The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  Mnementh transferred them between and the cold of that awful nothingness made his bones ache. Then they emerged over the Benden Weyr Star Stones and answered the watchrider’s query.

  Lessa wasn’t going to like his report of the meeting, F’lar thought. If only D’ram, usually an honest thinker, had seen past the obvious. He had a feeling that maybe G’narish had.

  Yes, G’narish had been troubled. Maybe the next time the Weyrleaders met to confer, G’narish might side with the modern riders.

  Only, F’lar hoped, there wouldn’t be another occasion for this evening’s grievance.

  CHAPTER III

  Morning Over Lemos Hold

  Ramoth, Benden’s golden queen, was in the Hatching Ground when she got the green’s frantic summons from Lemos Hold.

  Threads at Lemos. Thread falls at Lemos! Ramoth told every dragon and rider, her full-throated brassy bugle reverberating through the Bowl.

  Men scrambled frantically from couch and bathing pool, upset tables and dropped tools before the first echo had rolled away. F’lar, idly watching the weyrlings drill, was dressed for fighting since the Weyr had expected to be at Lemos Hold late that day. Mnementh, his magnificent bronze, sunning himself on a ledge, swooped down at such a rate that he gouged a narrow trench in the sand of the floor with his left wingtip. F’lar was atop his neck and they were circling to the Eye Rock before Ramoth had had time to stamp out of the Hatching Cavern.

  Thread at Lemos northeast, Mnementh reported, picking up the information from his mate Ramoth as she projected herself toward her weyr ledge for Lessa.. Dragons were now streaming from every weyr opening, their riders struggling into fighting gear or securing bulging firesacks.

  F’lar didn’t waste time wondering why Thread was falling hours ahead of schedule or northeast instead of southwest. He checked to see if there were enough riders assembled and aloft to make up a full low altitude wing. He hesitated long enough to have Mnementh order every weyrling to proceed immediately to Lemos to help fly ground crews to the area and then told his dragon to take the wing between.

  Thread was indeed falling a great sheet plummeting down toward the delicate new leafing hardwoods that were Lord Asgenar’s prime forestry project. Screaming, flaming, dragons broke out of between, skimming the spring forest to get quick bearings before they soared up to meet the attack.

  Incredibly, F’lar believed they had actually managed to beat Thread to the forest. That green’s rider would have his choice of anything in F’lar’s power to give. The thought of Thread in those hardwood stands chilled the Weyrleader more thoroughly than an hour between.

  A dragon screamed directly above F’lar. Even as he glanced upward to identify the wounded beast, both dragon and rider had gone between where the awful cold would shatter and break the entangling Threads before they could eat into membrane and flesh.

  A casualty minutes into an attack? Even an attack that was so unpredictably early? F’lar winced.

  Virianth R’nor’s brown, Mnementh informed his rider as he soared in search of a target. He craned his sinuous neck around in a wide sweep, eyeing the forest lest Thread had actually started burrowing. Then, with a warning to his rider, he folded his wings and dove toward an especially thick patch, braking his descent with neck-snapping speed. As Mnementh belched fire, F’lar watched, grinning with intense satisfaction as the Thread curled into black dust and floated harmlessly to the forests below.

  Virianth caught his wingtip, Mnementh said as he beat upward again. He’ll return. We need him. This Thread falls wrong.

  “Wrong and early,” F’lar said, gritting his teeth against the fierce wind of their ascent. If he hadn’t been in the custom of sending a messenger on to the Hold where Thread was due . . .

  Mnementh gave him just enough warning to secure his hold as the great bronze veered suddenly toward a dense clump. The stench of the fiery breath all but choked F’lar. He flung up an arm to protect his face from the hot charred flecks of Thread. Then Mnementh was turning his head for another block of firestone before swooping again at dizzying speed after more Thread.

  There was no further time for speculation; only action and reaction. Dive. Flame. Firestone for Mnementh to chew. Call a weyrling for another sack. Catch it deftly mid-air. Fly above the fighting wings to check the pattern of flying dragons. Gouts of flame blossoming across the sky. Sun glinting off green, blue, brown, bronze backs as dragons veered, soared, dove, flaming after Thread. He’d spot a beast going between, tense until he reappeared or Mnementh reported their retreat. Part of his mind kept track of the casualties, another traced the wing line, correcting it when the riders started to overlap or flew too wide a pattern. He was aware, too, of the golden triangle of the queens’ wing, far below, catching what Thread escaped from the upper levels.

