Dragonquest

by Anne McCaffrey

  Brekke was not asleep. She had awakened suddenly, as she was accustomed to doing in the morning, except that the dark stillness around her was not simply that of an inner room in the weyr cliff, but was full of the soft solitude of night. The fire lizard, Berd, roused too, his brilliant eyes the only light in the room. He crooned apprehensively. Brekke stroked him, listening for Wirenth, but the queen was sound asleep in her stony couch.

  Brekke tried to compose herself back into sleep, but even as she made her body relax, she realized it was a useless attempt. It might be late watch here at High Reaches, but it was dawn in Southern, and that’s the rhythm her body was still tuned to. With a sigh, she rose, reassuring Berd who rustled around anxiously. But he joined her in the pool-bath, splashing with small vehemence in the warm water, utilizing the superfluous suds from her cleansing sands to bathe himself. He preened on the bench, uttering those soft voluptuous croons that amused her.

  In a way, it was good to be up and about with no one to interrupt her for there was so much to be done to settle the weyrfolk in their new habitation. She’d have to plan around some of the most obvious problems. There was little fresh food. T’kul had gratuitously left behind the oldest, scrawniest bucks, the worst furnishings, had made off with most of the supplies of cloth, cured woods, leathers, all the wine, and managed to prevent the Southern folk from taking enough from their stores to make up the deficits. Oh, if she’d had even two hours, or any warning . . .

  She sighed. Obviously Merika had been a worse Weyrwoman than Kylara, for High Reaches was in a bad state of disrepair. Those Holds which tithed to High Reaches Weyr would be in no mood to make up the differences now. Maybe a discreet word to F’nor would remedy the worst of the lacks . . . No, that would suggest incompetency. First, she’d inventory what they did have, discover the most pressing needs, see what they could manufacture themselves . . . Brekke stopped. She’d have to adjust her thinking to an entirely new way of life, a life dependent on the generosity of the Holds. In Southern, you had so much to work with. In her father’s Crafthall, you always made what you could from things to hand—but there were always raw materials—or you grew it—or did without.

  “One thing certain, Kylara will not do without!” Brekke muttered. She had dressed in riding gear which was warmer and less hampering if she was to delve into storage caves.

  She didn’t like the pinched-face Meron Lord of Nabol Hold. To be indebted to him would be abhorrent. There must be an alternative.

  Wirenth was twitching as Brekke passed her and the dragon’s hide gleamed in the darkness. She was so deeply asleep that Brekke did not even stroke her muzzle in passing. The dragon had worked hard yesterday. Could it really have been only yesterday?

  Berd chirped so smugly as he glided past the queen that Brekke smiled. He was a dear nuisance, as transparent as pool water—and she must check and see if Rannelly was right about the Weyr lake. The old woman had complained bitterly last evening that the water was fouled—deliberately; maliciously fouled by T’kul.

  It was startling to come out into crisply cold air with the pinch of late frost in the early hour chill. Brekke glanced up at the watchrider by the Star stones and then hurried down the short flight of steps to the Lower Caverns. The fires had been banked but the water kettle was comfortingly hot She made klah, found bread and fruit for herself and some meat for Berd. He was beginning to eat with less of the barbarous voracity, and no longer gorged himself into somnolence.

  Taking a fresh basket of glows, Brekke went into the storage section to begin her investigations. Berd cheerfully accompanied her, perching where he could watch her industry.

  By the time the Weyr began to stir, four hours later, Brekke was full of contempt for past domestic management and considerably relieved about the resources on hand. In fact, she suspected that the best fabrics and leathers, not to mention wines, had not gone south with the dissenters.

  But the lake water was indisputably fouled by household garbage and would have to be dredged. It wouldn’t be usable for several days at least. And there was nothing in which water could be transported in any quantity from the nearby mountain streams. It seemed silly to send a dragon out for a couple of bucketsful, she reported to T’bor and Kylara.

  “I’ll get kegs from Nabol,” Kylara announced, once she had recovered from ranting about T’kul’s pettiness.

  While it was obvious to Brekke that T’bor was not pleased to hear her solution, he had too much else to occupy his time to protest. At least, Brekke thought, Kylara was taking an interest in the Weyr and some of the responsibility.

