The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I flew instantly to T’kul.” Her face twisted with anger. “He’s no dragonman! He refused to believe me. Me! As if any Weyrwoman wouldn’t know the sign when she sees it I doubt he’s even bothered with sweepriders. He kept harping on the fact that Thread had fallen six days ago at Tillek Hold and couldn’t be falling this soon at High Reaches. So I told him about Falls in the western swamp and north Lemos Hold, and he still wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Did the Weyr turn out in time?” F’lar interrupted her coldly.

  “Of course,” and Kylara drew herself up, her posture tightening the dress against her full-bosomed body. “I had Prideth sound the alarm.” Her smile was malicious. “T’kul had to act. A queen can’t lie. And there isn’t a male dragon alive that will disobey one!”

  F’lar inhaled sharply, gritting his teeth. T’kul of the High Reaches was a taciturn, cynical, tired man. However justified Kylara’s actions were, her methods lacked diplomacy. And she was contemporary weyrfolk. Oh, well, T’kul was a lost cause anyhow. F’lar glanced obliquely at D’ram and G’narish, to see what effect T’kul’s behavior had on them. Surely now . . . They looked strained.

  “You’re a good Weyrwoman, Kylara, and you did well. Very well,” F’lar said with such conviction that she began to preen and her smile was a smirk of self-satisfaction. Then she stared at him.

  “Well, what are you going to do about T’kul? We can’t permit him to endanger the world with that Oldtime attitude of his.”

  F’lar waited, half-hoping that D’ram might speak up. If just one of the Oldtimers . . .

  “It seems that the dragonriders had better call a conclave, too,” he said at length, aware of the tapping of Kylara’s foot and the eyes on him. “T’ron of Fort Weyr must hear of this. And perhaps we’d all better go on to Telgar Weyr for R’mart’s opinion.”

  “Opinion?” demanded Kylara, infuriated by this apparent evasion. “You ought to ride out of here now, confront T’kul with flagrant negligence and . . .”

  “And what, Kylara?” F’lar asked when she broke off.

  “And—well—there must be something you can do!”

  For a situation that had never before arisen? F’lar looked at D’ram and G’narish.

  “You’ve got to do something,” she insisted, swinging toward the other men.

  “The Weyrs are traditionally autonomous . . .”

  “A fine excuse to hide behind, D’ram . . .”

  “There can be no hiding now,” D’ram went on, his voice rough, his expression bleak. “Something will have to be done. By all of us. When T’ron comes.”

  More temporizing? F’lar wondered. “Kylara,” he said aloud, “you mentioned your lizard eating Thread.” There was a lot more to be discussed in this matter than T’kul’s incredible behavior. “And may I inquire how you knew your lizard had returned to Nabol?”

  “Prideth told me. She Hatched there so she returned to Nabol Hold when you frightened her at Southern.”

  “You had her at High Reaches Weyr, though?”

  “No. I told you. I saw Thread over the High Reaches Range and went to T’kul. First! Once I’d roused the Weyr, I realized that there might have been Thread over Nabol so I went to check.”

  “And told Meron about the premature Threadfall?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then?”

  “I took the lizard back with me. I didn’t want to lose her again.” When F’lar ignored that jibe, she went on. “I picked up a flame thrower, so naturally I flew with Merika’s wing. Scant thanks I got for my help from that Weyrwoman.”

  She was telling the truth, F’lar realized, for her emotions were very much in evidence.

  “When my lizard saw Thread falling, she seemed to go mad. I couldn’t control her. She flew right at a patch and—ate it”

  “Did you give her firestone?” D’ram asked, his eyes keen with real interest

  “I didn’t have any. Besides, I want her to mate,” and Kylara’s smile had a very odd twist to it as she stroked the lizard’s back. “She’ll burrow, too,” she added, extolling her creature’s abilities. “A ground crewman said he’d seen her enter one. Of course I didn’t know that until later.”

  “Is the High Reaches Hold clear of Thread now?”

  Kylara shrugged indifferently. “If they aren’t, you’ll hear.”

  “How long did Threadfall continue after you saw it? Were you able to determine the leading Edge when you flew over to Nabol?”

  “It lasted about three hours. Under, I’d say. That is, from the time the wings finally got there.” She gave a condescending smile. “As to the leading Edge, I’d say it must have been high up in the Range,” and she dared them to dispute it, hurrying on when no one did. “It’d fall on bare rock and snow there. I did sweep the Nabol side but Prideth saw no sign.”

