Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “No, nearby,” she said.

  “Are you excited about the Games?”

  Halla nodded. D’vin, sensing her reticence, let the conversation drop and trudged along beside her companionably, waving politely to anyone who called out or acknowledged him.

  D’vin paused and sniffed the air. “Bubbly pies! I can smell them.”

  “We’re close,” Halla agreed, feeling some relief at the prospect.

  “We’ll need you to lead us back,” D’vin warned her. “I got quite lost in all that crowd.”

  Halla’s eyes grew round in alarm.

  Meanwhile, Cristov had been watching her closely. Suddenly, he asked, “Did we ever meet before, Halla?”

  Should I tell him? Halla wondered. Or, she thought fearfully, did he see me up at the mine?

  “Once, three Turns ago,” Halla said.

  “Is Jamal your brother?” Cristov asked, his face brightening. When Halla nodded, Cristov continued excitedly, “No wonder I recognized you! You look just like him! It’s been ages since I’ve seen him!” He looked around wildly. “Where is he?”

  Halla’s face fell and Cristov’s expression changed. “He’s all right, isn’t he?” he asked. “He had the cast on his leg when we met, but he’s all right?”

  “The break got infected,” Halla murmured.

  Cristov stopped dead, grabbing Halla’s arm in alarm. “Where is he?”

  Halla pointed to the cemetery. “He died not long after he met you,” she told him. “He’d hoped to see you again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cristov told her miserably. “I never knew.”

  “How are you getting along, then?” D’vin asked. His gaze took in the state of her clothing, and the gauntness of her frame.

  “I’m making do, my lord,” Halla said, dipping her head in an apparent gesture of respect but really trying to hide her eyes from the dragonrider’s probing glance. To change the subject, she looked up again and pointed. “There’s the baker, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” D’vin replied, picking up his pace. Sonia’s words from months back echoed in his head: I swear, D’vin, you’d take in every stray that crossed your path!

  The baker was so pleased at D’vin’s patronage that she sent to the tent next door for fresh berry juice and set a special table out in front of her stall just for them.

  Neither Halla nor Cristov were used to such deferential service, but D’vin did everything he could to make them feel at ease, while praising the baker’s and juicemaker’s efforts loudly to the bustling crowd.

  Halla watched the dragonrider surreptitiously, surprised at his easy ways and the manner with which he dealt with the merchants. It was clear to her that he knew his praise would help their sales, and that he didn’t overdo it—he said just enough to ensure that both vendors would have plenty of custom for the rest of the Gather.

  Cristov watched neither of them. Instead, he explored his last memories of Jamal. Memories of a Gather three Turns past.

  “Cristov?” D’vin’s voice startled him.

  “My lord?”

  “Was he a good friend?” the dragonrider asked softly.

  Cristov shook his head. “He might have been,” he said, “but we never got the chance to find out.” He looked up. “My father didn’t approve of him.”

  Cristov didn’t notice the startled look Halla gave him but D’vin did.

  With a sigh, D’vin got to his feet. “We’d better get back—the next event will start soon.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Shunned from hold, Shunned from craft,

  Steal the grain, steal the haft.

  Take without returning too

  And it will be Shunned for you.

  FIRESTONE MINE #9

  Get up, you lazy oaf!” Gerendel, the foreman, roared in his ear.

  Tarik struck out feebly from his cot with one hand, trying to fend the foreman off.

  A cold splash of water inundated him and he came up suddenly, arms swinging but meeting only air.

  “I was on watch!” Tarik complained, sitting back on his cot.

  “You were asleep on watch last night, so you’ll pull a full shift,” the foreman growled. He nudged Tarik with the empty bucket. “Get up now, or we’ll put you back in the stocks.”

  With a bitter look, Tarik grudgingly stood up. He lunged suddenly toward the foreman, but Gerendel was too quick for him and jumped back out of his grasp while at the same time smashing him on the head with the bucket. Tarik crashed to the ground and lay there, clutching his head and groaning.

  “Get up now, you useless Shunned no-named oaf,” Gerendel growled.

