Dragonflight (33 page)

“You know that?” T’ton cried.

“Of course. Just go back two days. You see, I
know
you have. I shall, of course, be surprised then, but now, tonight, I know you reappeared two days earlier. Oh, go. Don’t argue. F’lar was half out of his mind with worry for you.”

“He’ll shake me,” Lessa cried, like a little girl.

“Lessa!” T’ton took her by the hand and led her back to Ramoth, who crouched so her rider could mount.

T’ton took complete charge and had his Fidranth pass the order to return to the references Lytol had given, adding by way of Ramoth a description of the humans and Mnementh.

The cold of
between
restored Lessa to herself, although her error had badly jarred her confidence. But then there was Ruatha again. The dragons happily arranged themselves in tremendous display. And there, silhouetted against the light from the Hall, stood Lytol, Robinton’s tall figure, and . . . F’lar.

Mnementh’s voice gave a brassy welcome, and Ramoth could not land Lessa quickly enough to go and twine necks with her mate.

Lessa stood where Ramoth had left her, unable to move. She was aware that Mardra and T’ton were beside her. She was conscious only of F’lar, racing across the Court toward her. Yet she could not move.

He grabbed her in his arms, holding her so lightly to him that she could not doubt the joy of his welcome.

“Lessa, Lessa,” his voice raggedly chanted in her ear. He pressed her face against his, crushing her to breathlessness, all his careful detachment abandoned. He kissed her, hugged her, held her, and then kissed her with rough urgency again. Then he suddenly set her on her feet and gripped her shoulders. “Lessa, if you ever . . .” he said, punctuating each word with a flexing of his fingers, then stopped, aware of a grinning circle of strangers surrounding them.

“I told you he’d shake me,” Lessa was saying, dashing tears from her face. “But, F’lar, I brought them all . . . all but Benden Weyr. And that is why the five Weyrs were abandoned. I brought them.”

F’lar looked around him, looked beyond the leaders to the masses of dragons settling in the Valley, on the heights, everywhere he turned. There were dragons, blue, green, bronze, brown, and a whole wingful of golden queen dragons alone.

“You brought the Weyrs?” he echoed, stunned.

“Yes, this is Martha and T’ton of Fort Weyr, D’ram and . . .”

He stopped her with a little shake, pulling her to his side so he could see and greet the newcomers.

“I am more grateful than you can know,” he said and could not go on with all the many words he wanted to add.

T’ton stepped forward, holding out his hand, which F’lar seized and held firmly.

“We bring eighteen hundred dragons, seventeen queens, and all that is necessary to implement our Weyrs.”

“And they brought flamethrowers, too,” Lessa put in excitedly.

“But—to come . . . to attempt it . . .” F’lar murmured in admiring wonder.

T’ton and D’ram and the others laughed.

“Your Lessa showed the way . . .”

“. . . with the Red Star to guide us . . .” she said.

“We are dragonmen,” T’ton continued solemnly, “as you are yourself, F’lar of Benden. We were told there are Threads here to fight, and that’s work for dragonmen to do . . . in any time!”

Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,

Harper, strike, and soldier, go.

Free the flame and sear the grasses

Till the dawning Red Star passes.

E
VEN AS THE
five Weyrs had been settling around Ruatha Valley, F’nor had been compelled to bring forward in time his southern weyrfolk. They had all reached the end of endurance in double-time life, gratefully creeping back to quarters they had vacated two days and ten Turns ago.

R’gul, totally unaware of Lessa’s backward plunge, greeted F’lar and his Weyrwoman, on their return to the Weyr, with the news of F’nor’s appearance with seventy-two new dragons and the further word that he doubted any of the riders would be fit to fight.

“I’ve never seen such exhausted men in my life,” R’gul rattled on, “can’t imagine what could have gotten into them, with sun and plenty of food and all, and no responsibilities.”

F’lar and Lessa exchanged glances.

“Well, the southern Weyr ought to be maintained, R’gul. Think it over.”

“I’m a fighting dragonman, not a womanizer,” the old dragonrider grunted. “It’d take more than a trip
between
times to reduce me like those others.”

“Oh, they’ll be themselves again in next to no time,” Lessa said and, to R’gul’s intense disapproval, she giggled.

“They’ll have to be if we’re to keep the skies Thread-free,” R’gul snapped testily.

“No problem about that now,” F’lar assured him easily.