  By the time Thread had ceased to fall and the dragons began to spiral down to aid the Lemos Hold ground crews, F’lar almost resented Mnementh’s summary.

  Nine minor brushes, four just wingtips; two bad lacings, Sorenth and Relth, and two face-burned riders.

  Wingtip injuries were just plain bad judgment. Riders cutting it too fine. They weren’t riding competitions, they were fighting! F’lar ground his teeth . . .

  Sorenth says they came out of between into a patch that should not have been there. The Threads are not falling right, the bronze said. That is what happened to Relth and T’gor.

  That didn’t assuage F’lar’s frustration for he knew T’gor and R’mel as good riders.

  How could Thread fall northeast in the morning when it wasn’t supposed to drop until evening and in the southwest? he wondered, savage with frustrated worry.

  Automatically, F’lar started to ask Mnementh to have Canth fly close in. But then he remembered that F’nor was wounded and half a planet away in Southern Weyr. F’lar swore long and imaginatively, wishing T’reb of Fort Weyr immured between with Weyrleader T’ron fast beside him. Why did F’nor have to be absent at a time like this? It still rankled F’lar deeply that Fort’s Weyrleader had tried to shift the blame of the fight from his very guilty rider to Terry. Of all the specious, contrived, ridiculous contentions for T’ron to stand by!

  Lamanth is flying well, the bronze dragon remarked, cutting into his rider’s thoughts.

  F’lar was so surprised at the unexpected diversion that he glanced down to see the young queen.

  “We’re lucky to have so many to fly today,” F’lar said, amused despite his other concerns by the bronze’s fatuous tone. Lamanth was the queen from Mnementh’s second mating with Ramoth.

  Ramoth flies well too, for one so soon from the Hatching Ground. Thirty-eight eggs and another queen, Mnementh added with no modesty.

  “We’re going to have to do something about that third queen.”

  Mnementh rumbled about that. Ramoth disliked sharing the bronze dragons of her Weyr with too many queens, in spite of the fact that she would mate only with Mnementh. Many queens were the mark of virility in a bronze and it was natural for Mnementh to want to flaunt his prowess. Benden Weyr had to maintain more than one golden queen to placate the rest of the bronzes and to improve the breed in general, but three?

  After the meeting the other night at Fort Weyr, F’lar hesitated to suggest to any of the other Weyrleaders that he’d be glad of a home for the new queen: They’d probably contrive it to be bad management of Ramoth or coddling of Lessa. Still, Benden queens were bigger than Oldtime queens, just as modern bronzes were bigger, too. Maybe R’mart at Telgar Weyr wouldn’t take offense. Or G’narish? F’lar couldn’t think how many queens G’narish had at Igen. Weyr. He grinned to himself, thinking of the expression of T’ron’s face when he heard Benden was giving away a queen dragon.

  “Benden’s known for its generosity, but what’s behind such a maneuver?” T’ron would say. “It’s not traditional.”

  But it was. There were precedents. F’lar would far rather cope with T’ron’s snide remarks than Ramoth’s temper. He glanced down, sighting th
e gleaming triangle of the queens’ wing, with Ramoth easily sweeping along, the younger beasts working hard to keep up with her.

  Threads dropping out of pattern! F’lar gritted his teeth. Worse, out of a pattern which he’d so painstakingly researched from hundreds of disintegrating Record skins in his efforts seven Turns ago to prepare his ill-protected planet. Patterns, F’lar thought bitterly, which the Oldtimers had enthusiastically acclaimed and used—though that was scarcely traditional. Just useful.

  Now how could Thread, which had no mind, no intelligence at all, deviate from patterns it had followed to the split second for over seven Turns? How could it change time and place overnight? The last Fall in Benden Weyr’s jurisdiction had been on time and over upper Benden Hold as expected.

  Could he possibly have misread the timetables? F’lar thought back, but the carefully drawn maps were clear in his mind and, if he had made an error, Lessa would have caught it.

  He’d check, double check, as soon as he returned to the Weyr. In the meantime, he’d better make sure they had cleared the Fall from Edge to Edge. He directed Mnementh to find Asgenar, Lord Holder of Lemos.

