The Dragonriders of Pern

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Which is the last obstacle?” F’nor demanded, sarcastically, thinking of nine or ten offhand.

  “There’re enough, I know.” And F’lar ticked them off on his fingers. “Protection of Pern while all the Weyrs are away—which might well mean the grubs on the land and a well-organized ground crew to take care of homes and people. Dragons big enough, intelligent enough to aid us. You’ve noticed yourself that our dragons are both bigger and smarter than those four hundred Turns older. If the dragons were bred for this purpose from creatures like Grall, they didn’t grow to present size in the course of just a few Hatchings. Any more than the Masterherdsman could breed those long-staying long-legged runners he’s finally developed; it’s a project that I understand started about four hundred Turns ago. G’narish says they didn’t have them in the Oldtime.”

  There was an undercurrent to F’lar’s voice, F’nor suddenly realized. The man was not as certain of this outrageous notion as he sounded. And yet, wasn’t the recognized goal of dragonmen the complete extermination of all Thread from the skies of Pern? Or was it? There wasn’t a line of the Teaching Ballads and Sagas that even suggested more than that the dragonmen prepare and guard Pern when the Red Star passed. Nothing hinted at a time when there would be no Thread to fight

  “Isn’t it just possible that we, now, are the culmination of thousands of Turns of careful planning and development?” F’lar was suggesting urgently. “Look, don’t all the facts corroborate? The large population in support, the ingenuity of Fandarel, the discovery of those rooms and the devices, the grubs—everything . . .”

  “Except one,” F’nor said slowly, hating himself.

  “Which?” All the warmth and fervor drained out of F’lar and that single word came in a cold, harsh voice.

  “Son of my father,” began F’nor, taking a deep breath, “if dragonmen clear the Star of Thread, what further purpose is there for them?”

  F’lar, his face white and set with disappointment, drew himself to his feet.

  “Well, I assume you’ve an answer to that, too,” F’nor went on, unable to bear the disillusion in his half-brother’s scornful regard. “Now where’s that long-handled hearthpan I’m supposed to catch Thread in?”

  When they had thoroughly discussed and rejected every other possible method of securing Thread, and how they were to keep this project a secret—only Lessa and Ramoth knew of it—they parted, both assuring the other that he’d eat and rest. Both certain that the other could not.

  If F’nor appreciated the audacity of F’lar’s project, he also counted up the flaws and the possible disasters. And then he realized that he still hadn’t had a chance to broach the innovation he himself desired to make. Yet, for a brown dragon to fly a queen was far less revolutionary than F’lar wanting to terminate the Weyrs’ duties. And, reinforced by one of F’lar’s own theories, if the dragons were now big enough for their ultimate breeding purpose, then no harm was done the species if a brown, smaller than a bronze, was mated to a queen—just this once. Surely F’nor deserved that compensation. Comforted that it would be merely an exchange of favors; rather than the gross crime it might once have been considered, F’nor went to borrow the long-handled hearthpan from one of Manora’s helpers.

  Someone, probably Manora, had cleaned his weyr during his absence at Southern. F’nor was grateful for the fresh, supple skins on the bed, the clean, mended clothes in his chest, the waxed wood of table and chairs. Canth grumbled that someone had swept the sandy accumulation from his weyr-couch and he had nothing to scour his belly hide with now.

  F’nor dutifully sympathized as he lay back on the silky furs of his bed. The scar on his arm itched a little and he rubbed it.

  Oil is for itching skin, said Canth. Imperfect hide cracks in between.

  “Be quiet, you. I’ve got skin, not hide.”

  Grall appeared in his room, hovering over his chest, her wings wafting cool air across his face. She was curious, a curiosity with slight overtones of alarm.

  He smiled, generating reassurance and affection. The gyrations of her lovely jewel-faceted eyes slowed and she made a graceful survey of his quarters, humming when she discovered the bathing room. He could hear her splashing about in the water. He closed his eyes. He would need to rest He did not look forward to the afternoon’s endeavor.

