Yawning so deeply that his ears popped, Piemur nearly missed the next drum message that rolled in from Igen Weyr, warning that Thread hadn’t fallen as was expected. He threw off the quilted blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the cot, mentally reaching out to find Farli. His little gold had flitted off hours before, unaccustomed to sleeping in the depths of a mountain. A faint answer came back to him and he sensed, rather than knew, that she was outside, roosting with the other fire-lizards resident at Fort Hold and the Harper Hall. Jumping to his feet, he hastily shook out the blanket and smoothed it in place—lest he get an earful from Silvina. He’d slept deeply, and for the first time in a very long while, his dreams of music hadn’t disturbed his sleep.
He was mulling over his dream, trying to recapture the ethereal images that had played out in his head, when a sound, once familiar, floated toward him. The change-chime was sounding. Cripes, it was later than he thought! He jammed his feet into his boots, shoved his flying gear into his bag, which he threw over his shoulder, and then ran at full pelt from the sleeping quarters to the main hall. He was supposed to meet J’hon in the Bowl of Fort Weyr and he was late! Sebell had arranged for an envoy from Nabol to meet Piemur when he landed, so he’d have a safe base from which to learn more about the plot to oust Jaxom. If he was late meeting J’hon, he’d be late meeting Sebell’s escort!
Dashing through the main hall, Piemur had just enough time to scoop up a handful of bread rolls and a hunk of cheese before he dashed on toward the tunnel that led to the Weyr. Giving Farli a mental shout to join him, he hoped that the usual morning stream of folk traversing the tunnel had eased off; otherwise, it would take him an age to reach the Weyr.
Jogging into the tunnel, he was grateful to see that it was almost empty of foot traffic. Without breaking stride, he crammed his clothing farther into the bag, tossed the food on top, and quickly secured the buckles. Slinging the bag over his back, he pumped his legs hard until he was in a flat-out run. He easily dodged two holders deep in conversation and a harper clasping half a dozen flat drums, though he nearly collided with a woman who was walking down the middle of the tunnel carrying two bulky baskets. When she saw Piemur pelting down the tunnel, she did a little dither-dance, bobbing from left to right repeatedly, her eyes wide as she tried to guess which side he would run toward. In the end, he only had to veer from side to side twice before the woman, hands held protectively over her head, gave a little cry and crouched down on the spot, allowing Piemur to leap to one side of her, laughing a little at their silliness as he did. He looked back over his shoulder, checking to make sure she was all right. Then, all of a sudden, he’d reached the end of the tunnel and, hard-pressed to slow down in time, all but charged into the Bowl of Fort Weyr.
There wasn’t anything, Piemur mused, his head cranked back on his neck as he looked skyward, that could make a fellow slam on the brakes faster than seeing a Weyr at full fighting strength in the final moments of preparation before they flew to meet a Threadfall.
From his position in the Bowl of the caldera that Fort Weyr occupied, Piemur heard a clamor as the weyrfolk assisting the dragonriders called to one another. While the noise ebbed and flowed all around him, Piemur stood openmouthed as he watched scores and scores of dragons, bronze, brown, blue, and green, flying overhead at varying heights and in no apparent order. They whizzed through the air, this way and that, creating a surge of energy that Piemur believed he could actually feel through the downdrafts of air their wings created. How they didn’t collide with one another, midflight, was a mystery he’d never understand. What an altogether uplifting and magnificent sight!
Most of the dragons were ready, perched on the upper rim of the Weyr Bowl, their fighting harnesses drawn tight and bulging sacks full of firestone slung from them on either side of their necks. They were waiting for the formal command from their Weyrleader signaling them to take to the skies and meet their old foe once again. Some dragons were launching from the mouths of their weyrs to swoop down and land in the Bowl, attending to last-minute necessities, while others waited patiently as sacks of firestone were hauled and pushed to their backs by their riders and attendant weyrfolk. What organized disorder! Piemur marveled.
“Piemur!”
