Dragonflight

by Anne McCaffrey

In one split second he was knocked off his feet, sprawling across the stones and trying to roll to his feet again, to face his adversary. The force of the initial blow, however, had dazed him, and he lay sprawled on his back, startled to see the watch-wher, its scaly body launched—straight at him.

  Simultaneously he heard Lessa’s startled exclamation and Mnementh’s roar. The bronze’s great head was swinging around to knock the watch-wher aside, away from the dragonman. But just as the watch-wher’s body was fully extended in its leap, Lessa cried out.

  “Don’t kill! Don’t kill!”

  The watch-wher, its snarl turning into an anguished cry of alarm, executed an incredible maneuver in mid-air, turning aside from its trajection. As it fell to the stone yard at his feet, F’lar heard the dull crack as the force of its landing broke its back.

  Before he could get to his feet, Lessa was cradling the hideous head in her arms, her face stricken.

  Mnementh lowered his head to tap the dying watch-wher’s body gently. He informed F’lar that the beast had guessed Lessa was leaving Ruatha, something one of her Blood should not do. In its senile confusion it could only assume Lessa was in danger. When it heard Lessa’s frantic command, it had corrected its error at the expense of its life.

  “It was truly only defending me,” Lessa added, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat. “It was the only one I could trust. My only friend.”

  F’lar awkwardly patted the girl’s shoulder, appalled that anyone could be reduced to claiming friendship with a watch-wher. He winced because the fall had reopened the knife wound in his shoulder and he hurt.

  “In truth a loyal friend,” he said, standing patiently until the light in the watch-wher’s green-gold eyes dimmed and died out.

  All the dragons gave voice to the eerie, hair-raising, barely audible, high keening note that signified the passing of one of their kind.

  “He was only a watch-wher,” Lessa murmured, stunned by the tribute, her eyes wide.

  “The dragons confer honor where they will,” F’lar remarked dryly, disclaiming the responsibility.

  Lessa looked down for one more long moment at the repulsive head. She laid it down to the stones, caressed the clipped wings. Then, with quick fingers, she undid the heavy buckle that fastened the metal collar around the neck. She threw the collar violently away.

  She rose in a fluid movement and walked resolutely to Mnementh without a single backward glance. She stepped calmly to Mnementh’s raised leg and seated herself, as F’lar directed her, on the great neck.

  F’lar glanced around the Court at the remainder of his wing which had reformed there. The Hold folk had retreated into the safety of the great Hall. When his wingmen were all astride, he vaulted to Mnementh’s neck, behind the girl.

  “Hold lightly to my arms,” he ordered her as he took hold of the smallest neck ridge and gave the command to fly.

  Her fingers closed spasmodically around his forearm as the great bronze dragon took off, the enormous wings working to achieve height from the vertical takeoff. Mnementh preferred to fall into flight from a cliff or tower. Dragons tended to indolence. F’lar glanced behind him, saw the other dragonmen form the flight line, spread out to cover the gaps of those still on guard at Ruatha Hold.

  When they had reached a sufficient altitude, he told Mnementh to transfer, going between to the Weyr.

  Only a gasp indicated the girl’s astonishment as they hung between. Accustomed as he was to the sting of the profound cold, to the awesome utter lack of light and sound, F’lar still found the sensations unnerving. Yet the uncommon transfer spanned no more time than it took to cough thrice.

  Mnementh rumbled approval of this candidate’s calm reaction as they flicked out of the eerie between. She had not been afraid or screamed in panic as other women had. F’lar did feel her heart pounding against his arm that pressed against her ribs, but that was all.

  And then they were above the Weyr, Mnementh setting his wings to glide in the bright daylight, half a world away from nighttime Ruatha.

  Lessa’s hands lightened on his arms, this time in surprise as they circled above the great stony trough of the Weyr. F’lar peered at Lessa’s face, pleased with the delight mirrored there; she showed no trace of fear that they hung a thousand lengths above the high Benden mountain range. Then, as the seven dragons roared their incoming cry, an incredulous smile lit her face.