  If the grubs did live to eat Thread, and if F’lar could maneuver the scared Lords and Craftsmen into accepting this solution, what then? They weren’t fools, those men. They’d see that Pern would no longer be dependent on dragonriders. Of course, that’s what they wanted. And what under the sun did out-of-work dragonriders do? The Lords Holders Groghe, Sangel, Nessel, Meron and Vincet would immediately dispense with tithes. F’nor wouldn’t object to learning another trade, but F’lar had relinquished their tentative hold on the southern continent to the Oldtimers, so where would dragonmen farm? What commodity would they barter for the products of the Crafthalls?

  F’lar couldn’t be under the impression that he could mend that breach with T’kul, could he? Or maybe—well, they didn’t know how large the southern continent was. Past the deserts to the west or the unexplored sea to the east, maybe there were other, hospitable lands. Did F’lar know more than he said?

  Grall chirruped piteously in his ear. She was clinging to the fur rug by his shoulder, her supple hide gleaming golden from her bath. He stroked her, wondering if she needed oil. She was growing, but not at the tremendous rate dragons did in the first few weeks after Hatching.

  Well, his thoughts were disturbing her as well as himself. “Canth?”

  The dragon was asleep. The fact was oddly consoling.

  F’nor found a comfortable position and closed his eyes, determined to rest Grall’s soft stirrings ended and he felt her body resting against his neck, in the curve of his shoulder. He wondered how Brekke was doing at the High Reaches. And if her small bronze was as unsettled by weyrlife in a cliff as Grall. A memory of Brekke’s face crossed his mind. Not as he had last seen her, anxious, worried, rapidly mobilizing her wits to cope with moving so precipitously after T’kul had swooped down on the unsuspecting settlement. But as loving had made her, soft, gentled. He’d have her soon to himself, all to himself, for he’d see that she didn’t overextend herself, fighting everyone’s battles except her own. She’d be asleep now, he realized, for it was still night at High Reaches . . .

  Brekke was not asleep. She had awakened suddenly, as she was accustomed to doing in the morning, except that the dart stillness around her was not simply that of an inner room in the weyr cliff, but was full of the soft solitude of night. The fire lizard, Berd, roused too, his brilliant eyes the only light in the room. He crooned apprehensively. Brekke stroked him, listening for Wirenth, but the queen was sound asleep in her stony couch.

  Brekke tried to compose herself back into sleep, but even as she made her body relax, she realized it was a useless attempt. It might be late watch here at High Reaches, but it was dawn in Southern, and that’s the rhythm her body was still tuned to. With a sigh, she rose, reassuring Berd who rustled around anxiously. But he joined her in the pool-bath, splashing with small vehemence in the warm water, utilizing the superfluous suds from her cleansing sands to bathe himself. He preened on the bench, uttering those soft voluptuous croons that amused her.

  In a way, it was good to be up and about with no one to interrupt her for there was so much to be done to settle the weyrfolk in their new habitation. She’d have to plan around some of the most obvious problems. There was little fresh food. T’kul had gratuitously left behind the oldest, scrawniest bucks, the worst furnishings, had made off with most of the supplies of cloth, cured woods, leathers, all the wine, and managed to prevent the Southern folk from taking enough from their stores to make up the deficits. Oh, if she’d had even two hours, or any warning . . .

  She sighed. Obviously Merika had been a worse Weyrwoman than Kylara, for High Reaches was in a bad state of disrepair. Those Holds which tithed to High Reaches Weyr
would be in no mood to make up the differences now. Maybe a discreet word to F’nor would remedy the worst of the lacks . . . No, that would suggest incompetency. First, she’d inventory what they did have, discover the most pressing needs, see what they could manufacture themselves . . . Brekke stopped. She’d have to adjust her thinking to an entirely new way of life, a life dependent on the generosity of the Holds. In Southern, you had so much to work with. In her father’s Crafthall, you always made what you could from things to hand—but there were always raw materials—or you grew it—or did without.

  “One thing certain, Kylara will not do without!” Brekke muttered. She had dressed in riding gear which was warmer and less hampering if she was to delve into storage caves.

  She didn’t like the pinched-face Meron Lord of Nabol Hold. To be indebted to him would be abhorrent. There must be an alternative.

  Wirenth was twitching as Brekke passed her and the dragon’s hide gleamed in the darkness. She was so deeply asleep that Brekke did not even stroke her muzzle in passing. The dragon had worked hard yesterday. Could it really have been only yesterday?

