Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

The boy started running, but he was already too late. In a moment, the falcon was in the sky, zooming down the valley to the carefully placed table outside the mine shaft with its half-full buckets of drinking water. It would take nothing for the falcon to jostle the buckets, tip them over, and have their contents seep into the mine.

  But that was only part of Tenim’s plan. The second part became apparent when he started lobbing rocks of firestone at the base of the dam. At first they merely sizzled, but soon the air was full of flame.

  The boy slammed into Tenim, knocking him off his feet, but the older youth was larger and stronger. Tenim recovered quickly, lashing out with balled fists. Still the boy persisted, even as the dam grew weaker from Tenim’s earlier firestone bombings. Taking a moment, Tenim threw the rest of the firestone sack into the water now streaming from the dam and then turned back to his opponent.

  “How many times do I have to kill you?” he asked, his fists slamming into the boy’s stomach.

  Behind him, the firestone exploded and Tenim heard the sudden rush of water. The dam had burst.

  The boy stood rooted for one horrified moment as a wave of water rushed down the hillside, heading straight for the firestone dump. His distraction lasted long enough for Tenim to land the boy a knockout blow.

  Tenim stared down at the unconscious boy and twitched to release his hidden knife. Two explosions, nearly simultaneous, rocked the morning air and he turned around in time to catch sight of the fireball rising where the firestone dump had been. From the mine entrance came a huge gout of flame and the more distant rumble of an explosion. A worried look crossed his face as he scanned the skies, to be relieved when he spotted the small form of his falcon racing back toward him.

  He slid his knife into his belt and raised his arm for the falcon. Grief landed, and he quickly tied her jesses around his arm and placed her hood on her head. Only then did he look back down at the sprawled boy, a considering look on his face.

  “I think I’ll leave you,” Tenim said finally. “That way, they’ll think you did it.”

  With that, he strode off, firm in the belief that he had just made himself the richest, most powerful man on Pern.

  The low rumble woke Halla. She jumped out of her sleeping roll in time to spot a brilliant light in the distance. She was only kilometers away.

  “Firestone,” Halla declared. She’d taken to talking to herself, having not realized how much she appreciated the comforting chatter of the children who had always been in her care. “It has to be.”

  Now she knew why Tenim had stolen an empty workdray: to carry firestone. Had he been mining by himself? No, that didn’t make sense. And hadn’t Veran told her that D’gan was getting firestone from some unknown place? Judging by the sound she’d heard, that place was no more.

  She broke her camp, hoisted her pack, and set off in the direction of the noise, determined to search for survivors.

  Pellar woke slowly and kept his eyes closed, listening for a long while. In the distance he heard the cries of the camp’s survivors. Closer, he only heard the sounds of morning. He kept his eyes closed while he gingerly tested each of his limbs. Satisfied that this time nothing was broken, he carefully sat up, wincing as the movement strained the bruise on his jaw.

  “How many times do I have to kill you?” The question echoed again in his mind as his memories flooded back.

  He remembered fighting the icy stream, sliding backward over a huge fall, and waking up much later, leg and arm broken, his head resting on the stream bank. Shivering with cold, he’d found the strength to pull himself out of the water before he’d collapsed again in exhaustion.

  How long he’d stayed there on the edge of death, Pellar couldn’t recall. He’d survived on worms, trundlebugs, insects, whatever he could stuff into his mouth.

  Once he’d fought off a wild dog determined to have him for dinner, another time he’d survived a wherry’s aerial attack by fending it off with fallen branches.

  But it was his memories of Mikal’s teachings that finally healed him, although it took a terribly long time. He’d sought out the healing rocks from the streambed, looking for quartz above all. Carefully, he’d placed the crystals as he’d been trained by Mikal, aligning their vibrations to help his healing.

  As soon as he could, he’d found stringy runners and shorter branches to fashion a splint for his arm and then for his leg. He’d just barely survived winter, huddled in a cave and eating raw fish. When spring came, he set traps, and—when they were full—he ate well. Slowly, his strength returned.