He looked toward the sound, trying to locate the source, but there was too much dragon flesh in his way.
“Over here, Piemur, to your left!” It sounded like N’ton’s voice.
Piemur followed the voice, careful not to get in the way of running weyrfolk, or a dragon tail, or furling wings, as the members of the Weyr single-mindedly prepared to fight. The Fort Weyrleader called out again, and Piemur located N’ton just as sacks of firestone were being lifted into place on Lioth’s back. The big bronze dragon stamped one huge foot as he stood, impatient to be airborne.
N’ton was dressed in full fighting gear, his helmet already strapped tight and goggles at the ready as he leaned down the side of Lioth’s neck so Piemur could hear him.
“A drum message came in from Igen Weyr, Piemur. Thread hasn’t fallen when or where it should, so we’re taking flight earlier than planned, lest we get caught out, too. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait for a lift to Nabol. I’ll send word to you later.” The tall dragonrider reached his hand down to clasp Piemur’s, a smile on his face.
Piemur smiled back. “Safe skies, N’ton!”
There was nothing for it, he ruminated, hoping the escort would wait for him in Nabol, or he’d simply have to make do on his own when he eventually arrived there.
As Piemur watched, Lioth moved into a clear space in the center of the Bowl and, bunching his limbs underneath him, made a huge leap upward, launching into the air to fly the short distance to where the other dragons were waiting along the edge of the rim.
Moments later all the dragons and riders had completed their preparations and were assembled along the rim of the Bowl. Looking to their Weyrleader, the riders waited mere seconds before N’ton lifted one arm over his head and pumped the air with his closed fist, signaling for the wings of dragons to take flight.
They lifted in a steady stream, one wing at a time, flying upward in their hundreds, up above the huge Star Stones of Fort, said to be the largest on Pern, and when they had gained enough height to hover on the thermals, then, without a further gesture or a single command Piemur could hear, they answered the unspoken call of Lioth and N’ton and blinked out of sight, between, into that frighteningly dark place where silence was a noisy pressure and the cold unforgiving and absolute.
A mere two hours later, while Piemur sipped a cup of hot klah in Fort’s main hall, with Farli perched along the back of his neck, a young lad from the Weyr brought a message to him from J’hon. The dragonrider was ready to take Piemur to Nabol. It seemed odd to Piemur to hear from J’hon so soon. Threadfalls usually lasted for at least three or four hours, after which more time was spent on the final checks that ensured no Thread had been allowed to reach the ground undetected.
Piemur quickly scooped up his bag from the bench and jogged back through the tunnel to the Weyr, Farli zooming on ahead of him. More than three-quarters of the Weyr had returned from their flight and now stood in the Bowl, waiting for helpers to divest them of their firestone sacks, or hauling them off their dragons themselves. The air was charged with misspent energy. Piemur could hear several dragonriders calling to one another in desultory tones, and another group arguing among themselves about landmarks and wind patterns, their frustrations all too evident. They must have had a bad flight, Piemur surmised.
He searched for the bronze wingsecond and finally located him at the far end of the Bowl, standing near his dragon, Mirth. As he approached, Piemur heard J’hon talking to a much older dragonrider who, he realized, must be one of the many Oldtimers who’d remained in the north, adapting to life in their own world’s future.
“I’d think it’s best if your dragon remains tacked up with the sac
ks in place, J’hon,” the Oldtimer was saying, “or you’ll likely kick yourself when the call comes that the forward scouts have sighted the leading edge of Thread.” He smiled at J’hon and clapped a hand on his shoulder as he turned toward his brown dragon to run a critical eye over the straps that held his own sacks of firestone in place.
“Sound advice, D’rah. My thanks,” J’hon said, nodding to the more experienced dragonrider. Then, when he saw Piemur approaching, he called, “Hey, Piemur, you got my message!”