  Berd chirped so smugly as he glided past the queen that Brekke smiled. He was a dear nuisance, as transparent as pool water—and she must check and see if Rannelly was right about the Weyr lake. The old woman had complained bitterly last evening that the water was fouled—deliberately; maliciously fouled by T’kul.

  It was startling to come out into crisply cold air with the pinch of late frost in the early hour chill. Brekke glanced up at the watchrider by the Star stones and then hurried down the short flight of steps to the Lower Caverns. The fires had been banked but the water kettle was comfortingly hot She made klah, found bread and fruit for herself and some meat for Berd. He was beginning to eat with less of the barbarous voracity, and no longer gorged himself into somnolence.

  Taking a fresh basket of glows, Brekke went into the storage section to begin her investigations. Berd cheerfully accompanied her, perching where he could watch her industry.

  By the time the Weyr began to stir, four hours later, Brekke was full of contempt for past domestic management and considerably relieved about the resources on hand. In fact, she suspected that the best fabrics and leathers, not to mention wines, had not gone south with the dissenters.

  But the lake water was indisputably fouled by household garbage and would have to be dredged. It wouldn’t be usable for several days at least. And there was nothing in which water could be transported in any quantity from the nearby mountain streams. It seemed silly to send a dragon out for a couple of bucketsful, she reported to T’bor and Kylara.

  “I’ll get kegs from Nabol,” Kylara announced, once she had recovered from ranting about T’kul’s pettiness.

  While it was obvious to Brekke that T’bor was not pleased to hear her solution, he had too much else to occupy his time to protest. At least, Brekke thought, Kylara was taking an interest in the Weyr and some of the responsibility.

  So Kylara circled out of the Bowl, Prideth shining golden in the early morning sun. And T’bor took off with several wings for low-altitude sweeps, to get familiar with the terrain and set up appropriate watch fires and patrol check points. Brekke and Vanira, with the help of Pilgra, the only High Reaches Weyrwoman to stay behind, settled who would supervise which necessary duties. They set the weyrlings to dragging the lake, sent others for immediate supplies of fresh water.

  Deeply occupied in counting sacks of flour, Brekke did not hear Wirenth’s first cry. It was Berd who responded with a startled squawk, flying round Brekke’s head to attract her attention.

  As Brekke felt for Wirenth’s mind, she was astonished at the incoherence, at the rough, wild emotions. Wondering what could have happened to a queen who’d been so peacefully asleep, Brekke raced through the corridors, to be met in the Lower Cavern by Pilgra, wide-eyed with excitement

  “Wirenth’s ready to rise, Brekke. I’ve called back the riders! She’s on her way to the Feeding. Ground. You know what to do, don’t you?”

  Brekke stared at the girl, stunned. In a daze she let Pilgra pull her toward the Bowl. Wirenth was screaming, as she glided into the Feeding Ground. The terrified herdbeasts stampeded, keening their distress, adding to the frightening tension in the air.

  “Go on, Brekke,” Pilgra cried, pushing her. “Don’t let her gorge. She won’t fly well!”

  “Help me!” Brekke pleaded.

  Pilgra embraced her reassuringly, with an odd smile. “Don’t be scared. It’s wonderful.”

  “I—I can’t . . .”

  Pilgra gave Brekke a shake. “Of course you can. You must I’ve got to scoot with Segrith. Vanira’s already taken her queen away.”

  “Taken her away?”

  “Of course. Don’t be stupid. You can’t have other queens around right now. Just be thankful Kylara’s at Nabol Hold with Prideth. That one’s too close to rising herself.”

  And Pilgra, with one last push at Brekke, ran toward her own queen.

  Rannelly was at Brekke’s elbow suddenly, batting at the excited fire lizard who darted above their heads.

  “Get away! Get away! You, girl, get to your queen or you’re no Weyrwoman! Don’t let her gorge!”

  Suddenly the air was again full of dragon wings—the bronzes had returned. And the urgency of mating, the necessity of protecting Wirenth roused Brekke. She began to run toward the Feeding Ground, aware of the rising hum of the bronzes, the expectant sensuality of the browns and blues and greens who now perched on their ledges to watch the event. Weyrfolk crowded the Bowl.

  “F’nor! F’nor! What shall I do?” Brekke moaned.

