The Skies of Pern (11 page)

Fire-lizards drove the intruders out of the Hall where the humans were halted by the sight of a dozen dragons, their wings spread to form an impregnable wall, their eyes whirling red with anger. More dragons hovered overhead, their wings casting dark shadows on the scene below. Shouts and drumbeats echoed down Fort’s rocky canyon, confirming that reinforcements were on their way. The cowering vandals were herded into a knot, clothes rent by fire-lizard beaks and talons, bloodied hands raised to protect their faces. While no dragon would hurt a human, the fire-lizards were under no such restraint and darted in to peck or claw when anyone in that huddle moved.

Call them off now, Ruth
, Sharra said, pausing to catch her breath on the broad top step,
and thank them for coming so quickly. We need the wretches alive and able to tell us why they despoiled a Healer Hall
.

Though some of the wild fire-lizards looked as if they would disobey, a second rumbling bark from Ruth caused them
to disappear, leaving the dragons to stand guard. When the dragons did not advance, one of the men uncoiled and stood up, glowering at Sharra and Oldive.

“Why are you here?” the Masterhealer asked at his sternest. He counted fifteen men and women in front of him, a sufficient number to trash more than his fine stillroom. His heart sank at the destruction they must have done. “Why have you destroyed the very materials and medicines—”

“The Abomination must be halted!” a man shouted, his body taut with his fanaticism. “Its taint removed forever from Pern.”

“Abomination?” The word made Sharra shudder. That’s what some people called Aivas. And those Abominators had kidnapped Master Robinton to force the Council to shut Aivas down because of the technology he represented. They’d tried to prevent the restoration of the technology that their ancestors had used and that many, many people wished to revive. Oldive caught her eye and his expression turned bleaker still.

The others began to chant, shaking their fists in the air, undeterred, as if they now realized that the dragons would not harm them.

“Vileness must be expunged!” the leader went on, louder, more daring. “Erase abominations.”

Sharra began to shiver in the cold. Oldive’s face looked pinched. Though she could see nothing beyond the high interlaced wings of the dragons, she could hear the pounding of hooves on the hard-packed road, the rumble of a cart, and shouts of many voices. Lioth, bronze dragon of N’ton, the Fort Weyrleader, cocked his head as if he had understood the taunts, his eyes beginning to whirl with orange spurts.

They’re coming, Sharra
, Ruth said and craned his head ominously toward the protestors. Their chanting noticeably faltered as the sound of hoofbeats and shouts penetrated to the dragon circle. Their leader rallied them to greater efforts.

“Tradition must be upheld!” He glared around him, his angular face and burning eyes inciting his followers. “Halt abominations.”

“Turn back to tradition at Turnover!” screeched one of the three women, waving a bloody hand at Ruth, who frowned down at her.

“Our petitions have been ignored!”

“We protest the Abomination!”

“And all its works!”

“Abomination! Abomination!”

Stoically, Sharra and Oldive endured the chanting.

Smoothly, as humans neared, the dragons began to close their wings and give way, to allow the reinforcements a clear path to the despoilers. Lioth stepped closer to Ruth; Sharra knew that his rider, N’ton, would be in the vanguard. But it was two of Lord Groghe’s sons who arrived first, riding bareback on a gray runnerbeast that wore no more than a headcollar. Haligon hauled it to a stop just short of the captives, doing a flying dismount to confront them. Such was the fury in his face and manner that the group backed away from him.

In one of those irrelevant observations that can occur even in moments of crisis, Sharra noted that gray hairs marred the brown of Haligon’s fine Gather clothes. Horon, taking a belligerent stance next to his brother, was equally untidy.

A group of blue-clad Harpers, led by Masterharper Sebell, arrived on foot, to increase the force. The cart, driven by N’ton and crammed with holders, some clutching clubs, nearly rammed into them. With an enlarged audience, the prisoners renewed the volume of their defiant messages.

“Destroy all the Abomination’s devices.”

“Purity for Pern!”

“Turn to Tradition.”

“Avoid abominations!”

The holders began booing from the cart as they jumped down, clubs raised threateningly. Those in Healer green continued to where Sharra and Oldive stood on the top step.

“See what damage has been done, Keita,” Oldive ordered in a low voice to the Healer journeywoman who rushed to him. A convulsive shiver ran through him. “Check the infirmary first.”