  Wearily, Tarik pulled himself to his feet, his hands clenched firmly to his side, not daring a repeat of Gerendel’s beating. He found his boots at the end of his cot and dragged them on.

  “My name’s Tarik,” he growled to the foreman as he trudged out of the room.

  “No, it isn’t,” Gerendel spat. “You were Shunned, and lost your name along with everything else.” He laughed as Tarik turned back to glare at him. “You might win back your name one day, but with you—I doubt it.”

  The building they came out of was rough-hewn, built out of wood. Tarik remembered the others laughing at him when he’d complained of not sleeping in a proper hold. But for more than a Turn since he’d been Shunned, he’d done just that—working as a drudge in minor holds around Crom.

  “If you were so bothered about that, you’d not be Shunned,” Maril, one of the Shunned, guffawed. He spat. “If you want to live like a Lord, you’ve got to please ’em!”

  “No spitting,” Gerendel roared at him. The other miners scowled at Maril, not the foreman. Gerendel wagged a finger at Maril. “You’ll find yourself in the stocks if you do that again, Maril!”

  “But we’re not in the mine,” Maril protested.

  “If we were, you’d likely be dead,” Gerendel said. “I don’t want you thinking you can spit anywhere lest you forget when you’re in the mine.” He turned to Tarik. “You remember that, firestone’s fickle with water. If it doesn’t explode, the fumes’ll kill a man.”

  Tarik had remembered so well that he’d spent the first night in the stocks, after being caught trying to escape.

  “Think you’re the first one who thought of escaping?” Maril had asked him as Tarik sat, his feet, neck, and arms locked into the wooden stockade. Maril kicked a loose pile of dirt up from the ground and rubbed it in Tarik’s face. “The rest of us’ll have to work extra while you laze about here,” the scrawny miner snarled. “You think about that the next time you try something. Think hard.”

  In the two months since then, Tarik had been in the stocks twice more, and beaten, once, in the middle of the night. He was certain that Maril had been one of his assailants.

  But neither Maril nor Gerendel frightened Tarik as much as the mine.

  “This is the last working firestone mine on Pern,” Gerendel had told him when he arrived. He gave Tarik an evil grin as he added, “Mine number eight blew up a Turn back and set the whole valley around it in flames.

  “It’s only a matter of time before this one blows,” Gerendel continued malevolently. “But there are always those who think themselves above all others, those who don’t care about other people, and they’ll get Shunned. And the Shunned work the firestone mines.” He nodded to Tarik. “You’re the first miner that’s been Shunned here.”

  Tarik was shocked. How could they mine if they weren’t trained?

  Gerendel laughed. “Oh, you’re thinking that mining requires special skills? It’s naught but hard work with a pick and a shovel, shift after shift.”

  “What about shoring up the shaft?” Tarik asked in spite of his resolution against helping in any way.

  “That’d be your specialty, wouldn’t it?” Gerendel said, leering. “Skimping on the shoring?” He noticed Tarik’s look. “Oh, we heard all about you, miner. Where’d you sell all that extra lumber, that’s what the lads wondered.” Gerendel shook his head and
pointed at Tarik’s threadbare clothing. “It’s not done you much good, has it?”

  Tarik glowered but said nothing.

  Now he was going into the mine again, forced on a shift after a night’s watch duty because someone had caught him sleeping. Tarik grimaced at the indignity of it all. It wasn’t as though anyone would want to steal anything from the camp!

  Tarik had thought once of trying to convince the others to murder Gerendel in his sleep and escape as a group. But there were too many dragonriders arriving at all hours, looking for firestone or dropping in supplies—there was no proper road up to the mine, so everyone was brought in a-dragonback.

  Besides, with a big blue “S” on their foreheads, where would they go? They’d be fugitives searching for their next meal, animals on the run with only another mine to work, or worse, if they were caught. Gerendel had warned him on his first day that the nearest dwelling was over three days’ march away over the mountains, adding, with a smirk, “At least, that’s what they tell me. But no one’s ever come here except on a dragon.”

