The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

F’nor flexed his bandaged arm.

  “Now you listen to me, Wing-second F’nor of Benden,” Brekke said sharply, interpreting that gesture accurately. “You’re in no condition to go charging back to duty or to go exploring. You haven’t the stamina of a fledgling and you certainly can’t go between. Intense cold is the worst thing for a half-healed wound. Why do you think you were flown here straight?”

  “Why, Brekke, I didn’t know you cared,” F’nor said, rather pleased at her vehement reaction.

  She gave him such a piercingly candid look that his smile faded. As if she regretted that all too intimate glance, she gave him a half-playful push toward the door.

  “Get out. Take your poor lonely dragon and lie on the beach in the sun. Rest. Can’t you hear Canth calling you?”

  She slipped by him, out the door, and was across the clearing before he realized that he hadn’t heard Canth.

  “Brekke?”

  She turned, hesitantly, at the edge of the woods.

  “Can you hear other dragons?”

  “Yes.” She whirled and was gone.

  “Of all the—” F’nor was astounded. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded of Canth as he strode into the sun-baked wallow behind the weyr and stood glaring at his brown dragon.

  You never asked, Canth replied. I like Brekke.

  “You’re impossible,” F’nor said, exasperated, and looked back in the direction Brekke had gone. “Brekke?” And he stared hard at Canth, somewhat disgusted by his obtuseness. Dragons as a rule did not name people. They tended to project a vision of the person referred to by pronoun, rarely by name. That Canth, who was of another Weyr, should speak of Brekke so familiarly was a double surprise. He must tell that to F’lar.

  I want to get wet. Canth sounded so wistful that F’nor laughed aloud.

  “You swim. I’ll watch.”

  Gently Canth nudged F’nor on the good shoulder. You are nearly well. Good. We’ll soon be able to go back to the Weyr we belong to.

  “Don’t tell me that you knew about the Thread pattern changing.”

  Of course, Canth replied.

  “Why, you, wher-faced, wherry-necked . . .”

  Sometimes a dragon knows what’s best for his rider. You have to be well to fight Thread. I want to swim. And there was no arguing with Canth further, F’nor knew. Aware he’d been manipulated, F’nor also had no redress with Canth so he put the matter aside. Once he was well, his arm completely healed, however . . .

  Although they had to fly straight toward the beaches, an irritatingly lengthy process for someone used to instantaneous transport from one place to another, F’nor elected to go a good distance west, along the coastline, until he found a secluded cove with a deep bay, suitable to dragon bathing.

  A high dune of sand, probably pushed up from winter storms, protected the beach from the south. Far, far away, purple on the horizon, he could just make out the headland that marked Southern Weyr.

  Canth landed him somewhat above the high-water mark in the cove, on the clean fine sand, and then, taking a flying leap, dove into the brilliantly blue water. F’nor watched, amused, as Canth cavorted—an unlikely fish—erupting out of the sea, reversing himself just above the surface and then diving deeply. When the dragon considered himself sufficiently watered, he floundered out, flapping his wings mightily until the breeze brought the shower up the beach to F’nor who protested.

  Canth then irrigated himself so thoroughly with sand that F’nor was half-minded to send him back to rinse, but Canth protested, the sand felt so good and warm against his hide. F’nor relented, and when the dragon had finally made his wallow, couched himself on a convenient curl of tail. The sun soon lulled them into drowsy inertia.

  F’nor Canth’s gentle summons penetrated the brown rider’s delicious somnolence, do not move.

  That was sufficient to dispel drowsy complacence, yet the dragon’s tone was amused, not alarmed.

  Open one eye carefully, Canth advised.

  Resentful but obedient, F’nor opened one eye. It was all he could do to remain limp. Returning his gaze was a golden dragon, small enough to perch on his bare forearm. The tiny eyes, like winking green-fired jewels, regarded him with wary curiosity. Suddenly the miniature wings, no bigger than the span of F’nor’s fingers, unfurled into gilt transparencies, aglitter in the sunlight.

  “Don’t go,” F’nor said, instinctively using a mere mental whisper. Was he dreaming? He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  The wings hesitated a beat. The tiny dragon tilted its head. Don’t go, little one, Canth added with equal delicacy. We are of the same blood.

