CHAPTER XV

 

New Year 258 After Landing; College,
Benden Hold, Telgar Weyr

 

 

 

ON THE FIRST OFFICIAL DAY of the new year, 258 AL, Clisser had a chance to review the four days of Turn’s End. Frantic at times, certainly hectic despite the most careful plans and the wealth of experience, the main performances—the First Day “Landing Suite,” and Second Day Teaching Songs and Ballads—had gone very well: far better than he had anticipated given the scanty rehearsals available for some of the performers. Fort’s tenor, for instance, had been a bit ragged in his big solo: he really should have held that final note the full measure. Sheledon glowered from the woodwind section: he’d’ve sung the part himself but he hadn’t the voice for it. But then, the only solos that Sheledon wouldn’t find fault with would be Sydra’s, and she never failed to give a splendid performance. Bethany’s flute obbligatos had been remarkable, matching Sydra’s voice to perfection.

Paulin had been on his feet time after time, applauding the soloists and, at the finale, surreptitiously brushing a tear from his eye. Even old S’nan looked pleased, also fatuous, but on the whole Clisser was relieved at the reception. He hoped the two performances had been popular elsewhere on the continent. A great deal of work had been put into rehearsals from folks who had little spare time as it was.

The Teaching Songs and Ballads had been just as well received, with people going about humming some of the tunes. Which was exactly what the composers had hoped for. Fortunately, honors were even between Jemmy and Sheledon for catchy tunes. He caught himself humming the Duty Song chorus. That had gone particularly well. He wouldn’t have to deal with a laborious copying of the Charter once youngsters learned those words by heart. It certainly fit the bill. Copies of all the new songs were being made by the teachers themselves, who would then require their students to transcribe them, and that saved a lot of effort for his College.

Really, a printing press of some kind must be put high on the list of Kalvi’s engineering staff. They’d managed quite a few small motor-driven, solar panel gadgets, why not a printing press? But that required paper, and the forests were going to be vulnerable for the next fifty years no matter how assiduous the Weyrs were in their protective umbrella.

One tangle of Thread could destroy acres of trees in the time it took to get a groundcrew to the affected area.

He sighed. If only the organics plastic machinery were still operating . . . but the one unit housed in the Fort storage had rusted in the same flooding that had ruined so much else.

“’Ours not to wonder what were fair in life,’ ” he quoted to himself, “which is a saying I should get printed out to remind me that we’ve got what we’ve got and have to make do.”

He couldn’t help but feel somewhat depressed, though. There had been some high moments these last few days and it was hard to resume normal routine. Not every one in the teaching staff was back, though all should have checked in by late evening. He’d hear then how the performances went elsewhere. He’d have to wait to learn how the new curriculum was working. By springtime he’d know what fine tuning would be needed. He could count on Sallisha for that, he was sure. By springtime Thread would fall and the easy pace they had all enjoyed would be a memory.

Ah, that was what he had to do. He’d put it off long enough—write up the roster for groundcrews drafted from students over fifteen and teachers. He’d promised that to Lord Paulin and, what with everything else, never produced it. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer, then stopped, put it back, and picked up a sheet from the reuse pile. A clean side was all he needed. Mustn’t waste or he’d want soon enough.

 

Lady Jane herself led Iantine to his quarters, asking all the gracious questions a hostess did: Where had he been for Turn’s End? Had he enjoyed himself? Had he had the opportunity to hear the splendid new music from the College? What instrument did he play? What did he hear from his parents? He answered as well as he could, amazed at the difference between his reception here and the one he’d had at Bitra. Lady Jane was a fluttery sort of woman, not at all what he would have expected as the spouse of a man like Bridgely. She must be extremely efficient under all that flutter, he thought, contrasting the grace, order, and appearance of the public rooms with those at Bitra, and seeing a vast difference between the two.

No low-level living for him here, either. Lady Jane led him onto the family’s floor, urging the two drudges who were carrying the canvases and skybroom wood panels to mind their steps and not damage their burdens.

She opened the door, presenting him with the key, and he was bemused as he followed her into a large dayroom, at least ten times larger than the cubicle at Bitra, on the outside of the hold so that it had a wide, tall window, facing northeast. It was a gracious room, too, the stone walls washed a delicate greeny-white, the furnishings well-polished wood with a pleasing geometric pattern in greens and beige on the coverings.

“I do know that Artists prefer a north light, but this is the best we can do for you on that score . . .” Benden’s Lady fluttered her hands here and there. They were graceful, small hands, with only the wide band of a spousal ring on the appropriate finger. Another contrast to the Bitran tendency to many gaudy jewels.

“It’s far more than I expected, Lady Jane,” he said as sincerely as he could.

“And I’m sure it’s far more than you had at Bitra Hold,” she said with a contemptuous sniff. “Or so I’ve been told. You may be sure that Benden Hold would never place an Artist of your rank and ability with the drudges. Bitrans may lay claim,” and her tone expressed her doubt, “to having a proper Bloodline, but they have never shown much couth!” She noticed him testing the sturdiness of the easel. “That’s from stores. It belonged to Lesnour. D’you know his work?”

