Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

Tarik’s voice was too dry for more than the hoarsest of shouts, “Run!”

  Maril didn’t hear him. He leaned over instinctively to retrieve the errant stone just as it fell into the water and burst into flame.

  In an instant, the disaster was complete. The fire startled Maril, who leaped backward, tripped, and, struggling to stay upright, tugged the cartload of firestone back toward the mine. The cart of firestone caught flame even as it rolled back over Maril’s leg and into the mine, gaining speed on the slope.

  A huge ball of flame, taller than a man, burst out of the side of the mountain where the firestone mine had been. The blast caught Tarik and threw him, still in the stocks, backward like a straw doll.

  The flames licked the nearby trees, withering their limbs. And then the fires subsided, leaving the mine shaft a huge, black, smoking hole in the side of the mountain.

  CHAPTER 5

  A silver swath falls from the sky,

  Dragon and rider rise on high.

  Practice fighting Thread with flames,

  ’Tis the purpose of the Games.

  CROM HOLD

  D’vin left them at the stands. Cristov climbed back up and, when he turned back, found that Halla had disappeared. He regretted that; he wanted to talk with her more about Jamal.

  “They’re off again,” Fenner said as wings of dragons reassembled above the crowd. He turned to Cristov. “The next competition is for whole wings fighting Thread.”

  “How is that judged, my lord?” Toldur asked politely.

  “It’s about the same, I believe,” Lord Fenner said. “The queens throw Thread and the wings fight it. If any gets through, the wing is disqualified. If all wings succeed in fighting the Thread, the queens spread out and throw more.”

  “Will we have to judge a tie again?” Britell asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

  Fenner laughed. “No, this continues until there’s a clear winner.”

  “That’s a relief,” the Masterminer said with a sigh. In response to Lord Fenner’s questioning look, he explained, “I’m afraid we’d hardly be considered impartial if every event was a tie and we had to judge.”

  Lord Fenner snorted in agreement. “I daresay you’re right.”

  At Lord Fenner’s nod, Kindan waved the hold’s flag high over his head, signaling that the games were to recommence. Again, the drummers on the far hill drummed their tattoo, and again dragons up high flamed their readiness.

  Cristov craned his neck back to spot the queen dragons. He was amazed at how far up they were.

  “How high can dragons fly?” Cristov asked Kindan in a low voice.

  “It depends on the dragon and the rider,” Kindan replied. “The queens can fly higher than most, but the air gets too thin eventually.”

  “What happens if a dragon flies too high?” Cristov wondered.

  “I’ve been told that as the air gets thin, the riders start to feel as if they’re drunk,” Kindan said.

  Cristov raised his eyebrows in surprise, wondering if Kindan was teasing him. Kindan caught his look and said, “No, seriously, I’ve heard that from many dragonriders. One even said that the color went out of his eyes and he only saw shades of gray until he got back down on the ground.”

  “That can happen in the mines, too, if there’s not enough air, as you two know,” added Toldur, who had been listening in. Cristov and Kindan shuddered in memory.

  The cave-in at Camp Natalon had been Tarik’s fault. He had skimped on the planking for the tunnel his shift was digging. Natalon had discovered this and, in the process of trying to repair the faulty tunnel, had been caught with most of his shift in the cave-in. Kindan, Toldur, and Nuella, Natalon’s blind daughter, had defied Tarik’s order that no one go into the mine. Cristov remembered the shocked look on Kindan’s face when he’d arrived with his axe to offer help.

  Even with his help and the use of a secret passageway Natalon had dug when the mine was first surveyed, the rescue party was nearly overcome by the coal dust that had filled the mine after the cave-in. In the end, they discovered that the trapped miners were too far away to dig out, but Kindan somehow managed to convince Nuella that she could ride his watch-wher, Kisk, like a dragon between to rescue the trapped miners.

  And somehow, the strange journey Nuella and the watch-wher made had bound the girl and the watch-wher together, allowing Kindan to pursue his desire to become a harper.