  At least no one that was seen, Tarik thought. He wondered how long it would be before Moran appeared; the harper was always going on about the Shunned and their needs. Tarik wondered if, now that he was Shunned, Moran would still deal with him—it would only seem logical, given how much coal he’d handed over for Moran’s brats. Privately, he hoped not. Especially if Tenim was still around.

  “Come on, grab a pick,” Gerendel said as they left the crude shack that served as their only dwelling.

  The others were already milling about the shaft entrance. Sourly Tarik noted that Maril had managed to get the cart, the softest job of the lot. Tarik hefted his pick, eyeing the back of Gerendel’s head thoughtfully.

  Maril shouted, pointing at Tarik, and Gerendel wheeled around.

  “Right!” Gerendel shouted, snatching the pick out of Tarik’s hands. “It’s the stocks for you!”

  “I did nothing!” Tarik protested as Gerendel gestured toward the stocks.

  “Only ’cause Maril warned me,” Gerendel replied. He gestured to the others, shouting, “Well, lads, this one’s decided he needs another day in the stocks. Why don’t you let him know how you feel about that?”

  The other Shunned miners roared with wrath and bounded up to grab Tarik. Roughly, they dragged him to the stocks, and shoved his feet, neck, and hands into the position, locking him in. His back immediately began to ache from the awkward half-sitting, half-standing posture the stocks forced him into. He knew that by the end of the day he would be in agony.

  “I did nothing wrong!” he shouted again. “I was just testing the heft!”

  The others ignored his protests.

  “You’ll get half rations for the rest of the sevenday,” Gerendel said as he gave the lock on the stocks a final test.

  “He shouldn’t get any,” Maril growled. “The dragonriders only provide food for the firestone mined.” He turned to the others. “He’ll be eating our share of the food—what do you think about that?”

  “If he doesn’t eat, he’ll just die,” Renlin objected. “And we’ll still have to do his work and more.” The small, rat-faced miner shook his head. “Let him serve his time and learn his lesson.”

  “You’re too soft,” Maril growled. “Next you’ll be wanting to leave him a drink and a snack.”

  “No food,” Renlin disagreed. “But some water. He’s no use dead, and we’d have the trouble of burying the body.”

  “See to it, Maril,” Gerendel ordered, gesturing to the others. “Come on, we’ve wasted enough daylight.”

  Grudgingly the other fourteen Shunned miners trudged to the entrance of the firestone mine.

  Maril lounged by the stocks until the others had disappeared inside the mine and then, with a rude gesture, turned to follow them.

  “What about my water?” Tarik shouted after him.

  Maril waved dismissively over his shoulder, grabbed the rope on the cart, and tugged it into the mine after him.

  If there was a center to camp at firestone mine #9, it was the stocks. Beside them was a large fire pit, carefully shielded by rocks and a large cleared area, where the miners cooked fresh meat on the rare occasions they got some.

  The stocks faced the mine entrance. They were set just off the path from the miners’ shack to the mine entrance. The wooden rails that led from the mine entrance to the only stone building in the camp curved in front of the stocks before curving farther to the stone-walled firestone storage building on the far side of the hill.

  Every hour or so, Maril would come trudging out of the mine, muscles straining as he hauled the full cart up the hill and down to the firestone building. About fifteen minutes later, he would reappear, riding the empty cart on the down slope back into the mine.

  Every time, Tarik shouted to him, asking for water. And every time, Maril smiled evilly and waved as he reentered the mine.

  By noon, Tarik was too parched to call out. His legs, back, shoulder, arms, and neck all burned with the searing pain of his enforced stance.

  A burst of laughter from the mine entrance startled him, and he lifted his aching head enough to see that the miners were breaking for lunch.

  They grumbled and cursed at him on their way past him to the shack. Tarik’s stomach lurched with hunger as they returned with plates full of fresh tubers and jerked beef.

  Renlin carried a large cook pot. In a short time there was a roaring fire in the fire pit, and the cook pot was bubbling with the most amazing smells as tubers, beef, and herbs simmered into stew. Perhaps it was the work, or the setting, but Tarik had never disagreed with the miners’ assertion that Renlin was the best cook they’d ever met.

