The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Well, F’lar, bronze Mnementh’s rider, was now Weyrleader, and changes were long overdue.

  Long overdue, Mnementh confirmed dryly. The Lords of the Holds gather in force on the lake plateau.

  “There’s trouble,” F’lar announced to Lessa by way of greeting. His announcement did not appear to alarm her.

  “The Lords of the Hold come to protest?” she asked coolly.

  He admired her composure even as he decried her part in this development.

  “You’d have done better to let me handle the raiding. K’net’s still boy enough to be carried away with the joy of it all.”

  Her slight smile was secretive. F’lar wondered fleetingly if that wasn’t what she had intended in the first place. Had Ramoth not risen yesterday, it would be a different story altogether today. Had she thought of that?

  Mnementh forewarned him that R’gul was at the ledge. R’gul was all chest and indignant eye, the dragon commented, which meant he was feeling his authority.

  “He has none,” F’lar snapped out loud, thoroughly awake and pleased with events, despite their precipitation.

  “R’gul?”

  She was quick-witted all right, F’lar admitted.

  “Come, girl.” He gestured her toward the queen’s weyr. The scene he was about to play with R’gul ought to redeem that shameful day in the Council Room two months back. He knew it had rankled in her as in him.

  They had no sooner entered the queen’s weyr than R’gul, followed by an excited K’net, stormed in from the opposite side.

  “The watch informs me,” R’gul began, “that there is a large body of armed men, with banners of many Holds, approaching the Tunnel. K’net here”—R’gul was furious with the youngster—“confesses he has been raiding systematically—against all reason and most certainly against my distinct orders. Of course, we’ll deal with him later,” he informed the errant rider ominously, “that is, if there is a Weyr left after the Lords are through with us.”

  He turned back to F’lar, his frown deepening as he realized F’lar was grinning at him.

  “Don’t stand there,” R’gul growled. “There’s nothing to grin about. We’ve got to think how to placate them.”

  “No, R’gul,” F’lar contradicted the older man, still grinning, “the days of placating the Lords are over.”

  “What? Are you out of your mind?”

  “No. But you are out of order,” F’lar said, his grin gone, his face stern.

  R’gul’s eyes widened as he stared at F’lar as if he had never seen him before.

  “You’ve forgotten a very important fact,” F’lar went on ruthlessly. “Policy changes when the leader of the Weyr is replaced. I, F’lar, Mnementh’s rider, am Weyrleader now.”

  On that ringing phrase, S’lel, D’nol, Thor, and S’lan came striding into the room. They stopped, shock-still, staring at the motionless tableau.

  F’lar waited, giving them a chance to absorb the fact that the dissension in the room meant that authority had indeed passed to him.

  “Mnementh,” he said aloud, “call in all wingseconds and brown riders. We’ve some arrangements to make before our . . . guests arrive. As the queen is asleep, dragonmen, into the Council Room, please. After you, Weyrwoman.”

  He stepped aside to permit Lessa to pass, noticing the slight flush on her cheeks. She was not completely in command of her emotions, after all.

  No sooner had they taken places at the Council Table than the brown riders began to stream in. F’lar took careful note of the subtle difference in their attitudes. They walked taller, he decided. And—yes, the air of defeat and frustration was replaced by tense excitement. All else being equal, today’s events ought to revive the pride and purpose of the Weyr.

  F’nor and T’sum, his own seconds, strode in. There was no doubt of their high, proud good humor. Their eyes flashed around daring anyone to defy their promotion as T’sum stood by the archway and F’nor marched smartly around to his position behind F’lar’s chair. F’nor paused to make a deeply respectful bow to the girl. F’lar saw her flush and drop her eyes.

  “Who’s at our gate, F’nor?” the new Weyrleader asked affably.

  “The Lords of Telgar, Nabol, Fort, and Keroon, to name the principal banners,” F’nor answered in a similar vein.

  R’gul rose from his chair; the half-formed protest died on his lips as he caught the expression in the faces of the bronze riders. S’lel, beside him, started to mumble, picking at his lower lip.

  “Estimated strength?”