  The minute beast registered an incredulity and indecision which were transmitted to man and dragon. The wings remained up but the tautness which preceded flight relaxed. Curiosity replaced indecision. Incredulity grew stronger. The little dragon paced the length of F’nor’s arm to gaze steadfastly into his eyes until F’nor felt his eye muscles strain to keep from crossing.

  Doubt and wonder reached F’nor, and then he understood the tiny one’s problem.

  “I’m not of your blood. The monster above us is,” F’nor communicated softly. “You are of his blood.”

  Again the tiny head cocked. The eyes glistened actively as they whirled with surprise and increased doubt.

  To Canth, F’nor remarked that perspective was impossible for the little dragon, one hundredth his size.

  Move back then, Canth suggested. Little sister, go with the man.

  The little dragon flew up on blurringly active wings, hovering as F’nor slowly rose. He walked several lengths from Canth’s recumbent hulk, the little dragon following. When F’nor turned and slowly pointed back to the brown, the little beast circled, took one look and abruptly disappeared.

  “Come back,” F’nor cried. Maybe he was dreaming.

  Canth rumbled with amusement. How would you like to see a man as large to you as I am to her?

  “Canth, do you realize that that was a fire lizard?”

  Certainly.

  “I actually had a fire lizard on my arm! Do you realize how many times people have tried to catch one of those creatures?” F’nor stopped, savoring the experience. He was probably the first man to get that close to a fire lizard. And the dainty little beauty had registered emotion, understood simple directions and then—gone between.

  Yes, she went between, Canth confirmed, unmoved.

  “Why, you big lump of sand, do you realize what that means? Those legends are true. You were bred from something as small as her!”

  I don’t remember, Canth replied, but something in his tone made F’nor realize that the big beast’s draconic complacency was a little shaken.

  F’nor grinned and stroked Canth’s muzzle affectionately. “How could you, big one? When we—men—have lost so much knowledge and we can record what we know.”

  There are other ways of remembering important matters, Canth replied.

  “Just imagine being able to breed tiny fire lizards into a creature the size of you!” He was awed, knowing how long it had taken to breed faster landbeasts.

  Canth rumbled restlessly. I am useful. She is not.

  “I’d wager she’d improve rapidly with a little help.” The prospect fascinated F’nor. “Would you mind?”

  Why?

  F’nor leaned against the great wedge-shaped head, looping his arm under the jaw, as far as he could reach, feeling extremely fond and proud of his dragon.

  “No, that was a stupid question for me to ask you, Canth, wasn’t it?”

  Yes.

  “I wonder how long it would take me to train her.”

  To do what?

  “Nothing you can’t do better, of course. No, now wait a minute. If, by chance, I could train her to take messages . . . You said she went between? I wonder if she could be taught to go between, alone, and come back. Ah, but will she come back here to us now?” At this juncture, F’nor’s enthusiasm for the project was deflated by harsh reality.

  S
he comes, Canth said very softly.

  “Where?”

  Above your head

  Very slowly, F’nor raised one arm, hand outstretched, palm down.

  “Little beauty, come where we can admire you. We mean you no harm.” F’nor saturated his mental tone with all the reassuring persuasiveness at his command.

  A shimmer of gold flickered at the corner of his eye. Then the little lizard hovered at F’nor’s eye level, just beyond his reach. He ignored Canth’s amusement that the tiny one was susceptible to flattery.

  She is hungry, the big dragon said.

  Very slowly F’nor reached into his pouch and drew out a meatroll. He broke off a piece, bent slowly to lay it on the rock at his feet, then backed away.

  “That is food for you, little one”

  The lizard continued to hover, then darted down and, grabbing the meat in her tiny claws, disappeared again.

  F’nor squatted down to wait.

  In a second, the dragonette returned, ravenous hunger foremost in her delicate thoughts along with a wistful plea. As F’nor broke off another portion, he tried to dampen his elation. If hunger could be the leash . . . Patiently he fed her tiny bits, each time placing the food nearer to him until he got her to take the final morsel from his fingers. As she cocked her head at him, not quite sated, though she had eaten enough to satisfy a grown man, he ventured to stroke an eye ridge with a gentle fingertip.

