The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  T’bor was shaken.

  Orth says there have been no infestations, Mnementh reported quietly and Orth briefly turned glowing eyes toward the Benden Weyrleader.

  “And Thread was always short-timed?” F’lar wanted to know.

  Orth says this is the first, but then the alarm came late.

  T’bor turned haunted eyes to F’lar.

  “It wasn’t a short Fall, then,” he said, half-hoping to be contradicted.

  Just then Canth veered in to land. F’lar suppressed a reprimand when he saw the flame thrower on his half-brother’s back.

  “That was the most unusual Fall I’ve ever attended,” F’nor cried as he saluted the two bronze riders. “We can’t have got it all airborne, but there’s not a trace of burrow. And dead Thread in every water pocket. I suppose we should be grateful. But I don’t understand it.”

  “I don’t like it, F’lar,” T’bor said, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. Thread wasn’t due here for another few weeks, and then, not in this area.”

  “Thread apparently is falling when and where it chooses.”

  “How can Thread choose?” T’bor demanded with the anger of a frightened man. “It’s mindless!”

  F’lar gazed up at tropical skies so brilliant that the fateful stare of the Red Star, low on the horizon, wasn’t visible.

  “If the Red Star deviates for four hundred Turn Intervals, why not a variation in the way it falls?”

  “What do we do then?” asked T’bor, a note of desperation in his voice. “Thread that pierces and doesn’t burrow! Thread falling days out of phase and then for only two hours!”

  “Put out sweepriders, to begin with, and let me know where and when Thread falls here. As you said, Thread is mindless. Even in these new Shifts, we may find a predictable pattern.” F’lar frowned up at the hot sun; he was sweating in the wher-hide fighting clothes more suited to upper levels and cold between.

  “Fly a sweep with me, F’lar,” T’bor suggested anxiously. “F’nor, are you up to it? If we missed even one burrow here . . .”

  T’bor had Orth call in every rider, even the weyrlings, told them what to look for, what was feared.

  The entire complement of Southern spread out, wingtip to wingtip, flying at minimum altitude, and scanned the swampy region right back to Fall Edge. Not one man or beast could report any unusual disturbance of greenery or ground. The land over which Thread had so recently fallen was now undeniably Threadfree.

  The clearance made T’bor even more apprehensive, but another tour seemed pointless. The fighting wings went between to the Weyr then, leaving the convalescents to fly straight.

  As T’bor and F’lar glided in over the Weyr compound, the roofs of the weyrholds and the bare black soil and rock of the dragonbeds flashed under them like a pattern through the leaves of the giant fellis and spongewood trees. In the main clearing by the Weyrhall, Prideth extended her neck and wings, bugling to her Weyrmates.

  “Circle once again, Mnementh,” F’lar said to his bronze. First he’d better get over the urge to beat Kylara, and give T’bor the chance to reprimand her privately. He regretted, once more, that he had ever suggested to Lessa that she pressure that female into being a Weyrwoman. It had seemed a logical solution at the time. And he was sincerely sorry for T’bor although the man did manage to keep her worst depredations under control. But the absence of a queen from a Weyr . . . Well, how could Kylara have known Thread would fall here ahead of schedule? Yet where was she that she couldn’t hear that alarm? No dragon slept that deeply.

  He circled as the rest of the dragons peeled off to their weyrs and realized that none had had to descend by the Infirmary.

  “Fighting Thread with no casualties?”

  I like that, Mnementh remarked.

  Somehow that aspect of the day’s encounter unsettled F’lar the most. Rather than delve into that, F’lar judged it time to land. He didn’t relish the thought of confronting Kylara, but he hadn’t had the chance to tell T’bor what had been happening north.

  “I told you,” Kylara was saying in sullen anger, “that I found a clutch and Impressed this queen. When I got back, there wasn’t anyone left here who knew where you’d all gone. Prideth has to have coordinates, you know.” She turned toward F’lar now, her eyes glittering. “My duty to you, F’lar of Benden,” and her voice took on a caressing tone which made T’bor stiffen and clench his teeth. “How kind of you to fight with us when Benden Weyr has troubles of its own.”

  F’lar ignored the jibe and nodded a curt acknowledgment.

