So Torene applied herself to checking her riding gear. Sean just might call a snap inspection‑‑they had Fall the day after tomorrow. Out of several years’ habit now, Torene rechecked the flamethrower tanks she used, as well as the nozzles and the carrying straps. Then she checked her safety harness and inspected the heavy plastic‑coated gloves for any sign that the fingers might have spillage of the HNO3 on them. Eventually the plastic would wear through and have to be recoated. Her hands tended to sweat inside the nonporous material, but that damp discomfort was better than acid burns. She made sure her goggles were clear, too. Sometimes a fine spray was blown back before the HNO3 ignited, and she needed clear, not clouded, plasglas.
She was just about finished when F’mar‑‑Fulmar Stone Junior‑‑bronze Tallith’s rider, swung into the queen’s ready room, helmet and gloves in hand, riding jacket open.
“Hey, gal, we’re back!” F’mar was grinning from ear to ear. “And boy, did we bring home the bacon!”
“Real bacon? Is Longwood curing pig so early?”
“You can be so literal sometimes, ‘Rene.”
She hadn’t told Sorka that was how her name had been compressed, since it was humans and not dragons who had given her that nickname.
Slapping his gloves on his leg with some irritation, F’mar went on. “No, actually, we brought back steaks and a lot of stew meat. They’re culling herds for the winter down there. Or don’t you remember how seasons switch?”
“I remember that much,” she replied evenly. Eight years older than Torene, Fulmar Stone had been five when he and his family had Landed; he had Impressed a bronze of a Weyrleaders’ clutch at nineteen. Half‑trained to follow in his father’s mechanical engineering specialty, F’mar had salved Fulmar Senior’s shock at the idea of his son’s pursuing an entirely different life’s work by taking charge of all the Weyr’s mechanicals. These were, however, so well designed or redesigned that they rarely needed more than a drop of oil‑‑or so F’mar insisted.
“You should’ve come.” Then F’mar, as tall as she was but rangier in frame and bony shoulders, leaned toward her with a friendly leer. “It was more fun than climbing about rock faces and peering in holes.”
Torene grinned placidly at him. “But I like cliff climbing, and Alaranth hunted yesterday with the other queens. I’d better go help with dinner if there’re steaks.”
“I have to, too,” F’mar said, grimacing. He didn’t enjoy that segment of the additional duties that the riders assumed inside the Weyr. “In fact, Tarrie sent me to find you.”
“For steak, I’m findable,” she said. “Just let me wash my hands first.”
“Can I help?” he asked with a second amicable leer.
Torene laughed at him, evading his half‑serious interference with a direct path to the sinks.
F’mar was nothing if not persistent in his efforts to attach her. He pressed his luck whenever he had the chance, like now, trying to persuade her that he was her best possible weyrmate, just as his Tallith would be the perfect bronze to twine necks with her queen. F’mar was looking for any opportunity to prove his worth‑‑in advance. He was also a Wingleader, which he thought gave him an advantage over others of their group.
For her part, she treated them all alike, and no one knew if she’d any experience at all. She didn’t because she was romantic enough, though she knew that would surprise many, to want her first time to be very special. She wanted to really like the man. She was being too picky perhaps; then, too, she knew all the most likely men too well now to see any of them in a sexual way. Except possibly Mihall, but only because she didn’t know him at all and knew far too much about his reputation. She’d become skilful in evading answers and importunities. Sometimes, to tease, she’d mention one or another of the apprentices at Telgar Hold whenever she’d been to visit her parents and sibs.
Actually, she liked F’mar best of them all, with his good humor and pleasant good looks, though she’d never give him any encouragement. He might just try joining her in her tight squeeze of a weyr. It was just as well that she was in such an uncomfortable weyr, she reflected. Everyone knew she slept right beside her queen‑‑warmer that way, anyhow. Two human bodies wouldn’t fit, and she wasn’t about to be seen leaving a male rider’s weyr‑‑or caught hiding if she chose to be in one.
