Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

“Ready,” Toldur said, eyeing the stream carefully and nodding to Cristov. Cristov tossed the contents of the bucket into the stream. Toldur peered intently for telltale signs of gas, then shook his head.

  D’vin had explained that firestone gas only exploded in large quantities. In smaller quantities, the gas was deadly if inhaled.

  Cristov and Toldur had agreed that tossing the suspect rocks into a running stream was a safe way to detect firestone—if the rocks were firestone, they’d emit the characteristic gases that immediately exploded on contact with air.

  “I don’t know,” Toldur said as Cristov gave him a questioning look. “Perhaps we’ll have to use the bucket instead.”

  Neither of them liked the idea of filling a bucket with water and dropping suspect rocks into it; the dangers of inhaling fatal gases or of ruinous explosion were too high.

  Cristov pursed his lips in thought. “Perhaps we could use one of the cooking pans.”

  “Get the big one,” Toldur suggested. Cristov nodded and raced back to their campsite. When he returned, he was moving more slowly, as the big pot was not only heavy but bulky, restricting movement in the undergrowth.

  They selected a wide clearing near the river, placed the pot close to the river’s edge, and used the bucket to fill it with water.

  “Now all we need are more samples,” Toldur said.

  Cristov shook his head. “We need a dry bucket, too.”

  Toldur grunted in agreement. With a shrug, Cristov turned back to the campsite.

  “I’ll head back to the rock site,” Toldur called as Cristov moved away. Cristov raised an arm in acknowledgment, still moving briskly toward their camp.

  Ten minutes later they were back beside the pot, close together. Cristov tossed the contents of the dry bucket into the water in the pot, while Toldur watched carefully. The water bubbled, and the bubbles burst into flame on contact with air.

  “Firestone,” Cristov whispered in awe. Toldur’s amazed and wary look was all the agreement he needed.

  “We’ve got to work quickly,” Toldur said, his voice full of urgency. His legs gave meaning to his words and he outpaced the shorter Cristov. When Cristov caught up again, Toldur said, “We’ve got to build a full entrance before nightfall; we don’t want a late night snow or downpour to destroy our site.”

  They worked quickly. Cristov’s hands blistered as he hauled away load after load of clay while Toldur bared the entrance fully and dug into the face of their firestone vein, squaring it up.

  Cristov would dump a load of clay and return with planed wooden beams for shoring.

  Working carefully, he and Toldur constructed a proper shaft entrance. They glanced at the entrance for a moment before Toldur groaned, “The first drop of water will set off the mine.”

  They went back for some clay, which they placed on top of the mine entrance to keep any melting water from entering the mine.

  It was a tough race, but by night, bone-weary, Toldur and Cristov stood in front of a proper mine entrance, the roof and sides protected by layers of protective clay.

  Early the next morning, when D’vin arrived, Toldur surprised him with a sack full of rock.

  “No more than an eighth hundredweight,” the miner said diffidently. “But we wanted to give you some ore to test.”

  “Well, then,” D’vin said, “let’s see if you’ve found some firestone.”

  Ready? he asked his dragon, patting Hurth’s neck affectionately.

  It’s not a lot, Hurth responded, warily eyeing the sack D’vin held. However, he opened his great maw and let D’vin throw him the largest of the chunks to chew and swallow.

  It seems about the same, Hurth said after a moment. Hurth raised his head and emitted a bellow of fire.

  Cristov jumped in surprise.

  “That’s definitely firestone,” D’vin said. “The quality’s good, too.”

  “Is he okay?” Cristov asked, looking up at Hurth worriedly.

  “Have you ever heard of the hot peppers from Southern Boll?” D’vin asked. Cristov nodded. “Imagine that you’d eaten a whole mouthful of the ripest, hottest of those peppers.”

  “That bad?” Toldur asked, shaking his head in awe at Hurth’s constitution.

  “If our ancestors created the dragons, why didn’t they create them so that eating firestone wasn’t so painful?” Cristov asked.

  “A good question,” D’vin said. “And one that’s talked about often in the Weyrs.” He shook his head resignedly. “Our best guess is that our ancestors didn’t have the time to make things perfect.”