  “You did extremely well, Kylara, and we are exceedingly grateful to you,” F’lar said, and the other Leaders endorsed his commendations so firmly that Kylara smiled expansively, turning from one man to another, her eyes glittering with self-appreciation.

  “We’ve had five Falls now,” F’lar went on gravely, glancing at the other Leaders, trying to see how far he could continue in his move to consolidate himself as their spokesman. T’kul’s defection had shaken D’ram badly. What T’ron’s reaction would be, F’lar didn’t try to guess, but if the Fort Weyrleader found himself in a minority of one against the other four Leaders, would he decide to act against T’kul, even if it did mean siding with F’lar? “At Tillek Hold, eight days ago; Upper Crom Hold, five; high Lemos Hold north, three; Southern far west, two; and now High Reaches Hold. Undoubtedly Thread fell in the Western Sea but there is no question that Falls are more frequent and increasing in scope. No point on Pern is safe. No Weyr can afford to relax its vigil to a traditional six-day margin.” He smiled grimly. “Tradition!”

  D’ram looked about to argue, but F’lar caught and held his eyes until the man slowly nodded.

  “That’s easy to say, but what are you going to do about T’kul? Or T’ron?” Kylara had just realized no one was paying her any attention. “He’s just as bad. He refuses to admit times have changed. Even when Mardra deliberately . . .”

  There was a brisk knock on the door but it swung open instantly, to admit the giant frame of Fandarel.

  “I was told you were here, F’lar, and we are ready.”

  F’lar scrubbed at his face, regretting the diversion.

  “The Lord Holders are in Conclave,” he began and the Smith grunted acknowledgment, “and there has been another unexpected development . . .”

  Fandarel nodded toward the fire lizard on Kylara’s arm. “I was told about them. There are many ways to fight Thread, of course, but not all are efficient. The merits of such creatures remain to be seen.”

  “The merits—” Kylara began, ready to explode with outrage.

  Robinton the Harper was beside her, whispering in her ear.

  Grateful to Robinton, F’lar turned to attend the Smith, who had stepped to the door, obviously wanting the dragonmen to accompany him. F’lar was reluctant to see the distance-writer. It wouldn’t receive the attention it deserved from the Lords or the people or the riders. The distance-writer made so much more sense in this emergency than unreliable lizards. And yet, if they did eat Thread . . .

  He paused on the threshold, looking back toward Kylara and the Harper. Robinton looked directly at him.

  Almost as if the Harper read his mind, F’lar saw him smile winningly down at Kylara (though F’lar knew the man detested her).

  “F’lar, do you think it’s wise for Kylara to go out into that mob? They’ll scare the lizard,” said the Harper.

  “But I’m hungry—” Kylara protested. “And there’s music—” as the nearby thrum of a gitar was plainly audible.

  “That sounds like Tagetarl,” Robinton said, with a bright grin. “I’ll call him in and send you choice victuals from the kitchen. Far better than struggling with that noisome r
abble out there, I assure you.” He handed her to a chair with great courtesy, motioning behind his back to F’lar to leave.

  As they stepped out into the bright sunlight, the crowd swirling noisily around them, F’lar saw the merry-faced young man, gitar in hand, who had answered the Harper’s whistle. Undoubtedly Robinton would be free to join them in a few moments if he read matters rightly. The young journeyman would definitely appeal to Kylara’s—ah—nature.

  Fandarel had set up his equipment in the far corner of the Court, where the outside wall abutted the cliff-Hold, a dragonlength from the stairs. Three men were perched atop the wall, carefully handing something down to the group working on the apparatus. As the Weyrleaders followed Fandarel’s swath through the press of bodies (the fellis blossom fragrance had long since given way to other odors), F’lar was the object of many sidelong glances and broken conversations.

  “You watch, you’ll see,” a young man in the colors of a minor Hold was saying in a carrying voice. “Those dragonmen won’t let us near a clutch . . .”

  “The Lord Holders, you mean,” another said. “Fancy anything trusting that Nabolese. What? Oh. Great shells!”

  Now, if everyone on Pern could possess a fire lizard, wondered F’lar, would that really solve the problem?

  More dragons in the sky. He glanced up and recognized T’ron’s Fidranth and Mardra’s queen, Loranth. He sighed. He wanted to see what Fandarel planned with his distance-writer before he had to tackle T’ron.

