Dragonseye (33 page)

It was M’shall who spoke first. “Well, that was one good idea gone awry,” he said in a droll tone. “Great minds, all of us.”

“Except for forgetting one simple rule,” Irene added, pulling off her flying cap. Her face was still pale from fright.

K’vin glanced at Zulaya, who was wiping sweat from her face, so he knew none of the queen riders had had an easy time to get their queens to insist on the disengagement.

“Dragons know what they’re supposed to do when Thread falls,” M’shall said, nodding. And then he started to laugh.

K’vin grinned and, when he heard G’don’s bass chuckle, saw no reason any longer to hold his laughter in. B’nurrin was howling so, he had to clutch at K’vin to keep his balance. Even D’miel looked properly abashed, and Laura’s giggle was infectious enough to increase the volume. Beyond the inner circle the rest of the riders caught the joke on themselves and joined in the laugh. It was a good release from the fright that they had all just had.

“Did anyone happen to notice a Fort rider disappearing in guilty retreat?” M’shall asked when the laughter died down. He’d been checking the identity of those on the rim of this informal assembly.

“They’d be the last to admit coming,” Irene said. “I doubt that, Renee,” G’don said. “S’nan runs a strict Weyr, it’s true, but I’ll wager there’re a few renegades among his wingleaders.”

“I know there are,” Man said, blotting her eyes, which were still merry from laughter. “It’s just such a hoot that we all,” and she ringed them with a swirl of her hand, “thought to come have a peek.”

“It’s not going to inhibit any of the dragons, is it?” Laura asked, turning pale at the sudden thought, “turning them off like that?”

D’miel wasn’t the only Weyrleader to dismiss that notion derisively. “Hardly! It’s increased rider credibility a hundredfold. They now know without doubt that what we’ve been telling them since they were hatched is true!”

“Oh, yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” she said, relieved.

“I myself would like to thank the queen riders for exerting their powerful influence on our bronzes,” G’don said with a formal hand over his heart as he bowed to the five queen riders.

“The advantage of having three very senior queens,” Zulaya said, “and two very strong-minded young women.”

Laura blushed while Shanna stood even straighter.

“All right, then,” M’shall said, having taken note that most of the male dragons’ eyes were resuming normal color and speed. He took a step toward the center of the sandy circle and cupped his hands, turning as he spoke. “All right, then, every one of you. This is a meeting that never happened and isn’t to be referred to in any Weyr for any reason. Do you understand me?” The response was loud and clear. He nodded and stepped back toward Craigath. “We’ll meet . . .” he said now to the other leaders, “where Thread first—officially—falls North.”

“We’ve sweep riders out all the time,” G’don reminded them.

“And we’re all very sure that S’nan does, too,” B’nurrin put in, grinning.

“So we’ll know when and where to meet again.”

“Wait a moment more, G’don,” K’vin said. “Why don’t we rotate the wings that meet that first Fall, wherever it is?” A little cheer from the outer circle gave instant approval to that suggestion. “That’ll give even more riders a chance for at least a little experience before the individual Weyrs have to meet Thread on their own.”

G’don paused at Chakath’s side, looking around to check the reaction to that idea.

“In hourly intervals?” he asked.

“Make it two hours to allow wings to get properly into the routine,” M’shall amended.

“It’s not that we’re green riders or anything,” B’nurrin put in as protest.

“Two hours makes more sense than swapping around every hour . . .” D’miel said thoughtfully.

“I’d agree on two,” G’don said. “We’ll bring the matter up to S’nan. He deserves that much from us. I’ll initiate the idea.” He grinned again, since S’nan would listen to him as the oldest Weyrleader, where he would summarily dismiss a younger man. “I’ll let you know when we’ll meet to make the changes we’ve already agreed to.”

Red dust swirled up in a cloud around the Butte as all the dragons leaped almost simultaneously from the ground.