“No problem? With only a hundred and forty-four dragons?”

“Two hundred and sixteen,” Lessa corrected him firmly.

Ignoring her, R’gul asked, “Has that Mastersmith found a flamethrower that’ll work?”

“Indeed he has,” F’lar assured R’gul, grinning broadly.

The five Weyrs had also brought forward their equipment. Fandarel all but snatched examples from their backs and, undoubtedly, every hearth and smithy through the continent would be ready to duplicate the design by morning. T’ton had told F’lar that, in his time, each Hold had ample flamethrowers for every man on the ground. In the course of the Long Interval, however, the throwers must have been either smelted down or lost as incomprehensible devices. D’ram, particularly, was very much interested in Fandarel’s agenothree sprayer, considering it better than thrown-flame, since it would also act as a fertilizer.

“Well,” R’gul admitted gloomily, “a flamethrower or two will be some help day after tomorrow.”

“We have found something else that will help a lot more,” Lessa remarked and then hastily excused herself, dashing into the sleeping quarters.

The sounds that drifted past the curtain were either laughter or sobs, and R’gul frowned on both. That girl was just too young to be Weyrwoman at such a time. No stability.

“Has she realized how critical our situation is? Even with F’nor’s additions? That is, if they can fly?” R’gul demanded testily. “You oughtn’t to let her leave the Weyr at all.”

F’lar ignored that and began pouring himself a cup of wine.

“You once pointed out to me that the five empty Weyrs of Pern supported your theory that there would be no more Threads.”

R’gul cleared his throat, thinking that apologies—even if they might be due from the Weyrleader—were scarcely effective against the Threads.

“Now there was merit in that theory,” F’lar went on, filling a cup for R’gul. “Not, however, as you interpreted it. The five Weyrs were empty because they . . . they came here.”

R’gul, his cup halfway to his lips, stared at F’lar. This man also was too young to bear his responsibilities. But . . . he seemed actually to believe what he was saying.

“Believe it or not, R’gul—and in a bare day’s time you will—the five Weyrs are empty no longer. They’re here, in the Weyrs, in this time. And they shall join us, eighteen hundred strong, the day after tomorrow at Telgar, with flamethrowers and with plenty of battle experience.”

R’gul regarded the poor man stolidly for a long moment. Carefully he put his cup down and, turning on his heel, left the weyr. He refused to be an object of ridicule. He’d better plan to take over the leadership tomorrow if they were to fight Threads the day after.

The next morning, when he saw the clutch of great bronze dragons bearing the Weyrleaders and their wingleaders to the conference, R’gul got quietly drunk.

Lessa exchanged good mornings with her friends and then, smiling sweetly, left the weyr, saying she must feed Ramoth. F’lar stared after her thoughtfully, then went to greet Robinton and Fandarel, who had been asked to attend the meeting, too. Neither Craftmaster said much, but neither missed a word spoken. Fandarel’s great head kept swiveling from speaker to speaker, his deep-set eyes blinking occasionally. Robinton sat with a bemused smile on his face, utterly delighted by ancestral visitors.

F’lar was quickly talked out of resigning his titular position as Weyrleader of Benden on the grounds that he was too inexperienced.

“You did well enough at Nerat and Keroon. Well indeed,” T’ton said.

“You call twenty-eight men or dragons out of action good leadership?”

“For a first battle, with every dragonman green as a hatchling? No, man, you were on time at Nerat, however you got there,” and T’ton grinned maliciously at F’lar, “which is what a dragonman must do. No, that was well flown, I say. Well flown.” The other four Weyrleaders muttered complete agreement with that compliment. “Your Weyr is understrength, though, so we’ll lend you enough odd-wing riders till you’ve gotten the Weyr up to full strength again. Oh, the queens love these times!” And his grin broadened to indicate that bronze riders did, too.

F’lar returned that smile, thinking that Ramoth was about ready for another mating flight, and this time, Lessa . . . oh, that girl was being too deceptively docile. He’d better watch her closely.

“Now,” T’ton was saying, “we left with Fandarel’s crafthold all the flamethrowers we brought up so that the groundmen will be armed tomorrow.”

“Aye, and my thanks,” Fandarel grunted. “We’ll turn out new ones in record time and return yours soon.”

“Don’t forget to adapt that agenothree for air spraying, too,” D’ram put in.