  So Kylara circled out of the Bowl, Prideth shining golden in the early morning sun. And T’bor took off with several wings for low-altitude sweeps, to get familiar with the terrain and set up appropriate watch fires and patrol check points. Brekke and Vanira, with the help of Pilgra, the only High Reaches Weyrwoman to stay behind, settled who would supervise which necessary duties. They set the weyrlings to dragging the lake, sent others for immediate supplies of fresh water.

  Deeply occupied in counting sacks of flour, Brekke did not hear Wirenth’s first cry. It was Berd who responded with a startled squawk, flying round Brekke’s head to attract her attention.

  As Brekke felt for Wirenth’s mind, she was astonished at the incoherence, at the rough, wild emotions. Wondering what could have happened to a queen who’d been so peacefully asleep, Brekke raced through the corridors, to be met in the Lower Cavern by Pilgra, wide-eyed with excitement

  “Wirenth’s ready to rise, Brekke. I’ve called back the riders! She’s on her way to the Feeding. Ground. You know what to do, don’t you?”

  Brekke stared at the girl, stunned. In a daze she let Pilgra pull her toward the Bowl. Wirenth was screaming, as she glided into the Feeding Ground. The terrified herdbeasts stampeded, keening their distress, adding to the frightening tension in the air.

  “Go on, Brekke,” Pilgra cried, pushing her. “Don’t let her gorge. She won’t fly well!”

  “Help me!” Brekke pleaded.

  Pilgra embraced her reassuringly, with an odd smile. “Don’t be scared. It’s wonderful.”

  “I—I can’t . . .”

  Pilgra gave Brekke a shake. “Of course you can. You must I’ve got to scoot with Segrith. Vanira’s already taken her queen away.”

  “Taken her away?”

  “Of course. Don’t be stupid. You can’t have other queens around right now. Just be thankful Kylara’s at Nabol Hold with Prideth. That one’s too close to rising herself.”

  And Pilgra, with one last push at Brekke, ran toward her own queen.

  Rannelly was at Brekke’s elbow suddenly, batting at the excited fire lizard who darted above their heads.

  “Get away! Get away! You, girl, get to your queen or you’re no Weyrwoman! Don’t let her gorge!”

  Suddenly the air was again full of dragon wings—the bronzes had returned. And the urgency of mating, the necessity of protecting Wirenth roused Brekke. She began to run toward the Feeding Ground, aware of the rising hum of the bronzes, the expectant sensuality of the browns and blues and greens who now perched on their ledges to watch the event. Weyrfolk crowded the Bowl.

  “F’nor! F’nor! What shall I do?” Brekke moaned.

  And then she was aware that Wirenth had come down on a buck, shrieking her defiance; an altered, unrecognizable Wirenth, voracious with more than a blood urge.

  “She mustn’t gorge!” someone shouted at Brekke. Someone gripped her arms to her sides, tightly. “Don’t let her gorge, Brekke!”

  But Brekke was with Wirenth now, was feeling the insatiable desire for raw, hot meat, for the taste of blood in her mouth, the warmth of it in her belly. Brekke was unaware of extraneous matters. Of anything but the fact that Wirenth was rising to mate and that she, Brekke, would be captive to those emotions, a victim of her dragon’s lust, and that this was contrary to all she had been conditioned to believe and honor.

  Wirenth had gutted the first buck by now an
d Brekke fought to keep her from eating the steaming entrails. Fought and won, controlling herself and her beast for the bond-love she had with the golden queen. When Wirenth rose from the blooded carcass, Brekke became momentarily aware of the heavy, hot, musty bodies crowding around her. Frantic, she glanced up at the circle of bronze riders, their faces intent on the scene on the Feeding Ground, intent and sensual, their expressions changing them from well-known features into strange parodies.

  “Brekke! Control her!” Someone shouted hoarsely in her ear and her elbow was seized in a painful vise.

  This was wrong! All wrong! Evil, she moaned, desperately crying with all her spirit for F’nor. He had said he’d come. He had promised that only Canth would fly Wirenth . . . Canth! Canth!

  Wirenth was going for the throat of the buck, not to blood it, but to rend and eat the flesh.

  Two disciplines warred with each other. Confused, distraught, torn as violently as the flesh of the dead buck, Brekke nevertheless forced Wirenth to obey her. And yet, which force would finally win? Weyr or Crafthall? Brekke clung to the hope that F’nor would come—the third alternate.