CHAPTER XVII

Threadfall

B
ITTER COLD WEATHER
and winds swept down from the icy poles of Pern on the day that S’nan set a meeting with the other five Weyrleaders to discuss the rotation of wings that G’don had suggested to him. Freezing weather was likely to do Fort Weyr out of its chance to be the first Weyr to meet Thread in this Fall.

That S’nan keenly felt deprived was obvious. Throughout the meeting he paced the floor, pausing to peer out the slanting corridor to the sleet falling heavily into Fort Bowl. He had only half his mind on the discussion. B’nurrin was all but laughing, only the kicks he received from K’vin under the table kept him from bursting out. Not that K’vin could blame the Igen Weyrleader, for the meeting was a charade: each of them giving soberly presented reasons for the two-hourly rotation while S’nan said little more than monosyllables. S’nan kept his expression blank. It was Sarai’s petulant expression that was honest.

“She’s been dying to get all of us under her wing,” Zulaya whispered to K’vin when the Fort Weyrwoman’s face was turned toward her anxiously pacing mate.

“Don’t think she will, love,” K’vin said, the endearment coming easily to his lips now. He sighed. “You know,” and he moved his lips close to her ear. “I’m almost sorry for the old man.”

Zulaya gave a little snort. “I’m not.” Then she altered her expression to one of earnest attention as Sarai looked over at them for whispering.

Thread came down as black dust, sifted in with snow or sleet. Fort sweep riders brought buckets of it for S’nan to see and mournfully wave off. High Reaches were even more diligent in their efforts to locate live, dangerous Thread. Some riders even suffered frostbite, so earnestly did they watch for the reappearance of the old enemy, although one long piece of frozen Thread was brought for G’don to examine. The stench of it as it melted was enough for them to dispose of it completely.

By the time of Benden’s First Fall—by the numbers, Ten—the weather pattern had shifted sufficiently on the East Coast to a warmer front so that a good deal of that projected Fall would be considered “live” and dangerous. The call went out to all the Weyrs of Pern.

K’vin and Telgar Weyr’s two full wings of dragon-riders reassembled in the upper-right quadrant of air above Benden Weyr, not a rider out of alignment. Below him the Weyr was ablaze with lights in this dark predawn time, lighting the bellies of the dragons in their ranks. He wasn’t sure if the Telgar contingent got there before the units of the other Weyrs, but they were certainly all present and accounted for at the designated hour and in the assigned positions. Everyone would have preferred a daylight defense, but Thread didn’t need to see to fall. And according to Sean’s reports of early morning or late evening Fall, the silvery stuff would be luminous enough for the practical purpose of flaming it out of the sky.

This First Fall of the Second Pass would start across the high mountains, still deep with winter snows, and would thus fall harmlessly. Much would probably fall as black dust in the still frigid temperatures of that area, though quite likely, on other occasions, Fall would merely be observed until it moved inexorably down to habitable lands. Today was the exception.

The final decision by the Weyrleaders had been unanimous, when M’shall had made S’nan put it to a vote—to ride the entire Fall over the ranges, harmless or not, “to see it for themselves.” Everyone was too keyed up over the first three “dud” falls to wait any longer to go into action. Of course, some of the peaks jutted at altitudes where oxygen had thinned to an unsustainable level even for dragons. But it could be seen in actual descent and the general aspect of this Fall judged.

The wings would be rotated after two hours, giving as many as possible a chance at the “real thing.” K’vin briefly thought of P’tero’s vain attempt to be included in the fighting force Telgar would launch. Maybe he should have put the blue rider in, sore ass and all, to prove that there was a lot more to fighting Thread than having the guts to do it. But to include P’tero would have been to exclude a perfectly healthy and less erratic rider. K’vin had not selected M’leng of the green riders chosen for the First Fall. That would ease discord between that pair: that one had gone and the other had not. Basically, they were good weyrmates, having a reasonably stable relationship ever since P’tero, who was the younger, had Impressed Ormonth.

Movement and a shift in air pressure caught K’vin’s attention and he looked down at Benden’s rim.

Craigath warns us,
Charanth told his rider.
Three, two, one . . .

GO!