When they reached the kitchen cavern, Tarrie and Yashma Zulieta were supervising the carving up of the carcasses. It was much too late in the day to have spit‑roasted the whole sides, which was the usual way of preparing meat in quantity. Torene knew they’d have several meals from all this mess. Good big meaty animals. Well, the grass at Longwood had produced many a fine meal for the Weyr when Fort’s supplies ran short.
It was indeed a fine meal. While comestibles like flour, dried beans and legumes, and dairy produce were provided by Fort now, the dragonriders could add to the bare necessities by going between to the southern continent and returning with fruits, fresh vegetables, and herd animals. Slowly but surely, the task of provisioning the Weyr was being handled by the Holds so, one way or another, the dragonriders often ate far better than holders. That, and the glamor of being a dragonrider, were reasons why so many young people were ready to take their chances on the Hatching Ground even though their parents might have had other careers in mind for their children. In the early days, Sean and Sorka had been forced to act rather autocratically in demanding enough boys and girls to stand on the Hatching Ground, especially older boys, who would be mature enough to fly in Fall as soon as their dragons were old enough. Gradually, however, to have a son or daughter become a dragonrider became a mark of prestige for a family. Although birthrates had been high the first six years at Fort Hold, there were only so many available to stand as candidates now. Lately they’d had to include pre adolescents, to be able to present enough of a choice to the hatchlings.
With eggs hardening on the Ground and Hatching quite near, the Weyr was presently hosting candidates. They were, Torene noted, the ones that came back for seconds and thirds of the juicy steaks. Not that she blamed them. She remembered her stomach rumbling far too often in the days when she had lived at home. There were not that many days when food was scarce‑‑for a dragonrider.
And, if one happened to find a fire‑lizard’s clutch in the southern sands, a rider could barter eggs for anything he or she desired. That was one unhappy aspect of living north: there were fewer and fewer of the lovely creatures·looking to humans. They didn’t seem to like the colder climate. Early on, hundreds had augmented dragon fire during Threadfall. Now that number had dwindled to a couple of pairs.
That was how Ierne Island had managed to hold out so long against coming north. The shores of Longwood, Lockahatchee, Uppsala, and Orkney were fire‑lizard havens, and every man, woman, and child had dozens to help protect them during Fall. At least the proposed site for Longwood and Orkney personnel would be warmer than the double crater: they’d keep their fire‑lizard friends that much longer.
When Torene’s kitchen duties finally allowed her to rejoin her friends, they talked more about the fine eating than about their afternoon activities. Torene didn’t mention her encounter with Sean, but she did notice the Weyrleader glancing over in her direction from time to time. The second time she observed his casual glance, she spoke to Alaranth; she concentrated that little bit harder, but Carenath was fast asleep.
He didn’t ask him anything all night, volunteered Alaranth also sleepily.
Probably because he remembers that I can hear.
No, Sean asked Carenath his opinion of some of the candidates. It would be good for Dagmath’s rider to have some of his own persuasion.
Torene considered that. The blue rider preferred boys to girls. And Sean would prefer to have fewer of the speedy little green dragons out of action because their riders were taking maternity leave.
Are there any prospects in that line? Torene asked.
Three.
Torene grinned. Now that was certain to ple
ase the Weyrleader.
“Who’s the grin for?” F’mar asked. He was sitting beside her and now leaned heavily against her shoulder.
“For me to know and you to guess,” she replied in a singsong voice.
“You’re not giving anything away, are you?” He sounded irked. “You did go to the craters today, didn’t you?”
“Sure, but that conversation had been gnawed to the bone by the time I got here,” she replied. “It would really make such a splendid Weyr. . .” She gave a wistful sigh.
“I think,” F’mar whispered in her ear, his breath tickling, “that Sean’s about to do something about establishing a new one.”
“You do?” She pulled back to look at him with an eager surprise which was genuine enough.
F’mar bent close again. “Sean wasn’t hunting all the time he was gone.”
