Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  D’vin nodded and propped his chin in his hand, resting one arm on top of the other across his chest.

  “We’ll think of something,” he declared finally.

  “They can start at mine number ten,” D’gan declared. “If that doesn’t work, they can start at old mine number nine.”

  “Weyrleader, none of the survivors who’ve remained are fit to stand, let alone work,” healer K’rem told him.

  D’gan shot a venomous look at L’rat, the wingleader charged with guarding the camp. “Have you found any of them yet?”

  Miserably, L’rat shook his head. “No, Weyrleader. Our riders have spread out all over and have had no luck so far.”

  D’gan fumed. “If we hadn’t spent so much effort on the injured, we could have guarded the able well enough to keep them from running away.”

  “I don’t think they would have worked even under pain of firestoning,” L’rat said, spreading his hands in surrender.

  “Well, you let them get away so we’ll never know, will we?” D’gan retorted scathingly. He waved a hand at L’rat. “You lost them, you’ll find their replacements. We’ll need two dozen to start with.”

  “But my lord, the holders say that there are no Shunned left in any hold,” L’rat protested.

  “Find some,” D’gan ordered. “Make some. Goodness knows those useless holders are always up to something.”

  L’rat drew breath to protest but D’gan startled him into silence, shouting, “Well, what are you standing about for? Go get more workers!”

  L’rat nodded reluctantly, cast a pleading glance at the Weyr healer, who refused to meet his eyes and departed after sketching a quick bow to D’gan.

  “We have to have firestone,” D’gan said to himself. He looked up at K’rem for support. “Without it, all Pern is doomed.”

  “Yes, my lord,” K’rem agreed, “but I can’t help wondering if there isn’t an easier way to get it.”

  The pounding that woke Sidar up was more welcome than the figure he found standing in his doorway.

  “Are you insane?” he hissed angrily. “All Pern is looking for you!”

  Tenim smiled and forced his way past the other man, heading to the hearth to warm his hands. “And how much of Pern is looking for firestone?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Firestone?” Sidar exclaimed incredulously. “They’re getting enough from the mine at High Reaches.”

  Tenim was glad he had his back to Sidar, for he could feel his face drain of all color. “High Reaches?”

  “Yes, you fool,” Sidar snapped back. “Tarik’s brat has been mining up there ever since that last Gather.”

  “Really?” Tenim asked, turning to face Sidar, his features once more composed and calm.

  “Really,” Sidar said. He grabbed Tenim by the collar and pulled him off his stool, shoving him toward the door. “Now get out, you’re no longer welcome here.”

  Tenim turned back to face the older man. “Not welcome?” he asked, looking crestfallen. “After all we’ve done?”

  “Come back and my heavies will deal with you,” Sidar promised.

  “I wouldn’t want that,” Tenim said agreeably. He slung his pack off his shoulder and fished in it for something. “Seeing as you’ve been such a good friend, I’ve got something for you. Call it a going-away gift.” He looked around and spotted a jug. “In return all I want is some water.”

  Sidar eyed him warily and backed away until he saw what Tenim had pulled out—a rock.

  “It’s just a rock,” Sidar said. “Why should I trade water for that?”

  Tenim threw the rock at him and the older man caught it reflexively. Tenim stepped over to the jug and filled a mug.

  “No ordinary rock,” Tenim responded smoothly. “That’s firestone.”

  Sidar eyed him warily and then the rock speculatively. “It’s not worth my water,” he growled. “You’d best leave.”

  “It’s quite valuable,” Tenim continued in the same smooth tone.

  Sidar snorted derisively.

  “You don’t like my gift?” Tenim asked, sounding sad.

  “Neither it nor you,” Sidar replied. “Now get out.”

  “Ah, but that’s a special rock,” Tenim said, smiling. He pretended to sip from his mug and made a face. “Certainly worth more than this water.”

  He threw the water at Sidar who grunted in surprise.