  The inner lids of the tiny opalescent eyes closed one by one as she abandoned herself to the caress.

  She is a hatchling. You have Impressed her, Canth told him very softly.

  “A hatching?”

  She is the little sister of my blood after all and so must come from an egg, Canth replied reasonably.

  “There are others?”

  Of course. Down on the beach.

  F’nor, careful not to disturb the little lizard, turned his head over his shoulder. He had been so engrossed in the one at hand, he hadn’t even heard above the surf sounds the pitiful squawks which were issuing from the litter of shining wings and bodies. There seemed to be hundreds of them on the beach, above the high-tide mark, about twenty dragon lengths from him.

  Don’t move, Canth cautioned him. You’ll lose her

  “But if they’re hatching . . . they can be Impressed . . . Canth, rouse the Weyr! Speak to Prideth. Speak to Wirenth. Tell them to come. Tell them to bring food. Tell them to hurry. Quickly or it’ll be too late.”

  He stared hard at the purple blotch on the horizon that was the Weyr, as if he himself could somehow bridge the gap with his thoughts. But the frenzy on the beach was attracting attention from another source. Wild wherries, the carrion eaters of Pern, instinctively flocked to the shore, their wings making an ominous line of v’s in the southern sky. The vanguard was already beating to a height, preparing to dive at the unprotected weak fledglings. Every nerve in F’nor’s body yearned to go to their rescue, but Canth repeated his warning. F’nor would jeopardize his fragile rapport with the little queen if he moved. Or, F’nor realized, if he communicated his agitation to her. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch.

  The first shriek of pain vibrated through his body as well as the little lizard’s. She darted into the folds of his arm sling, trembling against his ribs. Despite himself, F’nor opened his eyes. But the wherries had not stooped yet, though they circled lower and lower with rapacious speed. The fledglings were voraciously attacking each other. He shuddered and the little queen rattled her pinions, uttering a delicate fluting sound of distress.

  “You’re safe with me. Far safer with me. Nothing can harm you with me,” F’nor told her repeatedly, and Canth crooned reassurance in harmony with that litany.

  The strident shriek of the wherries as they plunged suddenly changed to their piercing wail of terror. F’nor glanced up, away from the carnage on the beach, to see a green dragon in the sky, belching flame, scattering the avian hunters. The green hovered, several lengths above the beach, her head extended downward. She was riderless.

  Just then, F’nor saw three figures, charging, sliding, slipping down the high sand dune, heading as straight as possible toward the many-winged mass of cannibals. Although they looked as if they’d carom into the middle, they somehow managed to stop.

  Brekke said she has alerted as many as she could, Canth told him.

  “Brekke? Why’d you call her? She’s got enough to do.”

  She is the best one, Canth replied, ignoring F’nor’s reprimand.

  “Are they too late?” F’nor glanced anxiously at the sky and at the dune, willing more men to arrive.

  Brekke was wading toward the struggling hatchlings now, her hands extended. The other two were following her example. Who had she brought? Why hadn’t she got more riders? They’d know instantly, how to approach the beasts.

  Two more dragons appeared in the sky, circled and landed with dizzying speed right on the beach, their riders racing in to help. The skyborne green flamed off the insistent wherries, bugling to her fellows to help her.

  Brekke has one. And the girl. So does the boy but the beast is hurt. Brekke says that many are dead.

  Why, wondered F’nor suddenly, if he had only just seen the truth of the legend of fire lizards, did he ache for their deaths? Surely the creatures had been hatching on lonely beaches for centuries, been eaten by wherries and their own peers, unseen and unmourned.

  The strong survive, said Canth, undismayed.

  They saved seven, two badly hurt. The young girl, Mirrim, Brekke’s fosterling, attached three; two greens and a brown, seriously injured by gouges on his soft belly. Brekke had a bronze with no mark on him, the green’s rider had a bronze, and the other two riders had blues, one with a wrenched wing which Brekke feared might never heal properly for flight.

