Dragonquest (42 page)

Then they were hurled into the awesome calm of a funnel of burning, sand-filled heat and fell toward the surface—crippled and impotent

Painridden, F'nor had only one thought as his senses failed him. The Weyr! The Weyr must be warned!

 

Grall returned to Brekke, crying piteously, burrowing into Brekke's arm. She was trembling with fear but her thoughts made such chaotic nonsense that Brekke was unable to isolate the cause of her terror.

She stroked and soothed the little queen, tempting her with morsels of meat to no effect. The little lizard refused to be quieted. Then Berd caught Grall's anxiety and when Brekke scolded him, Grall's excitement and anguish intensified.

Suddenly Mirrim's two greens came swooping into the weyr, twittering and fluttering, also affected by the irrational behavior of the little queen. Mirrim came running in then, escorted by her bronze, bugling and fanning his gossamer wings into a blur.

“Whatever is the matter? Are you all right, Brekke?”

“I'm perfectly all right,” Brekke assured her, pushing away the hand Mirrim extended to her forehead. “They're just excited, that's all. It's the middle of the night. Go back to bed.”

“Just excited?” Mirrim pursed her lips the way Lessa did when she knew someone was evading her. “Where's Canth? Why ever did they leave you alone?”

“Mirrim!” Brekke's tone brought the girl up sharp. She flushed, looking down at her feet, hunching her shoulders in the self-effacing way Brekke deplored. Brekke closed her eyes, fighting to be calm although the distress of the five fire lizards was insidious. “Please get me some strong
Klah.”

Brekke rose and began to dress in riding clothes. The five lizards started to keen now, flitting around the room, swooping in wild dives as if they wanted to escape some unseen danger.

“Get me some
klah,”
she repeated, because Mirrim stood watching her like a numbwit.

Her trio of fire lizards had followed her out before Brekke realized her error. They'd probably rouse the lower Caverns with their distress. She called but Mirrim didn't hear her. Cold chills made her fingers awkward.

Canth wouldn't go if he felt it would endanger F'nor. Canth has sense, Brekke told herself trying to convince herself. He knows what he can and can't do. Canth is the biggest, fastest, strongest brown dragon on Pern. He's almost as large as Mnementh and nearly as smart.

Brekke heard Ramoth's brassy bugle of alarm just as she received the incredible message from Canth.

Going to the Red Star? On the coordinates of a cloud? She staggered against the table, her legs trembling. She managed to sit but her hands shook so, she couldn't pour the wine. Using both hands, she got the bottle to her lips and swallowed some that way. It helped.

She'd somehow not believed they'd see a way to go. Was that what had frightened Grall so?

Ramoth kept up her alarm and Brekke now heard the other dragons bellowing with worry.

She fumbled with the last closing of her tunic and forced herself to her feet, to walk to the ledge. The fire lizards kept darting and diving around her, keenly wildly; a steady, nerve-jangling double trill of pure terror.

She halted at the top of the stairs, stunned by the confusion in the crepuscular gloom of the Weyr Bowl. There were dragons on ledges, fanning their wings with agitation. Other beasts were circling around at dangerous speeds. Some had riders, most were flying free. Ramoth and Mnementh were on the Stones, their wings outstretched, their tongues flicking angrily, their eyes bright orange as they bugled to their weyrmates. Riders and weyrfolk were running back and forth, yelling, calling to their beasts, questioning each other for the source of this inexplicable demonstration.

Brekke futilely clapped her hands to her ears, searching the confusion for a sight of Lessa or F'lar. Suddenly they both appeared at the steps and came running up to her. F'lar reached Brekke first, for Lessa hung back, one hand steadying herself against the wall.

“Do you know what Canth and F'nor are doing?” the Weyrleader cried. “Every beast in the Weyr is shrieking at the top of voice and mind!” He covered his own ears, glaring furiously at her, expecting an answer.

Brekke looked toward Lessa, saw the fear and the guilt in the Weyrwoman's eyes.

“Canth and F'nor are on their way to the Red Star.”

F'lar stiffened and his eyes turned as orange as Mnementh's. He stared at her with a compound of fear and loathing that sent Brekke reeling back. As if her movement released him, F'lar looked toward the bronze dragon roaring stentoriously on the heights.

