Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Lord Fenner, this is the one I was telling you about,” the Masterminer said, grabbing Cristov by the arm and turning him to Crom’s Lord Holder.

  Cristov didn’t know if he was more shocked by his introduction to the Lord Holder, or at the way the Masterminer grabbed him—it was just like his father!

  Lord Holder Fenner, Cristov was surprised to note, was not all that much taller than himself and did not look very imposing. In fact, Crom’s Lord Holder looked less imposing than the Masterminer, with a friendly face and kind eyes.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Cristov,” the Lord Holder said, holding out his hand. Cristov shook it awkwardly, feeling like a little boy. His unease increased with the Lord Holder’s next words: “You’ve the look of your sire.”

  An awkward silence fell upon them until Toldur coughed and said, “I think he takes more from his mother’s side of the family, myself.”

  “Do you?” Fenner asked, peering at Cristov. “Hm, I suppose you’re right at that.” To Cristov he said, “And how is your mother, boy?”

  Cristov gave Toldur a bleak look, but the Masterminer answered for him. “I’m afraid Dara had an accident. She’d not been well since…”

  The Lord Holder looked nearly as embarrassed as Cristov felt. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said after a moment. “She was always such a kind, vivacious lady. She will be sorely missed.”

  “Indeed,” Britell agreed.

  “She died of shame,” Cristov said, startling the older men around him. He remembered his mother’s eyes that day, when Tarik was Shunned. He had seen the life go out of them slowly in the days before the trial, as her hopes dwindled.

  When the sentence was read, she had been the first to turn away from Tarik, even before Cristov had turned his back on his father. He had seen her eyes and the tears spilling from them, and he had seen her heart harden and wither, and he knew, even before Tarik was sentenced to the firestone mines, that if the sentence had Shunned Tarik, it had killed Dara.

  “I wish she hadn’t,” Britell replied gravely.

  “Why don’t you stay up here and watch the Games with us?” Lord Holder Fenner offered awkwardly.

  “That’s a marvelous idea,” Britell agreed.

  “Thank you, we’ll be delighted,” Toldur said for both of them. “It’s not every day one is invited to sit in the Lord Holder’s stands, is it, Cristov?”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Cristov said with a slight bow to the Lord Holder, remembering his manners.

  “If you look over there, the queens should be appearing,” Lord Fenner said, pointing to the ridgeline to the east of the Gather field.

  As if on cue, a group of gold dragons burst into view.

  “Look carefully, lad, you won’t see all the queen dragons of Pern together every day,” Britell said to Cristov.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Toldur asked. “Won’t the queens start fighting?”

  “Only if one of them is ready to mate,” Lord Fenner replied. “You’re thinking of the Queen’s Battle, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Fenner laughed and waved away Toldur’s worry. “That was back in the First Pass, nearly five hundred Turns ago,” he said. “All the dragons were crowded into Fort Hold back then.”

  “In the Hold? I thought they were always in the Weyrs,” Cristov exclaimed, adding guiltily, “my lord.”

  “No, after the colonists crossed north, everyone lived in Fort Hold for a while,” Lord Fenner said. He gave Masterminer Britell a teasing look and said, “I thought you miners were all taught the Teaching Ballads before you went underground.”

  Cristov’s face drained of all color in embarrassment; he was startled when the Lord Holder of Crom Hold clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Oh, give over, lad! I was teasing. I know that you’ve been taught by Master Zist, so I’ve no worries about your knowledge.”

  “I’m afraid the lad isn’t used to your ways, Fenner,” Britell said, giving Cristov a reassuring nod.

  Cristov, relieved, looked around and noticed that, beside the plush chairs and lush appointments and the Crom Hold pennant, the flags of the five Weyrs were displayed prominently in front of the stand. Near them were three empty flag holders, set at different heights.

  “That’s where we indicate who is to fly,” Masterminer Britell said, noting Cristov’s glance. “And the other two are added when the judging is complete—for first, second, and third places.”

  “These Games are to keep the dragonriders ready and trained,” Lord Fenner explained. He turned to the Masterminer. “Provided they’ve enough firestone to train with.”