  “See my fire lizard. Isn’t she magnificent?” She held up her right arm, exhibiting the drowsing golden lizard, the outlines of her latest meal pressing sharp designs against her belly hide.

  “Wirenth was here and Brekke. They knew,” T’bor told her.

  “Her!” Kylara dismissed the weyrwoman with a negligent shrug of contempt. “She gave me some nonsensical coordinates, deep in the western swamp. Threads don’t fall . . .”

  “They did today,” T’bor cried, his face suffused with anger.

  “Do tell!”

  Prideth began to rumble restlessly and Kylara, the hard defiant lines of her face softening, turned to reassure her.

  “See, you’ve made her uneasy and she’s so near mating again.”

  T’bor looked dangerously close to an outburst which, as Weyrleader, he could not risk. Kylara’s tactic was so obvious that F’lar wondered how the man could fall for it. Would it improve matters to have T’bor supplanted by one of the other bronze riders here? F’lar considered, as he had before, throwing Prideth’s next mating flight into open competition. And yet, he owed T’bor too much for coping with this—this female to insult him by such a measure. On the other hand, maybe one of the more vigorous Oldtime bronzes with a rider just sufficiently detached from Kylara’s ploys, and interested enough in retaining a Leadership, might keep her firmly in line.

  “T’bor, the map of this continent’s in the Weyrhall, isn’t it?” F’lar asked, diverting the man. “I’d like to set the coordinates of this Fall in my mind . . .”

  “Don’t you like my queen?” Kylara asked, stepping forward and raising the lizard right under F’lar’s nose.

  The little creature, unbalanced by the sudden movement, dug her razor-sharp claws into Kylara’s arm, piercing the wher-hide as easily as Thread pierced leaf. With a yelp, Kylara shook her arm, dislodging the fire lizard. In midfall the creature disappeared. Kylara’s cry of pain changed to a shriek of anger.

  “Look what you’ve done, you fool. You’ve lost her.”

  “Not I, Kylara,” F’lar replied in a hard, cold voice. “Take good care you do not push others to their limit!”

  “I’ve limits, too, F’lar of Benden,” she screamed as the two men strode quickly toward the Weyrhall. “Don’t push me. D’you hear? Don’t push me!” She kept up her curses until Prideth, now highly agitated, drowned her out with piteous cries.

  At first the two Weyrleaders went through the motions of studying the map and trying to figure out where Thread might have fallen elsewhere undetected on the Southern continent. Then Prideth’s complaints died away and the clearing was vacant.

  “It comes down to manpower again, T’bor,” F’lar said. “There ought to be a thorough search of this continent. Oh, I’m aware,” and he held up his hand to forestall a defensive rebuttal, “that you simply don’t have the personnel to help, even with the influx of holderfolk from the mainland. But Thread can cross mountains,” he tapped the southern chain, “and we don’t know what’s been happening in these uncharted areas. We’ve assumed that Threadfall occurred only in this coastline portion. Once established though, a single burrow could eat its way across any land mass and—” He made a slashing movement of both hands. “I’d give a lot to know how Thread could fall unnoticed in those swamps for two hours and leave no trace of a burrow!”

  T’bor grunted agreement but F’lar sensed that his mind was not on this problem.
r />   “You’ve had more than your share of grief with that woman, T’bor. Why not throw the next flight open?”

  “No!” And Orth echoed that vehement refusal with a roar.

  F’lar looked at T’bor in amazement.

  “No, F’lar. I’ll keep her in hand. I’ll keep myself in hand, too. But as long as Orth can fly Prideth, Kylara’s mine.”

  F’lar looked quickly away from the torment in the other’s face.

  “And you’d better know this, too,” T’bor continued in a heavy low voice. “She found a full clutch. She took them to a Hold. Prideth told Orth.”

  “Which Hold?”

  T’bor shook his head wearily. “Prideth doesn’t like it so she doesn’t name it. She doesn’t like taking fire lizards away from the weyrs either.”

  F’lar brushed his forelock back from his eyes in an irritated movement. This was the most unhealthy development. A dragon displeased with her rider? The one restraint they had all counted on was Kylara’s bond with Prideth. The woman wouldn’t be fool enough, wanton enough, perverted enough to strain that, too, in her egocentric selfishness.