His shoulders jerked back and his hands clenched into fists so tight the bones showed yellow through the skin.

At that instant, every noise ceased in the Weyr as every mind felt the impact of the warning the fire lizards had been trying inchoately to project.

Turbulence, savage, ruthless, destructive; a pressure inexorable and deadly. Churning masses of slick, sickly gray surfaces that heaved and dipped. Heat as massive as a tidal wave. Fear! Terror! An inarticulate longing!

A scream was torn from a single throat, a scream like a knife upon raw nerves!

“Don't leave me alone!”
The cry came from cords lacerated by the extreme of anguish; a command, an entreaty that seemed echoed by the black mouths of the weyrs, by dragon minds and human hearts.

Ramoth sprang aloft Mnementh was instantly beside her. Then every dragon in the Weyr was a-wing, the fire lizards, too; the air groaned with the effort to support the migration.

Brekke could not see. Her eyes were filled with blood from vessels burst by the force of her cry. But she knew there was a speck in the sky, tumbling downward with a speed that increased with every length; a plunge as fatal as the one which Canth had tried to stop over the stony heights of the High Reaches range.

And there was no consciousness in that plummeting speck, no echo, however faint, to her despairing inquiry. The arrow of dragons ascended, great wings pumping. The arrow thickened, once, twice, three times as other dragons arrived, making a broad path in the sky, steadily striving for that falling mote.

It was as if the dragons became a ramp that received the unconscious body of their weyrmate, received and braked its fatal momentum with their own bodies, until the last segment of overlapping wings eased the broken-winged ball of the bloody brown dragon to the floor of the Weyr.

Half-blinded as she was, Brekke was the first person to reach Canth's bleeding body, F'nor still strapped to his burned neck Her hands found F'nor's throat, her fingers the tendon where his pulse should beat. His flesh was cold and sticky to the touch and ice would be less hard.

“He isn't breathing,” someone cried. “His lips are blue!”

“He's alive, he's alive,” Brekke chanted. There, one faint shallow flutter against her seeking fingers. No, she didn't imagine it. Another.

“There wasn't any air on the Red Star. The blueness. He suffocated.”

Some half-forgotten memory prompted Brekke to wrench F'nor's jaws apart. She covered his mouth with hers and exhaled deeply into his throat. She blew air into his lungs and sucked it out.

“That's right, Brekke,” someone cried. “That may work. Slow and steady! Breathe for yourself or you'll pass out.”

Someone grabbed her painfully around the waist. She clung to F'nor's limp body until she realized that they were both being lifted from the dragon's neck.

She heard someone talking urgently, encouragingly to Canth.

“Canth! Stay!”

The dragon's pain was like a cruel knot in Brekke's skull. She breathed in and out. Out and in. For F'nor, for herself, for Canth. She was conscious as never before of the simple mechanics of breathing; conscious of the muscles of her abdomen expanding and contracting around a column of air which she forced up and out, in and out.

“Brekke! Brekke!”

Hard hands pulled at her. She clutched the wherhide tunic beneath her.

“Brekke! He's breathing for himself now. Brekke!”

They forced her away from him. She tried to resist but everything was a bloody blur. She staggered, her hand touching dragon hide.

Brekke.
The pain-soaked tone was faint, as if from an incalculable distance, but it was Canth.
Brekke?

“I am not alone!” And Brekke fainted, mind and body overtaxed by an effort which had saved two lives.

 

Spun out by ceaseless violence, the spores fell from the turbulent raw atmosphere of the thawing planet toward Pern, pushed and pulled by the gravitic forces of a triple conjunction of the system's other planets.

The spores dropped through the atmospheric envelope of Pern. Attenuated by the friction of entry, they fell in a rain of hot filaments on the surface of the planet.

Dragons rose, destroying them with flaming breath. What Thread eluded the airborne beasts was efficiently seared into harmless motes by ground crews, or burrowed after by sandworm and fire lizard.

Except on the eastern slope of a northern mountain plantation of hardwood trees. There men had carefully drawn back from the leading Edge of the Fall. They watched, one with intent horror, as the silver rain scorched leaf and fell hissing into the soil. When the leading Edge had passed over the crest of the mountain, the men approached the points of impact cautiously, the nozzles of the flame throwers they carried a half-turn away from spouting flame.