At a scant twenty-one Turns, J’hon was the youngest dragonrider at Fort to hold the position of wingsecond. Not as tall as his wingleader, J’hon nevertheless had a commanding presence and carried his frame with a lithe grace. His hair was dark and thick, his face pleasant, and his eyes were a remarkable gold-flecked hazel. He was well known in the Weyr for his rapid-fire wit and pithy jokes, and Piemur felt at ease in his company.
“My thanks, J’hon, though I’ve no wish to go to Nabol.” Piemur clasped hands with the dragonrider who, he noted with a jolt of pride, was only slightly taller than he. The unmistakable smell of firestone smoke clung to the wingsecond’s clothing, and Piemur realized that his dragon must’ve already tested his flame even though no Thread had yet fallen to char.
“No thanks are needed, Piemur—it’ll be a welcome break from waiting for the call to fight Thread. If we can actually determine when and where it’s going to fall.” J’hon’s smile was rueful. “Igen reported earlier that Thread fell out of sequence there, too.”
“How will the Weyr adjust to this kind of unpredictability?” Piemur asked.
“That’s a good question, Piemur. We checked and double-checked our charts last night, in preparation for today, but something has changed the pattern of the Fall. F’lar sent a wing to sweep the skies over the southeastern border of Ruatha, hoping to properly pinpoint where the Fall will begin. There wasn’t any point in the whole Weyr remaining in flight, so N’ton sent most of us back to wait it out. It was a shrewd decision—otherwise we’d all get too edgy. If you’re ready, Mirth and I can take you to Nabol now.”
“I’d best get it over with,” Piemur said, a forced grin flashing across his face as he quickly stepped into his heavy leggings and then toggled the fastenings closed on his jacket before finally pulling his fur-lined helmet onto his head. Pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he scanned around him, trying to spot Farli, but he couldn’t see her anywhere. She must’ve gotten spooked by all the commotion from the dragons and riders, he guessed. No doubt she’d find him later.
Already settled between the last two ridges at the base of his bronze’s neck, J’hon leaned down and offered Piemur a hand to help him climb up the tall shoulder and around the bulky firestone sacks. Mirth, on some signal from his rider, turned his head toward Piemur, gently nudging him with his nose. Glad for the boost up from behind, Piemur landed on Mirth’s back with a chuckle, and made short work of clipping the straps of the flying harness around his waist. The addition of the firestone sacks and the harnessing that secured them gave Piemur the comforting feeling that he was wedged in place like a pip between two teeth.
“All set?” J’hon asked over his shoulder. Piemur nodded.
Mirth walked clear of the other dragons and then, extending his wings, ran several paces on all four legs before leaping into the air. He beat down powerfully with his wings and, in a few strokes, rose up and up, high into the air until he was level with the rim of the Bowl. With a few mighty strokes he climbed higher until the change in the air all around them signaled to Piemur that they were gaining lift with the help of the thermals.
J’hon turned his head toward Piemur, cupping one hand to his mouth so the sound wouldn’t be blown away on the wind. “I’m going to fly just beyond the Star Stones and then we’ll go between. We’ll arrive a good distance out from Nabol Hold. I want to find the best approach to the settlement so as few people as possible see us.”
Piemur nodded in agreement, quickly pulling his flying gloves from his jacket pockets. He put them on and then secured the side flaps of his leather helmet over his ears in preparation for the icy cold of between. After every flight he’d made into that huge, cold void he was certain that the next time he’d be ready for the experience. Yet there wasn’t anything that could prepare Piemur adequately for the silent nothingness, or the panic that rose up in him as all sensations fell away, sparing him nothing, not even the comfort of touch. They seemed to hang there, and time, too, played out strangely between. Although Piemur knew they would emerge into daylight in the same amount of time it took him to count to three, those few moments always felt like hours. Just when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, they burst out into the skies southwest of Nabol Hold.
Nabol is grayer than I remembered, Piemur thought with irony, snorting gently under his breath as he scanned the skies around them. Suddenly J’hon’s body froze and Mirth tensed, too, as dragonrider and bronze dragon looked up in unison. Piemur followed J’hon’s gaze, and then he saw it: a silver mist of descending Thread raining down across the sky.