  Masterminer Britell grimaced. “We’ve got one mine working, now,” he told the Lord. “It’s enough.”

  “For the moment,” Fenner allowed.

  One mine? Cristov wondered. He knew of at least six coal mines and had heard of four mines for iron ore. One mine seemed insufficient to produce firestone for all the dragons of Pern. Was that why he had been sent to Crom Hold? To set up a new mine?

  A wing of dragons suddenly appeared in the sky well below the queens. Moments later the loud booms of their arrival shook the air.

  “They look small,” Cristov marveled.

  “They’re weyrlings,” Britell replied. “They’re just old enough to fly between and carry firestone.”

  A ripple of overwhelming sound and a burst of cold air announced the arrival of a huge wing of dragons, flying low over the crowd.

  “Telgar!” The crowd shouted as the dragons entered a steep dive, twisted into a sharp rolling climb, and came to a halt, their formation now aligned just below the weyrlings so perfectly that it looked like the two wings of dragons had been flying as twins, even though the fighting wing was head to head and a meter underneath the weyrlings.

  A rain of sacks fell from the weyrlings and were caught by the riders of the great fighting dragons. Cristov looked at the jacket worn by the bronze rider leading the fighting wing and gasped when he saw the stylized field of wheat set in a white diamond: It was the Weyrleader himself!

  As one, the fighting wing of dragons turned and dove again, flawlessly returning to hover in the same place where it had come from between. The great necks of the flying beasts turned back and the riders opened the sacks they had caught from the weyrlings to feed the firestone to their dragons.

  “That’s the same entrance as last Turn,” Britell said, shaking his head.

  “Don’t they always come the same way?” Cristov asked.

  Britell snorted. “Indeed they do, more’s the pity. A bit of change would do them some good.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose D’gan’s worried about the firestone.”

  “Nasty stuff, firestone,” Cristov heard the Lord Holder mutter behind him. “Nasty stuff.”

  “Indeed,” Masterminer Britell agreed. “It’s the hardest of all to mine.”

  “No mine lasts too long, either,” Toldur added.

  “Why?” Cristov asked.

  “They blow up,” Lord Fenner answered with a shrug.

  “If the gases don’t suffocate the men first,” Masterminer Britell added mournfully.

  “But we must have it,” Lord Fenner said. “Without firestone, the dragons could not protect Pern.”

  Cristov knew that. Harper Zist had taught him long ago that the dragons needed to chew firestone in order to breathe flames. Without the dragons’ flames, there was no way to destroy Thread in midair, before it reached the soil of Pern and sucked it of all life, turning lush valleys into lifeless dust bowls.

  “Look, here comes Benden!” Lord Fenner called out, pointing to the sky.

  Cristov followed the Lord Holder’s finger and spotted a single bronze dragon in the sky. He squinted as he noticed that something was flapping down from the dragon’s neck.

  “What’s that?” Toldur asked.

  Two more bronze dragons appeared below the first one and, in a move so quick Cristov couldn’t comprehend it, grabbed at the flapping object with their f
ront claws. Cristov cheered as the flapping object was pulled taut and revealed itself to be a huge flag, in the diamond shape of the Weyrs, colored in the deep red of Benden Weyr and marked with the large “II” symbol of Pern’s second Weyr.

  Below him, Cristov saw the crowd of Crom Hold echo his astonishment, pointing up into the sky and exclaiming to each other.

  “Benden!” “Benden!” voices cried in the crowd, impressed despite their loyalty to Telgar Weyr, the Weyr sworn to protect their Hold.

  “Very nice,” Lord Fenner remarked. “But Telgar will still win the Games, you’ll see.”

  “No doubt, my lord,” Toldur agreed, his eyes still glued to the amazing aerial display.

  “They must have spent ages practicing,” Britell murmured.

  “Let’s see what the others do,” Lord Fenner said, scanning the skies for signs of the other three Weyrs.

  As soon as Moran saw Nikal he knew he was in trouble. He altered his course, but the holder was too nimble and quickly caught up with him.

  “Moran, a word with you!”

