Dragonquest (22 page)

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 . . .”

Sograny's reaction was immediate. With a cry of fear, he grabbed F'lar's hand, tumbling the grubs to the stone of the barn. Yelling for agenothree, he stamped on the squirming grubs as if they were essence of evil.

“How could you—a dragonman—bring such filth into my dwellings?”

“Masterherdsman, control yourself!” F'lar snapped, grabbing the man and shaking him. “They devour Thread. Like sandworms. Like sandworms!”

Sograny was trembling beneath F'lar's hands, staring at him. He shook his skull-like head and the wildness died from his eyes.

“Only flame can devour Thread, dragonman!”

“I told you,” F'lar said coldly, “that those grubs devoured Thread!”

Sograny glared at F'lar with considerable animus.

“They are an abomination. You waste my time with such nonsense.”

“My deep apologies,” F'lar said, with a curt bow. But his irony was wasted on the man. Sograny turned back to his laboring cow as though F'lar had never interrupted him.

F'lar strode off, pulling on his gloves, his forefinger coming into contact with the wet, slippery body of a grub.

“See the Masterherdsman, eh?” he muttered under his breath, waving aside the services of the guide as he left the breeding barn. A bellow from a herdbeast followed him out. “Yes, he breeds animals, but not ideas. Ideas might waste time, be useless.”

As he and Mnementh circled upward, F'lar wondered how much trouble D'ram was having with that old fool.

 

CHAPTER IX

 

Afternoon at Southern Weyr: Same Day

 

 

 

I
T WAS
a long flight, the straight way, from the western swamps to Southern Weyr's headland. At first, F'nor rebelled. A short hop
between
would not affect his healing arm, but Canth became unexpectedly stubborn. The big brown soared, caught the prevailing wind and, with great sweeps of his wings, sped through the cooler air, high above the monotonous terrain.

As Canth settled down into long-distance flying, the rhythm began to soothe F'nor. What ought to have been a tedious journey became the blessing of uninterrupted time for reflection. And F'nor had much to think about.

The brown rider had noticed the widespread Thread-scoring. He had turned back bush after bush, heavily pitted by Threadmark, to find no trace of burrow at all in the swamp mud around them. Not once had he used his flame thrower. And the ground crews told him they had so little to do they wondered the Weyr called them at all. Many were from the fishing settlement and they were beginning to resent being taken from their labors, for they were trying to complete stone holds against the winter storms. They all preferred Southern to their old homes, though they did not complain against Tillek's Lord Oterel, or Lord Warbret of Ista.

It had always amused F'nor that people he had scarcely met were willing to confide in him, but he had found that this was often an advantage, despite the hours he'd had to spend listening to maundering tales. One of the younger men, the ground-crew chief, Toric, informed him that he'd staked out a sandy cove near his hold. It was almost inaccessible from the landside, but he'd seen certain fire-lizard signs. He was determined to Impress one and positive that he could, for he'd been lucky with watch-whers. He'd tried to convince Fort Weyr that he should have a chance at Impressing a dragon, but he hadn't been given the courtesy of seeing T'ron. Toric was quite bitter about weyrmen and, knowing (as everyone seemed to, F'nor had discovered) about the belt-knife fight, Toric expected F'nor to be disaffected, too. He was surprised when F'nor brusquely cut off his carping recital.

It was this curious ambivalence of Holder feeling toward dragonmen that occupied F'nor's thought. Holders claimed that weyrfolk held themselves aloof, acted patronizing or condescending, or plain arrogant in their presence. Yet there wasn't a man or woman, Holder or Crafter, who hadn't at one time or another wished he or she had Impressed a dragon. And in many this turned to bitter envy. Weyrmen insisted they were superior to commoners even while they consistently exhibited the same appetites as other men for material possessions and nubile women. Yet they did indeed refute the Crafter contention that dragonriding was a skill no more exacting than any craft on Pern, for in no other craft did a man risk life as a matter of course. And far worse, the loss of half his life. Reflexively, F'nor's thought sheered sharply away from any hint of threat to the great brown he rode.

The little queen stirred inside the heavy arm sling where he had been carrying her.

Young Toric, now, would lose some of his bitterness if he did Impress a fire lizard. He would feel that his claim was vindicated. And if fire lizards did take to anyone, and could carry messages back and forth, what a boon that would be. A lizard for everyone? That would be quite a battle cry. F'nor chortled as he thought of the Oldtimers' reactions to that. Do them good, it would, and he chuckled at the vision of T'ron trying to lure a fire lizard which ignored him to be Impressed by a lowly crafterchild. Something had better pierce the Oldtimers' blind parochiality. Yet even they, at a crucial moment in the sensitive awareness of adolescence, had appealed to dragonkind; they endured cold and possible death to fight an endless and mindless enemy. But there was more to living than that initial achievement and that eternal alert. Adolescence was only a step of life, not a career in itself. When one matured, one knew there was more to living.