  The other wingmen dropped into a wide spiral, down, down, while Mnementh elected to descend in lazy circles. The dragonmen peeled off smartly and dropped, each to his own tier in the caves of the Weyr. Mnementh finally completed his leisurely approach to their quarters, whistling shrilly to himself as he braked his forward speed with a twist of his wings, dropping lightly at last to the ledge. He crouched as F’lar swung the girl to the rough rock, scored from thousands of clawed landings.

  “This leads only to our quarters,” he told her as they entered the corridor, vaulted and wide for the easy passage of great bronze dragons.

  As they reached the huge natural cavern that had been his since Mnementh achieved maturity, F’lar looked about him with eyes fresh from his first prolonged absence from the Weyr. The huge chamber was unquestionably larger than most of the halls he had visited in Fax’s procession. Those halls were intended as gathering places for men, not the habitations of dragons. But suddenly he saw his own quarters were nearly as shabby as all Ruatha. Benden was, of a certainty, one of the oldest dragonweyrs, as Ruatha was one of the oldest Holds, but that excused nothing. How many dragons had bedded in that hollow to make solid rock conform to dragon proportions! How many feet had worn the path past the dragon’s Weyr into the sleeping chamber, to the bathing room beyond where the natural warm spring provided ever-fresh water! But the wall hangings were faded and unraveling, and there were grease stains on lintel and floor that could easily be sanded away.

  He noticed the wary expression on Lessa’s face as he paused in the sleeping room.

  “I must feed Mnementh immediately. So you may bathe first,” he said, rummaging in a chest and finding clean clothes for her, discards of former occupants of his quarters, but far more presentable than her present covering. He carefully laid back in the chest the white wool robe that was traditional Impression garb. She would wear that later. He tossed several garments at her feet and a bag of sweetsand, gesturing to the hanging that obscured the way to the bath.

  He left her then, the clothes in a heap at her feet, for she made no effort to catch anything.

  Mnementh informed him that F’nor was feeding Canth and that he, Mnementh, was hungry, too. She didn’t trust F’lar, but she wasn’t afraid of himself.

  “Why should she be afraid of you?” F’lar asked. “You’re cousin to the watch-wher who was her only friend.”

  Mnementh informed F’lar that he, a fully matured bronze dragon, was no relation to any scrawny, crawling, chained, and wing-clipped watch-wher.

  “Then why did you accord him a dragon tribute?” F’lar asked.

  Mnementh told him haughtily that it was fitting and proper to mourn the passing of a loyal and self-sacrificing personality. Not even a blue dragon could deny the fact that that Ruathan watch-wher had not divulged information he had been enjoined to keep, though the beast had been sorely pressed to do so by himself, Mnementh. Also, in managing, by some physical feat, to turn aside its attack on F’lar, at the cost of its own life, it had elevated itself to dragonlike bravery. Of course, the dragons had uttered a tribute at its passing.

  F’lar, pleased at having been able to tease the bronze one, chuckled to himself. With great dignity Mnementh curved down to the feeding ground.

  F’lar dropped off as Mnementh hovered near F’nor. The impact with the ground reminded him he had better get the girl to dress his shoulder for him. He watched as the bronze one swooped down on the nearest fat buck in the milling herd.

  “The Hatching is due at any hour,” F’nor greeted his brother, grinning up at him as he squatted on his haunches. His
eyes were bright with excitement.

  F’lar nodded thoughtfully. “There will be plenty to choose from for the males,” he allowed, knowing F’nor was tauntingly withholding choicer news.

  They both watched as F’nor’s Canth singled out a doe. The brown dragon neatly grabbed the struggling beast in one claw and rose up, settling on an unoccupied ledge to feast.

  Mnementh dispatched his first carcass and glided in again over the herd, to the pens beyond. He singled out a heavy ground bird and lifted with it in his claws. F’lar observed his ascent, experiencing as always the thrill of pride in the effortless sweep of the great pinions, the play of the sun on the bronze hide, the flash of silvery claws, unsheathed for landing. He never tired of watching Mnementh in flight or admiring the unconscious grace and strength.

  “Lytol was overwhelmed by the summons,” F’nor remarked, “and sends you all honor and respect. He will do well at Ruatha.”

  “The reason he was chosen,” grunted F’lar, nonetheless gratified by Lytol’s reaction. Surrogate Lordship was no substitute for loss of one’s dragon, but it was an honorable responsibility.