  “In excess of a thousand. In good order and well-armed,” F’nor reported indifferently.

  F’lar shot his second a remonstrating look. Confidence was one thing, indifference preferable to defeat, but there was no wisdom in denying the situation was very tight.

  “Against the Weyr?” S’lel gasped.

  “Are we dragonmen or cowards?” D’nol snapped, jumping up, his fist pounding the table. “This is the final insult.”

  “Indeed it is,” F’lar concurred heartily.

  “It has to be put down. We’ll swallow no more,” D’nol continued vehemently, encouraged by F’lar’s attitude. “A few flaming . . .”

  “That’s enough,” F’lar said in a hard voice. “We are dragonmen! Remember that, and remember also—never forget it—this fellowship is sworn to protect.” He enunciated that word distinctly, pinning each man with a fierce stare. “Is that point clear?” He glared questioningly at D’nol. There were to be no private heroics today.

  “We do not need firestone,” he continued, certain that D’nol had taken his meaning, “to disperse these foolish Lords.” He leaned back and went on more calmly, “I noticed on Search, as I’m sure you all did, that the common holder has not lost one jot of his . . . let us say . . . respect for dragonkind.”

  T’bor grinned, and someone chuckled reminiscently.

  “Oh, they follow their Lords quickly enough, incited with indignation and lots of new wine. But it’s quite another matter to face a dragon, hot, tired, and cold sober. Not to mention on foot without a wall or Hold in sight.” He could sense their concurrence. “The mounted men, too, will be too much occupied with their beasts to do any serious fighting,” he added with a chuckle, echoed by most of the men in the room.

  “However consoling these reflections are, there are more powerful factors in our favor. I doubt the good Lords of the Hold have bothered to review them. I suspect”—he glanced around sardonically at his riders—“they have probably forgotten them . . . as they have conveniently forgotten so much dragonlore . . . and tradition.

  “It is now time to reeducate them.” His voice was steel. An affirming mutter answered him. Good, he had them.

  “For instance, they are here at our gates. They’ve traveled long and hard to reach this remote Weyr. Undoubtedly some units have been marching for weeks. F’nor,” he said in a calculated aside, “remind me to discuss patrol schedules later today. Ask yourselves this, dragonmen, if the Lords of the Holds are here, who is holding the Holds for the Lords? Who keeps guard on the Inner Hold, over all the Lords hold dear?”

  He heard Lessa chuckling wickedly. She was quicker than any of the bronze riders. He had chosen well that day in Ruatha, even if it had meant killing while on Search.

  “Our Weyrwoman perceives my plan. T’sum, implement it.” He snapped that order out crisply. T’sum, grinning broadly, departed.

  “I don’t understand,” S’lel complained, blinking in confusion.

  “Oh, let me explain,” Lessa put in quickly, her words couched in the sweet, reasonable tone F’lar was learning to identify as Lessa at her worst. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to get some of her own back from S’lel, but this taste of hers for vengeance could become pernicious.

  “Someone ought to explain something,” S’lel said querulously. “I don’t like what’s going on. Holders at the Tunnel Road. Dragons permitted firestone. I don’t understand.”

  “It’s so simple,” Lessa as
sured him sweetly, not waiting for F’lar’s permission. “I’m embarrassed to have to explain.”

  “Weyrwoman!” F’lar called her sharply to order.

  She didn’t look at him, but she did stop needling S’lel.

  “The Lords have left their Holds unprotected,” she said. “They appear not to have considered that dragons can move between in seconds. T’sum, if I am not mistaken, has gone to assemble sufficient hostages from the unguarded Holds to insure that the Lords respect the sanctity of the Weyr.” F’lar nodded confirmation. Lessa’s eyes flashed angrily as she continued. “It is not the fault of the Lords that they have lost respect for the Weyr. The Weyr has . . .”

  “The Weyr,” F’lar cut in sharply. Yes, he would have to watch this slim girl very carefully and very respectfully. “. . . the Weyr is about to insist on its traditional rights and prerogatives. Before I outline exactly how, Weyrwoman, would you greet our newest guests? A few words might be in order to reinforce the object lesson we will impress on all Pernese today.”