  Cristov envied Kindan his freedom to follow his dreams. Wistfully he recalled one of his conversations with Jamal when they had stared up skyward at the last Games. Jamal had pointed up to one of the dragons and exclaimed, “I’d like one like that!”

  “A bronze?” Cristov said, peering upward.

  “Sure,” Jamal replied. “And then I’d become Weyrleader.” He blew out a sigh and asked wistfully, “Do you think the dragonriders will Search when the Games are over?”

  Cristov shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Wouldn’t you like it, Cristov? Wouldn’t you love to Impress a dragon?”

  Cristov looked over at Jamal, then back up to the brilliant formation of dragons—bronze, brown, blue, and green. For a moment he imagined himself on the Hatching Grounds, the excitement as the dragon eggs burst open and the dragonets scrambled awkwardly out of their shells, multifaceted eyes whirling anxiously, searching for their life mates. Cristov imagined how he’d feel, his face splitting wide in surprise and joy as a dragon—his dragon—spoke telepathically to him and told him that he would forever have a friend, a champion. He tried to imagine how his father would react—and could only see him frowning.

  “It’ll never happen,” he had said firmly, turning away from Jamal. “Father says I’m only fit to be a miner.”

  And now Tarik was Shunned, and Cristov stood here next to the Masterminer and Crom’s Lord Holder not knowing what was in store for him, and Jamal was nearly three Turns dead.

  Cristov locked his eyes on one of the high-flying bronze dragons and tried not to be envious of his rider.

  The pace picked up immensely as Fort began its second run. The sky that seemed practically black with the Thread that the queen riders had thrown down was suddenly bursting into flame. And then the sky was clear—except for one strand that sailed harmlessly to the ground.

  A groan of sympathy rose up from the Gather crowd as they realized what had happened. Kindan waved a black flag to show that they’d been disqualified.

  The rest of the Weyrs completed the second round. The wing from High Reaches was disqualified in the third round. For a moment it even looked like Telgar had let some Thread through but, as the crowd watched anxiously, it broke up into harmless char just before hitting the ground.

  “Now they’ll have to fly three times as far,” Lord Fenner muttered as the queens spread for the fourth round.

  Benden flew flawlessly but just a little too slow to get to the last of the Thread before it hit the ground, so they were disqualified.

  Kindan, who was friendly with Benden’s Weyrleader, M’tal, groaned sympathetically.

  “Third place isn’t bad,” Toldur assured him.

  It was down to Telgar and Ista. The Telgar wing flew the extended, thickened Fall flawlessly with a speed that seemed to Cristov like lightning. The Istan wing got off to an even faster start, and it looked certain that there would be a sixth round.

  “Look!” Fenner shouted, pointing skyward. “They missed some!”

  Sure enough, a clump of rope fell to the ground uncharred.

  Britell raised an eyebrow at Crom’s Lord Holder. “Didn’t you say that Telgar would win?”

  “I did,” Fenner agreed, “but this—!” He gestured to the sky and shook his head. “Ista flew well and deserved to win.”

  “Ista placed second, so they’re ahead on points,” Britell noted.

  “There’s still the final competition,” Lord Fenner reminded him. He cocked an eye speculatively at the Masterminer. “Are you willing to wager, then?”

  Britell snorted. “Telgar will wi
n the final event, I’m sure.”

  “What if they don’t?” Toldur asked.

  “D’gan will be impossible,” Lord Fenner replied with a shudder.

  “They have to win the next event or they’ll only be able to tie with Ista,” Britell noted.

  “At best,” Lord Fenner agreed with a grimace.

  Cristov looked puzzled. Toldur noticed.

  “The overall placing is based on points,” Toldur explained. “First place is worth five points, second place is worth two points, and third place is worth one point. The Weyr with the most points at the end of the Games is the winner.”

  “There’s a lot of gambling on the outcome,” Kindan added.

  “But Telgar always wins,” Cristov declared loyally.

  “Which is why most people bet on which Weyr will place second and third,” Lord Fenner told him with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “If Telgar wins the last event, they’ll have ten points, and the best Ista could get then would be second place in the event for a total of nine points,” Kindan continued.