  “Oh, it’s you, Nikal! I was just looking for you,” Moran said in mock surprise.

  “You were, were you?” Nikal asked suspiciously. “Does that mean you’ve got my coal? You said months back you’d have it delivered.”

  Moran took a step back from the angry holder. Nikal took a quick step forward and grabbed the harper.

  “If you haven’t got it, I’ll have my money back,” the holder growled.

  “I’ve had to make alternate arrangements,” Moran said, calling upon all his training to sound believable. Desperately he pointed to the Lord Holder’s stand. “See there? See those two with the Lord Holder?”

  “They work for you?” Nikal asked dubiously.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I don’t care how it’s said,” Nikal replied, “as long as my allotment of coal’s in my lockers in the next sevenday.”

  “You may rely on it,” Moran said, stepping back out of Nikal’s grasp and drawing himself up to his full height. “My word as a harper.”

  “That was the same word you gave that I’d have my coal by now,” Nikal noted sourly.

  “There was a problem with my supplier,” Moran said. “It was totally beyond my control.”

  “It’s already getting cold at nights,” Nikal complained. “I can’t afford the prices charged for Cromcoal—the harvest hasn’t been that good. I won’t have my family and kin freezing because of you.”

  Moran sensed the hidden desperation in Nikal’s words. “I’m sure,” he said unctuously, “that your Holder will provide for you, just as you tithe to him.”

  “You know full well that I tithe to no Lord,” Nikal growled. He grabbed at Moran again. “You don’t have to be marked to be Shunned.” Angrily, he pushed the harper away. “My father was Shunned and my mother went with him. I grew up without a Lord, moving from place to place, eating only when we were lucky. And now I’ve got a family of my own and a chance to start fresh, to make my own holding.”

  He gave the harper a deadly look.

  “I’ll not have you taking that away from me,” he swore. He turned away, and then back again to say, “You’ve the sevenday, and then I spread the word on you, Harper.”

  “How much do you think your word would count against a harper?” Moran snapped angrily.

  “With some folk,” Nikal said, “more than you’d like.”

  Fort Weyr’s arrival was not as dramatic as Benden’s, but it was still awesome. In one instant three full wings of dragons burst into the skies over Crom Hold, with a long streaming banner in the earth brown and black of Fort Weyr carried by each rider. The Gather crowd clapped and cheered politely, but Cristov felt the lack of enthusiasm.

  “Old G’lir was hardly trying,” Fenner muttered, referring to the Fort Weyrleader. “There’ll be a new Weyrleader there, soon, mark my words.”

  Britell nodded in agreement.

  Ista Weyr’s arrival was heralded by a steadily growing pyramid of dragons, each rider dropping an orange-and-black flag. The crowds below first looked on the display with puzzlement and then with hoarse cheering as the flags together formed a giant image of Ista Weyr’s famous volcano.

  “That was the best yet,” Toldur shouted to Cristov above the crowd.

  “Ah, but they’re no good in the Games,” Lord Fenner said.

  “They weren’t last Turn,” Britell agreed. “But who knows what they’ve planned?”

  “A point,” Fenner replied thoughtfully. He scanned the skies expectantly. “Only High Reaches Weyr to come, and then we’ll begin the Games.”

  “I wouldn’t expect much from B’ralar,” Masterminer Britell said.

  “I don’t know,” Fenner replied, “B’ralar’s more open to change than G’lir.”

  “I can’t see much inspiring about jagged spires on a field of blue,” Britell remarked, referring to the emblem of High Reaches Weyr, reflecting the Weyr’s lofty mountain home and the deep blue skies which surrounded it.

  “Indeed,” Fenner agreed. “They are a dour lot up high in those northern mountains.” He gestured to the nearby mountains of Crom Hold. “They say the cold in the High Reaches gets into your bones and stays there.”

  “And they don’t have Cromcoal to cut the chill,” Masterminer Britell agreed with a laugh.

  A change in the sky attracted Fenner’s attention. “Here they come,” he said, pointing.

  Above them several bubbles of fog appeared, out of which burst blue dragons. A second group of dragonriders—all on bronze dragons—appeared from between, creating another set of bubbles, outlining the first with a bronze border.