  As the others emptied the last of the stew onto their plates, Renlin came over to Tarik.

  Gerendel scowled. “You can’t feed him, Renlin.”

  “Yes, how will he learn?” one of the others grumbled.

  “He looks parched,” Renlin said, peering closely at Tarik.

  “Did you give him water, Maril?” Gerendel asked.

  “Oh, I must have forgot!” Maril exclaimed in tones that fooled no one.

  “If he dies, you’ll do his work as well as your own,” Gerendel replied.

  “I’ll get you some water, Tarik,” Renlin promised. The miner passed his plate off and returned with a bucket of water. He ladled some out and poured it into Tarik’s mouth.

  Tarik coughed on the first mouthful. Renlin tried again. Tarik’s parched throat absorbed the liquid eagerly.

  “Don’t give him too much, Renlin, or he’ll get sick,” Gerendel warned.

  “Thanks,” Tarik said to Renlin, his voice thick and husky.

  “I’ll leave the bucket here,” Renlin said. He turned to Maril, saying, “Then it’ll not be too much trouble for you to check on him.”

  Maril glowered but said nothing.

  Shortly afterward, Gerendel chivvied the crew back to work. On his first trip out of the mine with a cartload of firestone, Maril paused on his return trip long enough to fling some water at Tarik. “There!”

  Tarik was still thirsty enough to lick the drops off his face; Maril laughed.

  Maril ignored him on the next trip, and again on the next. On the third time, Maril paused beside Tarik.

  “Thirsty?” he asked, scooping up a ladleful of water from the bucket.

  “Yes,” Tarik admitted.

  “Pity,” Maril said, pouring the water from the ladle back into the bucket.

  “Please…” Tarik began, begging. He cut himself short. He had lost everything else when he was Shunned; he refused to lose his pride.

  “Beg for it, miner,” Maril said, bending down to peer into Tarik’s face. “Beg for it, and maybe I’ll give you some.”

  Tarik stared back stonily. He knew that he’d be free of the stocks soon enough, and then Maril would pay for his insolence.

  “You won’t beg?” Maril asked. He stood up and grabbed the bucket. “Then you’ll have to get it
yourself.” Laughing, he carefully placed the bucket just to the left of Tarik’s booted foot, then, with a derisive snort, returned to the mine.

  The air was dry; the mountain morning’s chill had worn off, replaced by an afternoon heat that bore down on Tarik. Thirst consumed him. At first he ignored the bucket by his foot, determined to last until either Maril relented or the shift ended.

  Maril passed by him again with another cartload of firestone. On the way back, he rode the cart down into the mine, waving tauntingly at Tarik as he passed.

  Tarik looked at the bucket. Maybe, he thought, he could hook the handle with his boot and drag it close enough to grab with his hand. He’d have to be quick; he didn’t know how long it would take before Maril appeared with another cartload of firestone. He was certain that Maril would take the bucket away if he thought Tarik could get it.

  Tarik eyed the bucket, eyed the mine entrance, and paused. If he didn’t get the bucket, if it tipped over, what then? He was close enough to the mine shaft that the water from the bucket might flow to the entrance. Of course, he reminded himself, there was a deep gutter dug in front of the mine to carry any water away—water in a firestone mine would be disastrous.

  Tarik’s thirst won out over his caution. He strained his toe forward and flicked it up. The first time, the end of his foot slid off the handle, flicking it up and back down again before he could get his foot under it. He paused and tried again. This time the handle flew up and he quickly kicked with his foot, hoping to get it under the handle before it fell back to the bucket’s side.

  He kicked too hard. The bucket shuddered and fell over away from him. With a hoarse cry, Tarik watched as the precious fluid flowed away from him, downhill, toward the mine.

  Everything would have been all right, if Maril hadn’t emerged from the mine at that moment. The water had lapped over the wooden rails the cart ran on; Maril, pushing from behind, didn’t see the stain of liquid and was taken off guard by the sudden change in resistance of his load. His pushing jarred the cartload, and a few pieces of firestone fell off the cart.