez said, “but I think I should be the one to go.” K’lior turned to him with a raised brow.
“I’ve had the most experience leading Flights of dragons; I’ll be the best at training them and handling their injuries,” H’nez explained.
“T’mar is handling the weyrlings now,” K’lior said. “And the decision as to who goes is mine.”
H’nez flushed angrily. “Then pick me.”
K’lior eyed him with distaste for a moment, then turned his attention back to T’mar. “The healer will need to stay here.”
T’mar nodded in agreement.
“Weyrleader!” H’nez snapped through gritted teeth. All eyes turned to him. “If you will not let me lead the Flight back to Igen, then I demand that you send me to another Weyr.”
“H’nez!” M’valer gasped.
K’lior merely nodded. “I can not send you until this illness has been cured,” he told H’nez. “At that time, however, you may go to any Weyr that will have you. In the meantime, as we have more wingleaders than wings, you are to fly in M’kury’s wing.”
H’nez nodded stiffly, rose from his chair, and rushed out of the room, ignoring K’rall’s and M’valer’s outraged expressions.
“I could go,” Fiona spoke up in the silence that followed H’nez’s dramatic exit. Everyone looked at her. “I know some healing and I’m a Weyrwoman.”
T’mar smiled kindly at her, shaking his head. “Talenth is too young to go between.”
“Three Turns is a long time for the Weyr to wait for its next queen,” M’kury said, glancing at the other riders.
Dragonheart Page 29