“He wasn’t?” Torene used that as an excuse to widen the distance between them, to foil yet another of F’mar’s heavy‑handed ploys.
“I think,” F’mar said, putting one hand to the side of his face and lowering his voice so that only she could hear, “that he’s busy making some deal with the Langsams and the Mercers at Ierne.”
“Oh, so they’d be happy with the lower site and leave the higher one for us?”
He nodded.
“You could be right,” she replied, imbuing her tone with hope. “Oh, good, music! The perfect end for such a meal!”
She used that opportunity to slip away from F’mar completely, hauling the penny whistle from a thigh pocket as she joined the other players.
Torene always woke early on a Fall day, even if Fall wasn’t until afternoon, as it was today over Fort and parts of Boll.
Rumors had been flying yesterday. The dragons were as bad as the people, repeating their riders’ stories, adding supporting details based on the occasional odd statement by Sean or Sorka, or even what one of the bronzes who had gone south had to say about suspected meetings with the Longwood and Orkney stakeholders. Torene listened and wondered if she ought to report some of the more implausible theories to the Weyrleaders. Then she decided against it. There was no need to tell tales out of turn. And the prospect of a new Weyr raised spirits often full of jitters before any Fall, especially one over occupied lands.
As was his custom, Sean sent riders ahead to watch for the leading Edge and check the composition of today’s Fall. It would begin halfway across Big Bay, coming in over the port area‑‑where the dolphins would swarm for the good eating and to provide what help they could. Then the Fall would sweep southwesterly across Fort and Boll lands and down the other side of the mountain range. Over the last year the Weyr had, at Pierre’s request, extended its protection to that area, too, for Boll folk were spreading out, making small holds under the jurisdiction of the larger.
Torene always managed to eat breakfast, but like many other riders, she skipped the noontime meal, settling instead for a cup of klah before she changed into riding gear and asked Alaranth to come down to be tacked up. The other queens began to assemble, joined by the seven green riders whose pregnancy required them to fight with flame‑throwers. There were nine more green riders unavailable, either too recently delivered or recovering from injury, so the greens would have to ride longer shifts to keep the wings at proper strength. Sean did not like drafting in spare riders from the wings temporarily stationed at Big Island and Telgar: Wingleaders found that a gap in the rank was better than a diffident replacement who wasn’t sure of his wing‑mates. Torene listened carefully as Sorka gave the greens their positions in the low‑flying wing of queens. Most of them were seasoned riders, though there was one newcomer: Amy Mott, who was pregnant by Paul Logorides as a result of her green’s first mating flight.
It was almost a relief to hear Carenath’s bellow and look up to see the massed wings ranged along the Weyr Rim, awaiting the signal to chew firestone. Torene mounted the kneeling Alaranth, then reached down to those who were lifting the heavy tanks to their positions on either side of the queen’s withers. The tanks tethered, Torene attached the wand to the right‑hand one and gave a good turn of her wrench to be sure the connection was firm. Thanking her helpers, she then peered up to the Rim to wait for Sean’s signal to Sorka and Faranth, the leaders of the queens’ wing.
Follow me, Carenath said to Faranth. His voice was loud and clear in Torene’s head, but she didn’t make a move. She always took extra care to wait for Sorka’s signal‑‑ever since her first flight with the queens’ wing, when she had moved off ahead of Faranth. That was the day she had admitted, shamefacedly and feeling she was guilty of a terrible sin against the Weyrleaders and the Weyr, that she could hear the speech of other dragons. After she had made a stammered confession‑‑in private‑‑to the Weyrleaders, she had agreed to keep her ability to herself and be discreet at all times in exercising this unique talent.
Faranth made the all‑important first leap off the ground, springing with tremendous power from her hind legs, and Torene, riding right point to Faranth, gave Alaranth the go‑ahead.
As often as she had fought Thread, Torene felt the excitement knot in her belly, felt the surge of adrenaline in her blood as her queen’s wings described mighty strokes. With three, they were above the Weyr walls, gliding into their in‑flight position under the massed wings of Fort dragons.