  “And quite deadly,” Tenim added, stepping back as Sidar gave a strangled cry and lurched away from him. Tenim continued on as if nothing were happening, completely ignoring Sidar’s frantic movements. “It seems that if the gas doesn’t explode outright, it burns the lungs and the air in them. Death is quick, if painful.”

  Tenim watched as Sidar’s desperate movements became more and more feeble and finally stopped. Shaking his head, he turned to go, only to turn back again for one final admonition. “You really should have bought when you had the chance.”

  Back outside, Tenim climbed back aboard his workdray and drove it around into the shed behind Sidar’s cothold. He unhitched the beasts, put them in good stalls, fed and watered them, all the while whistling to himself and examining the runnerbeasts across the stables. Once done, he selected the best beast, saddled it, added his bedroll, travel pack, and falcon’s hutch, and rode out into the night heading west, toward High Reaches Weyr.

  Halla swore when she lost Tenim’s tracks in Keogh. She arrived three days behind him, late enough that the body of the holder had been found. Halla herself had discovered the missing workdray and its deadly load of firestone, but she left before D’gan had arrived to supervise its unloading.

  Now Tenim had a horse and a three-day lead.

  Halla wondered about the other set of tracks she’d spotted on the way. Why had they continued west even after Tenim had veered south? Still, she had her mission, and the mission Lord Fenner had given her. So far her hopes of finding any of the Shunned had proven just as false as her hopes of bringing Tenim to justice.

  “So what am I going to do now?” Halla asked herself. West, she decided. At the edge of town she found a trader caravan that agreed to take her along the moment she identified herself as Tarri’s friend.

  “Tarri’s report said good things about you,” their leader had told her, gesturing to her fire-lizard as her source of news.

  They camped halfway up the High Reaches mountains that night. Well bundled against the cold, Halla joined the caravanners around a large fire and listened as they talked.

  “So what are the odds for that firestone mine?” one of them asked.

  “No better than the one D’gan had,” another answered.

  “But I hear they’ve got miners working it,” the first one said.

  The other snorted a laugh. “At least until they make their first mistake.”

  The group joined him in a bitter laugh.

  “And then what? What happens when there’s no one to mine more firestone?”

  “There’ll always be someone to mine firestone, as long as there’s the Shunned.”

  “I hear,” the first one said, dropping his voice, “that D’gan’s taking even those who aren’t to start a new mine.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “What a terrible thing to do!”

  “They say that half the miners at the old mine were burned in that explosion.”

  “I heard that one of the Shunned did it on purpose.”

  “Could you blame them, working like that?”

  “Shouldn’t get Shunned if they didn’t want to work like that,” another grumbled.

  Halla fought an impulse to finger her forehead.

  “Not everyone gets a choice.”

  “How’s that? Isn’t it justice that they do?”

  “Justice is different from Lord Holder to Lord Holder.”

  A chorus of assents passed around the campfire. After a while the conversation moved on to other topics and Halla drifted off to sleep, but not before she asked, “Does anyone know where thi
s other mine is?”

  The oldsters exchanged thoughtful glances before one replied, “High up in the mountains, near High Reaches. They say only dragons can get there.”

  Pellar crossed the mountains as quickly as he could. He made good time and found a boat heading downriver at the first decent-sized hold. For keeping watch, he got a free ride. But first he had to show his forehead to prove he wasn’t Shunned.

  “Not that I’d do it,” the boatman explained, “but there’s word that Telgar will pay a bounty for a Shunned man.”

  Pellar looked at the man politely, encouraging him to continue conspiratorially, “I hear that Weyrleader D’gan himself ordered it. He’s all put out that High Reaches has their own mine. I guess he figures he’s the only one who deserves a monopoly on firestone.”

  Aside from that, the man spoke as little as Pellar, having gone silent after asking exasperatedly, “Why can’t you talk, boy?”

  Pellar had pulled down the collar of his tunic and mimicked someone trying to strangle him, which had been enough.