  “Seven out of over fifty,” said Brekke sadly after they had disposed of the broken bodies with agenothree. A precaution which Brekke suggested as a frustration for the carrion eaters and to prevent other fire lizards from avoiding the beach as dangerous to their kind. “I wonder how many would have survived if you hadn’t called us.”

  “She was already far from the others when she discovered us,” F’nor remarked. “Probably the first to hatch, or on top of the others.”

  Brekke’d had the wit to bring a full haunch of buck, though the Weyr might eat light that evening. So they had gorged the hatchlings into such a somnolent state that they could be carried, unresisting, back to the Weyr, or to Brekke’s Infirmary.

  “You’re to fly home straight,” Brekke told F’nor, in much the way a woman spoke to a rebellious weyrling.

  “Yes, ma’am,” F’nor replied, with mock humility, and then smiled because Brekke took him so seriously.

  The little queen nestled in his arm sling as contentedly as if she’d found a weyr of her own. “A weyr is where a dragon is no matter how it’s constructed,” he murmured to himself as Canth winged steadily eastward.

  When F’nor reached Southern, it was obvious the news had raced through the Weyr. There was such an aura of excitement that F’nor began to worry that it might frighten the tiny creatures between.

  No dragon can fly when he is belly-bloated Canth said. Even a fire lizard. And took himself off to his sun-warmed wallow, no longer interested.

  “You don’t suppose he’s jealous, do you?” F’nor asked Brekke when he found her in her Infirmary, splinting the little blue’s wrenched wing.

  “Wirenth was interested, too, until the lizards fell asleep,” Brekke told him, a twinkle in her green eyes as she looked up at him briefly. “And you know how touchy Wirenth is right now. Mercy, F’nor, what is there for a dragon to be jealous of? These are toys, dolls as far as the big ones are concerned. At best, children to be protected and taught like any fosterling.”

  F’nor glanced over at Mirrim, Brekke’s foster child. The two green lizards perched asleep on her shoulders. The injured brown, swathed from neck to tail in bandage, was cradled in her lap. Mirrim was sitting with th
e erect stiffness of someone who dares not move a muscle. And she was smiling with an incredulous joy.

  “Mirrim is very young for this,” he said, shaking his head.

  “On the contrary, she’s as old as most weyrlings at their first Impression. And she’s more mature in some ways than half a dozen grown women I know with several babes of their own.”

  “Oh-ho. The female of the species in staunch defense . . .”

  “It’s no teasing matter, F’nor,” Brekke replied with a sharpness that put F’nor in mind of Lessa. “Mirrim will do very well. She takes every responsibility to heart.” The glance Brekke shot her fosterling was anxious as well as tender.

  “I still say she’s young . . .”

  “Is age a prerequisite for a loving heart? Does maturity always bring compassion? Why are some weyrbred boys left standing on the sand and others, never thought to have a chance, walk off with the bronzes? Mirrim Impressed three, and the rest of us, though we tried, with the creatures dying at our feet, only managed to attach one.”

  “And why am I never told what occurs in my own Weyr?” Kylara’ demanded in a loud voice. She stood on the threshold of the Infirmary, her face suffused with an angry flush, her eyes bright and hard.

  “As soon as I finished this splinting, I was coming to tell you,” Brekke replied calmly, but F’nor saw her shoulders stiffen.

  Kylara advanced on the girl, with such overt menace that F’nor stepped around Brekke, wondering to himself as he did so whether Kylara was armed with more than a bad temper.

  “Events moved rather fast, Kylara,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “We were fortunate to save as many of the lizards as we did. Too bad you didn’t hear Canth broadcast the news. You might have Impressed one yourself.”

  Kylara halted, the full skirts of her robe swirling around her feet. She glared at him, twitching the sleeve of her dress but not before he saw the black bruise on her arm. Unable to attack Brekke, she turned, spotting Mirrim. She swept up to the girl, staring down in such a way that the child looked appealingly toward Brekke. At this point, the tension in the room roused the lizards. The two greens hissed at Kylara but it was the crystal bugle of the bronze on G’sel’s shoulder that diverted the Weyrwoman’s attention.