  After the fourth buck, Wirenth seemed to glow. With an astonishing leap, she was suddenly aloft Trumpeting roars reverberated painfully back and forth from the sides of the Weyr as the bronzes leaped after her, the wind from their wings sweeping dust and sand into the faces of the watching weyrfolk.

  And Brekke was conscious of nothing but Wirenth. For she was suddenly Wirenth, contemptuous of the bronzes trying to catch her as she sped upward, eastward, high above the mountains, until the land below was hollow black and sand, the flash of blue lake in the sun blinding. Above the clouds, up where the air was thin but speed enhanced.

  And then, out of the clouds below her, another dragon. A queen, as glowingly golden as herself. A queen? To lure her dragons from her?

  Screaming in protest, Wirenth dove at the intruder, her talons extended, her body no longer exulting in flight but tensed for combat.

  She dove and the intruder veered effortlessly, turning so swiftly to rake her talons down Wirenth’s exposed flank that the young queen could not evade the strike. Injured, Wirenth fell, recovering valiantly and swooping into cloud cover. The bronzes had caught up and bugled their distress. They wanted to mate. They wanted to interfere. The other queen—it was Prideth—believing her rival vanquished, called enticingly to the bronzes.

  Fury was added to the pain of Wirenth’s humiliation. She exploded from the clouds, bellowing her challenge, her summons to the bronzes.

  And her opponent was there! Beneath Wirenth. The young queen folded her wings and dove, her golden body dropping at a fearsome rate. And her dive was too unexpected, too fast. Prideth could not avoid the mid-air collision. Wirenth’s claws sank into her back and Prideth writhed, her wings fouled by the talons which she could not disengage. Both queens fell like Thread, toward the mountains, escorted by the distraughtly bugling bronzes.

  With the desperation born of frenzy, Prideth wrenched herself free, Wirenth’s talons leaving gouges to the bone along her shoulders. But as she twisted free, beating for altitude, she slashed at Wirenth’s unprotected head, across one gleaming eye.

  Wirenth’s tortured scream pierced the heavens just as other queens broke into the air around them; queens who instantly divided, one group flying for Prideth, the other for Wirenth.

  Implacably they circled Wirenth, forcing her back, away from Prideth, their circles ever decreasing, a living net around the infuriated, pain-racked queen. Sensing only that she was being deprived of revenge on her foe, Wirenth saw the one escape route and folding her wings, dropped out the bottom of the net and darted toward the other group of queens.

  Prideth’s tail protruded, and on this Wirenth fastened her teeth, dragging the other from protective custody. No sooner were they clear than Wirenth bestrode the older queen’s back, talons digging deeply into her wing muscles, her jaws sinking into the unprotected neck.

  They fell, Wirenth making no attempt to stop their dangerous descent. She could see nothing from her damaged eye. She paid no attention to the screams of the other queens, the circling bronzes. Then something seized her body roughly from above, giving her a tremendous jerk.

  Unable to see on the right, Wirenth was forced to relinquish her hold to contend with this new menace. But as she turned, she caught a glimpse of a great golden body directly below Prideth. Above her—Canth! Canth? Hissing at such treachery, she was unable to realize that he was actually trying to rescue her from sure death on the dangerously close mountain peaks. Ramoth, too, was attempting to stop their plunge, supporting Prideth with her body, her great wings straining with effort.

  Suddenly teeth closed on Wirenth’s neck, close to the major artery at the junction of the shoulder. Wirenth’s mortal scream was cut off as she now struggled for breath itself. Wounded by foe, hampered by friends, Wirenth desperately transferred between, taking Prideth with her, jaws deathlocked on her life’s blood.

  The bronze fire lizard, Berd, found F’nor preparing to join the wings at the western meadows of Telgar Hold. The brown rider was so astonished at first to see the little bronze in Benden so far from his mistress that he didn’t immediately grasp the frenzied creature’s thoughts.

  But Canth did.

  Wirenth has risen!

  All other considerations forgotten, F’nor ran with Canth to the ledge. Grall grabbed at her perch on his shoulder, wrapping her tail so tightly around F’nor’s neck that he had to loosen it forcibly. Then could not be brought to roost and precious moments were lost while Canth managed to calm the little bronze sufficiently to accept instruction. As Berd finally settled, Canth let out so mighty a bugle that Mnementh challenged from the ledge and Ramoth roared back from the Hatching Ground.

