Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I won’t lie,” Halla replied, torn between shame, anger, and a strong desire to tell the truth.

  “I trap when I can, earn my food and keep like everyone else—” She met his eyes squarely. “—but when I’m starving or the little ones have gone without food so long they can’t even cry anymore, then I’m not above taking from those who’ve more and won’t share even with a starving baby.”

  “I’d do the same,” Tarri admitted.

  Veran frowned thoughtfully for a moment, glanced away from Halla’s intense eyes, and finally nodded in reluctant agreement.

  “If there was another way, I’d do it,” Halla declared, her brown eyes flashing fiercely. “Whenever there is another way, I do it.”

  Veran could only glance in her direction for a moment before the intensity of her gaze proved too much for him again.

  “The little ones,” Halla asked after a moment, “where are they?”

  “We’ve got them,” Veran said.

  “So who left?”

  “The girl and the lad,” Tarri said.

  “What’d they take?”

  “You don’t sound surprised,” Veran growled.

  “She learned from her mother,” Halla said. “Her mother had bangs.”

  Tarri gave Veran a meaningful look.

  “I see you don’t name her,” Veran said pointedly.

  “Her name’s Milera,” Halla replied. “Her mother’s name is Conni. We were looking for her and Moran—”

  “Moran?” Veran interrupted. “That’s the second time you’ve said that name. That wouldn’t be Harper Moran, would it?”

  “You mean he’s really a harper?” Halla asked in surprise. When Veran nodded, she explained, “He taught me to read but I was never sure.”

  “Master Zist’s had the word out about him for Turns now,” Veran said. Tarri looked at him quizzically—obviously this was news to her, as well. Veran shrugged and sighed before continuing, “What I heard was that Zist had sent Moran to work with the Shunned—”

  Halla snorted derisively and Veran nodded in agreement.

  “They say,” he continued, “that the Harper Hall is worried about what will happen to the Shunned when Thread comes again.”

  “Thread?” Halla peered up to the skies, wondering if the dreaded menace would fall at any moment.

  “We’ve Turns before then,” Tarri reassured her. She looked to Veran. “Why would the harpers worry about the Shunned?”

  “They didn’t say,” Veran replied. “But we’ve talked about it among ourselves, and it’s thought that perhaps the Shunned might cause problems when Thread falls.”

  “They’ll all die,” Halla declared in a dead voice. “They’ve nowhere to go; the Thread will devour them in one Fall.” She looked up imploringly at Veran. “Would you take the little ones? They didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

  “Of course we would,” Veran declared stoutly. “We traders know what’s right and we do it, even if the holders and crafters don’t.

  “Besides,” he added quietly, “there’s been dealings between traders and Shunned before.”

  Halla nodded. She’d heard as much and expected as much. The Shunned were rootless and desperate, the traders were rootless by choice; it was obvious that the two groups would be in contact, sometimes to mutual advantage.

  “We don’t like to admit it,” Tarri confessed. “If the holders or crafters found out we were helping…”

  “Besides, some of the Shunned were traders who went bad,” Veran said. He raised his eyes to Halla’s and nodded emphatically. “Most of the Shunned were sent out for good cause.”

  “I don’t know what my parents did,” Halla told him. “But my brother didn’t do anything more than he needed to survive, nor do I.”

  “Then you’d make a good trader,” Veran declared.

  “I’d like to settle someplace, I think.”

  “That’s harder,” Veran replied, shaking his head. “Holders don’t like giving up their lands.”

  “I thought Pern belonged to everyone,” Tarri said.

  “That’s what the traders say,” Veran replied with a smile.

  “The little ones, would you take them now?”

  “We’d have to talk it over,” Veran said. “But there are some who’ve lost children recently and—”

  “Of course we’ll do it,” Tarri said, overriding Veran’s caution. “You can stay, too.”

  Halla shook her head. “I’ve got to find Moran.”

  “What about the others?” Veran asked.

  “I’d prefer to avoid them,” Halla confessed.