  But he could remember only flashes of his past.

  When the dragonriders had discovered him, he was initially glad, thinking he’d found aid. But they’d dropped him off here and the cold of between had helped settle an irritating cold deep in his chest. It had taken several days of rest before he’d recovered.

  He remembered being irritated when he first met Tarik, although he had to feel gratitude for the other’s care of him. And he’d felt insanely angry when he’d first seen Tenim, and only caution had prevented him from attacking the larger youth at that time.

  But it was only at the sight of the falcon that Pellar had remembered everything. The falcon that had killed Chitter. Pellar’s face clouded in memory. Chitter had saved his life.

  For what? Pellar wondered bitterly, feeling well enough to stand and survey the wreckage of the valley below. His eyes strayed back to the green dale in which he was standing. There—a leaf good for burns. There—a leaf to reduce pain. He didn’t spot any numbweed.

  As swiftly as his sore body would move, Pellar started harvesting healing leaves and roots.

  Provisioned, he set off at a trot to the camp. As he grew closer he saw, to his horror, that some of the injured were badly burned. Some would not survive the day. He had no fellis juice to ease their pain. Most of the survivors were either lying on the ground in exhaustion, or walking around listlessly. He needed more help.

  Could he still speak to dragons?

  Hurth, he ventured, I need help.

  The response was immediate, worried, and full of that special draconic warmth. Where are you?

  Pellar scanned the valley and closed his eyes, building the image in his mind.

  We come, Hurth said.

  The immediate response was a tonic to Pellar and he lengthened his stride. He was barely at the first of the tents when the sky above him filled with dragons.

  He waved frantically at the large bronze he knew to be Hurth.

  “Pellar!” D’vin shouted from his perch atop Hurth’s neck, his face alight with joy. “We’d given you up for dead!” He paused and surveyed the scene around him. “What happened?”

  D’vin jumped down from Hurth’s neck and then turned back to help down the group of weyrfolk that had ridden with him.

  Pellar waved his hands and groped around his neck to show D’vin that he had nothing to write with. He turned, holding one hand out to highlight the scene surrounding them, but already it had changed as weyrfolk and dragonriders bustled about, providing aid to the burned and dazed survivors.

  “Does anyone have a slate?” D’vin shouted over the growing din. A young woman dressed in riding gear raced over to him, her long black hair highlighted by one white streak.

  “Thank you, Sonia,” D’vin told her with a smile that went to his eyes. She smiled back at him, turned, and waved good-bye over her shoulder as she sped off in search of more work. D’vin handed Pellar the slate and waited patiently while the boy wrote his message. When he was done, he handed the slate to D’vin who read, “Tenim. Destroyed the mine. Stealing firestone.”

  “He’s stealing firestone?” D’vin asked in amazement. “What for?”

  “To sell,” Pellar wrote in response.

  “Sell?” D’vin repeated in surprise. He shook off the question, asking instead, “Was this D’gan’s mine?”

  When Pellar nodded, D’vin made a face. “I’ll have to let him know.” He gestured toward a green dragon
hovering high over the valley. “Fortunately, P’lel says we’re not too far from our borders.”

  Pellar gestured for the slate and wrote hastily, “I should go; D’gan’s men brought me here, put me to work.”

  “He’s been putting men in the mines?” D’vin asked, brows furrowing angrily.

  Pellar nodded in confirmation and wrote, “Tenim brought him children to work a second shift.”

  “Children!” D’vin exclaimed in shock, adding thoughtfully, “Not that you’re all that much older.”

  The sky grew thick once more with dragons.

  “That’ll be D’gan,” D’vin judged, looking up at the arriving dragons. He looked back to Pellar. “I think you’d best leave until I can calm him down.”

  Pellar nodded and strode off, heading toward the ruined dam. A new resolution had entered his thoughts: Rather than avoid D’gan, he would track Tenim.