  Prideth will not hear me, Mnementh said suddenly. She will not hear Orth. She is unhappy. That isn’t good.

  Threads falling unexpectedly, fire lizards in Holder hands, a dragon displeased with her rider and another anticipating his rider’s questions! And F’lar had thought he’d had problems seven Turns ago!

  “I can’t sort this all out right now, T’bor. Please mount guards and let me know the instant you’ve any news of any kind. If you do uncover another clutch, I would very much appreciate some of the eggs. Let me know, too, if that little queen returns to Kylara. I grant the creature had reason, but if they frighten between so easily, they may be worthless except as pets.”

  F’lar mounted Mnementh and saluted the Southern Weyrleader, reassured by nothing in this visit. And he’d lost the advantage of surprising the Lord Holders with fire lizards. In fact, Kylara’s precipitous donation would undoubtedly cause more trouble. A Weyrwoman meddling in a Hold not bound to her own Weyr? He almost hoped that these creatures would be nothing more than pets and her action could be soft-talked. Still, there was the psychological effect of that miniature dragon, Impressionable by anyone. That would have been a valuable asset in improving Weyr-Hold relations.

  As Mnementh climbed higher, to the cooler levels, F’lar worried most about that Threadfall. It had fallen. It had pierced leaf and grass, drowned in the water, and yet left no trace of itself in the rich earth. Igen’s sandworms would devour Thread, almost as efficiently as agenothree. But the grub life that had swarmed in the rich black swamp mud bore little resemblance to the segmented, shelled worms.

  Unable to leave Southern without a final check, F’lar gave Mnementh the order to transfer to the western swamp. The bronze obediently brought him right to the trench his claw had made. F’lar slid from his shoulder, opening the wher-hide tunic as the humid, sticky, sun-steamed swamp air pressed against him like a thick wet skin. There was a ringing, rasping chorus of tiny sound all around him, splashings and burblings, none of which he’d noted earlier in the day. In fact, the swamp had been remarkably silent, as if hushed by the menace of Thread.

  When he turned back the hummock of grass by the roots of the berry bush, the earth was untenanted, the gray roots sleekly damp. Kicking up another section, he did find a small cluster of the larvae, but not in the earlier profusion. He held the muddy ball in his hand, watching the grubs squirm away from light and air. It was then that he saw that the foliage of that bush was no longer Thread-scored. The char had disappeared and a thin film was forming over the hole, as if the bush were mending itself.

  Something writhed against the skin of his palm and he hastily dropped the ball of dirt, rubbing his hand against his leg.

  He broke off a leaf, the sign of Thread healing in the green foliage.

  Could the grubs possibly be the southern continent’s equivalent of sandworms?

  Abruptly he gave a running jump to Mnementh’s shoulder, grabbing the riding straps.

  “Mnementh, take me back to the beginning of this Fall. That’d make six hours back. The sun would be at zenith.”

  Mnementh didn’t grumble but his thoughts were plain: F’lar was tired, F’lar ought to go back to Benden and rest, talk to Lessa. Jumping between time was hard on a rider.

  Cold between enveloped them, and F’lar hastily closed the tunic he’d opened, but not before the cold seemed to eat into his chest bone. He shivered, with more than physical chill, as they burst out over the steamy swamp again. It took more than a few minutes under that blazing sun to counteract the merciless cold. Mnementh glided briefly northward and then hovered, facing due south.

  They didn’t have long to wait. High above, the ominous grayness that presaged Threadfall darkened the sky. As often as he had watched it, F’lar never rid himself of fear. And it was harder still to watch that distant grayness begin to separate into sheets and patches of silvery Thread. To watch and to permit it to fall unchecked on the swamp below. To watch as it pierced leaf and green, hissing as it penetrated the mud. Even Mnementh stirred restlessly, his wings trembling as he fought every instinct to dive, flaming, at the ancient menace. Yet he, too, watched as the leading Edge advanced southward, across the swamp, a gray rain of destruction.