  “Mnementh, what is happening at the Conclave?”

  Talk. They await the other two Lord Holders.

  F’lar tried to see if the Fort Weyrleaders had brought the missing Lords Groghe of Fort and Sangel of South Boll. Those two wouldn’t take kindly to a Conclave adjudicating without them. But if Lord Groghe had heard about High Reaches Hold . . .

  F’lar suppressed a shudder, trying to smile with sincere apologies as he edged past a group of small Holders who apparently couldn’t see him. As if recognizing the smithcrafters as neutral, the Weyrwomen had gathered in a wary group to the right of the mass of equipment which Fandarel’s people were setting up. They were pretending great interest, but even G’narish’s pretty Weyrmate, Nadira, looked troubled and she was a sweet-tempered lady. Bedella, representing Telgar Weyr, looked completely confused but she wasn’t bright.

  Just then Mardra broke through the guests, demanding to know what was going on. Had T’kul and Merika arrived? Where were their Hosts? Modern Holds were certainly lacking in plain courtesy. She didn’t expect traditional ceremonies any more but . . .

  At that moment, F’lar heard the clang of steel against steel and saw Lord Groghe of Fort pounding the Hall door with his knife handle, his heavy featured face suffused with anger. The slighter, frosty Sangel, Lord of South Boll, was scowling darkly behind him. The door opened a slit, widened slightly to allow the two Lord Holders to enter. Judging by their expression, it would take time and more talk before these two were pacified.

  “How much more needs to be done?” asked F’lar as he joined the Smith. He tried to remember how the distance-writer had looked in the Hall. This collection of tubes and wire seemed much too big.

  “We need only attach this wire so,” Fandarel replied, his huge fingers deftly fitting word to action, “and that one, here. Now. I place the arm in position over the roll and we shall send out a message to the Hall to be sure all is to order.” Fandarel beamed down at his instrument as fondly as any queen over a golden egg.

  F’lar felt someone rather too close behind him and looked irritably over his shoulder to see Robinton’s intent face. The Harper gave him an abstracted smile and nodded for him to pay attention.

  The Smith was delicately tapping out a code, the irregular lengths of red lines appearing on the gray paper as the needle moved.

  “ ‘Hook-up completed,’ ” Robinton murmured in F’lar’s ear. “ ‘Efficiently and on time.’ ” Robinton chuckled through that translation. “ ‘Stand by.’ That’s the long and short of it”

  The Smith turned the switch to the receive position and looked expectantly at F’lar. At that moment, Mnementh gave a squall from the heights. He and all the dragons began to extend their wings. The mass movement blotted out the sun which was lowering over the Telgar Cliffs and sent shadows over the guests to still their chatter.

  Groghe told the Lords that T’ron has found a distance-viewer at Fort. He has seen the Red Star through it. They are upset. Be warned, said Mnementh.

  The doors of the Great Hall swung wide and the Lord Holders came striding out. One look at Lord Groghe’s face confirmed Mnementh’s report. The Lord Holders ranged themselves on the steps, in a solid front against the Dragonmen gathered in the corner. Lord Groghe had lifted his arm, pointed it accusingly at F’lar, when a disconcerting hiss split the pregnant silence.

  “Look!” the Smith bellowed and all eyes followed his hand as the distance-writer began receiving a message.

  “ ‘Igen Hold reports Thread falling. Transmission broken off midsentence.’ ”

  Robinton reported the sounds as they were printed, his voice growing hoarser and less confident with each word.

  “What nonsense is this?” Lord Groghe demanded, his florid face brick-red as attention was diverted from his proposed announcement. “Thread fell in the High Reaches at noon yesterday. How could it fall at Igen Hold this evening? What the Shells is that contraption?”

  “I don’t understand,” G’narish protested loudly, staring up at Lord Laudey of Igen Hold who stood in stunned horror on the steps. “I’ve sweepriders on constant patrol . . .”

  The dragons bugled on the heights just as a green burst into the air over the court, causing the crowd to scream and duck, scurrying to the walls for safety.

  Threads fall at Igen southwest, came the message loud and clear. To be echoed by the dragonriders in the court.

  “Where are you going, F’lar?” bellowed Lord Groghe as the Benden Weyrleader followed G’narish’s plunge to the Gate. The air was full of dragon wings now, the screams of frightened women counterpointing the curses of men.

