Dragonflight (17 page)

Assured that every bronze and brown rider understood the plan perfectly, he asked Mnementh for the latest report.

The advancing army was streaming out across the lake plateau, the foremost units on the Tunnel road, the one ground entrance to the Weyr. Mnementh added that the Holders’ women were profiting from their stay in the Weyr.

“In what way?” F’lar demanded immediately.

Mnementh rumbled with the dragon equivalent of laughter. Two of the young greens were feeding, that was all. But for some reason such a normal occupation appeared to upset the women.

The woman was diabolically clever, F’lar thought privately, careful not to let Mnementh sense his concern. That bronze clown was as besotted with the rider as he was with the queen. What kind of fascination did the Weyrwoman have for a bronze dragon?

“Our guests are at the lake plateau,” he told the dragonmen. “You have your positions. Order your wings out.” Without a backward look, he marched out, conquering an intense urge to hurry to the ledge. He absolutely did not want those hostages scared witless.

Down the valley by the lake, the women were lightly attended by four of the smallest greens—big enough, for the uninitiated—and the women were probably too scared at having been seized to notice that all four riders were barely out of adolescence. He spotted the slight figure of the Weyrwoman, seated to one side of the main group. A sound of muffled weeping drifted up to his ears. He looked beyond them, to the feeding grounds, and saw a green dragon single out a buck and run it down. Another green was perched on a ledge above, eating with typical messy, dragon greed. F’lar shrugged and mounted Mnementh, clearing the ledge for the hovering dragons who waited to pick up their own riders.

As Mnementh circled above the confusion of wings and gleaming bodies, F’lar nodded approvingly. A high, fast mating flight coupled with the promise of action improved everyone’s morale.

Mnementh snorted.

F’lar paid him no attention, watching R’gul as he assembled his wing. The man had taken a psychological defeat. He would bear watching and careful handling. Once the Threads started to fall and R’gul’s faith was restored, he’d come around.

Mnementh asked him if they should pick up the Weyrwoman.

“She doesn’t belong in this,” F’lar said sharply, wondering why under the double moons the bronze had made such a suggestion. Mnementh replied that he thought Lessa would like to be there.

D’nol’s wing and T’bor’s rose in good formation. Those two were making good leaders. K’net took up a double wing to the Bowl lip and winked out neatly, bound to reappear behind the approaching army. C’gan, the old blue rider, had the youngsters organized.

F’lar told Mnementh to have Canth tell F’nor to proceed. With a final look to be sure the stones to the Lower Caverns were in place, F’lar gave Mnementh the signal to go
between.

From the Weyr and from the Bowl,

Bronze and brown and blue and green,

Rise the dragonmen of Pern,

Aloft, on wing; seen, then unseen.

Larad, lord of Telgar, eyed the monolithic heights of Benden Weyr. The striated stone looked like frozen waterfalls at sunset. And about as hospitable. A long moribund awe squirmed at the back of his mind for the blasphemy he and the army he led were about to commit. He stifled that thought firmly.

The Weyr had outlived its usefulness. That was obvious. There was no longer any need for the Holders to give up the profits of their sweat and labor to the lazy weyrfolk. The Holders had been patient. They had supported the Weyr in good part out of gratitude for past services. But the dragonmen had overstepped the borders of grateful generosity.

First, this archaic Search foolishness. So a queen-egg was laid. Why did the dragonmen need to steal away the prettiest women among the Holders when they had women of their own in the Weyr proper? No need to appropriate Larad’s sister, Kylora, eagerly awaiting a far different alliance with Brant of Igen one evening and gone on that ridiculous Search the next. Never heard from since, either.

And killing Fax! Albeit the man had been dangerously ambitious, he was of the Blood. And the Weyr had not been asked to meddle in the affairs of the High Reaches.

But this steady pilfering. That was beyond enough. Oh, a holder might excuse a few bucks now and again. But when a dragon appeared out of nowhere (a talent that disturbed Larad deeply) and snatched the best stud bucks from a herd carefully protected and nurtured, that tore it!

The Weyr must be made to understand its subordinate position in Pern. It would have to make other provisions to victual its people, for no further tithes would come from anyone. Benden, Bitra, and Lemos would come around soon. They ought to be pleased to end this superstitious domination by the Weyr.