  “But doesn’t the pain of chewing firestone distract the dragons from fighting Thread?” Cristov asked.

  “No,” D’vin said, “they are willing to endure it for Pern’s sake.” And so am I, he added to himself, casting an apologetic look toward his dragon.

  It is the only way, Hurth agreed, his second stomach feeling bloated and his throat sore.

  D’vin nodded in agreement and turned to the miners. “This is high-quality firestone,” he said again. “How soon can you get the mine into operation? What do you need from us?”

  Cristov and Toldur were prepared for those questions, having thought about both for a long while.

  “We don’t ask for dragonriders to help in the mining,” Toldur began, “but any help would speed things up, particularly among those miner-trained.”

  D’vin sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid we can’t help you there. None of our weyrfolk have mining experience.”

  “We’d thought as much,” Toldur said. “But if your weyrfolk could help in making the wooden shorings and beams, then we’d have more time to put them in place and flesh out the mine head.”

  “That we can do,” D’vin replied, nodding vigorously. “Anything else?”

  “Do you suppose you have someone who could rig up some pumps?” Cristov asked. He pointed to a waterfall in the distance. “I was thinking if they could use the power of the waterfall to run the pumps, then we could pull any gases out of the mine.”

  “If we don’t have an automatic way to clear out gas buildups, we’ll have to run the pumps by hand,” Toldur explained. “That would mean only one of us in the mines and…well, I’m afraid that the mine and the miner would be short-lived.”

  “Very well, I’ll get with the headwoman and see if we can’t solve that problem,” D’vin said. “If we can’t, I’m sure the Mastersmith can.”

  Cristov turned to Toldur, eyes shining with amazement as he mouthed the word, “Mastersmith.”

  Toldur laughed and clapped him on the back. “You think too little of yourself, journeyman! All Pern relies on our efforts now, so why wouldn’t all Pern pitch in and help?”

  “Indeed,” D’vin agreed. Why wouldn’t all Pern help? Toldur’s question echoed in his mind. Was there a way to get more help—help D’vin hadn’t ever previously considered? Weren’t the Shunned also part of all Pern? What would B’ralar say to his radical thought? What of the Lord Holders and Craftmasters?

  “But with two of us, even if the pumps are automatic, we can hardly mine enough for all the Weyrs,” Cristov said.

  Toldur gave him a thoughtful look, then turned to the dragonrider. “How much firestone do the Weyrs need?”

  “As much as we can get,” D’vin said promptly. Seeing Toldur’s surprised look, he expounded. “We like to keep only a little on hand because it’s so dangerous. Typically a dragon needs at least a hundredweight of firestone for a full Fall, sometimes two or three. With three hundred fighting dragons in a Weyr, that works out to a minimum of fifteen tonnes per Fall.” He paused, stroking his chin, debating whether to say more and finally added, “My search of the Records indicates that in a typical Fall, a Weyr needs closer to forty tonnes.”

  “Forty tonnes?” Cristov murmured, glancing to Toldur and then on to the mine, unable to imagine how they could mine such a huge number every sevenday.

  “For one Weyr,” Toldur noted. “We’d need five times that number for a
ll the Weyrs.”

  “Probably more,” D’vin corrected. “Telgar flies with the strength of nearly two Weyrs.”

  “Two hundred and forty tonnes every sevenday,” Cristov said, awed.

  “I think we’re going to need some help,” Toldur said.

  D’vin waved a hand, dismissing the issue. “Not for some time, however. The first thing is to get you up and running. Aside from pumps, what other needs have you?”

  Toldur took on a distant, thoughtful look. “We’ll need a good storage site; plenty of firestone sacks; maybe some hands to help load the firestone; a good set of rails and carts to haul firestone to and from the mine—I think that’s it.”

  D’vin laughed, shaking his head. The two miners looked at him in surprise. “Weren’t you ever planning on sleeping?”

  “Well, yes,” Toldur said, wondering why the dragonrider had brought up the issue.

  “Or eating?”

  The two miners nodded.

  “Then I suppose you’d like a place to live and perhaps a cook to take that burden off of you,” D’vin said.