  They parted ways at the river’s fork, the man heading farther downstream, and Pellar deciding to see if he could get to High Reaches Weyr.

  What he discovered after a grueling day’s walk was that the mountains surrounding High Reaches were cold, barren, and inhospitable. A storm dashed his final hopes of arriving at the Weyr to surprise D’vin and left him fearing instead for his very survival.

  Hurth, Pellar called, finally admitting defeat.

  The storm was so bad that the best D’vin could do was drop down a parcel which, though brightly colored, Pellar took over an hour to locate. Inside was cold bread and jam. He found a place to shelter for the night and ate, savoring every bite.

  “You should have bespoken Hurth before you tried anything so foolish,” D’vin scolded him the next day when the weather had turned sunny once again.

  Pellar nodded in rueful agreement.

  “So what were you doing here?” D’vin asked. Pellar explained about Tenim and his concerns about the new firestone mine.

  “I agree, we’re worried too,” D’vin said. “So is Master Zist, who, by the way, sends his warmest regards and demands that you don’t get yourself killed again.”

  Pellar winced. He fished out a note he’d written days earlier on the trail and passed it over to D’vin.

  D’vin took one look at the top of it and folded it up. “I’ll see that it gets sent to Zist tonight.”

  Pellar smiled in thanks.

  “So what are we going to do with you?”

  Pellar had already written his answer to that question, so he merely passed his slate over. “Take me to the mines. I’ll guard.”

  D’vin shook his head. “We’ve guards enough already,” he said. “I think you should go back to Master Zist.”

  Pellar shook his head and gently pulled back his slate, writing on it, “I can track.”

  D’vin considered the suggestion carefully before shaking his head. “I’ll have to ask the Weyrleader and Zist.”

  Pellar shook his head again, his expression grim and determined. He wrote, “For Chitter. I have to do this.”

  When he passed the slate back, he locked his tear-rimmed eyes with D’vin’s until the young wingleader nodded.

  Smiling sadly, Pellar withdrew his slate once more and wrote, “Keep it a secret, my guarding.”

  D’vin mulled that over for a long time. “Very well,” he agreed at last. He pointed a finger at Pellar. “But I want your promise that you’ll call Hurth for help if you spot anything suspicious. It’s only that you’re so good at calling Hurth for help, that I’m agreeing.”

  Pellar nodded and wrote on his slate. “Part of my plan.”

  “Part of your devious plan,” D’vin agreed, shaking his head ruefully. “I just hope that neither of us regrets this.”

  Tenim didn’t know whether he wanted to swear or laugh when he found the High Reaches firestone mine. There was Tarik’s brat digging firestone along with one of the other miners from Natalon’s camp. Why, this was perfect! He’d get revenge for all the things the miners had done wrong to him, and he’d have the honor of exterminating Tarik’s brat! On the other hand, it infuriated him to see how well Cristov and the other man worked and how much firestone they brought up with each load. Worse, they were obviously being treated like Lord Holders—a warm stone house in which to sleep, pumps built by Mastersmiths, rails laid by the weyrfolk themselves—they were too well dressed to be anything else, and a dump where they had to do none of the tedious sacking.

  What made him want to swear the most—and laugh the most—was the way the mine was guarded day and night. In the two days and nights he’d been watching, Tenim had never seen the mine unguarded, but the guards were all old men and scrawny women, no match for him. The dragonriders were too complacent, Tenim decided. For which they would pay—and then pay him handsomely.

  Because for all their guards and their careful planning, the dragonriders were mistaken if they believed they could protect their precious mine from him. He had a plan. And he would execute it just after the miners went down for their first shift. And then even dragonriders would listen to him.

  Pellar refused to be angry with himself for not finding Tenim’s trail sooner; clearly, Tenim had gotten better at disguising his trail than when Pellar had last encountered him. His discovery had been made more difficult by the decision to move only at night. But at night Tenim’s falcon was sleeping; Pellar would only have to evade one pair of eyes, and those eyes tired from their own full day of surveillance.