  Without needing a command, Mnementh landed just short of the Edge. And F’lar, fighting an inward revulsion so strong that he was sure he’d vomit, turned back the nearest hummock, smoking with Thread penetration. Grubs, feverishly active, populated the concourse of the roots. As he held the hummock up, bloated grubs dropped to the ground and frantically burrowed into the earth. He dropped that clump, uprooted the nearest bush, baring the gray, twisted rootball. It also teemed with grub life that burrowed away from the sudden exposure to air and light. The leaves of the bush were still smoldering from Thread puncture.

  Not quite certain why, F’lar knelt, pulled up another hummock and scooped up a clump of squirming grubs into the fingers of his riding glove. He twisted it tightly shut and secured it under his belt.

  Then he mounted Mnementh and gave him the coordinates of the Masterherdsman’s Crafthall in Keroon, where the foothills that rose eventually to the massive heights of Benden ranged gently merged with the wide plains of Keroon Hold.

  Masterherdsman Sograny, a tall, bald, leathery man so spare of flesh that his bones seemed held in position by his laced vest, tight hide pants and heavy boots, showed no pleasure in an unexpected visit from Benden’s Weyrleader.

  F’lar had been met with punctilious courtesy, if some confusion, by crafters. Sograny, it seemed, was supervising the birth of a new mix of herdbeasts, the very swift plains type with the heavy-chested mountain one. A messenger led F’lar to the great barn. Considering the importance of the event, F’lar thought it odd that no one had left his tasks. He was led past neat cots of immaculately cleaned stone, well-tended gardens, past forcing sheds and equipment barns. F’lar thought of the absolute chaos that prevailed at the Smith’s, but then remembered what marvels that man accomplished.

  “You’ve a problem for the Masterherdsman, have you, Weyrleader?” Sograny asked, giving F’lar a curt nod, his eyes on the laboring beast in the box stall. “How does that happen?”

  The man’s attitude was so defensive that F’lar wondered what D’ram of Ista Weyr might have been doing to irritate him.

  “Mastersmith Fandarel suggested that you would be able to advise me, Masterherdsman,” F’lar replied, no trace of levity in his manner and no lack of courtesy in his address.

  “The Smithcrafter?” Sograny looked at F’lar with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “Why?”

  Now what could Fandarel have done to warrant the bad opinion of the Masterherdsman?

  “Two anomalies have come to my attention, good Masterherdsman. The first, a clutch of fire-lizard eggs hatched in the vicinity of one of my riders and he was able to Impress the queen . . .”

  Sograny’
s eyes widened with startled disbelief.

  “No man can catch a fire lizard!”

  “Agreed, but he can Impress one. And certainly did. We believe that the fire lizards are directly related to the dragons.”

  “That cannot be proved!” Sograny pulled himself straight up, his eyes darting toward his assistants who suddenly found tasks far from F’lar and the Masterherdsman.

  “By inference, yes. Because the similar characteristics are obvious. Seven fire lizards were Impressed on the sands of a beach at Southern. One by my Wing-second, F’nor, Canth’s rider . . .”

  “F’nor? The man who fought those two thieving weyrmen at the Smithcrafthall?”

  F’lar swallowed his bile and nodded. That regrettable incident had hatched an unexpected brood of benefits.

  “The fire lizards exhibit undeniable draconic traits. Unfortunately, one of them is to stay close to their Impressor or I’d have proof positive.”

  Sograny only grunted, but he was suddenly receptive.

  “I was hoping that you, as Masterherdsman, might know something about the fire lizards. Igen certainly abounds with them . . .”

  Sograny was cutting him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

  “No time to waste on flitterbys. Useless creatures. No crafter of mine would . . .”

  “There is every indication that they may be of tremendous use to us. After all, dragons were bred from fire lizards.”

  “Impossible!” Sograny stared at him, thin lips firmly denying such an improbability.

  “Well, they weren’t bred up from watch-whers.”

  “Man can alter size but only so far. He can, of course, breed the largest to the largest and improve on the original stock,” and Sograny gestured toward the long-legged cow. “But to breed a dragon from a fire lizard? Absolutely impossible.”

  F’lar wasted no further time on that subject but took the glove from his belt and emptied the grubs into the other, gloved palm.

  “These, sir. Have you seen such as these . . .”