  Veran nodded understandingly. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and then declared, “Tell us about Moran and the others, and you can go with a pack full of food.”

  “The truth?” Halla asked.

  “Traders don’t trade in lies,” Tarri warned her. Halla looked at her quizzically while she absorbed her words then nodded in assent.

  She spoke for a good twenty minutes, surprised by what she said and how well Tarri and Veran drew her out. She was relieved to unburden herself and glad not to have to worry about shading the truth or having to decide what to leave out of her tale.

  “I’ve heard of Conni,” Veran said when she’d finished. “I hadn’t heard about her daughter.”

  “She’s a woman now,” Tarri said. Veran gave her a funny look and it took Halla a moment before she realized that Tarri was several Turns older than Milera and so a woman herself.

  “They say some men died near the mother,” Veran said, his voice cold. “Enough was proved that she was Shunned.”

  “Where was the father?” Tarri asked.

  “The father was the first to die,” Veran told her. Tarri and Halla shuddered. Veran gave Halla an admonishing look. “You stay clear of both of them.”

  Halla nodded in agreement.

  “You could stay with us,” Tarri offered once more.

  Halla shook her head again, sadly.

  “You can come back if you want,” Veran told her.

  “Thank you,” Halla said, smiling. “I’d like to visit again, at the least.”

  “I’ll spread the word,” Tarri told her. “You’ll be welcome at any trader fire across Pern by the end of the next sevenday.”

  Veran disappeared behind the curtains into the back of the wagon and reappeared some time later with a pack, full, as promised, with provisions.

  “Fair trade,” he said, offering the pack to her.

  “Thanks.”

  “‘Fair trade’ is what you say,” Tarri corrected her.

  Halla smiled. “Fair trade.”

  “Fair trade,” Tenim said as he left the body lying in the gully. Milera had been a pleasant diversion, but she’d been a fool to think she could stab him while he was sleeping. She’d gotten closer than he’d liked; his shoulder was sore and hot where the dagger had scored.

  She’d forfeited her purse and her life when she’d tried to take his. Now Tenim traveled by himself with a pack provisioned for two.

  He turned his attention to the trail ahead. Not only had his purse profited—twice—from his stay with the traders, but he’d gained considerably on Moran and Conni. Soon his purse would be even fuller. Tenim liked the idea. A full purse could buy a full belly, a good night’s rest, even a willing partner.

  Conni’s purse had bought them a good berth on the barge that sailed down from Crom to Keogh. Her mouth had bought them an abrupt dislodgement on their arrival.

  “He was rude,” Conni muttered again, her face buried in a mug full of cheap wine. She was drunk and getting nastier with every sip.

  Moran eyed her distastefully. He had allowed his passion to cloud his thinking—again—and, again, he was paying far too much for his error. At least, he consoled himself, the bargeman’s wife had looked upon his charges kindly, so he had reason to hope that they’d be adopted, clearly a better fate for them than remaining close to Conni. Now all he had to do was achieve a similar distance and per
haps he could return, prodigally, to the Harper Hall.

  For a moment Moran imagined the look on the faces of the harpers as he returned from his impossible mission. Why, he might even gain his Mastery straight out. He was old enough, nearing his thirtieth Turn even if he looked older.

  His pleasant rumination was rudely interrupted by a clatter as Conni’s fingers let slip her mug, and her head fell to the table, insensate. Moran looked at her critically for a long while, reached carefully to remove her hidden purse—at least that’s what she believed it to be—and rose in one fluid motion to head for the door.

  “What about her?” a voice growled.

  Moran turned and a mark flew out of his hand directly into the innkeeper’s. “She’ll need a place for the night.”

  The innkeeper nodded and smiled, the gaps in his teeth showing only slightly darker than the rest of his teeth. “She’ll have one.”

  As he left, Moran found himself wondering less where Conni would be sleeping than how far he would be from wherever that was when she woke.