  Mnementh obediently turned out of the leisurely glide and dropped swiftly. F’lar could thank good fortune that it was Lord Asgenar of Lemos to whom he must explain, rather than Lord Sifer of Bitra Hold or Lord Raid of Benden Hold. The former would rant against the injustice and the latter would contrive to make a premature arrival of Thread a personal insult to him by dragonmen. Sometimes the Lords Raid and Sifer tried F’lar’s patience. True, those three Holds, Benden, Bitra and Lemos, had conscientiously tithed to support Benden Weyr when it was the sole dragonweyr of Pern. But Lord Raid and Lord Sifer had an unpleasant habit of reminding Benden Weyr riders of their loyalty at every opportunity. Gratitude is an ill-fitting tunic that can chafe and smell if worn too long.

  Lord Asgenar of Lemos Hold, on the other hand, was young and had been confirmed in his honors by the Lord Holders’ Conclave only five Turns ago. His attitude toward the Weyr which protected his Holdlands from Thread was refreshingly untainted by invidious reminders of past services.

  Mnementh glided toward the expanse of the Great Lake which separated Lemos Hold from upper Telgar Hold. The Threads’ advance edge had just missed the verdant softwoods that surrounded the northern shores. Mnementh circled down, causing F’lar to lean into the great neck, grasping the fighting straps firmly. Despite his weariness and worry, he felt the sharp surge of elation which always gripped him when he flew the huge bronze dragon; that curious merging of himself with the beast, against air and wind, so that he was not only F’lar, Weyrleader of Benden, but somehow Mnementh, immensely powerful, magnificently free.

  On a rise overlooking the broad meadow that swept down to the Great Lake, F’lar spotted the green dragon. Lemos’ Lord Holder, Asgenar, would be near her. F’lar smiled sardonically at the sight. Let the Oldtimers disapprove, let them mutter uneasily when F’lar put non-weyrfolk on dragonback, but if F’lar had not, Thread would have fallen unseen over those hardwoods.

  Trees! Another bone of contention between Weyr and Hold, with F’lar staunchly upholding the Lords’ position. Four hundred Turns ago, such timber stands had not existed, were not permitted to grow. Too much living green to protect. Well, the Oldtimers were eager enough to own products of wood, overloading Fandarel’s woodcraftsman, Bendarek, with their demands. On the other hand, they wouldn’t permit the formation of a new Crafthall under Bendarek. Probably because, F’lar thought bitterly, Bendarek wanted to stay near the hardwoods of Lemos, and that would give Benden Weyr a Crafthall in its jurisdiction. By the Egg, the Oldtimers were almost more trouble than they were worth!

  Mnementh landed with sweeping backstrokes that flattened the thick meadow grass. F’lar slid down the bronze’s neck to join Lord Asgenar while Mnementh trumpeted approval to the green dragon and F’rad, his rider.

  F’rad wants to warn you that Asgenar . . .

  “Not much gets through Benden’s wings,” Asgenar was saying by way of greeting so that Mnementh didn’t finish his thought. The young man was wiping soot and sweat from his face for he was one Lord who directed his ground crews personally instead of staying comfortably in his main Hold. “Even if Threads have begun to deviate. How do you account for all these recent variations?”

  “Variations?” F’lar repeated the word, feeling stupid because he somehow realized that Asgenar was not referring just to this day’s unusual occurrence.

  “Yes! And here we thought your timetables were the last word. To be relied on forever, especially since they were checked and approved by the Oldtimers.” Asgenar gave F’lar a sly look. “Oh, I’m not faulting you, F’lar. You’ve always been open in our dealings. I count myself lucky to be weyrbound to you. A man knows where he stands with Benden Weyr. My brother-in-law elect, Lord Larad, has had problems with T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr, you know. And since those premature falls at Tillek and Upper Crom, he’s got a thorough watch system set up.” Asgenar paused, suddenly aware of F’lar’s tense silence. “I do not presume to criticize weyrfolk, F’lar,” he said in a more formal tone, “but rumor can outfly a dragon and naturally I heard about the others. I can appreciate the Weyrs not wishing to alarm commoners but—well—a little forewarning would be only courteous.”