  “There was much rejoicing in the High Reaches,” F’nor continued, grinning widely, “and honest grief at the passing of Lady Gemma. It will be interesting to see which of the contenders takes title.”

  “At Ruatha?” F’lar queried, frowning down at his half brother.

  “No. At the High Reaches and the other Holds Fax conquered. Lytol will bring his own people to secure Ruatha and to give any soldiery pause before they might attempt that Hold. He knew of many in the High Reaches who would prefer to make a change of Hold, even though Fax no longer dominates the High Reaches. He intended to make all haste to Ruatha so that our men will soon rejoin us.”

  F’lar nodded approval, turning to salute two more of his wing, blue riders, who dropped with their beasts to the feeding ground. Mnementh went back for another fowl.

  “He eats light,” F’nor commented. “Canth’s still gorging.”

  “Browns are slow to get full growth,” F’lar drawled, watching with satisfaction as F’nor’s eyes flashed angrily. That would teach him to withhold news.

  “R’gul and S’lel are back,” the brown rider finally announced.

  The two blues had the herd in a frenzy, stampeding and screaming in fright.

  “The others are recalled,” F’nor continued. “Nemorth is all but rigid in death.” Then he could no longer contain himself. “S’lel brought in two. R’gul has five. Strong-willed, they say, and pretty.”

  F’lar said nothing. He had expected those two would bring in multiple candidates. Let them bring hundreds if they chose. He, F’lar, the bronze rider, had in his one choice the winner.

  Exasperated that his news elicited so little response, F’nor rose.

  “We should have backtrailed for that one in Crom and the pretty . . .”

  “Pretty?” F’lar retorted, cocking one eyebrow high in disdain. “Pretty? Jora was pretty,” he spat out cynically.

  “K’net and T’bor bring contenders from the west,” F’nor added urgently, concerned.

  The wind-torn roar of homecoming dragons crackled through the air. Both men jerked their heads skyward and saw the double spirals of two returning wings, twenty strong.

  Mnementh tossed his head high, crooning. F’lar called him in, pleased the bronze one made no quarrel at recall, although he had eaten very lightly. F’lar, saluting his brother amiably, stepped onto Mnementh’s spread foot and was lifted back to his own ledge.

  Mnementh hiccuped absently as the two walked the short passage to the vaulted inner chamber. He lumbered over to his hollowed bed and settled himself into the curved stone. When Mnementh had stretched and comfortably laid down his wedge-head, F’lar approached him. Mnementh regarded his friend with the near eye, its many facets glinting and shifting, the inner lids gradually closing as F’lar scratched the eye-ridge soothingly.

  Those unfamiliar with it might find such a regard unnerving. But since that moment, twenty Turns before, when the great Mnementh bad broken through his shell and stumbled across the Hatching Ground to stand, weaving on weak legs, before the boy F’lar, the dragonman had treasured these quiet moments as the happiest of a long day. No greater tribute could man be paid than the trust and companionship of the winged beasts of Pern. For the loyalty that dragonkind gave their chosen one of mankind was unswerving and complete from the instant of Impression.

  Mnementh’s inner content was such that the great eye quickly closed. The dragon slept, only the tip of his tail erect, a sure sign that he would be instantly on the alert if the need arose.

  By the Golden Egg of Faranth

  By the Weyrwoman, wise and true,

  Breed a flight of bronze and brown wings,

  Breed a flight of green and blue.

  Breed riders, strong and daring,

  Dragon loving, born as hatched

  Flight of hundreds soaring skyward,

  Man and dragon fully matched.

  LESSA WAITED UNTIL the sound of the dragonman’s footsteps proved he had really gone away. She rushed quickly through the big cavern, heard the scrape of claw and the whoosh of the mighty wings. She raced down the short passageway, right to the edge of the yawning entrance. There was the bronze dragon circling down to the wider end of the mile-long barren oval that was Benden Weyr. She had heard of the Weyrs, as any Pernese had, but to be in one was quite a different matter.

  She peered up, around, down that sheer rock face. There was no way off but by dragon wing. The nearest cave mouths were an unhandy distance above her, to one side, below her on the other. She was neatly secluded here.