She took their destination from both Carenath and Faranth, felt that awful sinking into the cold blackness that was the medium through which the dragons passed on their telekinetic way from one place to another, and came out over the sea, just beginning to darken as Thread slanted down across it. She was close enough at a roughly thousand‑foot altitude to notice the churning of the water where schools of every fish that thrived in Pern’s seas had gathered to feast on drowning Thread.
High above‑‑at some eight thousand feet, Torene estimated‑‑the aerial defenders of Pern waited for the leading Edge to get closer to the port facility. No sense wasting dragon flame on what would drown.
Then the nearer wings went into action. Flame sprouted red‑orange, then caught, and Thread burned into blackness. It was clumping today, Torene noticed, and she turned the regulator on her wand to a wide setting.
She also turned her hearing to listen to the dragons already engaged and wondered if Sorka was asking Faranth about the nicknames.
She is, Alaranth promptly replied, as an overlay of messages from both dragons and riders briefly confused Torene: Watch your left, F’mar! That’s coming in at two o’clock, B’ref! Big mother clump descending right over you, D’vid. Firth, watch right! That last came directly from the Weyrleader dragon to Shih Lao’s.
Torene giggled. There was nothing dragons could do with that name!
S’lao was Alaranth’s prompt reply. Stuff getting through. Veer right!
Sorka and Faranth had already begun to swing, and Torene and Alaranth followed. Habit kept Torene listening in with half an ear, as the queens’ wing began to mop up: mostly single Threads, which the upper level of fighters ignored in order to concentrate on the clumps and tangles. Faranth directed some of the quicker green riders to spread out to catch the outer edges of these and then, in an aside, ordered Alaranth to supervise.
Sometimes Torene’s neck ached with craning her head upward. Occasionally Alaranth eased her forequarters upward so that the strain was reduced, but such an awkward maneuver was hard for the queen to sustain
A dragon screamed, and instantly Alaranth identified the beast: Siwith, P’ter’s blue.
Wing damage, Alaranth said. We go.
We’re assisting, Elliath, Uloa’s queen, said. The pair went between the brief distance to the falling blue. Siwith’s right wing had been shredded. Unable to sustain flight, he was managing no more than a downward spiral.
Spouting flame, two greens appeared, clearing Thread from the path of the two queens as they arrived to arrest the blue’s descent.
Alaranth and Elliath had done this maneuver so often in the past two years that it was ne
arly routine now. As Torene laid herself flat against her queen’s neck, Alaranth being the larger beast, slipped up under the falling blue matching his downward speed and then coming up under his smaller body, holding it along her spine. Torene could feel Siwith’s hot and pungent breath on her back and hoped he wasn’t going to lose another suit of riding gear from scorching. Elliath hovered above them both, her forelegs poised to grab Siwith by the wing shoulders if he slipped.
Nice catch, Carenath told Alaranth.
Siwith’s whistles of pain were muted as the little fellow valiantly tried to stifle the agony of a wing injury.
We have him, Alaranth told her rider, who could feel the strain through her queen’s body.
Siwith, Torene said, relax now while we take you between. We’ve got you safe. Elliath, we go. . . now!
The transfer to Fort Weyr was accomplished. Sometimes the wounded panicked when they weren’t in control of a movement between, another reason for the second queen ready to grab wing‑shoulder joints. But Siwith managed to stay calm, and Alaranth arrived at the Weyr with her casualty still in place. The extra weight had her skimming the surface, though she landed smoothly just where medics waited.
“Are you okay, P’ter?” Torene shouted over her shoulder. A whiff of scorched leather reached her nose.
“Yeah. Thanks, ‘Rene! Just missed me. Ah, Siwith, you’ll be all right. You’ll be all right!” P’ter’s voice was ragged with concern and shared pain.
“Hang on while we transfer you.”
Chronicles of Pern (First Fall) Page 15