Then F'nor remembered that he'd not had the chance to mention Brekke's problem to F'lar. And F'lar would probably have gone back to Benden Weyr by now. F'nor upbraided himself for what was downright interference. Comes from being a Wing-second so long, he thought. You can't go around meddling in another's Weyr. T'bor had enough stress. But, by the First Egg, F'nor hated to think of the scenes Kylara would subject Brekke to, if Orth flew Wirenth.

He grew restless with traveling and wasn't even amused when Canth began to croon soothingly. But when the journey was accomplished, and they were circling down into the late afternoon sun over Southern, he felt no fatigue. A few riders were feeding their beasts in the pasture and he inquired if Canth wished to be fed.

Brekke wants to see you,
Canth advised F'nor as he landed neatly in his weyt

“Probably to scold me,” F'nor said, slapping Canth's muzzle affectionately. He stood aside watching until the brown settled himself in the warmth of his dusty wallow.

Grall peeked out of the folds of the sling and F'nor transferred her to his shoulder. She squeaked a protest as he strode quickly toward Brekke's weyrhold and dug her claws into the shoulder pad for balance. She was thinking hungry thoughts.

Brekke was feeding her lizard, Berd, when F'nor entered. She smiled as she heard Grall's shrill demand, and pushed the bowl of meat toward F'nor.

“I was worried that you might fly
between.”

“Canth wouldn't let me.”

“Canth has sense. How's the arm?”

“Took no hurt. There wasn't much to be done.”

“So I hear.” Brekke frowned. “Everything's askew. I have the oddest sensation . . .”

“Go on,” F'nor urged when she broke off. “What kind of a sensation?” Was Wirenth about to rise? Brekke seemed to remain untouched by so many disturbances, a serene competent personality, tranquilly keeping the Weyr going, healing the wounded. For her to admit to uncertainty was disturbing.

As if she caught his thoughts, she shook her head, her lips set in a fierce line.

“No, it's not personal. It's just that everything is going awry—disorienting, changing . . .”

“Is that all? Didn't I hear you suggesting a minor change or two? Letting a girl Impress a fighting dragon? Handing out fire lizards to placate the common mass?”

“That's change. I'm talking about a disorientation, a violent upheaval . . .”

“And your suggestions don't rank under that heading? Oh, my dear girl,” and F'nor suddenly gave her a long, penetrating look. Something in her candid gaze disturbed him deeply.

“Kylara pestering you?”

Brekke's eyes slid from his and she shook her head. “I told you, Brekke, you can request other bronzes. Someone from another Weyr, N'ton of Benden or B'dor of Ista . . . That would shut Kylara up.”

Brekke shook her head violently, but kept her face averted. “Don't keep foisting your friends on me!” Her voice was sharp. “I like Southern. I'm needed here.”

“Needed? You're being shamelessly exploited and not just by Southerners!”

She stared at him, as surprised by the impulsive outburst as he was. For one moment he thought he understood why, but her eyes became guarded and F'nor wondered what Brekke could want to hide.

“The need is more apparent than the exploitation. I don't mind hard work,” she said in a low voice and popped a piece of meat into the brown's wide-open mouth. “Don't rob me of what fragile contentment I can contrive.”

“Contentment?”

“Sssh. You're agitating the lizards.”

“They'll survive. They fight. The trouble with you, Brekke, is that you won't. You deserve so much more than you get. You don't know what a kind, generous, useful—oh, shells!” and F'nor broke off in confusion.

“Useful, worthwhile, wholesome, capable, dependable, the list is categoric, F'nor, I know the entire litany,” Brekke said with a funny little catch in her voice. “Rest assured, my friend, I know what I am.”

There was such a bitterness in her light words, and such a shadow in her usually candid green eyes that F'nor could not tolerate it. To erase that self-deprecation, to make amends for his own maladroitness, F'nor leaned across the table to kiss her on the lips.

He meant it as no more than a guerdon and was totally unprepared for the reaction in himself, in Brekke. Or for Canth's distant bugle.

His eyes never leaving Brekke's, F'nor rose slowly and circled the table. He slid beside her on the bench, pulling her against him with his good arm. Her head fell back on his shoulder and he bent to the incredible sweetness of her lips. Her body was soft and pliable, her arms went around him, pressing him to her with a total surrender to his virility that he had never before experienced. No matter how eager others had seemed, or gratified, there had never been such a total commitment to him. Such an innocence of . . .