The still smoking hole of the nearest Thread entry was prodded with a metal rod. A brown fire lizard darted from the shoulder of one man and, chirping to himself, waddled over to the hole. He poked an inquisitive half-inch of nose into the ground. Then he rose in a dizzying movement and resumed his perch on the specially padded shoulder of his handler and began to preen himself fastidiously.

His master grinned at the other men.

“No Thread, F'lar. No Thread, Corman!”

The Benden Weyrleader returned Asgenar's smile, hooking his thumbs in his broad riding belt.

“And this is the fourth Fall with no burrows and no protection, Lord Asgenar?”

The Lord of Lemos Hold nodded, his eyes sparkling. “No burrows on the entire slope.” He turned in triumph to the one man who seemed dubious and said, “Can you doubt the evidence of your eyes, Lord Groghe?”

The ruddy-faced Lord of Fort Hold shook his head slowly.

“C'mon, man,” said the white-haired man with the prominent, hooked nose. “What more proof do you need? You've seen the same thing on lower Keroon, you've seen it in Telgar Valley. Even that idiot Vincet of Nerat Hold has capitulated.”

Groghe of Fort Hold shrugged, indicating a low opinion of Vincet, Lord Holder of Nerat.

“I just can't put any trust in a handful of squirming insects. Relying on dragons makes sense.”

“But you've seen grubs devour Thread!” F'lar persisted. His patience with the man was wearing thin.

“It isn't right for a
man,”
and Groghe drew himself up, “to be grateful to grubs!”

“I don't recall your being overgrateful to dragonkind either,” Asgenar reminded him with pointed malice.

“I don't trust grubs!” Groghe repeated, jutting his chin out at a belligerent angle. The golden fire lizard on his shoulder crooned softly and rubbed her down-soft head against his cheek. The man's expression softened slightly. Then he recalled himself and glared at F'lar. “Spent my whole life trusting dragonkind. I'm too old to change. But you're running the planet now. Do as you will. You will anyhow!”

He stalked away, toward the waiting brown dragon who was Fort Hold's resident messenger. Groghe's fire lizard extended her golden wings, crooning as she balanced herself against his jolting strides.

Lord Corman of Keroon fingered his large nose and blew it out briskly. He had a disconcerting habit of unblocking his ears that way. “Old fool. He'll use grubs. He'll use them. Just can't get used to the idea that it's no good wanting to go to the Red Star and blasting Thread on its home ground. Groghe's a fighter. Doesn't sit well with him to barricade his Hold, as it were, and wait out the siege. He likes to charge into things, straighten them out
his
way.”

“The Weyrs appreciate your help, Lord Corman,” F'lar began.

Corman snorted, blew out his ears again before waving aside F'lar's gratitude. “Common sense. Protect the ground. Our ancestors were a lot smarter than we are.”

“I don't know about that,” Asgenar said, grinning.

“I do, young fellow,” Corman retorted decisively. Then added hesitantly, “How's F'nor? And what's his name—Canth.”

The days when F'lar evaded a direct answer were now past. He smiled reassuringly. “He's on his feet. Not much the worse for wear,” although F'nor would never lose the scars on the cheek where particles had been forced into the bone. “Canth's wings are healing, though new membrane grows slowly. He looked like raw meat when they got back, you know. There wasn't a hand-span on his body, except where F'nor had lain, that hadn't been scoured bare. He has the entire Weyr hopping to when he itches and wants to be oiled. That's a lot of dragon to oil.” F'lar chuckled as much to reassure Corman who looked uncomfortable hearing a list of Canth's injuries as in recollection of the sight of Canth dominating a Weyr's personnel.

“Then the beast will fly again.”

“We believe so. And he'll fight Thread, too. With more reason than any of us.”

Corman regarded F'lar levelly. “I can see it's going to take Turns and Turns to grub the continent thoroughly. This forest,” and he gestured to the plantation of hardwood saplings, “my corner on Keroon plains, the one valley in Telgar, used all the grubs it's safe to take from Southern this Turn. I'll be dead, long since, before the job is finished. However, when the day comes that all land is protected, what do you dragonmen plan to do?”