Dragonheart впп-8

by Тодд Маккефри

  “A flamethrower?” Azeez repeated when Fiona brought it up over dinner. He frowned thoughtfully. “Are they the same as are used in the holds?”

  Fiona glanced questioningly toward T’mar. “Probably,” the wingleader said.

  “You don’t want a flamethrower,” Azeez told Fiona, shuddering.

  “Of course I do,” Fiona replied hotly. “They’re used in the queen’s wing.”

  “All the flamethrowers I know use the old firestone,” Azeez said with a grimace. “They’re prone to explode.”

  “They won’t work with proper firestone?” T’mar asked, curious.

  “No, they rely on mixing stone and water to produce flame,” Azeez said.

  For countless Turns firestone — now called old firestone or sometimes flamestone — had been reluctantly chewed by dragons until the last old firestone mine had exploded. The search for a new vein of the ore had led C’tov, aided by Kindan, to discover — or rediscover — the original firestone that had long ago been chewed by fire-lizards.

  “Flamestone’s very dear,” Azeez said. “It’ll be hard to get and transport here, particularly without someone noticing.”

  “I don’t want it here,” T’mar said. “There have been too many accidents with that stuff, and the weyrlings could get careless, never having dealt with it before.”

  He caught Fiona’s mulish look, so he added, “The burns from that stone are horrific.”

  Fiona grimaced. “There must be some way.”

  “It’d be better to find a different sort of flamethrower,” Azeez remarked.

  “Who could — ” T’mar began.

  “Stirger!” Fiona cut in excitedly. “It’d be the sort of challenge that would warm his ratty heart.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that we ask the smith — ” T’mar began only to be cut off once more by Fiona.

  “If it were done right, it could be sold to the holders, too,” she said, turning to glance at Azeez. The trader took on a calculating look and then grinned devilishly back at Fiona.

  “Yes, it could be quite profitable,” he replied. “I believe that D’gan is currently operating the only remaining old firestone mine.”

  T’mar snorted derisively. “He would be!”

  “Probably forced some Shunned to do it for him,” Fiona agreed acerbically. “Getting a better flamethrower would free them, wouldn’t it?” She glanced to T’mar for confirmation.

  The bronze rider made no response, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  “I was thinking,” T’mar said, rousing himself. The others looked at his grim expression. Fiona motioned impatiently for him to continue. “I don’t recall any word of a new flamethrower being mentioned in our time.”

  Fiona’s lips fell into a frown of her own. “Father would have mentioned it.”

  “So this invention will have to wait until your return,” Azeez said hopefully. “It does not mean that Stirger could not develop it for you now.”

  “He’d have to agree to keep it a secret,” Fiona said sourly.

  “Is there anyone else who could invent such a thing, then?” Azeez asked. “Someone you could trust more to keep such a secret?”

  T’mar cocked his head thoughtfully for a long moment. “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “I can,” Fiona said excitedly. “Terregar and Zenor both.”

  “If you could pry them away from their mining and smithing,” T’mar retorted.

  “We’ll just have to be very persuasive,” she said.

  The two men glanced at each other ruefully and chuckled.

  “What?” Fiona demanded, glaring at them.

  “I rather suspect it’ll be you that’s persuasive,” T’mar said, his lips curved upward in a smile.

  “Weyrwoman,” Azeez said by way of agreement.

  Fiona found in the next two months that she didn’t have the time to pursue anything other than her duties — and her training. The first drills were easy enough, with the weyrlings walking around the Bowl and repeating their twice daily gliding lessons, steadily building up the weights carried by the young dragons. They were helped happily by the young traders who wintered with them and were thrilled to be counted as “dragon baggage,” as J’gerd had humorously labeled them, or “dragon riders” as they gladly labeled themselves.

  After two sevendays T’mar changed the drill dramatically.

  “Today we will see if you can fly,” he told the collected weyrlings that morning at breakfast. The older weyrlings followed this announcement enthusiastically, remembering their first flight more than two Turns back.