The command came from many minds and many throats in the dark above Benden Weyr. The blackness of
between
was more intense but scarcely less cold than the atmosphere above the peaks where the wings reentered real space. K’vin was glad of the wool fabric across his mouth and nose, though it did not altogether warm the thin air he inhaled. Below, the snowy mountains gave off a curious light of their own. Belior was setting in the west, and K’vin looked around to the east and saw the baleful orb of the Red Planet, vivid amidst the stars.

Spits of fire blossomed in the darkness all around as eager dragons belched. Too full a belly of firestone, K’vin thought with professional detachment, but he could hardly fault rider or dragon for overpriming.

For two centuries they had waited for this moment: centuries of training and lives lived so that dragons—and riders—would be here, right now, waiting to defend Pern.

Yet this was a first, too. For Pern had had no dragons the first time Thread had fallen, and the planet had been close to total disaster before the first eighteen dragons had emerged from
between
above Fort Hold to flame the parasite from the skies and give hope to the beleaguered defenders. K’vin had always been struck by the courage of the despairing Admiral Paul Benden—he should make P’tero read those entries in the admiral’s diary, made just prior to that magnificent triumph. Even in his most recent reading of that journal, his throat closed over as he read the words:

And then that young rogue had the temerity to salute and say, “Admiral Benden, may I present the Dragonriders of Pern?”

More spurts of fiery breath and every dragon head turned northward.

It comes,
Charanth said, rumbling deep in his chest, a vibration that K’vin felt through his legs. He was aware then that the only warm part of him was what was pressing against his dragon’s neck. His nose had no feeling of the fabric across it. Maybe they should drop down a thousand feet or so . . . and he looked toward the central block of the massed wings, where M’shall and Craigath waited. It was the Benden Weyrleader’s call, not his.

Then he saw it, or rather the mass of something lustrous against the black of night, like a banner spread from some distant source in the sky, a banner that rippled and spun. The pace of his heartbeat picked up. He felt an odd coldness in his guts, but it could be because it was very, very cold at this altitude.

Charanth’s rumble increased and a little spit of flame spilled from his mouth.

Steady, lad!

I’m not moving! It is! And I can flame this time!

K’vin could not reproach Charanth for that snide reminder. And, oddly enough, he also felt no fear as he regarded the advance. There was this sense of inevitability, that he would be here, at this moment in time, to observe this phenomenon, to be part of this defense.

Closer and closer the waves of Thread came as the massed wings watched. The leading edge was now falling visibly on the mountainsides. In this cold air not even the steam of its dissolution was visible.

Thread was falling in a steady stream, freezing dead in the snow. A steady stream, no tangles, no bare spots.

Craigath says we regroup at the second meeting point.

Agreed.

Oddly enough, K’vin did not like even to regroup, though there was nothing Thread could have done to harm the snowy mountainsides and it was foolish to waste time and flame here. But it
felt
like retreat.

Charanth had broadcast the order and took them
between.

The air was noticeably warmer at the altitude of the new position. He rubbed at his nose and cheeks to bring blood to the surface. Even his fingertips felt numb from the cold.

False dawn began in the east, the Red Star paling slightly in the graying skies. And Thread suddenly looked more ominous. More dragons spewed flame and he told Charanth to warn them to conserve their breath.

Suddenly the wait was chafing. They had waited so long, hadn’t they? Two hundred years! When would they begin?

But Thread fell on snow, and K’vin was close enough to Leading Edge now to see the holes it made in the whiteness.

NOW!
Craigath’s command reached K’vin’s mind in the same moment that Charanth roared, full flame erupting from his mouth as he beat his wings to power his forward surge. K’vin clutched at the flight strap, felt frantically for the rope that tethered the firestone sacks to the neck ridge in front of him, and clamped his knees as tight as he could to his bronze. His right arm rose and pointed forward, as if any rider could have missed Craigath’s command or the roars that emerged from dragon throats across the sky.