  It was clear that Tenim had arrived some days before, and that once he’d arrived, he had moved very little, going only from his resting place to his observation spot and back again, making it all that much harder to spot his trail.

  In fact, Pellar would have never spotted it if he hadn’t decided that Tenim’s intention was to attack Cristov’s mine. Guided by that idea, Pellar had spied out the best locations from which to observe and launch an assault.

  What he hadn’t figured out was how Tenim hoped to succeed in any single-handed attack. But then, he didn’t plan to find out. All he needed was for Tenim to move, and Pellar would have him.

  What Pellar didn’t count on was the falcon, Grief.

  The first sign of the attack came in the predawn when a commotion arose from beyond the clearing, back where the watch-dragon was posted. The dragon cried first in startlement, then in pain as the falcon dived repeatedly, beak and talons raking dragon hide, despite the desperate efforts of his rider to protect him.

  The commotion woke the weyrfolk in the house, who all rushed over to see what had happened.

  “Stay there!” the older guard shouted to the youngster on duty with him. “I’ll see what’s happening.”

  Toldur and Cristov emerged and exchanged words with one of the weyrfolk. “You go!” Toldur urged them. “We’ll watch the mine.”

  Pellar watched them enter, still wondering what Tenim hoped to gain from assaulting a dragon.

  It was then that the second part of Grief’s attack began. Pellar had only time to catch a fleeting spot of darkness falling from the early morning sky before he realized what was happening. By the time he’d jumped up from his cover, the guard was already down on the ground, his hands covering his clawed and bloody face.

  Pellar raced toward the mine entrance but before he was halfway across, a large object was lobbed from Tenim’s lair toward the mine entrance.

  Hurth, help! Pellar shouted at the same time as another voice shouted, “Help!”

  For one brief moment, Pellar thought perhaps the words were his own, that in his panic he’d found his voice. And then Pellar realized that the voice wasn’t his own. In that brief instant, Grief reacted—dropping from the sky with a raucous cry toward the back of Pellar’s head.

  But Pellar was ready. He twirled around, pulling his knife from his belt and knelt, holding the knife above him.

  With a hideous shriek the diving f
alcon impaled itself on the knife, showering Pellar with blood and feathers.

  “You!” Tenim cried in fury, bursting from his cover. As Pellar turned to face him, a roar exploded behind him and he felt a gout of flame. Immediately, Pellar turned back and raced toward the mine entrance, ignoring the deadly peril at his back and the fire in front of him.

  He reached inside the mine, groped, and found a hand. He pulled, but the body wouldn’t budge; then, suddenly, as if pushed, the body lurched forward. Pellar pulled the body to one side and was about to go back for the other miner when another, larger explosion rocked the mine and shook him off his feet.

  Rough hands grabbed at him as he tried to stand up again, and he turned to see the irate, bloody, and burnt face of Tenim above him. Pellar had no idea where his knife was. Tenim’s, however, was right in front of him.

  “Catch!” a voice shouted from behind him. Pellar swiveled, and reaching up in one fluid movement, grabbed a knife out of the air and pivoted back to face Tenim.

  “You killed my bird!” Tenim shouted over the roar of the explosion, lunging down to bury his knife in Pellar.

  The blow didn’t connect. Instead, Pellar dropped to the ground and thrust up and out with the knife he held, which caught Tenim square in the chest. Tenim lurched, his mouth going wide in surprise, and Pellar quickly pulled his knife out and thrust it up again, higher, into Tenim’s throat.

  That, he thought hotly, was for Chitter.

  Pellar slipped to one side as the hot blood erupted and Tenim dropped, dead, on the ground.

  It was only then that Pellar turned back around to seek out his benefactor and see whom he’d managed to rescue.

  The sudden movement, coupled with the heat of the explosion and the stress of his exertions, was too much. He collapsed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Dragonrider, this is true:

  Others all look up to you.

  Your hard work and bravery

  Keep Pern safe and skies Thread-free.