  Breakfast and chores were finished at breakneck speed, and Fiona, F’jian, and J’nos had the weyrlings assembled in proper formation well before T’mar strode out into the Weyr Bowl, trailed by the older weyrlings.

  “Who wants to be first?” T’mar shouted to the collected group. Every hand shot up.

  “It should be the Weyrwoman,” F’jian said, lowering his hand reluctantly. Fiona was startled to see all the other weyrlings lower their hands, murmuring, “Yes, Fiona! Let her go first.”

  T’mar hid a grin, while behind him, the older weyrlings voiced their agreement.

  Fiona looked down from her perch on Talenth and saw Terin standing, silhouetted by the light of the Kitchen Cavern, hunched over, her face unreadable in the distance.

  “I’ll do it if Terin rides with me,” Fiona called back. T’mar’s brows furrowed and all the weyrlings murmured in shock. “It’s only fair, after all she’s done!”

  As T’mar opened his mouth, Fiona added, “She doesn’t weigh much; I’m sure that Talenth can carry her, too!”

  T’mar turned to Terin. “Terin, come here!”

  Slowly at first, then faster, the youngest headwoman trotted over to the bronze rider. T’mar gave her a gentle look and then motioned for her to turn around. Grabbing her under the elbows, he lifted her experimentally then put her back down, his eyes going to Talenth.

  “Weyrwoman, how much do you weigh?” he asked.

  “Seven stone,” Fiona called back. “And Terin’s not more than five. Talenth has already handled twelve stone.”

  “Very well,” T’mar said, swatting Terin lightly on the butt, sending her on her way.

  Terin’s delighted cry echoed around the Weyr.

  “But only for the first flight,” T’mar called as Fiona reached down and helped her friend clamber up. “You don’t want to overfly her.”

  “No, of course not,” Terin agreed, her eyes gleaming as Fiona helped her around in front of her and tied the straps around her.

  T’mar walked over and examined the fit of the straps from where he stood. Satisfied, he stood back and called up to Fiona, “Just up to the level of the Bowl, then glide back down.”

  “Very well,” Fiona replied. Then her face split into a huge grin as she said, Talenth, let’s fly!

  Talenth took two steps and then launched herself skyward, her wings beating gently in the heavy morning air. All too quickly she was at the level of the Bowl.

  “All right, back down,” Fiona called, adding, when it seemed like Talenth was too enraptured to hear her words, Talenth!

  The queen let out a roar of pure joy and dipped a wing, sending them into a tight spiral, to level up again and land, deftly, right where she’d started.

  “A gentle glide was what I believe I requested,” T’mar remarked drily as Talenth folded her wings contentedly back against her sides.

  Fiona gave him an apologetic shrug and set to getting Terin back down to the ground.

  “Again?” she asked, her eyes gleaming as Terin raced over to the bronze rider.

  “This time glide back down, gently,” T’mar said. “Remember, you are the rider.”

  Fiona felt herself redden, but she nodded in meek acceptance.

  This time no tricks! Fiona told Talenth before giving her the signal to fly. In no time at all, they were at the level of the top of the Bowl
again and it was time to descend. Talenth raised her wings to cup more air and climb higher but Fiona told her, If you don’t behave, we won’t get to fly more.

  All right, Talenth agreed reluctantly.

  Fly too much too soon and you’ll be sore for months, Fiona explained.

  I feel fine, Talenth complained as she glided in to another perfect landing.

  “One more time, then it will be someone else’s turn,” T’mar said.

  “Could we go higher?” Fiona asked hopefully.

  T’mar shook his head. “Slow and steady is the way that works best.”

  I tried, Fiona reminded Talenth as they found themselves once again in no time at all level with the top of the Weyr Bowl and descending in a gentle glide.

  It was fun, Talenth said, landing in the exact same spot and folding her wings about herself complacently. I could do that all day.

  It’s harder when the sun’s out and the air’s hot, Fiona reminded her.