  And then she was aware that Wirenth had come down on a buck, shrieking her defiance; an altered, unrecognizable Wirenth, voracious with more than a blood urge.

  “She mustn’t gorge!” someone shouted at Brekke. Someone gripped her arms to her sides, tightly. “Don’t let her gorge, Brekke!”

  But Brekke was with Wirenth now, was feeling the insatiable desire for raw, hot meat, for the taste of blood in her mouth, the warmth of it in her belly. Brekke was unaware of extraneous matters. Of anything but the fact that Wirenth was rising to mate and that she, Brekke, would be captive to those emotions, a victim of her dragon’s lust, and that this was contrary to all she had been conditioned to believe and honor.

  Wirenth had gutted the first buck by now and Brekke fought to keep her from eating the steaming entrails. Fought and won, controlling herself and her beast for the bond-love she had with the golden queen. When Wirenth rose from the blooded carcass, Brekke became momentarily aware of the heavy, hot, musty bodies crowding around her. Frantic, she glanced up at the circle of bronze riders, their faces intent on the scene on the Feeding Ground, intent and sensual, their expressions changing them from well-known features into strange parodies.

  “Brekke! Control her!” Someone shouted hoarsely in her ear and her elbow was seized in a painful vise.

  This was wrong! All wrong! Evil, she moaned, desperately crying with all her spirit for F’nor. He had said he’d come. He had promised that only Canth would fly Wirenth . . . Canth! Canth!

  Wirenth was going for the throat of the buck, not to blood it, but to rend and eat the flesh.

  Two disciplines warred with each other. Confused, distraught, torn as violently as the flesh of the dead buck, Brekke nevertheless forced Wirenth to obey her. And yet, which force would finally win? Weyr or Crafthall? Brekke clung to the hope that F’nor would come—the third alternate.

  After the fourth buck, Wirenth seemed to glow. With an astonishing leap, she was suddenly aloft Trumpeting roars reverberated painfully back and forth from the sides of the Weyr as the bronzes leaped after her, the wind from their wings sweeping dust and sand into the faces of the watching weyrfolk.

  And Brekke was conscious of nothing but Wirenth. For she was suddenly Wirenth, contemptuous of the bronzes trying to catch her as she sped upward, eastward, high above the mountains, until the land below was hollow black an
d sand, the flash of blue lake in the sun blinding. Above the clouds, up where the air was thin but speed enhanced.

  And then, out of the clouds below her, another dragon. A queen, as glowingly golden as herself. A queen? To lure her dragons from her?

  Screaming in protest, Wirenth dove at the intruder, her talons extended, her body no longer exulting in flight but tensed for combat.

  She dove and the intruder veered effortlessly, turning so swiftly to rake her talons down Wirenth’s exposed flank that the young queen could not evade the strike. Injured, Wirenth fell, recovering valiantly and swooping into cloud cover. The bronzes had caught up and bugled their distress. They wanted to mate. They wanted to interfere. The other queen—it was Prideth—believing her rival vanquished, called enticingly to the bronzes.

  Fury was added to the pain of Wirenth’s humiliation. She exploded from the clouds, bellowing her challenge, her summons to the bronzes.

  And her opponent was there! Beneath Wirenth. The young queen folded her wings and dove, her golden body dropping at a fearsome rate. And her dive was too unexpected, too fast. Prideth could not avoid the mid-air collision. Wirenth’s claws sank into her back and Prideth writhed, her wings fouled by the talons which she could not disengage. Both queens fell like Thread, toward the mountains, escorted by the distraughtly bugling bronzes.

  With the desperation born of frenzy, Prideth wrenched herself free, Wirenth’s talons leaving gouges to the bone along her shoulders. But as she twisted free, beating for altitude, she slashed at Wirenth’s unprotected head, across one gleaming eye.

  Wirenth’s tortured scream pierced the heavens just as other queens broke into the air around them; queens who instantly divided, one group flying for Prideth, the other for Wirenth.

  Implacably they circled Wirenth, forcing her back, away from Prideth, their circles ever decreasing, a living net around the infuriated, pain-racked queen. Sensing only that she was being deprived of revenge on her foe, Wirenth saw the one escape route and folding her wings, dropped out the bottom of the net and darted toward the other group of queens.