Nevertheless, the closer they came to the gigantic mountain, the more doubts Larad experienced as to just how in the world the Lords would penetrate that massif. He signaled Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol (he didn’t really trust this sharp-faced ex-Warder with no Blood at all) to draw his riding beast closer.

Meron whipped his mount abreast of Larad.

“There is no other way into the Weyr proper but the Tunnel?”

Meron shook his head. “Even the locals are agreed.”

This did not dismay Meron, but he caught Larad’s doubtful expression.

“I have sent a party on ahead, to the southern lip of the Peak,” and he indicated the area. “There might be a low, scalable cliff there where the brow dips.”

“You sent a party without consulting us?
I
was named leader . . .”

“True,” Meron agreed, with an amiable show of teeth. “A mere notion of mine.”

“A distinct possibility, I agree, but you’d have done better . . .” Larad glanced up at the Peak.

“They have seen us, have no doubt of that, Larad,” Meron assured him, contemptuously regarding the silent Weyr. “That will be sufficient. Deliver our ultimatum and they will surrender before such a force as ours. They’ve proved themselves cowards over and over. I gave insult twice to the bronze rider they call F’lar, and he ignored it. What
man
would?”

A sudden rustling roar and a blast of the coldest air in the world interrupted their conference. As he mastered his plunging beast, Larad caught a confused panorama of dragons, all colors, sizes, and everywhere. The air was filled with the panic-stricken shrieks of plunging beasts, the cries of startled, terrified men.

Larad managed, with great effort, to drag his beast around to face the dragonmen.

By the Void that spawned us, he thought, struggling to control his own fear, I’d forgotten dragons are so big.

Foremost in that frightening array was a triangular formation of four great bronze beasts, their wings overlapping in a tremendous criss-cross pattern as they hovered just above the ground. A dragon’s length above and beyond them, there ranged a second line, longer, wider, of brown beasts. Curving beyond them and higher up were blue and green and more brown beasts, all with their huge wings fanning cold air in great drafts on the terrified mob that had been an army moments before.

Where did that piercing cold come from, Larad wondered. He yanked down on his beast’s mouth as it began to plunge again.

The dragonmen just sat there on their beasts’ necks, watching, waiting.

“Get them off their beasts and the things away so we can talk,” Meron shouted to Larad as his mount cavorted and screamed in terror.

Larad signaled foot soldiers forward, but it took four men per mount to quiet them enough so the Lords could dismount.

Miscalculation number two, Larad thought with grim humor. We forgot the effect of dragons on the beasts of Pern. Man included. Settling his sword, pulling his gloves up onto his wrists, he jerked his head at the other Lords, and they all moved forward.

As he saw the Lords dismount, F’lar told Mnementh to pass the word to land the first three ranks. Like a great wave, the dragons obediently settled to the ground, furling their wings with an enormous rustling sigh.

Mnementh told F’lar that the dragons were excited and pleased. This was much more fun than Games.

F’lar told Mnementh sternly that this was not fun at all.

“Larad of Telgar,” the foremost man introduced himself, his voice crisp, his manner soldierly and confident for one relatively young.

“Meron of Nabol.”

F’lar immediately recognized the swarthy face with the sharp features and restless eyes. A mean and provocative fighter.

Mnementh relayed F’lar an unusual message from the Weyr. F’lar nodded imperceptibly and continued to acknowledge introductions.

“I have been appointed spokesman,” Larad of Telgar began. “The Holder Lords unanimously agree that the Weyr has outlived its function. Consequently demands from the Weyr are out of order. There are to be no more Searches among our Holds. No more raiding on the herds and barns of any Hold by any dragonfolk.”

F’lar gave him courteous attention. Larad was well-spoken and succinct. F’lar nodded. He looked at each of the Lords before him carefully, getting their measure. Their stern faces expressed their conviction and righteous indignation.

“As Weyrleader, I, F’lar, Mnementh’s rider, answer you. Your complaint is heard. Now listen to what the Weyrleader commands.” His casual pose was gone. Mnementh rumbled a menacing counterpoint to his rider’s voice as it rang harshly metallic across the plateau, the words carried clearly back so that even the mob heard him.

“You will turn and go back to your Holds. You will then go into your barns and among your herds. You will make a just and equable tithe. This will be on its way to the Weyr within three days of your return.”