  “And if either High Reaches or Benden wins the next event, they’ll tie with Ista,” Masterminer Britell noted.

  “That won’t happen,” Lord Fenner declared stoutly.

  “One thing’s certain,” Britell said, “the betting’s going to be fierce.”

  Cristov, casting an eye over the crowd below and seeing how excitedly people were talking amongst themselves, silently agreed.

  D’vin looked at the movement of the crowds far below him. He could see enough to spot bettors exchanging marks and wished he had a few to wager himself. Certainly things were interesting, and he was glad they were. Of all the events, the relay was his favorite—the one event he felt most tested a Weyr’s true ability to fight Thread.

  The first round of the relay would be nothing special: Three wings from each Weyr would fly against the rope Thread in rapid succession. It was the next round, when the queens spread out more and thickened the fall of Thread that things would start to get interesting.

  Far below him, someone on the Lord Holder’s stand waved Fort’s flag. Nearby, a Fort dragon belched flame. The relay began.

  Fort did well, as did all the other Weyrs, just as D’vin had expected. He turned back from his run on Hurth with all three wings of High Reaches dragons warbling in elation at their run. They’d done well.

  The queens spread out more. And then Fort’s flag was waved again for the next run.

  Soon it would be High Reaches’s turn.

  Make sure everyone has enough firestone, D’vin reminded his dragon.

  Telenth needs more, Hurth responded. D’vin craned around to spot the small blue and saw P’lel wave as a weyrling appeared from between.

  Just as suddenly as the weyrling had appeared, there was a brilliant explosion by its side. The deafening sound shook the afternoon sky.

  As D’vin’s eyes recovered from the flash of the explosion, he saw that the weyrling had disappeared.

  Where are they? D’vin asked Hurth.

  They are gone.

  “By the egg of Faranth!” Lord Fenner declared, staring in horror at the brilliant fireball above them.

  “What happened?” Toldur asked.

  “The firestone must have come in contact with some water,” Britell said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

  “It exploded?” Cristov asked. Britell could only nod, eyes wide with shock.

  “And the dragon? The rider?” Cristov looked from the Masterminer to the Lord Holder, but the expressions of both were identical.

  “At least it was quick,” Fenner said somberly.

  “They’re dead?”

  “Nasty stuff, firestone,” Britell murmured, still shaking his head in disbelief. “The slightest bit of water and…”

  All around him, dragons keened for the lost weyrling. D’vin shook his head angrily. That shouldn’t have happened!

  His thoughts returned to the instant, still seared in his eyes, when the weyrling emerged from between, trying to see what had caused the explosion, but he couldn’t. Firestone was too difficult, too impossible to handle. He could remember at least three times when the storage cavern at High Reaches had exploded.

  It burns, Hurth agreed. D’vin nodded absently. The large bronze must have felt the movement of his rider’s body on his neck, for he dropped his neck suddenly in an expression of irritation. It burns wrong.

  D’vin cocked an eye down at the huge neck of his friend. Firestone had always been dangerous. He couldn’t imagine how the dragons survived it and was appalled at the risks he’d taken as a weyrling when it had been his task to haul it to the older riders.

  D’gan asks if you’ll withdraw, Hurth reported.

  Withdraw? D’vin shook his head angrily. What tribute would that be to the lost rider and dragon?

  We will continue, D’vin replied. Tell the rest of the flight.

  D’gan says good luck, Hurth told him.

  D’vin looked over to where the Telgar flights were arrayed and gave them an exaggerated wave. Good luck, indeed!

  Let’s show them what High Reaches can do, D’vin told his dragon.

  The crowd cheered encouragement as High Reaches began their next run. As the queens threw down a new hail of ropes, D’vin’s wing raced forward, flaming it all to char, backed High Reaches’s other two wings.

  They almost made it. Just at the end, two riders headed for the same cluster, missing a single clump that fell behind them. At D’vin’s urging, Hurth dove toward the clump, but Hurth was out of flame and the clump fell, unburned, to the ground. Below him, the crowd groaned sympathetically.