  Halla arrived at the outskirts of the valley in time to see a second group of dragonriders appear. She stared at them for a long time, lost in their beauty, before she brought her attention back to the goings-on in the valley. Dragonriders and weyrfolk were attending the injured. In the center of it all, Telgar’s Weyrleader was talking to a dragonrider wearing High Reaches colors. With a start, Halla recognized the High Reaches rider as the one she’d met at the Gather.

  Carefully, she made her way down the valley, hoping to pick up on the conversation without being noticed.

  She need not have bothered. D’gan was shouting so loudly that Halla could easily hear his every word from two dragonlengths away.

  “My mine!” D’gan shouted. “My workers! I’ve no stomach for High Reaches poaching them.”

  “We came to their aid,” D’vin replied, his voice firm and not as loud. Halla thought that for all his deferential stance, the High Reaches rider was very angry and only just holding on to his temper. “And I informed you as soon as I could.”

  “You did, did you?” D’gan yelled in response. “Not before you carted off a load of firestone, though. I would have never thought that I’d see the day when one Weyr stole from another—”

  “My lord,” D’vin interrupted curtly. “We are dragonmen. We came to offer aid, not to steal.” He paused as he considered D’gan’s words. “And why would we cart off firestone when we can fly it off?”

  “I don’t know,” D’gan declared petulantly. “All I know is that there are tracks leading off in the direction of your lands.”

  D’vin was silent for a moment—communing with his dragon, Halla guessed. “My dragon has found the tracks you mentioned. We shall investigate.”

  “You will investigate?” D’gan roared in response. “This happened on Telgar land—we’ll investigate.”

  “As the dray is now in High Reaches territory, tracking it becomes our problem,” D’vin replied. He held up a placating hand to prevent D’gan’s next outburst. “However, we’d be delighted to accept your offer of help.”

  D’gan spluttered for a moment before saying, “Fine! You find them.”

  D’vin nodded curtly. After a moment, D’gan said, “Well, why aren’t you going?”

  D’vin looked at him in surprise. “Your miners still need aid.”

  “Leave them,” D’gan said. “That’s Telgar business, and we’ll handle it.”

  D’vin’s reluctance was obvious to D’gan, who ignored the fact that he had brought none of his weyrfolk, and that most of his riders were still hovering over the valley on their dragons.

  “I said we’ll handle it,” the Telgar Weyrleader repeated, tapping his fingers testily against his riding helmet. “You may leave now, Wingleader.”

  D’vin bit back a bitter response and settled for bringing himself erect and bowing to D’gan. “Weyrleader.”

  D’gan nodded back and waved D’vin away.

  The High Reaches folk were slow to leave their charges, their concern visible on their faces, but in short order they were arrayed once more behind the dragonriders who had brought them. The dragons leapt aloft, formed the wing, and vanished between.

  Halla was already heading away from the valley by the time the High Reaches weyrfolk departed. She’d learned what she needed to know. As she turned north and west, scanning for the heavily loaded workdray’s tracks, she reflected that she could leave Tenim to the dragonriders, that this was not what Lord Fenner had asked her to do, and that Tenim was much larger and more dangerous than she. But she would find him. A cry from one of the injured behind her strengthened her resolve. She lengthened her stride.

  CHAPTER 8

  To flame the skies

  Your dragon must chew

  A hundredweight

  Or more for you.

  HIGH REACHES WEYR

  So D’gan’s mine was destroyed,” B’ralar said, looking up from his position at the head of the Council Room. “And he complained when you arrived with aid?”

  “Yes,” D’vin said. He was still surprised at the speed of events since the destruction of firestone mine #9.

  The Weyrleader chuckled. “And all the while he’d been telling us he had no more firestone.”

  D’vin smiled. “We haven’t been too frank with him, either.”

  B’ralar grinned and nodded. “It seems just as well now,” he said. “And it seemed a better idea when we didn’t know how your miners would perform.”

  “Not as well as D’gan’s men,” D’vin observed. “We’ll need a lot more trained men before we start to see a tonne a day.”

  “They got that much?” B’ralar asked, sounding impressed.