They were flying in ranks, Telgar being the second and slightly behind the uppermost wings, which were from High Reaches. There was sufficient air between the two layers of dragons so that flame from one level would not interfere with another: and a corridor for maneuver as well. Every Weyr had drilled its wings for this strategy until it was instinctive to stay within the plane assigned them.

The moment when Charanth’s breath, sizzled up descending Thread was a transcendental experience for both partners. Charanth sustained his flame magnificently, crossing this cordon, and then they were out, beyond Thread’s Fall and turning. K’vin spared a glance at the rest of his wings and saw them pivoting simultaneously, all those long, long hours and years of practice resulting in a perfect maneuver. His heart was like to burst in his chest with pride. Below and above him other wings were turning, all now flaming to catch the next band of falling Thread. And the next. And the next.

Meranath and the others are here,
Charanth announced, dropping his head to peer far below.

They are? Turn.
K’vin looked below and saw the unmistakable arrow of golden bodies in their low-level position, the flamethrowers that the queen riders used spouting here and there as they disintegrated stray strands escaping the higher ranks.

Does Meranath fly well?

Meranath flies very well,
Charanth said proudly.

Tell the wings it is time to execute the first changeover,
K’vin said. He swiveled his body around to watch that maneuver, holding his right arm up high, sweeping his eyes across Telgar’s wings. He dropped his arm and counted nine or ten dragons still flaming. Then they, too, went off. He counted to five and suddenly full wings flew behind him. He raised his arm high in recognition of their arrival, which was all he had time for because the wall of Thread advanced to flaming distance and Charanth was ready with his fire. So far he could find no fault with the performance of Telgar’s wings.

It seemed no time after that when he realized his sacks of firestone were empty. He had Charanth call for more. It surprised K’vin to notice that they had flown from night into day, for the sun slanted right into the eyes as they flew east again. There was good reason to use tinted glass in the goggles.

Z’gal and blue Tracath made the drop, swooping in neatly just above his head and depositing the new sacks across Charanth’s neck. K’vin pulled the release knot of the empty sacks and saw Tracath swivel and dive beneath Charanth, Z’gal deftly catching the limp ones and disappearing instantly
between.

Tell Tracath that was well done,
K’vin said.

They were over the northernmost edge of Benden now, above pasturelands, forests, and small farming holds. The need for accuracy and complete destruction of Thread was more crucial now. The queens’ wing was more visible, gold against the dark green or brown of fields not yet verdant with spring growth.

Sacks had to be replenished again. He called in the second change-over of wings, only then realizing that he was beginning to tire.

Are you all right, Charanth?

I flame well. My wings beat strongly. We are together. There is no problem.

The calm, strong tone of his bronze was like a tonic. Yes, they were together, doing what they had been bred and maintained to do.

Meranath says we are over Bitra Hold now.
They were turning west again, back for another run. K’vin did notice that there seemed to be less Thread falling now, even gaps between the sheets of it.
This Fall is nearly over?

K’vin wasn’t sure if Charanth was pleased, surprised, or disappointed. He, for one, was enormously relieved. He had survived the ultimate test of the Weyrleader.

They did one more pass eastward and then there was no more Thread visible above. A cheer echoed from rider to rider, and all those within K’vin’s range pumped both arms in jubilation.

We should land at Bitra Hold, in case we are needed for burrows that might have escaped us,
K’vin told Charanth.
Tell the wings well done and all but J’dar’s may return. He will wait with us for the all-clear it is M’shall’s pleasure to tell us that! Any casualties?

That was the traditional Weyrleader’s query, though reports would also be made to him during the Fall so that he could assess what replacements might be needed.

Today only some minor burns from char. Nothing bad enough that anyone cared to report to you.

K’vin wasn’t that pleased that news had been withheld, but he could understand the reluctance of any rider in today’s Fall to retire for a mere char burn. Now he noticed that he had quite a few black spots on his own riding leathers, but nothing had penetrated through to his flesh. Would that every Fall be so trouble-free! And the next one that Telgar flew would show up the foolhardy. He’d have to give the entire Weyr a hard bollicking to prevent the cocksure from disaster.