Abruptly F'nor raised his head, looking deep into her eyes.

“You've never slept with T'bor.” He stated it as a fact. “You've never slept with any man.”

She hid her face in his shoulder, the pliancy of her body gone. He gently forced her head up.

“Why have you deliberately let it be assumed that you and T'bor . . .”

She was shaking her head slightly from side to side, her eyes concealing nothing, her face a mask of sorrow.

“To keep other men from you?” F'nor demanded, giving her a little shake. “Why? Whom are you keeping yourself for?”

He knew the answer before she spoke, knew it when she placed her finger on his lips to silence him. But he couldn't understand her sorrow. He'd been a fool but . . .

“I have loved you since the first day I saw you. You were so kind to us, yanked away from Craft and Hold, dazed because we'd been brought all the way here on Search for Wirenth. One of us would actually be a Weyrwoman. And you—you were all a dragonman should be, tall and handsome, so kind. I didn't know then—” and Brekke faltered. To F'nor's concern, tears filmed her eyes. “How
could
I know that only bronze dragons fly queens!”

F'nor held the weeping girl to his chest, his lips against her soft hair, her trembling hands folded in his. Yes, there was much about Brekke he could understand now.

“Dear girl,” he said when her tears lessened, “is that why you refused N'ton?”

She nodded her head against his shoulder, unwilling to look at him.

“Then you're a silly clunch and deserve all the anguish you've put yourself through,” he said, his teasing voice taking the sting from his words. He patted her shoulder and sighed exaggeratedly. “And craftbred as well. Have you taken in nothing you've been told about dragonfolk? Weyrwomen can't be bound by any commoner moralities. A Weyrwoman has to be subservient to her queen's needs, including mating with many riders if her queen is flown by different dragons. Most craft and holdbred girls envy such freedom . . .”

“Of that I'm all too aware,” Brekke said and her body seemed to resent his touch.

“Does Wirenth object to me?”

“Oh, no,” and Brekke looked startled. “I meant—oh, I don't know what I meant. I love Wirenth, but can't you understand? I'm
not
weyrbred. I don't have that kind of—of—wantonness in my nature. I'm—I'm inhibited. There! I said it I am inhibited and I'm terrified that I'll inhibit Wirenth. I can't change all of me to conform to Weyr customs. I'm the way I am.”

F'nor tried to soothe her. He wasn't sure now how to proceed, for this overwrought girl was a different creature entirely from the calm, serious, reliable Brekke he knew.

“No one wants or expects you to change completely. You wouldn't be our Brekke. But dragons don't criticize. Neither do their riders. Most queens tend to prefer one bronze above the others consistently . . .”

“You still don't understand.” The accusation was a hopeless wail. “I never saw any man I wanted to—to have—” The word was an aspirated whisper. “Not that way. Not until I saw you. I don't want any other man to possess me. I'll freeze. I won't be able to draw Wirenth back. And I love her. I love her so and she'll be rising soon and I can't . . . I thought I'd be able to, but I know I'll . . .”

She tried to break away from him, but even with one arm the brown rider was stronger. Trapped, she began to cling to him with the strength of utter despair.

He rocked her gently against him, removing his arm from the sling so he could stroke her hair.

“You won't lose Wirenth. It's different when dragons mate, love. You're the dragon, too, caught up in emotions that have only one resolution.” He held her tightly as she seemed to shrink with revulsion from him as well as the imminent event. He thought of the riders here at Southern, of T'bor, and he experienced a disgust of another sort. Those men, conditioned to respond to Kylara's exotic tastes, would brutalize this inexperienced child.

F'nor glanced round at the low couch and rose, Brekke in his arms. He started for the bed, halted, hearing voices beyond the clearing. Anyone might come.

Still holding her, he carried her out of the weyrhold, smothering her protest against his chest as she realized his intention. There was a place behind his weyrhold, beyond Canth's wallow, where the ferns grew sweet and thick, where they would be undisturbed.

He wanted to be gentle but, unaccountably, Brekke fought him. She pleaded with him, crying out wildly that they'd rouse the sleeping Wirenth. He wasn't gentle but he was thorough, and, in the end, Brekke astounded him with a surrender as passionate as if her dragon had been involved.

F'nor raised himself on his elbow, pushing the sweaty, fern-entangled hair from her closed eyes, pleased by the soft serenity of her expression; excessively pleased with himself. A man never really knew how a woman would respond in love. So much hinted at in play never materialized in practice.