  “There was no way of predicting today’s fall,” F’lar said slowly, but his mind was turning so rapidly that he felt sick. Why had nothing been said to him? R’mart of Telgar Weyr hadn’t been at the meeting about T’reb’s transgressions. Could R’mart have been busy fighting Thread at that time? As for T’kul of the High Reaches Weyr imparting any information, particularly news that might show him in a bad light, that one wouldn’t give coordinates to save a rider’s life.

  No, they’d have had good reason not to mention premature falls to F’lar that night. If T’kul had confided in anyone. But why hadn’t R’mart let them know?

  “But Benden Weyr’s not caught sleeping. Once is all we’d need in those forests, huh, F’lar?” Asgenar was saying, his eyes scanning the spongewoods possessively.

  “Yes. All we’d need. What’s the report from the leading Edge of this Fall? Have you runners in yet?”

  “Your queens’ wing reported it safe two hours past.” Asgenar grinned and rocked back and forth on his heels, his confidence not a bit jarred by today’s unpredicted event. F’lar envied him.

  Again the bronze rider thanked good fortune that he had Lord Asgenar to deal with this morning instead of punctilious Raid or suspicious Lord Sifer. He devoutly hoped that the young Lord Holder would not find his trust misplaced. But the question haunted him: how could Threads change so?

  Both Weyrleader and Lord Holder froze as they watched a blue dragon hover attentively above a stand of trees to the northeast. When the beast flew on, Asgenar turned to F’lar with troubled eyes.

  “Do you think these odd falls will mean that those forests must be razed?”

  “You know my views on wood, Asgenar. It’s too valuable a commodity, too versatile, to sacrifice needlessly.”

  “But it takes every dragon to protect . . .”

  “Are you for or against?” F’lar asked with mild amusement. He gripped Asgenar’s shoulder. “Instruct your foresters to keep constant watch. Their vigilance is essential.”

  “Then you don’t know the pattern in the Thread shifts?”

  F’lar shook his head slowly, unwilling to perjure himself to this man. “I’ll leave the long-eyed F’rad with you.”

  A wide smile broke the thin troubled face of the Lord Holder.

  “I couldn’t ask, but it’s a relief. I shan’t abuse the privilege.”

  F’lar glanced at him sharply. “Why should you?”

  Asgenar gave him a wry smile. “That’s what the Oldtimers carp about, isn’t it? And instant transportation to any place on Pern is a temptation.”

  F’lar laughed, remembering that Asgenar, Lord of Lemos, was to take Famira, the youngest sister of Larad, L
ord of Telgar Hold, to wife. While the Telgar lands marched the boundaries of Lemos, the Holds were separated by deep forest and several ranges of steep rocky mountains.

  Three dragons appeared and circled above them, wingriders reporting on the ground activities. Nine infestations had been sighted and controlled with minimum loss of property. Sweepriders had reported that the mid-Fall area was clear. F’lar dismissed them. A runner came loping up the meadow to his Lord Holder, carefully keeping several dragonlengths between himself and the two beasts. For all that every Pernese knew the dragons would harm no human, many would never lose their fearfulness. Dragons were confused by this distrust so that F’lar strolled casually to his bronze and scratched the left eye ridge affectionately until Mnementh allowed one lid to droop in pleasure over the gleaming opalescent eye.

  The runner had come from afar, managing to gasp out his reassuring message before he collapsed on the ground, his chest heaving with the effort to fill his starved lungs. Asgenar stripped off his tunic and covered the man to prevent his chilling and made the runner drink from his own flask.

  “The two infestations on the south slope are char!” Asgenar reported to the Weyrleader as he rejoined him. “That means the hardwood stands are safe.” Asgenar’s relief was so great that he took a swig on the bottle himself. Then hastily offered it to the dragonrider. When F’lar politely refused, he went on, “We may have another hard winter and my people will need that wood. Cromcoal costs!”

  F’lar nodded. Free provision of fuelwood meant a tremendous saving to the average holder, though not every Lord saw it in this aspect. Lord Meron of Nabol Hold, for instance, refused to let his commoners chop fuelwood, forcing them to pay the high rates for Cromcoal, increasing his profit at their expense.

  “That runner came from the south slope? He’s fast.”

  “My forest men are the best in all Pern. Meron of Nabol has twice tried to lure that man from me.”

  “And?”