  “We can sleep in our camp,” Toldur said, surprised at D’vin’s generous offer. “And we cook well enough.”

  D’vin shook his head, holding up a hand to forestall further comments from the miners. “The least the Weyr can do is to provide you with a warm place to sleep, hot meals, and hot water with which to bathe.”

  A look of joy and amazement flashed across Cristov’s face only to be replaced by bemusement as he wondered why the Weyr would consider treating two mere miners so well.

  “It’s the least we can do,” D’vin said in answer to his unasked question. “And, if you think about it, it’s for the most selfish of reasons—every waking moment you’re not mining firestone means less practice time for us.”

  “‘Dragonmen must fly when Threads are in the sky,’” Cristov quoted, realizing that dragons without firestone were helpless against Thread.

  In the days that followed, Cristov and Toldur found themselves pampered by weyrfolk morning and night, with hot food pressed upon them and a sturdy shelter quickly built. Beyond that, the weyrfolk quickly erected a waterwheel and a crafty set of pumps to continuously suck the air out of the mine, built tracks, and assembled ore carts to haul out the ore.

  The actual mining, however, fell to just Toldur and Cristov. And while they managed to produce a steady amount of firestone, both were depressingly aware that it was much less than the High Reaches, let alone the other five Weyrs, needed just for practice.

  Tarik yelped and twisted over in his bed the second time a foot kicked him, not too gently, in the shoulder. The light of a low glow dimly lit the tent.

  “You!” Tarik growled as he made out the figure towering over him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to renew our contract,” Tenim answered, his eyes glinting green in the glow’s light.

  “I’ve lost everything and you want—” Tarik’s protests were cut off in a gasp as Tenim dropped his hands around Tarik’s throat and squeezed tightly.

  He lifted the miner’s head by the neck, his face nearly touching Tarik’s. Tenim watched emotionlessly as Tarik’s frantic efforts to free himself and gain breath grew feebler and feebler. Finally, as Tarik’s fight for his life was reduced to no more than a frantic look in his eyes, Tenim let go and threw Tarik back onto his cot.

  As the miner lay gasping in rasping breaths, Tenim whispered to him calmly, “Everything? Think again.”

  He glanced around, found a folding chair, pulled it up, and sat down close to Tarik’s head.

  “I hear that the dragonriders are desperate for this firestone,” Tenim said. “I’m sure that they’d pay more for it than Cromcoal.”

  “D’gan pays nothing,” Tarik said, his voice still hoarse from Tenim’s crushing grip.

  “So? Aren’t there other Weyrs?”

  “He knows how much we’re mining,” Tarik replied warily. “There’s only so much a person can do in a day.”

  “In a day,” Tenim agreed. “What about a night?”

  Tarik considered the notion. “The workers would tire out too quickly. He’d notice.”

  “Then we get more workers,” Tenim replied.

  “And the food?”

  “They can share with the others,” Tenim said.

  “D’gan barely provides enough,” Tarik protested. “If we halve that, the workers will die.”

  “I don’t believe I care,” Tenim told him. “How soon can you have your first shipment?”

  “Shipment?”

  “My dray carries two tonnes,” Tenim informed him. “When should I bring it by?”

  “But—the workers!” Tarik protested.

  “Surely D’gan doesn’t collect every day,” Tenim said in a tone that was almost reasonable. “I’m sure you could spare some firestone before I bring you additional help. Anyway,” he added with a shrug, “I’ll need some money to help in acquiring your additional aid. Shall we say in two days’ time?”

  At those words, Tarik’s mind began to work furiously. How long had Tenim been working on his plan? How long had he been watching Tarik’s camp? Did he know that D’gan came for firestone no more than twice in a sevenday?

  Another thought caused Tarik to ask, “How can you get a dray here? There’s no road.”

  When Tenim didn’t answer, Tarik added, “Where did you get a dray?”

  Tenim smiled, touching the side of his nose. “Don’t ask questions unless you’re willing to live with the answer.”

  Tarik shuddered unwillingly and remained silent.

  “I’ll see you in two days,” Tenim said and, turning on his heel, headed toward the door.