  “To fight Thread at Igen, of course,” F’lar shouted back.

  “Igen’s my problem,” G’narish cried, halting and wheeling toward F’lar, but there was gratitude, not rebuke in his surprised face.

  “G’narish, wait! Where in Igen?” Lord Laudey was demanding. He pushed past the infuriated Lord Groghe to catch up with his Weyrleader.

  “And Ista? Is the island in danger?” Lord Warbret wanted to know.

  “We’ll go and see,” D’ram reassured him, taking his arm and urging him toward the Gate.

  “Since when has Benden Weyr concerned itself with Igen and Ista?” T’ron planted himself squarely in F’lar’s way. The menace in his voice carried to the steps of the Hall. His belligerent stance, obstructing the way to the Gate, halted them all. “And rushed to Nabol’s aid?”

  F’lar returned his scowl. “Thread falls, dragonman. Igen and Ista fly winglight, with riders helping at Telgar Weyr. Should we feast when others fight?”

  “Let Ista and Igen fend for themselves!”

  Ramoth screamed on high. The other queens answered her. What she challenged no one knew, but she suddenly winked out. F’lar had no attention to spare to wonder that she’d gone between without Lessa riding for he saw T’ron’s hand on his belt knife.

  “We can settle our difference of opinion later, T’ron. In private! Thread falls . . .”

  The bronzes had begun to land outside the Gate, juggling to let as many land close as possible.

  The green rider from Igen had directed his beast to perch on the Gate. He was repeatedly yelling his message to the static, tense group below.

  T’ron would not stop. “Thread falls, huh, F’lar? Noble Benden to the rescue! And it’s not Benden’s concern.” He let out a raucous shout of derisive contempt.

  “Enough, man!” D’ram stepped up to pull T’ron aside. He gestured sharply at the silent spectators.


  But T’ron ignored the warning and shook him off so violently that the heavy-set D’ram staggered.

  “I’ve had enough of Benden! Benden’s notions! Benden’s superiority! Benden’s altruism! And Benden’s Weyrleader . . .”

  With that last snarled insult, T’ron launched himself toward F’lar, his drawn knife raised for a slashing blow.

  As the ragged gasp of fear swept through the ranks of spectators, F’lar held his ground until there was no chance T’ron could change his direction. Then he ducked under the blade, yanking his own out of its ornamental sheath.

  It was a new knife, a gift from Lessa.. It had cut neither meat nor bread and must now be christened with the blood of a man. For this duel was to the death and its outcome could well decide the fate of Pern.

  F’lar had sunk to a semicrouch, flexing his fingers around the hilt, testing its balance. Too much depended on a single belt knife, a half-hand shorter than the blade in his opponent’s fingers. T’ron had the reach of him and the added advantage of being in wherhide riding gear whereas F’lar wore flimsy cloth. His eyes never left T’ron as he faced the older man. F’lar was aware of the hot sun on the back of his neck, the hard stones under his feet, of the deathly hush of the great Court, of the smells of bruised fellis blooms, spilled wines and fried food, of sweat—and fear.

  T’ron moved forward, amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size and age. F’lar let him come, pivoted as T’ron angled off to his left, a circling movement designed to place him off balance—a transparent maneuver. F’lar felt a quick surge of relief; if this were the measure of T’ron’s combat strategy . . .

  With a bound the Oldtimer was on him, knife miraculously transferred to his left hand with a motion too quick to follow, his right arm coming over and down in a blow that struck F’lar’s wrist as he threw himself backward to avoid, by the thickness of a hair, the hissing stroke of the foot-long blade. He backed, his arm half-numbed, aware of the shock that coursed through him like a drenching of icy water.

  For a man blind with anger, T’ron was a shade too controlled for F’lar’s liking. What possessed the man to pick a quarrel—here and now? For T’ron had pushed this fight, deliberately baiting F’lar with that specious quibble. D’ram and G’narish had been relieved at his offer of help. So T’ron had wanted to fight. Why? Then suddenly, F’lar knew. T’ron had heard about T’kul’s flagrant negligence and knew that the other Oldtimers could not ignore or obliquely condone it. Not with F’lar of Benden likely to insist that T’kul step aside as Weyrleader of High Reaches. If T’ron could kill F’lar, he could control the others. And F’lar’s public death would leave the modern Lord Holders without a sympathetic Weyrleader. The domination of Weyrs over Hold and Craft would continue unchallenged, and unchanged.