Legends

by Robert Silverberg

  Mallum nodded in approval as he handed back her shoes. Now he checked the fit of her belt to be sure it was snug enough not to rub against the small of her back as she ran, and made certain that her short trunks would not pull against her leg and that her sleeveless top covered her backside well below her waist to help prevent her getting a kidney chill. Stopping often from a need to relieve oneself ruined the rhythm of a run.

  “We’ll go now,” Mallum said, having assured himself that she was properly accoutred.

  Cesila stood in the door, gave her daughter a reassuring nod, and saw them off, up the eastern trace. Before they were out of sight, she gave the particular runner yodel that stopped them in their tracks. They saw her pointing skyward: at the arrow formation of dragons in the sky, a most unusual sight these days when the dragons of Benden Weyr were so rarely seen.

  To see dragons in the sky was the best sort of omen. They were there … and then they weren’t! She smiled. Too bad runners couldn’t just think themselves to their destinations the way dragons could. As if he had shared her thought, Mallum grinned back at her and then turned to face the direction in which they were headed, and any nervousness Tenna had had disappeared. When he sprang off again, she was in step with him by the third stride. He nodded again approvingly.

  “Running’s not just picking up your heels and showing them to those behind you,” Mallum said, his eyes watching the trace ahead, though he must have known it as well as Tenna did. “A good bit of proper running is learning to pace yourself and your stride. It’s knowing the surfaces of the traces you have to traverse. It’s knowing how to save your strength so you’ll last the longer hauls. When to ease back to a walk, when and how to drink and eat so’s you’re not too gutty to run right. It’s learning the routes of the various Crosses and what sort of weather you might have to run through … and learning to maneuver on snowrunners on the northern Crosses. And, most important, when to take cover and just let the weather have its way with the world and you safe out of it. So’s the messages and the packets you carry will get through as soon as possible.”

  She had responded with a nod of appreciation. Not that she hadn’t heard the same lecture time and again in the station from every relative and runner. But this time it was for her benefit and she owed Mallum the courtesy of listening closely. She did watch Mallum’s stride, though, to be sure his heel wasn’t bothering him. He caught her glance once and gave her a grin.

  “Be sure you carry a wedge of that poultice on any long laps, girl. You never know, you know, when you might need it. As I just did.” And he grimaced, reminding Tenna that even the best runner can put a foot wrong.

  While no runner carries much, the long-tailed orange sweatband that runners invariably wore could be used to strap a strain or sprain. An oiled packet, no larger than the palm of a hand, had a cloth soaked in numbweed which both cleansed and eased the scratches one could acquire from time to time. Simple remedies for the most common problems. A wedge of poultice could be added to such travel gear and be well worth its weight.

  Tenna had no trouble making that lap with Mallum even when he picked up the pace on the flat section.

  “Running with a pretty girl’s not hard to do,” he told her when they took one brief pause.

  She wished he didn’t make so much of her looks. They wouldn’t help her run any better or help her become what she wanted to be: a top runner.

  By the time they reached Irma’s station at midday, she was not even breathing very hard. But the moment Mallum slowed, he limped slightly with his full weight on the heel.

  “Hmm. Well, I can wait out the day here with more poultice,” he said, pulling the little wedge from one of the pockets of his belt. “See,” and he displayed it to Tenna, “handy enough.”

  She tapped her aid pocket and smiled.

  Old Irma came out with a grin on her sun-dried face for them.

  “Will she do, Mallum?” the old woman asked, handing each a cup.

  “Oh, aye, she’ll do. A credit to her Bloodline and not a bother to run with!” Mallum said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “I pass, do I, Mallum?” Tenna asked, needing to have a direct answer.

  “Oh, aye,” and he laughed, walking about and shaking his legs to get the kinks out even as she was doing. “No fear on that. Any hot water for m’poultice, Irm?”