  I’m sure I could manage, Talenth declared.

  I’m sure you could, Fiona agreed indulgently, but what about the blues and greens? They’d want to follow your lead and they’d get hurt.

  I hadn’t thought about that, Talenth replied, looking toward the smaller dragons eagerly awaiting their turn to fly. I suppose I should set the example and be careful.

  You are their queen, Fiona said in agreement. She remained perched on Talenth as all the remaining weyrlings made their first flights, glad of the higher vantage point and happy to be able to share the moments directly with Talenth, extolling the skills of each new dragon and rider, leaning forward to lay her cheek on Talenth’s soft hide, and enjoying in every way she could her time with her mate.

  From their weyrs, Zirenth and the older dragons watched and bugled their approval of each new flight. When everyone was done, T’mar had the older dragons assemble into a wing in preparation for the day’s work.

  Fiona was surprised to find herself looking down over Zirenth as the great bronze dragon approached.

  You’re bigger than Zirenth! she told Talenth excitedly.

  Well, of course, Talenth responded calmly. I’m the queen.

  Fiona laughed and slapped Talenth affectionately on the neck before climbing down and guiding Talenth back to her weyr, where she quickly removed the riding straps and checked Talenth’s skin for any signs of flakiness. She didn’t find any, but took the time regardless to oil Talenth’s chest and belly to a fine sheen, reveling in the scent and sight of her beautiful queen’s hide.

  That evening Terin and Mother Karina outdid themselves in a special feast for the new dragonriders. Just before the end of the day, T’mar ordered all the new riders to gather at the edge of the shallow lake at the eastern end of the Weyr.

  “There is one final tradition for new riders that must be observed,” he intoned solemnly. He arranged the thirty-three riders in three tightly spaced ranks, with Fiona in the middle of the first rank.

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered. “Keep them closed until I say you may open them.”

  There was a rustle and breeze from dragon wings above them and then suddenly —

  “Shards!” “Oh, that’s cold!” “Eeek!”

  Before Fiona could twitch a muscle, she was drenched, head to toe in something that was very cold, very wet, and very, very smelly.

  “Eugh!”

  “You may open your eyes, dragonriders,” T’mar intoned solemnly. When Fiona opened her eyes, she found that the weyrlings were surrounded by the older riders, who were all laughing hysterically.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” T’mar barked to the drenched dragonriders. “Into the water with you!”

  Fiona needed no urging and found herself rushing past the other still-befuddled weyrlings to dive into the shallow lake and wash off the worst of the stench that engulfed her.

  “When you’re quite done,” T’mar drawled, enjoying himself as much as the older weyrlings, “you may disperse to your quarters.” He paused. “You will have much work to do tomorrow.”

  Over the next few sevendays, the weyrlings were flying for over an hour at a stretch. They were drilled on imaging — producing accurate images to share with their dragons. They learned about air currents and how to ride them up or down; they learned about steep and shallow turns, about dives, about weather — and they were drilled intensely on everything, quizzed anytime day or night. The older weyrlings took particular delight in attempting to catch out Fiona, F’jian, or J’nos.

  A fortnight after they had started flying in earnest, T’mar had them flying to the valleys where the Weyr kept its herdbeasts, to the riverside where they gathered rushes, and back to the Weyr, shepherded by the older riders until they were able to fly in trios by themselves, watched by the strategically placed older riders.

  Once T’mar pronounced himself satisfied with their efforts in this new routine, he made it a part of their regular drill, stretching their flying time until they were able to fly six hours nonstop.

  “Now tomorrow,” T’mar told Fiona over dinner one night, “we’ll do one straight, long flight — where should we go, Weyrwoman?”

  “The wherhold,” Fiona replied instantly. “I’d like to introduce Talenth to Nuellask.”

  “I’d guessed as much,” T’mar gestured for J’keran to join them. “We’ll be flying to the wherhold tomorrow,” he told the other bronze rider.