  As he made his way out of Keogh, following the river southward, he made a decision and turned sharply right, to the west hills.

  Three days later he began to regret his decision. The weather was cold in the foothills, and he could see only mountains ahead of him. His food ran out that night.

  The next morning, Moran wished he hadn’t always left the chores of hunting and trapping to Tenim and Halla. He wasn’t a bad trapper—he had taught Tenim when he was little, and Tenim had passed his knowledge on to Halla—but his skills were long-unused.

  He caught nothing in a nearby stream, and although he’d been smart enough to remove his pack and boots and roll up his trousers, a misjudged step had sent him into the cold, snow-fed stream so now he had warm feet and a cold backside. He pressed on, knowing that his exertions would soon warm him back up and his body heat would dry his clothes.

  Snow started falling before nightfall. Moran found a sheltered cave with difficulty and huddled into it.

  Moran woke, shivering. It was still dark. He thrust his head out of the cave opening and looked up into the night sky. It was clear of clouds. The stars shown brightly above him. It was late; both of Pern’s moons had set. Moran paused, listening intently for whatever it was that had disturbed him.

  There! Something moved overhead in the night. He cocked his head sideways, trying to track. A meteor? A pair of meteors? The lights almost looked like dragon eyes, but Moran had never heard of dragons flying at this hour. A fire-lizard? No, they were even less willing to fly at night. The brilliant lights grew larger, were coming toward him, and then, just as suddenly, were gone, whizzing over the mountain.

  Moran skidded back into the cave and hastily folded his sleep roll and donned his gear. As soon as he could, he set off after the creature, hopeful of finding food or game.

  The air was freezing and his breath came in wisps, but he ignored it as he scampered up the hillside. He quickly lost sight of the flying eyes, but he continued climbing, his breath coming in increasingly faster gasps, his lungs protesting the effort, his tired legs threatening to cramp with each upward step.

  Finally, just as he felt he could breathe no more or take another step, Moran reached the summit of the hill. He paused, his breath coming in white clouds and searing his lungs, his legs trembling with exertion.

  He scanned the new vistas before him. His breath returned to normal and his legs stopped trembling before he finally spotted it: some imperfection in the distance, something that didn’t look natural.

  It was a camp, he was sure of it. Perhaps a camp for traders or some Shunned. He doubted that it was a regular hold or temporary quarters—it was too high in the cold mountain air for that. No, whoever was there hoped not to be found. But the wisp of smoke, just barely visible in the dark of night, gave the camp away. For better or worse Moran started toward the camp; he knew he did not have enough supplies to return to Keogh.

  He stepped out briskly, eager for his journey’s end and a warm fire, too briskly, his eyes on his goal and not on his footing. Whether it was the snow or the rocks underneath didn’t matter; the slip caused his left calf to spasm into a tight, painful knot, and then he was sliding down the hillside on his right side. His painful slide was finally halted when his head struck a large rock and he remembered nothing more.

  Pellar was out inspecting his traps when he spotted the tracks. He checked the back trail—the tracks were headed nearly on a straight line for the wherhandlers’ camp. Pellar quickly removed his traps and started obliterating the trail, replacing it with one that led northward, away from the camp.

  Pellar paused, sent a thought to Chitter and smiled when the little fire-lizard appeared directly above him from between. The fire-lizard had brought a pocket of warm, campfire air with him, and that air mixed with the cold air to produce a fine mist that dissipated almost before Pellar noticed it.

  Pellar wrote a quick note, tied it to Chitter’s harness, and carefully constructed a mental image of Aleesa for the fire-lizard. Chitter chirped once—happy at the thought of returning to the warm fire—and disappeared between.

  Pellar was about to start once more on his work when a nearby noise startled him. He looked around quickly and saw the trail of a rock rolling not far from him. Another rock landed nearby. It came from behind him. Pellar twirled around—and spied a small figure in the distance behind him. The figure was vaguely familiar. It raised a hand to its mouth in a shushing gesture, then held up both hands in a gesture of peace and started walking toward Pellar.