“It is agreed,” and T’ton glanced quickly around at the other riders, “that all the Weyrs will meet, full strength, three hours after dawn above Telgar, to follow the Thread’s attack across to Crom. By the way, F’lar, those charts of yours that Robinton showed me are superb. We never had them.”

“How did you know when the attacks would come?”

T’ton shrugged. “They were coming so regularly even when I was a weyrling, you kind of knew when one was due. But this way is much, much better.”

“More efficient,” Fandarel added approvingly.

“After tomorrow, when all the Weyrs show up at Telgar, we can request what supplies we need to stock the empty Weyrs,” T’ton grinned. “Like old times, squeezing extra tithes from the Holders.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Like old times.”

“There’s the southern Weyr,” F’nor suggested. “We’ve been gone from there six Turns in this time, and the herdbeasts were left. They’ll have multiplied, and there’ll be all that fruit and grain.”

“It would please me to see that southern venture continued,” F’lar remarked, nodding encouragingly at F’nor.

“Yes, and continue Kylara down there, please, too,” F’nor added urgently, his eyes sparkling with irritation.

They discussed sending for some immediate supplies to help out the newly occupied Weyrs, and then adjourned the meeting.

“It is a trifle unsettling,” T’ton said as he shared wine with Robinton, “to find that the Weyr you left the day before in good order has become a dusty hulk.” He chuckled. “The women of the Lower Caverns were a bit upset.”

“We cleaned up those kitchens,” F’nor replied indignantly. A good night’s rest in a fresh time had removed much of his fatigue.

T’ton cleared his throat. “According to Mardra, no man can
clean
anything.”

“Do you think you’ll be up to riding tomorrow, F’nor?” F’lar asked solicitously. He was keenly aware of the stress showing in his half brother’s face, despite his improvement overnight. Yet those strenuous Turns had been necessary, nor had they become futile even in hindsight with the arrival of eighteen hundred dragons from past time. When F’lar had ordered F’nor ten Turns backward to breed the desperately needed replacements, they had not yet brought to mind the Question Song or known of the tapestry.

“I wouldn’t miss that fight if I were dragonless,” F’nor declared stoutly.

“Which reminds me,” F’lar remarked, “we’ll need Lessa at Telgar tomorrow. She can speak to any dragon, you know,” he explained, almost apologetically, to T’ton and D’ram.

“Oh, we know,” T’ton assured him. “And Mardra doesn’t mind.” Seeing F’lar’s blank expression, he added, “As senior Weyrwoman, Mardra, of course, leads the queens’ wing.”

F’lar’s face grew blanker. “Queens’ wing?”

“Certainly,” and T’ton and D’ram exchanged questioning glances at F’lar’s surprise. “You don’t keep your queens from fighting, do you?”

“Our
queens?
T’ton, we at Benden have had only
one
queen dragon—at a time—for so many generations that there are those who denounce the legends of queens in battle as black heresy!”

T’ton looked rueful. “I had not truly realized till this instant how small your numbers were.” But his enthusiasms overtook him. “Just the same, queens are very useful with flamethrowers. They get clumps other riders might miss. They fly in low, under the main wings. That’s one reason D’ram’s so interested in the agenothree spray. Doesn’t singe the hair off the Holders’ heads, so to speak, and is far better over tilled fields.”

“Do you mean to say that you allow your queens to fly—against Threads?” F’lar ignored the fact that F’nor was grinning, and T’ton, too.

“Allow?” D’ram bellowed. “You can’t stop them. Don’t you know your Ballads?”

“’Moreta’s Ride?”

“Exactly.’

F’nor laughed aloud at the expression on F’lar’s face as he irritably pulled the hanging forelock from his eyes. Then, sheepishly, he began to grin.

“Thanks. That gives me an idea.”

He saw his fellow Weyrleaders to their dragons, waved cheerfully to Robinton and Fandarel, more lighthearted than he would have thought he’d be the morning before the second battle. Then he asked Mnementh where Lessa might be.

Bathing,
the bronze dragon replied.

F’lar glanced at the empty queen’s weyr.

Oh, Ramoth is on the Peak, as usual.
Mnementh sounded aggrieved.

F’lar heard the sound of splashing in the bathing room suddenly cease, so he called down for hot
klah.
He was going to enjoy this.

“Oh, did the meeting go well?” Lessa asked sweetly as she emerged from the bathing room, drying-cloth wrapped tightly around her slender figure.