  “Are we bringing anything with us?” J’keran wondered.

  “Check with Azeez and Terin,” T’mar said. “No more than six dragonloads. If any of the younger dragons get too tired, we can have the older ones help.”

  “They can just land, can’t they?” Fiona asked in surprise.

  “Not on the water.”

  Fiona acknowledged this with a wry grin and a shake of her head.

  “The Weyrwoman will ride in the middle of the formation,” T’mar explained to the riders in the dark of morning as they gathered after a hasty breakfast. “F’jian, your wing will take the lead; J’keran, yours will follow the Weyrwoman.”

  F’jian gulped at the prospect of leading all of the Igen dragons himself. T’mar noticed and clapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry, if you get off course, I’ll be right there to correct you!”

  If anything, F’jian looked more worried.

  “You’ll be using the stars and the sun,” Fiona reassured F’jian when she managed a quiet word alone with him as they prepared their riding straps for the long flight. F’jian nodded, his expression still bleak. In exasperation, she added, “And you know what to do if all else fails, right?”

  “No.”

  “Ask,” Fiona told him, shaking her head. “I don’t doubt your weyrmates will be telling you long before you get worried.”

  “Mount up!” T’mar called.

  In moments the massed wings were aloft. They circled the hapless D’lanor and Canoth, who were left behind on watch, before F’jian’s bronze Ladirth bugled loudly and set off on the long flight toward the wherhold.

  Talenth flew well and Fiona allowed herself to loosen up, twisting on her perch to peer at the dragons behind her, then turning back again to scan those in front. The younger weyrlings kept a good formation, she noted with pride.

  They cleared the saddle between the Igen Mountains and flew toward the Igen river. At first, Fiona couldn’t make it out and then, slowly, where she expected it, she discerned a ribbon of blue water tinged with the gold of the rising sun.

  The sun erupted over the horizon and the view changed from a vision of grays and blues to a world of colors: gold, sand, blue, green, brown, and, in the far distance, a hint of snow on the northernmost mountains. Fiona reveled in the sight, turning her gaze from one vision to another.

  Before them the vista stretched endlessly and seemed only to crawl toward them, like a trundlebug on a hot day.

  It seemed to take forever to get anywhere.

  Fiona realized worriedly that she needed to use the necessary and wondered how l
ong she could hold out. She started scanning furiously for Plains Hold and bit back a curse when she found it — so far ahead of them.

  Minutes crept by slowly while the pressure in her bladder continued to build and she swore at herself for not taking the time to make a final visit before mounting her dragon. If only she hadn’t been so worried about F’jian!

  Finally the flight started to descend, slowly, leisurely. And then — by the First Egg! — she spotted the wherhold. She almost cried out in relief and desperately willed the flight to drop faster, to reach the ground sooner so she could slink off to the necessary.

  It was not to be: T’mar indicated that they were to overfly the wherhold in a large circle to announce their presence.

  Why don’t we just have one of the dragons talk to Nuellask? Or Arelsk? Fiona demanded tartly.

  Manners, was the response relayed from T’mar through Talenth.

  Fiona gritted her teeth, determined not to reveal her plight even as she felt the beat of Zirenth’s wings above her and saw the bronze dragon descend into the formation — which widened to allow him — beside her. When he signaled for the rest of the flight to descend while signaling for her to remain aloft with him, she could no longer hide her urgency.

  “Not fair!” she shouted.

  T’mar indicated that they should land by the watermill and Fiona consented with glee: There was a restroom there, too, and it would not be crowded with desperate dragonriders all waiting their turn.

  She had dismounted and was racing for the stone building before T’mar could say a word.

  “So, how do you like flying with a full bladder?” he asked when she rejoined him at last.

  “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” T’mar confessed, grinning broadly, “until now.”

  “Oh!” Fiona growled, too rushed to say anything more. “So why did we land here?”

  “Why did we land here, Weyrwoman?” T’mar repeated challengingly.