“Lesnour? Indeed.” Iantine dropped his hand from the smoothly waxed upright. Lesnour, who’d lived well past the hundred mark, had designed and executed Benden Hold’s murals and was famed for his use of color. He’d also compiled a glossary of pigments available from indigenous materials, a volume Iantine had studied and which had certainly helped him at Bitra.

Lady Jane pushed open the wooden door into the sleeping room. Not large but still generous in size: he could see the large bed, its four posts carved with unusual leaves and flowers, probably taken from Earth’s botany. She pointed at the back to the third room of the suite: a private toilet and bath. And the whole suite was warm. Benden had been constructed with all the same conveniences that Fort Hold boasted.

“This is much more than I need, Lady Jane,” Iantine said, almost embarrassed as he dropped his carisak to the floor of the dayroom.

“Nonsense. We know at Benden what is due a man of your abilities. Space,” and she gave a graceful sweep of her hand about the room, “is so necessary to compose the thoughts and to allow the mind to relax.” She did another complicated arabesque with her hands and smiled up at him. He smiled back at her, trying to act gracious rather than amused at her extravagant manner. “Now, the evening meal will be served in the Great Hall at eight and you’ll dine at the upper table,” she said with a firm smile to forestall any protests. “Would you care to have someone put at your disposal to help with your materials?”

“No, thank you most kindly, Lady Jane, but I’m used to doing for myself.” Maybe he could have borrowed Leopol for a few weeks? There was certainly enough space for the boy to be accommodated in with him.

So she left, after he once again expressed his profuse thanks for the courtesies.

He prowled about the rooms, washed his hands and face, learning that the water came very hot out of the spigot. The bath had been carved out of the rock, deep enough for him to immerse himself completely, and sufficiently long to lie flat out in the water. Even the Weyr hadn’t such elegant conveniences.

He unpacked his clothing so the wrinkles would hang out of his good green shirt and began setting up his workplace. And then sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, plunked his feet down on the footstool, leaned back and sighed. He could get accustomed to this sort of living, so he could! Except for the one lack—Debera.

He wondered briefly if Lady Jane would flutter while she posed for him. And how would he pose her? Somehow he must put in the flutter of her but also her grace and charm. He wondered what instrument she played with those small hands. If only Debera weren’t so far away.

 

Iantine might not have been pleased to know that she was at that very moment the subject of discussion between the Weyrleaders at Telgar.

“No,” Zulaya was saying, shaking her head, “she has more sense than to jeopardize Morath. And I think Iantine would not risk his standing with the Weyr in an indiscretion. I understand from Leopol that Iantine wants to come back. Tisha wasn’t worried about that pair. They may have danced till the musicians quit, but they were visible all the time. Then, too, Debera’s hold-bred. Jule’s the one I might be worried about, especially since she and T’red have been weyrmates.”

“They’re not now?” K’vin asked sharply.

“Of course not,” and Zulaya dismissed his anxiety on that and then grinned up at him. “T’red’s biding his time. He knows he’d better.”

K’vin sighed and checked off another matter discussed with Zulaya. “Let’s see—a tenth-month Hatching, so by this fourth month, the greens won’t be flying yet.”

“Oh, now, I’d say Morath might. If she keeps growing at the same rate, her wings’ll be strong enough to test by late spring. But we don’t need to include the latest Hatching in our calculations, K’vin,” she said, and leaned toward him and the lists he was compiling. “They’ve got all the site-recognition training to do, the long-range flights to build wing muscle. If we don’t need to force their training, let’s not. We’ve got fifty years to use them . . .”

“Do we?” and K’vin tossed his pencil to the table, leaning back and sighing.

Zulaya reached a hand across to tap his arm reassuringly. “Don’t fret so, Kev,” she said. “That can’t change events. I think that the group we’re going to have trouble with is not the babies, but the elderlies. Those old riders’re going to insist on being assigned to fighting wings, you know.”

K’vin closed his eyes, shaking his head as if he could somehow lose that problem. “I know, I know,” he said, all too aware that he couldn’t avoid making a decision there. “They’ll be more of a liability than the youngsters ever would—trying to show that they’ve lost nothing to their age.”

“Well, the dragons won’t have,” she said, and then she, too, sighed. “But we can’t baby them: that’s not fair. And the dragons’ reflexes are as fast as ever. They’ll protect their riders . . .”

“But who’ll protect the rest of the wing from slow reflexes? You know how close Z’ran and T’lel came to disaster yesterday morning?”

“They were showing off,” Zulaya said. “Meranath chewed the two browns out as if they were weyrlings.”

“We won’t have time for that during a Fall . . .” K’vin rubbed the ache in the back of his neck. “I’ve called a safety-strap check for the entire Weyr.”

“Kev,” she said gently, “we had one last week. Don’t you remember?”

“We can’t have enough,” he snapped back at her, and then shot her a look of apology.

“It’s the waiting that’s getting to you,” Zulaya said with a rueful smile. “To all of us.”

K’vin gave a snort. “So do we pray that Thread falls early?”

“I wouldn’t wish that on us, but we could legitimately go south on an excursion . . .”