  The figure stopped when it was close enough for Pellar to recognize it as a girl.

  “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” the girl asked, still keeping her hands out. Pellar recognized her. She was Halla, the trapper who had been caught in one of his traps. The girl who had kept his existence a secret.

  Pellar nodded in answer to her question.

  She looked around and gestured to his handiwork, saying, “That’s good work you’ve done, disguising the trail.

  “That’s Moran’s trail,” she continued. She looked at Pellar. “Have you seen him?”

  Pellar shook his head.

  Halla’s eyes narrowed as she considered his answer. Finally, she declared, “You’re changing his trail because of the direction he’s taking.”

  Pellar gave the girl a long, frank look before, with a sigh, he nodded. She was too smart to fool, and he decided that trying to would only raise her suspicions further.

  “That’s a good idea,” Halla said, moving cautiously closer. “I think Tenim’s after him. Moran’s got a purse full of marks, and Tenim wants it.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as she drew closer.

  Pellar shook his head and waved in front of his mouth to show that he couldn’t talk. Cautiously he pulled out his slate and wrote on it.

  Halla noted his caution and cocked her head at him quizzically. “Do you trust me?”

  Pellar gave her an appraising look. She was small, taller than when he’d met her last, but still not much more than skin and bones. He couldn’t imagine that she’d be all that tough if she chose to fight him. And she hadn’t betrayed him back at the camp. He nodded, yes, he trusted her.

  He beckoned for her to come closer, lifting the strap of the slate over his head and placing it on the boulder, then moving warily away from her.

  Halla raised an eyebrow in surprise. After a moment she shrugged, approached the boulder, and lifted the slate.

  “Pellar,” she read aloud. She looked up from the slate to meet his eyes. “Is that your name?”

  Pellar nodded.

  Suddenly Chitter burst into the air. Halla ducked and stepped back, her eyes wide with fear until she identified the fire-lizard, then she cautiously stood back up, her eyes shining with excitement.

  Chitter chirped when he found Pellar and quickly flew to him. The fire-lizard had a message. With one eye on Halla, Pellar carefully removed the message and read it: Come qui
ck, need healer.

  “I thought it was Grief,” Halla admitted as she stood up straight once more. Pellar looked questioningly at her. “Tenim has a falcon that spies for him.”

  Pellar pursed his lips tight. If Tenim could use his bird to track, then perhaps the camp was already in danger.

  “If there’s anything at your camp of value, Tenim will want that, too,” Halla told him.

  Pellar nodded in agreement; he remembered too well his fight with the larger lad. He gave Halla one more frank appraisal and then passed the message over for her to read.

  Halla read it quickly and glanced back up at him. “Do you want me to follow you and hide our tracks?”

  Pellar nodded and grinned, glad that this little girl was so quick in her thinking.

  Halla frowned. “If Tenim follows the false trail, it’ll end here and he’ll backtrack. He’ll probably find our trail no matter what we do.”

  Pellar wiped his slate and quickly wrote, “Hurry, hope for snow.”

  “That might work,” Halla agreed. While Pellar wrote a note and sent Chitter back, Halla worked on extending their false trail to a realistic dead end, a nearby stream that was not completely frozen over. She ended the trail opposite some wind-exposed rocks in the hope that Tenim might decide that Moran had climbed out the other side of the stream by the rocks.

  When she turned back she was surprised to see Pellar watching her with great interest. He smiled oddly at her and waved a beckoning hand: “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Watch-wher, watch-wher in the night,

  Keep us safe from fear or fright.

  Watch-wher, watch-wher guard our Hold,

  Keep us from those cruel or bold.

  ALEESA’S CAMP,

  AL 494.1

  M oran woke up warm and disoriented. He was wrapped in blankets and he could smell a coal fire burning nearby. He could also smell the cold winter air billowing in from some distant entrance.

  “He’s awake,” a young girl’s voice declared. Halla.