  The girl’s eyes sparkled with anticipation. She grinned with such intense pleasure that F’lar wondered if he was wise to let her instruct the defenseless hostages.

  “I rely on your discretion,” he said emphatically, “and intelligence to handle the assignment adroitly.” He caught her glance, held it until she briefly inclined her head in acknowledgement of his admonition. As she left, he sent a word ahead to Mnementh to keep an eye on her.

  Mnementh informed him that that would be wasted effort. Hadn’t Lessa shown more wit than anyone else in the Weyr? She was circumspect by instinct.

  Circumspect enough to have precipitated today’s invasion, F’lar reminded his dragon.

  “But . . . the . . . Lords,” R’gul was sputtering.

  “Oh, freeze up,” K’net suggested. “If we hadn’t listened to you for so long, we wouldn’t be in this position at all. Shove between if you don’t like it, but F’lar is Weyrleader now. And I say about time!”

  “K’net! R’gul!” F’lar called them to order, shouting over the cheers K’net’s impudent words produced. “These are my orders,” he went on when he had their complete attention. “I expect them to be followed exactly.” He glanced at each man to be sure there was no further question of his authority. Then he outlined his intentions concisely and quickly, watching with satisfaction as uncertainty was replaced with admiring respect.

  Assured that every bronze and brown rider understood the plan perfectly, he asked Mnementh for the latest report.

  The advancing army was streaming out across the lake plateau, the foremost units on the Tunnel road, the one ground entrance to the Weyr. Mnementh added that the Holders’ women were profiting from their stay in the Weyr.

  “In what way?” F’lar demanded immediately.

  Mnementh rumbled with the dragon equivalent of laughter. Two of the young greens were feeding, that was all. But for some reason such a normal occupation appeared to upset the women.

  The woman was diabolically clever, F’lar thought privately, careful not to let Mnementh sense his concern. That bronze clown was as besotted with the rider as he was with the queen. What kind of fascination did the Weyrwoman have for a bronze dragon?

  “Our guests are at the lake plateau,” he told the dragonmen. “You have your positions. Order your wings out.” Without a backward look, he marched out, conquering an intense urge to hurry to the ledge. He absolutely did not want those hostages scared witless.

  Down the valley by the lake, the women were lightly attended by four of the smallest greens—big enough, for the uninitiated—and the women were probably too scared at having been seized to notice that all four riders were barely out of adolescence. He spotted the slight figure of the Weyrwoman, seated to one side of the main group. A sound of muffled weeping drifted up to his ears. He looked beyond them, to the feeding grounds, and saw a green dragon single out a buck and run it down. Another green was perched on a ledge above, eating with typical messy, dragon greed. F’lar shrugged and mounted Mnementh, clearing the ledge for the hovering dragons who waited to pick up their own riders.

  As Mnementh circled above the confusion of wings and gleaming bodies, F’lar nodded approvingly. A high, fast mating flight coupled with the promise of action improved everyone’s morale.

  Mnementh snorted.

  F’lar paid him no attention, watching R’gul as he assembled his wing. The man had taken a psychological defeat. He would bear watching and careful handling. Once the Threads started to fall and R’gul’s faith was restored, he’d come around.

  Mnementh asked him if they should pick up the Weyrwoman.

  “She doesn’t belong in this,” F’lar said sharply, wondering why under the double moons the bronze had made such a suggestion. Mnementh replied that he thought Lessa would like to be there.

  D’nol’s wing and T’bor’s rose in good formation. Those two were making good leaders. K’net took up a double wing to the Bowl lip and winked out neatly, bound to reappear behind the approaching army. C’gan, the old blue rider, had the youngsters organized.

  F’lar told Mnementh to have Canth tell F’nor to proceed. With a final look to be sure the stones to the Lower Caverns were in place, F’lar gave Mnementh the signal to go between.

  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.

  Larad, lord of Telgar, eyed the monolithic heights of Benden Weyr. The striated stone looked like frozen waterfalls at sunset. And about as hospitable. A long moribund awe squirmed at the back of his mind for the blasphemy he and the army he led were about to commit. He stifled that thought firmly.