  Sorry, D’vin said to his dragon. We tried.

  “That’s a pity,” Britell remarked, “but it’s not unexpected.”

  Lord Fenner looked less sanguine, and the Masterminer gave him an inquiring look.

  “I don’t deny their prowess, nor that they’ve suffered a tragedy,” the Lord Holder explained, “but I hope that the Weyrs can recover more quickly from their losses when Thread really does start to fall.”

  “I think they will, my lord,” Kindan said from his place by the flags. “That’s part of the purpose of these games, to train for the worst.”

  Fenner and Britell both nodded.

  Cristov wasn’t listening. He was too busy wondering why the dragons depended upon such a dangerous rock as firestone for their flame. Coal was bad enough, but something that exploded on contact with water was just incredible. How could anyone work with such a difficult mineral?

  The explosion above the crowd was all Tenim needed to make his greatest theft of the day. He’d been by the Smithcrafthall tent early on and had spotted the lovely dirk set proudly on display—well guarded by no less than three apprentices.

  “That?” A journeyman had said in response to his questioning. “That dirk’s been made special for Lord D’gan, the Weyrleader himself.”

  It was a beauty, Tenim decided. Its hilt was decorated with several rare jewels and embossed with gold. The blade itself was sharp enough to cut wherhide, as was demonstrated by the proud Smiths. It was a valuable piece.

  And Tenim wanted it. He had had too few pretty things in the past several Turns. It was time his luck changed. And the explosion in the sky was all the change he needed.

  In one swift moment he jostled against the apprentices, pocketed the dirk, and took off before anyone could react.

  Far enough to be lost in the crowd, he flipped over his tunic and ruffled it up, while at the same time removing his cap and patting down his hair. He switched his belt around and changed the buckle for a Smithcraft piece. No one would recognize him now.

  Yes, his luck had changed.

  It was then that he spotted Cristov up in the Lord Holder’s stand. Tenim’s lips tightened and he frowned. He knew that Moran was hoping to use the lad the same way they’d used Tarik.

  Tarik had cost him dear. Except for a quiet visit in the dark of the night, Tenim was certain that Tarik w
ould have talked and cost Tenim even more dearly. Tenim was still not ready to have an “S” brushed on his head.

  But the price had been the coal they’d stashed. It had taken little work on Tenim’s part to expose it and break a trail that led to it, a trail marked only with Tarik’s boot prints.

  All the wood that Tarik had stashed had been found, too.

  In the end all Tenim got for all his efforts was a small sack of coal, the only one he dared keep from the hoard that he and Tarik had laid down. The sack of coal hadn’t been worth more than three marks.

  Tenim had learned quickly enough that his final plan had been ruined by Cristov, when the boy had helped save Natalon. Tenim felt that he owed little Cristov—though he was no longer quite so little—the same treatment that his father had been given. Wouldn’t it be fitting for Cristov to get the same blue “S” his father wore?

  Yes, Tenim decided, nodding to himself, it would. He felt the dirk hidden under his tunic and smiled. He knew just how to do it. The dirk would be a small price for such a sweet revenge.

  The horror of the weyrling’s loss was soon overcome by the excitement of the last event of the Games. Ista had been eliminated in the first round, and High Reaches had fallen out at the second round. Fort, Benden, and Telgar competed with astonishing passes in the third round. It seemed as though the sky was alive with the rope Threads. The crowd gasped in regret when Fort was disqualified by a single Thread in the third round. The fourth round was only between Benden and Telgar.

  “Telgar, without a doubt,” Fenner declared loyally. Masterminer Britell nodded in agreement.

  “It’d better be,” Kindan quipped to Cristov with a grin. “I’ve heard that D’gan’s commissioned a fancy dirk for himself as a reward.”

  “It’s never a wise course to bet on your success,” Toldur opined.

  Kindan nodded, but added, “It’ll be his solace if he loses.”

  “Oh, so he plans on the dirk either way?” Toldur asked. When Kindan nodded again, the older miner continued, “Then why does he wait for the outcome?”