  Weyrwoman, he had told her. His woman? In his weyr? Was that what he had meant? No, that was not the impression she got from the dragon. It occurred to her suddenly that it was odd she had understood the dragon. Were common folk able to? Or was it the dragonman Blood in her Line? At all events, Mnementh had implied something greater, some special rank. They must mean her, then, to be Weyrwoman to the unhatched dragon queen. Only how did she, or they, go about it? She remembered vaguely that when dragonmen went on Search, they looked for certain women. Ah, certain women. She was one, then, of several contenders. Yet the bronze rider had offered her the position as if she and she alone qualified. He had his own generous portion of conceit, that one, Lessa decided. Arrogant he was, though not the bully Fax had been.

  She could see the bronze dragon swoop down to the running herdbeasts, saw the strike, saw the dragon wheel up to settle on a far ledge to feed. Instinctively she drew back from the opening, back into the dark and relative safety of the corridor.

  The feeding dragon evoked scores of horrid tales. Tales at which she had scoffed, but now . . . Was it true, then, that dragons did eat human flesh? Did . . . Lessa halted that trend of thought. Dragonkind was no less cruel than mankind. The dragon, at least, acted from bestial need rather than bestial greed.

  Assured that the dragonman would be occupied awhile, she crossed the larger cave into the sleeping room. She scooped up the clothing and the bag of cleansing sand and proceeded to the bathing room. It was small but ample for its purpose. A wide ledge formed a partial lip to the uneven circle of the bathing pool. There was a bench and some shelves for drying cloths. In the glowlight she could see that the near section of the pool had been sanded high so a bather could stand comfortably. Then there was a gradual dip approaching the deeper water that slapped the very rock wall on the farther side.

  To be clean! To be completely clean and to be able to stay that way. With a distaste at touching them no less acute than the dragonman’s, she stripped off the remains of the rags, kicking them to one side, not knowing where to dispose of them. She shook out a generous handful of the sweetsand and, bending to the pool, wet it.

  Quickly she made a soft mud with the sweet soap, and she scoured hands and bruised face. Wetting more sand, she attacked her arms and legs, then her body and feet. She scrubbed hard until she dre
w blood from half-healed cuts. Then she stepped, or rather jumped, into the pool, gasping as the warm water made the sweetsand foam in her scratches. She ducked under the surface, shaking her head to be sure her hair was thoroughly wetted. Then briskly she rubbed in more sweetsand, rinsing and scrubbing until she felt her hair might possibly be clean. Years, it had been. Great strands floated away in tangles like immense crawlers with attenuated legs, toward the far edge of the pool and then were drawn out of sight. The water, she was glad to note, constantly circulated, the cloudy and dirty replaced with clear. She turned her attention again to her body, scrubbing at ingrained dirt until her skin smarted. It was a ritual cleansing of more than surface soil. She felt a pleasure akin to ecstasy for the luxury of cleanliness.

  Finally satisfied her body was as clean as one long soaking could make her, she sanded her hair yet a third time. She left the pool almost reluctantly, wringing out her hair and tucking it up on her head as she dried herself. She shook out the clothing and held one garment against her experimentally. The fabric, a soft green, felt smooth under her water-shrunken fingers, although the nap caught on her roughened hands. She pulled it over her head. It was loose, but the darker-green overtunic had a sash that she pulled in tight at the waist. The unusual sensation of softness against her bare skin made her wriggle with voluptuous pleasure. The skirt, no longer a ragged hem of tatters, swirled heavily around her ankles, making her smile in sheer feminine delight. She took up a fresh drying cloth and began to work on her hair.

  A muted sound came to her ears, and she stopped, hands poised, head bent to one side. Straining, she listened. Yes, there were sounds without. The dragonman and his beast must have returned. She grimaced to herself with annoyance at this untimely interruption and rubbed harder at her hair. She ran fingers through the half-dry tangles, the motions arrested as she encountered snarls. She tried patting her hair into place, pushing it defiantly behind her ears. Vexed, she rummaged on the shelves until she found, as she had hoped to, a coarse-toothed metal comb. With this she attacked her unruly hair and, by the dint of much yanking and groaning as she pulled ruthlessly through years of tangles, she was able to groom the mass.