“The Weyrleader is ordering the Lords to tithe?” Meron of Nabol’s derisive laugh rang out.

F’lar signaled, and two more wings of dragonmen appeared to hover over the Nabolese contingent.

“The Weyrleader gives orders to the Lords to tithe,” F’lar affirmed. “And until such time as the Lords do send their tithings, we regret that the ladies of Nabol, Telgar, Fort, Igen, Keroon must make their homes with us. Also, the ladies of Hold Balan, Hold Gar, Hold . . .”

He paused, for the Lords were muttering angrily and excitedly among themselves as they heard this list of hostages. F’lar gave Mnementh a quick message to relay.

“Your bluff won’t work,” Meron sneered, stepping forward, his hand on his sword hilt. Raiding among the herds could be credited; it had happened. But the Holds were sacrosanct! They’d not dare—

F’lar asked Mnementh to pass the signal, and T’sum’s wing appeared. Each rider held a Lady on the neck of his dragon. T’sum held his group aloft but close enough so the Lords could identify each scared or hysterical woman.

Meron’s face contorted with shock and new hatred.

Larad stepped forward, tearing his eyes from his own Lady. She was a new wife to him and much beloved. It was small consolation that she neither wept nor fainted, being a quiet and brave little person.

“You have the advantage of us,” Larad admitted bleakly. “We will retire and send the tithe.” He was about to wheel when Meron pushed forward, his face wild.

“We tamely submit to their demands? Who is a dragonman to order us?”

“Shut up,” Larad ordered, grabbing the Nabolese’s arm.

F’lar raised his arm in an imperious signal. A wing of blues appeared, carrying Meron’s would-be mountaineers, some bearing evidence of their struggle with the southern face of Benden Peak.

“Dragonmen do order. And nothing escapes their notice.” F’lar’s voice rang out coldly.

“You will retire to your Holds. You will send proper tithing because we shall know if you do not. You will then proceed, under pain of firestone, to clear your habitations of green, croft and Hold alike. Good Telgar, look to that southern outer Hold of yours. The exposure is acutely vulnerable. Clear all firepits on ridge defenses. You’ve let them become fouled. The mines are to be reopened and firestone stockpiled.”

“Tithes, yes, but the rest . . .” Larad interrupted.

F’lar’s arm shot skyward.

“Look up, Lord. Look well. The Red Star pulses by day as well as night. The mountains beyond Ista steam and spout flaming rock. The seas rage in high tides and flood the coast. Have you all forgotten the Sagas and Ballads? As you’ve forgotten the abilities of dragons? Can you dismiss these portents that always presage the coming of Threads?”

Meron would never believe until he saw the silver Threads streaking across the skies. But Larad and many of the others, F’lar knew, now did.

“And the queen,” he continued, “has risen to mate in her second year. Risen to mate and flown high and far.”

The heads of all before him jerked upward. Their eyes were wide. Meron, too, looked startled. F’lar heard R’gul gasp behind him, yet he dared not look, himself, lest it be a trick.

Suddenly, on the periphery of his vision, he caught the glint of gold in the sky.

Mnementh,
he snapped, and Mnementh merely rumbled happily. The queen wheeled into view just then, a brave and glowing sight, F’lar grudgingly admitted.

Dressed in flowing white, Lessa was distinctly visible on the curved golden neck. Ramoth hovered, her wing-span greater than even Mnementh’s as she vaned idly. From the way she arched her neck, it was obvious that Ramoth was in good and playful spirits, but F’lar was furious.

The spectacle of the queen aloft had quite an effect on all beholders. F’lar was aware of its impact on himself and saw it reflected in the faces of the incredulous Holders, knew it from the way the dragons hummed, heard it from Mnementh.

“And, of course, our greatest Weyrwomen—Moreta, Torene, to name only a few—have all come from Ruath Hold, as does Lessa of Pern.”

“Ruatha . . .” Meron grated out the name, clenched his jaw sullenly, his face bleak.

“Threads are coming?” asked Larad.

F’lar nodded slowly. “Your harper can reinstruct you on the signs. Good Lords, the tithe is required. Your women will be returned. The Holds are to be put in order. The Weyr prepares Pern, as the Weyr is pledged to protect Pern. Your cooperation is expected—” he paused significantly—“and will be enforced.”