  “Coming up.” She ducked back into her station and came out with a bowl of steaming water which she set down on the long bench that was an inevitable fixture of every station. The overhang of the roof provided a shelter from sun and rain. Most runners were obsessed with watching the traces to see who was coming and going. The long bench, its surface smoothed by generations of bums sliding across it, was placed so that it commanded a good view of the four traces linking at Irma’s.

  Automatically, Tenna pulled a footstool from under the bench and held out her hand to receive Mallum’s right foot. She untied the shoe, and placed the now moistened poultice on the bruise while Irma handed her a bandage to fix it in place, taking a good look at the injury in the process.

  “’Nother day’ll do it. Shoulda stayed off it this mornin’, too.”

  “Not when I’d a chance to run with such a pretty girl,” Mallum said.

  “Just like a man,” Irma said dismissively.

  Tenna felt herself blushing, although she was beginning to believe he wasn’t just teasing. No one else had ever commented on her looks.

  “It wasn’t a taxing leg, Irma. It’s level most of the way and a good surface,” she said, grinning shyly at Mallum as she tried to divert Irma’s criticism.

  “Humph! Well, a hill run would’ve been downright foolish and it is flat this a way.”

  “Anything for Tenna to take back,” Mallum asked, getting back to business, “to make her first round-trip as a runner?”

  “Should be,” Irma said, winking at Tenna for this informal inclusion into the ranks of Pern runners. “You could eat now … soup’s ready and so’s the bread.”

  “Wouldn’t mind a bit myself,” Mallum said, carefully shifting his position as if easing the heat from the poultice, since the heat probably penetrated even the toughened sole of his foot.

  By the time Tenna had eaten the light meal, two runners came in: a man she didn’t know by sight, on a long leg from Bitra with a pouch to go farther west; and one of Irma’s sons.

  “I can run it to Ninety-Seven,” she said, the official designation of her family’s station.

  “That’ll do,” the man said, panting and heaving from his long haul. “That’ll do fine.” He gasped for more breath. “It’s an urgent,” he got out. “Your name?”

  “Tenna.”

  “One … of … Fedri’s?” he asked and she nodded. “That’s good … enough for me. Ready to … hit the trace?”

  “Sure.” She held out her hand for the pouch that he slipped off his belt, pausing only to mark the pass-over time on the flap as he gave it into her keeping. “You are?” she asked, sliding the pouch onto her own belt and settling it in the small of her back.

  “Masso,” he said, reaching now for the cup of water Irma had hastened to bring him. He whooshed her off to the westward trace. With a final grateful farewell wave to Mallum, she picked up her heels as Mallum cheered her on with the traditional runner’s “yo-ho.”

  She made it home in less time than it had taken her to reach Irma’s, and one of her brothers was there to take the pouch on the next westward lap. Silan nodded approval at the pass-over time, marked his own receipt, and was off.

  “So, girl, you’re official,” her mother said, and embraced her. “And no need to sweat it at all, was there?”

  “Running’s not always as easy,” her father said from the bench, “but you made good time and that’s a grand way to start. I hadn’t expected you back before midafternoon.”

  Tenna did the short legs all around Station 97 for the first summer and into that winter, building her stamina for longer runs and becoming known at all the co
nnecting stations. She made her longest run to Greystones, on the coast, just ahead of a very bad snowstorm. Then, because she was the only runner available in Station 18 when the exhausted carrier of an urgent message came in, she had to carry it two stations north. A fishing sloop would be delayed back to port until a new mast could be stepped. Since the vessel was overdue, there were those who’d be very glad to get the message she carried.

  Such emergency news should have been drummed ahead, but the high winds would tear such a message to nonsense. It was a tough run, with cold as well as wind and snow across a good bit of the low-lying trace. Pacing herself, she did take an hour’s rest in one of the Thread shelters that dotted a trace. She made the distance in such good time in those conditions that she got extra stitches on her belt, marking her rise toward journeyman rank.