  “Look at that!” Britell cried. “Did you know they could do that?”

  “They brought the cold moist air of High Reaches with them,” Fenner guessed. “That air would turn to fog in our heat.”

  The blue riders released black streamers. The lower blue dragons caught the streamers and held them. In a moment, the blue of the dragons and the black of the streamers resolved itself into a huge recreation of the High Reaches Weyr symbol, black mountain crags on a blue background.

  “Well, that’s much better than last Turn,” said Lord Fenner.

  “I wonder if they’ll fly any better,” Britell muttered.

  “Not enough so that it matters,” Fenner said. He turned to Toldur. “Care to place a little wager?”

  “No, my lord,” Toldur said, “unless you want to bet against Telgar.”

  Fenner snorted. “Not likely.” He looked at Cristov. “How about you, lad?”

  Cristov shook his head. “No, my lord,” he said, “I stand loyal to Telgar.”

  “Wise choice!” Britell declared. “Besides, it’s not as though there’s likely to be competition.”

  “Certainly not the way the other Weyrs have been grumbling,” Fenner agreed. “I’m not sure I am entirely opposed to their views.”

  “In what way, my lord?” Toldur asked, curious.

  Fenner gestured to the Masterminer to answer.

  Britell frowned. “It seems that more firestone is going to D’gan and his Weyr than to all the other Weyrs combined.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Toldur said. “How did this happen?”

  Britell gave the Lord Holder a sheepish look before he answered. “It appears that both Lord Holder Fenner and I were giving Telgar preferential treatment.”

  “That would be enough for Telgar to get four times what the others receive,” Fenner said, “but we’ve also discovered that Weyrleader D’gan was appropriating firestone for his Weyr directly from the mine itself.”

  “He was stealing?” Cristov asked in amazement.

  “Not so much stealing as, perhaps, taking more than his fair due,” Lord Fenner said judiciously. “But we’ll sort that out now that we’ve discovered our error.”

  “Perhaps Telgar will get a little more firestone than the other Weyrs,” Britell suggested.

  “No,” Fen
ner said with a shake of his head. “I think that D’gan’s got enough firestone stockpiled now to last him until the Pass. Perhaps it’s time to be concerned with the other Weyrs, too.”

  “High Reaches Weyr flies Thread over upper Crom,” Britell noted.

  Lord Fenner smiled at the Masterminer. “Indeed they do,” he agreed. “But I think we’ve got to look to all Pern’s needs. Without enough training, any Weyr might fail to stop Thread.”

  A young harper, an apprentice by his shoulder knots, came running up to the stand.

  “Kindan?” Toldur shouted in surprise. “Is that you?”

  Kindan nodded and gasped in a deep breath. “It is,” he said with a grin. “I’ve just arrived from the Harper Hall,” he explained. He nodded respectfully to Lord Fenner.

  “My lord, my greetings,” he said, adding, “I have been asked to tell you that Weyrleader D’gan says that all the Weyrs are now present and could you have the drums sounded to start the Games?”

  “Of course,” Fenner agreed. He turned to Cristov. “Seeing as this young harper’s all winded, Cristov, would you be so kind as to wave the Hold flag and start the Games?”

  At the mention of Cristov’s name, Kindan gave Cristov a nod of recognition and a grin, waving while still panting for breath.

  Cristov grabbed the staff from which the Hold flag was flying and waved it from side to side. As he did so, he saw that all eyes were on him. Lord Fenner had given him a signal honor. Perhaps he hadn’t been ordered here to be punished after all.

  “Let the Games begin,” Lord Fenner shouted as Cristov waved the flag.

  From the far hill, drums beat out a rapid tattoo. High above, dragons’ flames answered.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dragonmen, your beasts must learn

  When to flame and swiftly turn.

  Keep the burning Thread away,

  Live to fight another day.

  HIGH REACHES WEYR

  The early morning air was colder in the center of the Weyr Bowl than it had been in the Living Cavern, which was warmed by the hearth fires that had been stoked high to cook the breakfast that the dragonriders had eaten early in anticipation of the day’s events.