  The Weyr had outlived its usefulness. That was obvious. There was no longer any need for the Holders to give up the profits of their sweat and labor to the lazy weyrfolk. The Holders had been patient. They had supported the Weyr in good part out of gratitude for past services. But the dragonmen had overstepped the borders of grateful generosity.

  First, this archaic Search foolishness. So a queen-egg was laid. Why did the dragonmen need to steal away the prettiest women among the Holders when they had women of their own in the Weyr proper? No need to appropriate Larad’s sister, Kylora, eagerly awaiting a far different alliance with Brant of Igen one evening and gone on that ridiculous Search the next. Never heard from since, either.

  And killing Fax! Albeit the man had been dangerously ambitious, he was of the Blood. And the Weyr had not been asked to meddle in the affairs of the High Reaches.

  But this steady pilfering. That was beyond enough. Oh, a holder might excuse a few bucks now and again. But when a dragon appeared out of nowhere (a talent that disturbed Larad deeply) and snatched the best stud bucks from a herd carefully protected and nurtured, that tore it!

  The Weyr must be made to understand its subordinate position in Pern. It would have to make other provisions to victual its people, for no further tithes would come from anyone. Benden, Bitra, and Lemos would come around soon. They ought to be pleased to end this superstitious domination by the Weyr.

  Nevertheless, the closer they came to the gigantic mountain, the more doubts Larad experienced as to just how in the world the Lords would penetrate that massif. He signaled Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol (he didn’t really trust this sharp-faced ex-Warder with no Blood at all) to draw his riding beast closer.

  Meron whipped his mount abreast of Larad.

  “There is no other way into the Weyr proper but the Tunnel?”

  Meron shook his head. “Even the locals are agreed.”

  This did not dismay Meron, but he caught Larad’s doubtful expression.

  “I have sent a party on ahead, to the southern lip of the Peak,” and he indicated the area. “There might be a low, scalable cliff there where the brow dips.”

  “You sent a party without consulting us? I was named leader . . .”

  “True,” Meron agreed
, with an amiable show of teeth. “A mere notion of mine.”

  “A distinct possibility, I agree, but you’d have done better . . .” Larad glanced up at the Peak.

  “They have seen us, have no doubt of that, Larad,” Meron assured him, contemptuously regarding the silent Weyr. “That will be sufficient. Deliver our ultimatum and they will surrender before such a force as ours. They’ve proved themselves cowards over and over. I gave insult twice to the bronze rider they call F’lar, and he ignored it. What man would?”

  A sudden rustling roar and a blast of the coldest air in the world interrupted their conference. As he mastered his plunging beast, Larad caught a confused panorama of dragons, all colors, sizes, and everywhere. The air was filled with the panic-stricken shrieks of plunging beasts, the cries of startled, terrified men.

  Larad managed, with great effort, to drag his beast around to face the dragonmen.

  By the Void that spawned us, he thought, struggling to control his own fear, I’d forgotten dragons are so big.

  Foremost in that frightening array was a triangular formation of four great bronze beasts, their wings overlapping in a tremendous criss-cross pattern as they hovered just above the ground. A dragon’s length above and beyond them, there ranged a second line, longer, wider, of brown beasts. Curving beyond them and higher up were blue and green and more brown beasts, all with their huge wings fanning cold air in great drafts on the terrified mob that had been an army moments before.

  Where did that piercing cold come from, Larad wondered. He yanked down on his beast’s mouth as it began to plunge again.

  The dragonmen just sat there on their beasts’ necks, watching, waiting.

  “Get them off their beasts and the things away so we can talk,” Meron shouted to Larad as his mount cavorted and screamed in terror.

  Larad signaled foot soldiers forward, but it took four men per mount to quiet them enough so the Lords could dismount.

  Miscalculation number two, Larad thought with grim humor. We forgot the effect of dragons on the beasts of Pern. Man included. Settling his sword, pulling his gloves up onto his wrists, he jerked his head at the other Lords, and they all moved forward.