Panic washed over him. How could they have arrived in the middle of Threadfall?
“Thread!” J’hon roared at Piemur. “Hold on tight!”
Mirth reacted immediately, beating his wings faster and stretching his neck out in front of him, his body elongating like an arrow as he climbed up and away from the path of the approaching mass of streaming silver strands.
The bronze dragon wheeled midair, wrenching Piemur’s head about on his shoulders, and Piemur wondered how dragonriders remained hale and hearty when they endured such aggressive airborne maneuvers. A belch of flame burst from Mirth’s open mouth and seared a large clump of the silver threads to mere char. Mirth turned his head back toward his rider, and Piemur could see the huge eyes whirling a deep shade of red as J’hon fed him lumps of firestone from the sacks slung across his neck. While Mirth quickly crunched the stone, J’hon craned his neck around.
“I’ve called for support from the Weyr, Piemur, but we can’t leave now! My wing will be here soon.” Then he turned back toward Mirth to feed him another lump of firestone.
Piemur grimly nodded as he clung onto the fighting straps for dear life, realizing that J’hon couldn’t possibly see his feeble movement unless he had eyes in the back of his head. Mirth flew on, ahead of the silver rain, dodging clumps that fell around them and flaming those that were directly in his path. The bronze dragon climbed and dove, pivoted and wheeled through the air, his attention completely focused on fighting his ancient foe.
They were moving so fast and changing direction at such high speed that Piemur thought his arms might be ripped from their sockets. Later, when he recollected that terrifying flight, he wasn’t quite certain how he’d heard it, but the sound of a hiss coming from behind his left ear caught his attention, and he turned just in time to see a single strand of Thread land on top of his bag.
The horror of being so close to Thread galvanized Piemur into action. In a flash he pulled the strap from his back and shrugged the bag off as the Thread writhed grotesquely. He mustn’t let the Thread touch him! In a rush of fright, Piemur flung the bag away from him, and for a moment it seemed to hang in the air before it began the inexorable plunge downward, the strand of Thread seeming to swell and grow as it mindlessly consumed the bag and its contents.
“Nooo!” Piemur roared, unconsciously grabbing J’hon’s shoulder as he watched in horror while the bag fell through the sky. What had he done? The bag would hit the ground and Thread would begin burrowing, its energy bolstered by the organic matter of his bag and its contents!
Without missing a beat Mirth wheeled midair and plummeted down to follow the hurtling bag. As he drew near, the bronze began to backwing and rolled his body skyward again. Then, just as Piemur thought Mirth was going to let the bag fall unchecked, the dragon turned his head and belched out a long, funnel-like strea
m of red-hot flame. Piemur’s bag—what was left of it—and the writhing strand of Thread were engulfed in a fireball, exploding in flurries of sparks and smoldering ash.
Piemur gulped in a lungful of air, released his death-grip on J’hon’s shoulder, and slumped against his harness. J’hon reached back one gloved hand and slapped Piemur’s knee reassuringly.
Mirth began to ascend again, and between one wingbeat and the next the sky was crowded with dragons. A full fighting wing—thirty strong—filled the air, bursting into the empty spaces all around Piemur. He’d never seen anything so spectacular and heartening before in his life. Bronzes, browns, blues, and greens—all flew together in tight formation, their eyes whirling deep amber and red. Little plumes of flame escaped from several of the dragons’ mouths, followed immediately by full jets of fire streaming out to sear the Thread from the sky. Piemur stared, incredulous at how agile the smaller green and blue dragons were as they darted in and out around the larger browns and bronzes, catching any errant Thread that might have escaped their larger wingmates.
The wing pressed onward and Piemur realized that the dragonriders must have established the exact measure of the leading edge of Thread as it stretched across the sky like a swath of silver rain, because J’hon pumped his arm several times and half a dozen dragons responded by peeling off in either direction. Working as a finely drilled team, the thirty dragons and riders blazed through the sky, systematically wiping out the deadly spores before they could make landfall.
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