Sharra was wracked with compassion for him. “A cloak for Master Oldive,” she added urgently, suddenly realizing that she was feeling the cold seep through the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes.

“Harpers!” Sebell said, gesturing for his men to help. “Assist Keita.”

Over these orders, the chant continued in rabid cadence—until Lord Groghe reached the scene. As well his mount had been saddled, Sharra thought, just as someone threw a fur-lined wrap over her shoulders, for Groghe was no longer agile enough to ride bareback like his sons.

“Abomination away!”

“Restore our tradition!”

“
Shut up!
” Groghe bellowed, the volume of his voice as intimidating as the powerful runnerbeast he pulled up just short of knocking the leader down. The man rocked back and it was then that Sharra noticed that he, and the rest of his vandals, had the effrontery to be wearing green: not the genuine Healer green but close enough to answer how they had been able to gain access to the Hall.

At his most fearsome, face suffused with fury, eyes protruding, Groghe stared down at the man. He looked larger than life, fine in his Gather clothes with a cape billowing out over his mount’s rump.

The silence was palpable. Then it was broken by a plaintive moan.

“I’m bleeding,” one of the women said in a mixture of outrage, shock, and horror as blood dripped from her face to her upheld hand.

“You can bleed to death for all I care,” Sharra snapped, furious.

“Head wounds invariably bleed freely,” Oldive said, descending the wide steps. Sharra hurriedly followed. Throwing back the corner of the cloak someone had put on his shoulders, Oldive reached into the belt pouch that he always carried and drew out a bandage to staunch the wound. Although the woman shrank away from him, her eyes wild, he was able to assess the long gash on her head. “It will require stitching.”

The woman went white with shock, a look of absolute horror on her face before she folded in a faint.

“
No
!” cried the leader, dropping to his knees to shield her body. “
No
! No abomination! Spare her that!”

Groghe let out a contemptuous oath, his mount dancing nervously. All the onlookers echoed Groghe’s reaction and cries of
“shame” were loud and angry. Oldive, however, turned a look of mixed compassion and rebuke on the protester and sighed with genuine regret.

“Let her bleed, Healer!” someone advised.

Others around Oldive mockingly repeated “No, spare her, spare her.”

“Healers have been stitching wounds as needed for the past two and a half centuries,” Oldive told the leader with quiet dignity. “Still, she is unlikely to bleed to death.”

“More’s the pity,” was the quick gibe from a spectator.

Oldive held up his hand and the crowd turned respectfully silent as he went on. “The laceration is long and shallow. If the scalp is not stitched, there will be an unsightly scar. The hair must be cut away to prevent infection. Numbweed would reduce her discomfort.” He paused and then added in a wry tone, “Numbweed flourished on Pern long before our ancestors arrived.”

With each of Oldive’s sentences, the prisoners had moaned or writhed. The leader glared at the Healer.

“By giving my advice freely, I have fulfilled my duty as a healer,” Oldive said stolidly. “It is up to you to accept or reject.”

“Spare her! Spare her! Away, abomination,” cried several of the prisoners, lifting their hands in entreaty.

Oldive gave a slight nod of assent. “Her healing is now in your hands.” He turned from them, outwardly composed. Sebell stepped solicitously to his side, and he acknowledged the tacit support with a little nod.

Just then, Journeywoman Keita came storming out of the Hall, other healers behind her, all shaking their heads, visibly devastated by what they’d found.

“They’ve smashed every piece of Morilton’s last shipment!” she cried, glaring at the culprits, hands clenched at her sides. “It’ll take months to replace our supplies. The stillroom’s a complete shambles! Every sack, canister, and bottle in the treatment rooms have been emptied, and what they didn’t burn—” She paused in her telling to take a deep breath before she could continue. “—they urinated on!”

Before Groghe could intervene, a holder launched his club at the prisoner nearest him, whacking the man to his knees.

“No!”
Groghe roared.
“No!”
The crowd wavered but its forward surge aborted. “I am Lord Holder. I mete out punishment. And they
shall be punished
!” His face was livid with fury that anyone would usurp his prerogative. He legged his big mount forward. “You!” He jabbed a finger at the leader, who skittered to one side on his knees as the runnerbeast’s hooves came very close to stamping on his feet. “Name! Hold! Craft!”