  With no thought of the effect of their precipitous exit or Canth’s exceptional behavior, F’nor urged his dragon upward. The small pulse of reason that remained untouched by emotion was trying to estimate how long it had taken the little bronze to reach him, how long Wirenth would blood before rising, which bronzes were at High Reaches. He was thankful that F’lar had not had time to throw mating flights open. There were some beasts against whom Canth stood no chance.

  When they broke into the air again over High Reaches Weyr, F’nor’s worst fears were realized. The Feeding Ground was a bloody sight and no queen fed there. Nor was there a bronze among the dragons who ringed the Weyr heights.

  Without order, Canth wheeled sharply down at dizzying speed.

  Berd knows where Wirenth is. He takes me.

  The little bronze hopped down to Canth’s neck, his little talons gripping the ridge tightly. F’nor slid from Canth’s shoulder to the ground, staggering out of the way so the brown could spring back aloft

  Prideth also rises! The thought and the brown’s scream of fear were simultaneous. From the heights the other dragons answered, extending their wings in alarm.

  “Rouse Ramoth!” F’nor shouted, mind and voice, his body paralyzed with shock. “Rouse Ramoth! Bronze riders! Prideth also rises!”

  Weyrfolk rushed from the Lower Cavern, riders appeared on their ledges around the Weyr face.

  “Kylara! T’bor! Where’s Pilgra? Kylara! Varena!” Shouting with a panic that threatened to choke him. F’nor raced for Brekke’s weyr, shoving aside the people who crowded him, demanding explanations.

  Prideth rising! How could that happen? Even the stupidest Weyrwoman knew you didn’t keep a queen near her weyr during a mating flight—unless they were broody. How could Kylara . . . ?

  “T’bor!”

  F’nor raced up the short flight of steps, pounded down the corridor in strides that jolted his half-healed arm. But the pain cleared his head of panic. Just as he burst into the weyr cavern, Brekke’s angry cry halted him. The bronze riders grouped around her were beginning to show the effects of the interrupted mating flight

  “What’s she doing here? How dare she?” Brekke was shrieking in a voice shrill with lu
st as well as fury. “These are my dragons! How dare she! I’ll kill her!” The litany broke into a piercing scream of agony as Brekke doubled up, right shoulder hunching as if to protect her head.

  “My eye! My eye! My eye!” Brekke was covering her right eye, her body writhing in an uncontrollable, unconscious mimicry of the aerial battle to which she was tuned.

  “Kill! I’ll kill her! No! No! She cannot escape. Go away!” Suddenly Brekke’s face turned crafty and her whole body writhed sensuously.

  The bronze riders were changing now, no longer completely in the thrall of the strange mental rapport with their beasts. Fear, doubt, indecision, hopelessness registered on their faces. Some portion of the human awareness was returning, fighting with the dragon responsiveness and the interrupted mating flight. When T’bor reached for Brekke, human fear was reflected in his eyes.

  But she was still totally committed to Wirenth, and the incredible triumph on her face registered Wirenth’s success in evading capture, in dragging Prideth from the encircling queens.

  “Prideth has risen, T’bor! The queens are fighting,” F’nor shouted.

  One rider began to scream and the sound broke the link of two others who stared, dazed, at Brekke’s contorting body.

  “Don’t touch her!” F’nor cried, moving to fend off T’bor and another man. He moved as close to her as possible but her ranging eyes did not see him or anything in the weyr.

  Then she seemed to spring, her left eye widening with an unholy joy, her lips bared as her teeth fastened on an imaginary target, her body arching with the empathic effort.

  Suddenly she hissed, craning her head sideways, over her right shoulder, while her face reflected incredulity, horror, hatred. As suddenly, her body was seized with a massive convulsion. She screamed again, this time a mortal shriek of unbelievable terror and anguish. One hand went to her throat, the other batted at some unseen attacker. Her body, poised on her toes, strained in an agonized stretch. With a cry that was more gasp than scream, she whirled. In her eyes was Brekke’s soul again, tortured, terrified. Then her eyes closed, her body sagged in such an alarming collapse that F’nor barely caught her in time.