  “As near as I can tell,” D’vin replied. “I talked with Toldur and Cristov about it.”

  B’ralar gave D’vin an inquisitive look.

  “They said that it was possible to mine that much in a day, but they were concerned that it would require a lot of risks.”

  “Hmm,” B’ralar said. He looked at his wingleaders. “So High Reaches is now the only Weyr that has a firestone mine on its lands.” He snorted. “Imagine how D’gan’ll feel when he finds out.”

  The wingleaders grinned.

  “I’m worried about this Tenim,” D’vin said. “He seems a dangerous character, and he’s willing to use firestone in a way we’ve never considered.”

  “We should catch him as soon as possible,” B’ralar agreed.

  “What do we do then?” D’vin asked, his voice tinged by the memories of the burned and injured miners. Worse, more than half of the miners had perished—including Tarik.

  B’ralar pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “Let’s capture him first, then we’ll decide.”

  The others nodded in assent, and B’ralar assigned his patrols. The meeting broke up, and the wingleaders marched out briskly to issue their orders.

  “D’vin, wait a moment,” B’ralar called as D’vin rose to leave.

  D’vin turned back and looked at the elderly Weyrleader expectantly.

  “It’s not enough,” B’ralar said slowly, “for a Weyrleader to fight against Thread. A Weyrleader needs to chart a course Turns ahead, yet be prepared for any eventuality.”

  “For which I am glad that I’m not a Weyrleader,” D’vin replied with a grin.

  “One thing a good Weyrleader does is keep a close eye on all potential Weyrleaders,” B’ralar said. “For the good of the Weyr.”

  D’vin shook his head. “Weyrleader, I wish you a long and happy life.”

  B’ralar laughed. “I accept and will certainly aim for it.” He grew more somber. “But my days are numbered just as any other man’s.” He caught D’vin’s eyes and held them. “Don’t forget what I said, and don’t do anything you might come to regret later.”

  D’vin bowed his head in acknowledgment. Then, with an inquiring look, he asked if he could leave. B’ralar waved him away, shaking his head at the waywardness of youth.

  Toldur and Cristov were surprised when D’vin arrived at their camp, and grim when he explained his purpose.

  “Well, we’re s
afe enough here,” Toldur declared after a moment’s thought. “We’ve well water, and our firestone is stored in a well-built stone shed.”

  “He could still destroy the mine,” Cristov objected. The news of his father’s real death after all the months he’d spent thinking that Tarik was already dead was something he hadn’t yet fully absorbed, and he was determined to bury himself in his work to avoid the issue for as long as he could.

  “Only if there’s no one guarding it,” Toldur said.

  “We should consider starting another mine,” Cristov said. “Maybe training some others to do the work so we can mine more firestone.”

  Toldur shook his head. “I can’t imagine who would volunteer, especially after news of Tarik’s mine gets out.”

  “But how will the dragonriders train?” Cristov demanded, gesturing to D’vin and his riders. “And if they don’t train, what will happen when the Red Star returns?”

  “Oh,” D’vin said demurely, “I think the dragons might enjoy a short break from firestone.” Behind him, Hurth rumbled approvingly. He turned back to the mine. “How are you doing?”

  “Well enough,” Toldur said. “But Cristov’s right: Two people can only mine so much in a day, even with all the help your weyrfolk are providing.”

  Cristov looked chagrined and mumbled something about “sorry.”

  “You’ve no need to apologize,” D’vin replied fiercely. “You and Toldur have done excellent work. If more miners would—”

  Cristov coughed and Toldur gave the dragonrider a pained look.

  “What?” D’vin asked.

  Toldur squared his shoulders before replying, “We sent messages to Masterminer Britell asking for more miners.”

  “Did you? That’s excellent.”

  Toldur shook his head. “The Masterminer said that there were no takers.”

  “And that was before this news about the other mine,” Cristov added.

  “And,” Toldur said, “before you ask, dragonrider, none of your weyrfolk have volunteered either.”