  “Wait!” Tarik called out, ignoring the pain of his raw throat. Tenim paused but did not turn back as Tarik said, “For a tonne a day, I’ll need eight strong men.”

  Tenim waved a hand in mocking acknowledgment and disappeared into the night.

  Tarik spent the day alternately flogging his workers mercilessly for extra firestone and hoping that his encounter with Tenim had merely been a nightmare. By nightfall the workers had managed to produce only an extra three hundredweight. The next day was no better. Darkness found Tarik nervously pacing in his tent, his dinner uneaten. Two workers were in the stockades, their parched and swollen tongues lolling in their heads, as a lesson to the others.

  A loud noise caused Tarik to jump as something was thrown in his tent. He dived out the door, intent on catching the miscreant, only to find his legs taken out from underneath him. He fell heavily, the breath knocked out of him. A hand covered his mouth. Tarik’s eyes found its owner.

  “Hello,” Tenim told him softly, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Is everything ready?”

  Tarik nodded.

  “Good,” Tenim said, releasing his grip and stepping back from Tarik. He gestured expansively in the dark. “My dray is on the far side of that hill, next to your firestone.”

  “We can’t move two tonnes that far by ourselves,” Tarik protested.

  Tenim smiled a big toothy smile at him. “I promised you I would bring help.”

  Tenim’s “help” was a disheveled crew of young teens and children.

  “They won’t last long,” Tarik complained as he bullied the new arrivals into hauling the heavy sacks of firestone into the dray.

  Tenim smiled at him. “Then I’ll get more.”

  “Get ’em older,” Tarik snapped. Instantly he regretted it: Tenim’s fist landed at the point of his jaw and sent him flying.

  “I give the orders, old man,” Tenim said to Tarik’s sprawled form. He gestured for Tarik to get up. Rubbing his jaw, Tarik rose again.

  “Hurry them up,” Tenim told him. “I’ll want to leave before the second moon rises.”

  Tarik’s angry protest died stillborn as he caught the deadly look in Tenim’s eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded swiftly.

  Two hours later, Tenim rumbled out of sight in the fully loaded workdray, le
aving his ten recruits in Tarik’s care.

  By the end of a sevenday, frantic in his efforts to meet both D’gan’s and Tenim’s unreasonable demands, Tarik was a hollow-eyed wreck of a man.

  “Your workers are slacking off,” D’gan complained as he surveyed the worksite. “Aren’t they getting enough sleep?”

  “It’s their nerves, my lord,” Tarik told him. “They are afraid of an explosion.”

  “Hmph,” D’gan grunted in response to the explanation. He waved toward the small group of new hands he’d found. “Perhaps these six will help.”

  Tarik scanned the group with little hope. He spotted one small body flopped on the ground and pointed. “I’m not sure he’ll last all that long, my lord.”

  “We spotted him on our way here,” D’gan said dismissively. “He was extra. Use him as you wish.”

  Spotted him? Tarik walked over to the unconscious form, half hoping and half fearing that it was Tenim. Instead it was a much smaller teen. Tarik sighed deeply and then, to cover his reaction, asked, “Where was he when you found him?”

  D’gan glowered at him until Tarik recognized his gaffe and corrected himself, saying, “I mean, where was he when you found him, my lord?”

  “One of my riders found him near a river not far from here,” D’gan said. “It looks like he’d tangled with something or someone a while back.” He nudged the slumped body reflectively with his boot, adding, “He’s got deep scars that are healed and signs of broken bones.”

  “Did he not say where he was from?” Tarik asked, careful not to put the tone of his real question—“Are you sure he was Shunned?”—into his voice.

  “He doesn’t talk,” D’gan replied. “We think he’ll recover. And if not, well, he’ll still be able to work for you.”

  For a little while, Tarik thought to himself grimly. His eyes strayed to a line of mounds on the other side of his valley, particularly the three fresh mounds of the youngsters who’d died the previous night.

  “Can we get more provisions to care for him, my lord?”

  D’gan sneered at him. “More provisions? You are too wasteful as it is.”

  “I was just thinking,” Tarik persisted, “that it would be wasteful to have to spend time burying the lad when with a few more supplies we could get some work out of him.”