  This run to Fort Hold would be two more stitches on her belt if she finished in good time. And she was sure she would … with the comforting sort of certainty that older runners said you began to sense when you’d been traveling the traces awhile. She was also now accustomed to judging how long she had run by the feeling in her legs. There was none of the leaden feeling that accompanied real fatigue, and she was still running easily. So long as she had no leg cramp, she knew she could continue effortlessly at this good pace until she reached Station 300 at Fort. Leg cramp was always a hazard and could strike you without warning. She was careful to renew the tablets a runner chewed to ease off a cramp. And was not too slow about grabbing a handful of any useful herbs she spotted which would help prevent the trouble.

  She oughtn’t to be letting her mind wander like this, but with an easy stride and a pleasant night in which to travel, it was hard to keep her mind on the job. She would, smartly enough, if there were complications like bad weather or poor light. This was also far too well traveled country for there to be dangers like tunnel snakes, which were about the worst risk that runners encountered—usually at dawn or dusk, when the creatures were out hunting. Of course, renegades, while not as common as tunnel snakes, were more dangerous, since they were human, not animal, but that distinction was often moot. As runners rarely carried marks, they were not as likely to be waylaid as were messengers on runnerbeasts, or other solitary travelers. Tenna hadn’t heard of any renegade attacks this far west, but sometimes those people were so vicious that they might pull up a runner just for spite and malice. In the past three turns, there had been two cases—and those up in northern Lemos and Bitra—where runners had been hamstrung out of sheer malevolence.

  Once in a while, in a bad winter, a flock of very hungry wherries might attack a runner in the open, but the instances were rare enough. Snakes were the most likely danger encountered, particularly midsummer, when there were newly hatched clutches.

  Her father had had injuries two summers back with such a hazard. He’d been amazed at how fast the adult tunnel snake could move when alarmed. Mostly they were torpid creatures, only hunger quickening them. But he’d stepped in the midst of an ill-placed nest and had had the hatchlings swarming up his legs, pricking the skin in innumerable places and even managing to get as high as his crotch. (Her mother had stifled a giggle and remarked that it had been more than her father’s pride that had been wounded.) But he’d scars from claw and tooth that he could show.

  Moonlit nights like this one were a joy to run in, with the air cool enough to dry the sweat on her face and chest, the trace springy underfoot and clear ahead of her. And her thoughts could wander.

  There would be a Gather shortly after she reached her destination; she knew she was carrying some orders for Crafts displaying at Fort Hold. Pouches were invariably fuller going to or coming from a Gather—orders from those unable to attend, wishing to contact a Mastercraftsman. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could stay over for the Gather. She hadn’t been to one in a long while and she did want to find well-tanned leathers for a new pair of running shoes. She’d enough money to her credit to give a fair price for the right hides: she’d checked the books her mother kept of her laps. Most Halls were quite willing to take a runner-station chit. She’d one in a belt pocket. If she found just the right skins, she’d a bit of leeway to bargain, above and beyond the surface value of the chit.

  A Gather would be fun, too. She loved dancing, and was very good at the toss dance, if she could find someone who could properly partner her in it. Fort was a good Hold. And the music would be special, seeing as how the Harper Hall was right there in Fort.

  She ran on, tunes of harper melodies flitting through her mind even if she’d no breath to sing them.

  She was running along a long curve now, around an upthrust of rock—most traces were as straight as possible—and brought her mind back to her directions. Just around this curve, she should find a trace turning off to the right, inland, toward Fort. She must pay attention now so she wouldn’t have to break stride and backtrack.

  Suddenly she could feel vibrations through her feet, though she could see nothing around the vegetation banking the curve. Listening intently, she could now hear an odd phuff-phuff sound, coming closer, getting louder. The sound was just enough of a warning for her to move left, out of the center of the trace, where she’d have just that much more of a glimpse of what was making the sound and the vibrations. This was a runner track, not a trail or road. No runner made those sounds, or hit the ground that hard to make vibrations. She saw the dark mass bearing down on her, and flung herself into the undergrowth as runnerbeast and rider came within a finger span of knocking into her. She could feel the wind of their passing and smell the sweat of the beast.