“Notice that they’re wearing dark green, Lord Groghe,” Keita said in a taut voice. There was an angry murmur for the additional insult.

“No rank knots or hold colors,” Sebell said, walking around the vandals, closely observing them.

“I’ll ask you once more!” Groghe said. “Names? Holds? Crafts?”

He—and the crowd—waited with brief patience. The prisoners looked more obdurate than ever.

“Search them!” Groghe said with a wave of his hand. More than enough erupted from the crowd to obey. “I said ‘search them,’ not strip them,” Groghe added when he observed the force used.

“Why not? Maybe the cold will loosen their tongues,” suggested a burly holder wearing Fort colors and a journeyman’s knot.

The vandals found their tongues only to protest vehemently against such handling.

“We have rights!” the leader cried, surrounded by willing searchers.

“You just lost ’em. Not answering the Lord Holder!” the holder bellowed, roughly turning out the leader’s pockets, scattering a few quarter marks on the frozen ground.

Suddenly Keita pointed to one of the women, whose shirt and jacket were opened to expose a red and inflamed chest.

“I recognize her,” the journeywoman said. “She came to the Hall for ointment to ease a rash.”

“Come here!” Groghe gestured to the woman.

“You will not touch her with your abominated hands,” the leader said, shaking himself loose of his searchers.

“You had no problem with my abominated hands when you wanted something to stop the itching,” Keita said as she pulled
the woman out of the group. “And from the look of it now I’d say you didn’t even use the salve. Well, I hope you itch forever!” She released her and the woman sidled hastily back to her companions.

“Keita,” Oldive asked, “can you remember exactly when she was here? If she gave a name or any details?”

Keita nodded and dashed up the stairs to the Hall.

“No doubt she had a good look round the Hall, as well,” Sebell said.

Nothing more significant was discovered on the vandals’ persons. Groghe ended the search and the prisoners adjusted their rumpled clothing.

Sebell spoke up. “The clothes and boots they’re wearing will tell us where they were made, and we’ve weavers and tanners enough at the Gather to make such identification.”

Then Sharra gave a bark of laughter, pointing to travel stains and scurf on the worn boots. “They’re not dressed for the Gather, are they? In fact, they’ve done some hard riding. Could they possibly have stabled their runners in the Hall’s beasthold for a quick escape? And left interesting items in their saddlebags?”

She saw several of the vandals flinch and laughed again as Groghe roared for Haligon to check. The Hall’s stabling was to the west of the main entrance. A half-dozen holders accompanied Haligon on the search.

“Stuffed in here, Father!” Haligon shouted back. “Still saddled. Eating their heads off.”

“A gallop to the harbor and a ship to sail away in?” N’ton asked.

“It’s been done before,” Sebell said, his eyes narrowing with anger, his expression grimmer than ever.

“Would you be kind enough to check Fort Harbor, Weyr-leader?” Groghe asked N’ton.

“My pleasure, Lord Holder.” Pivoting, N’ton singled out four riders, standing by their dragons. As soon as the dragons were aloft, fire-lizards appeared, shrieking glad cries and following them in graceful fairs.

“Rather stupid, really,” Groghe said, easing himself in his saddle and staring down at his prisoners. “Never considered the
possibility of discovery, did you? Thought you’d do the dirty and get away without being seen?”

The leader looked arrogantly in another direction, but the rough body searches had considerably subdued the others; most of the bluster was drained out of them. Two looked dismayed as Haligon and the others led the mounts out for inspection. Willing hands emptied the saddlebags onto the ground, spilling out the usual camping gear.

“Fifteen of them, aren’t there?” N’ton said, rubbing his jaw. “One of my sweepriders saw such a group camping in the Trader clearing by Ruatha River a few days back.”

“He didn’t report it?” Groghe demanded, offended.

“To me, Lord Holder, as he reported all those heading toward all the Turnover celebrations,” N’ton replied with a diffident shrug. “He mentioned them wearing Healer green.”

Groghe harrumphed at that detail. Who’d know these were not legitimate folk, braving the discomfort of winter travel for the magnificence of Turnover feasting and dancing? Who’d have thought the Healer Hall would be attacked?