  “Stupid!” she shouted after them, getting branches and leaves in her mouth as she fell, feeling needly gouges in the hands she had put out to break her fall. She spent the next minute struggling to her feet and spitting bitter leaves and twigs out of her mouth. They left behind an acrid, drying taste: sticklebush! She’d fallen into a patch of sticklebush. At this time of the Turn, there were no leaves yet to hide the hairlike thorns that coated twig and branch. A nuisance which balanced out their gift of succulent berries in the autumn.

  Nor did the rider falter, or even pull up, when the least he could have done was return to be sure she hadn’t been injured. Surely he’d seen her? Surely he’d heard her outraged shout. And what was he doing, using a runner trace in the first place? There was a good road north for ordinary travelers.

  “I’ll get you!” she called, shaking her fist with frustration.

  She was shaking with reaction to such a near miss. Then she became uncomfortably aware of the scratches on hands, arms, legs, chest, and two on one cheek. Stamping with fury, she got the numbweed from her belt pocket and daubed at the cuts, hissing as the solution stung. But she didn’t want the sap to get into her blood. Nor did she want the slivers to work in. She managed to pick the ones out of her hands, daubing the numbweed into those. She couldn’t really see the extent of her injuries, some being down the back of her arm. She picked out what slivers she could and carefully pressed in the pad until all the moisture was gone from it. Even if she had avoided infection, she was likely to be teased about falling when she got to the station. Runners were supposed to keep on their feet, and in balance. Not that a rider had any business on the trace. Surely that would also help her find out who the rider had been, besides being bold enough to ride a runner trace. And if she wasn’t around to give him a fat lip, maybe another runner would give the lesson in her place. Runners were not above complaining to Lord Holders or their stewards if someone abused their rights.

  Having done as much as she could then, she stifled her anger: that didn’t get the pouch to its destination. And she mustn’t let her anger get the better of common sense. The brush with disaster, close as it was, had resulted in very minor problems, she told herself firmly. What were scratches! But she found it hard to regain her stride. She’d been going so smoothly, too, and so close to the end of this lap.

  She could have been killed, smacking into a runnerbeast at the speeds they�
�d both been traveling. If she hadn’t thought to move out of the center of the trace … where she had every right to be, not him … if she hadn’t felt the hoofbeats through her shoes and heard the animal’s high breathing … Why, both sets of messages could have been delayed! Or lost.

  Her legs felt tired and heavy and she had to concentrate hard to try to regain the rhythm. Reluctantly she realized that she was unlikely to and settled for conserving her energy.

  Running into the end of night, the dawn behind her, was not as much a pleasure as it could have been, and that annoyed Tenna even more. Just wait till she found out who that rider was! She’d tell him a thing or two. Though common sense told her that she was unlikely to encounter him. He was outbound and she was inbound. If he’d been in that much of a hurry, he might be a relay rider, bound for a distant location. Lord Holders could afford such services and the stabling of fast runnerbeasts along the way. But he shouldn’t have been on a runner trace. There were roads for beasts! Hooves could tear up the surface of the trace and the station manager might have to spend hours replacing divots torn up by shod hooves. Traces were for runners. She kept returning to that indignant thought. She just hoped any other runner on the trace would hear him in time! That’s one reason you keep your mind on your run, Tenna. Even if you’d no reason to suspect you weren’t alone with the night and the moon on a runner trace.

  The runner station was just below the main entrance to Fort Hold. History had it that Fort had started runners as short-distance messengers, hundreds and hundreds of turns ago, even before drum towers were built. Fort Hold had utilized the skills of runners for many tasks, especially during Threadfall, when runners had accompanied all ground crews, vital as couriers in emergencies. The installation of the drum towers and the development of runnerbeasts had not put an end to the need for the runners of Pern. This main connecting hold was the largest ever built just to house and care for runners. Three levels high, she’d been told, and several back into the Fort cliff. It also boasted one of the best bathing facilities on the continent: hot running water in deep tubs that had eased centuries of runner aches and pains. Cesila had highly recommended that Tenna try for Fort when she got that far west. And here she was and right ready to appreciate the accommodations.