“Not,” he objected emphatically, “another Aivas expedition.”

“No, no!” She laughed at his vehemence. “But we could check on the Tubberman grubs: see how much farther they have penetrated. We should do so soon now anyhow, since we’re supposed to check on their spread. A trip away, out of this cold, would lift spirits. After the excitement of Turn’s End, First Month is always a letdown. Who knows? We might even find some of those spare parts Kalvi’s always whingeing about.”

“Spare parts?” K’vin asked.

“Yes, ones lost in the Second Crossing storm.”

“Now that’s a real lost cause,” K’vin said.

“Whether it is or not, it provides a training exercise in the sun, away from here and all of that,” and she pointed at the disorder of lists and reports on the table.

“Where would we go?” K’vin sat upright in his chair, examining the possibility.

“Well, we should check the original site at Calus . . .” She retrieved the relevant chart from the storage cabinet and brought it to the table. K’vin hastily cleared a space. “Then look along the Kahrainian coast where the Armada had a long stop for repairs.”

“That’s all been gone over so often . . .”

“And not much retrieved. Anyway, it’s not so much what we find, but more that we went for a look,” Zulaya said with a droll grin.

“The entire Weyr?”

“Well, the fighting wings, certainly. Leave the training ones here, give them responsibility . . . and see how they like it.”

“J’dar had better be in charge,” K’vin said, glancing to see if she agreed.

She shrugged. “J’dar or O’ney.”

“No, J’dar.”

Oddly enough, she gave him a pleased smile. He hadn’t expected that, since she had specifically named O’ney, one of the oldest bronze riders. He tried to defer to her judgment whenever possible, but he’d noticed that O’ney tended to be unnecessarily officious.

“Now, this is as far as grubs had migrated on last winter’s check,” she said, running her finger along Rubicon River.

“How’re the grubs supposed to get across that?” K’vin asked, tapping the contour lines for the steep cliffs that lined the river, gradually tapering down above the Sea of Azov.

“The Agric guys say they’ll either go around or be carried across the river as larvae in the digestive tracts of wherries and some of those sport animals that were let loose. They have been breeding, you know.”

Zulaya was teasing now, since she knew very well that Charanth had had to rescue him from a very large, hungry orange-and-black-striped feline. Charanth had been highly insulted because the creature had actually then attacked him, a bronze dragon! The incident was a leveling one for both rider and dragon.

“Oh, and don’t I know it. I’ll not be caught that way twice.”

“It grew a mighty fine hide,” she said, her eyes dancing with challenge.

“Catch your own, Zu. Now, let’s see . . . should we check and see if any of the other Weyrs want to come? Make this a joint exercise?”

“Why?” she countered with a shrug. “The whole idea is to get our wings away for a bit for something besides Fall readiness. Meranath,” and she turned to her queen, who was lounging indolently on her couch, her head turned in their direction and her eyes open, “would you be good enough to spread the word that the Weyr’s going off on an exercise,” and she grinned at K’vin, “tomorrow, first light? That should startle a few.”

“Undoubtedly,” and glancing at Zulaya for permission, K’vin made a second request of Meranath, “And ask J’dar and T’dam to step up here, please?”

The sun will be much warmer in the south, Meranath said, and we will all like that, K’vin.

“Glad you approve,” he said, giving the gold queen a little bow. He was also considerably gratified that she was using his name more. Could that mean that Zulaya was thinking of him more often? He kept that question tight in his mind, where even Charanth wouldn’t hear it. Did she really approve of his leadership? Zulaya never gave him any clues despite her courtesies to him in public: though he certainly appreciated that much. He didn’t seem any closer to a real intimacy with her, and he wanted one badly. Would he ever figure out how to achieve that? Could that be why she had suggested this excursion?

“How long has it been since there was an update on the grubs?”

She shrugged. “That’s not the point. We need a diversion and this makes a good one. Also, someone should do it for the Agric records. And we’ll probably have to go down during Fall to see if the grubs really do what they’re supposed to do.”

“Do you want to put us out of business?” he asked.

Zulaya shook her head. “As long as Thread falls from Pernese skies, we won’t be out of business. Psychologically, it’s imperative that we keep as much of the stuff as possible off the surface of the planet. The grubs are just an extra added precaution, not the total answer.”

The two Weyrleaders had forgotten to caution their dragons against mentioning the destination, and it was all over the Weyr by dinnertime. They were besieged by requests from Weyrfolk to be taken along. Even Tisha was not shy about requesting a lift.

“Some of the bronzes would need to carry two passengers,” K’vin said, doing some quick calculations.

“The weyrlings would have to stay,” Zulaya said, that necessity causing a brief hitch to the euphoria. But she shrugged. “We’ll make an occasion for T’dam to take them down once they are flighted, but they’re Weyrbound this time.”

“That wouldn’t be until after Thread has started,” K’vin said, looking doubtful.

“Sure, we know when it falls, north or south, and a day off for the auxiliaries is no big thing. Plan it for a rainy day, here,” Zulaya said, “and they won’t mind having the sun down south.”

So that issue was settled.

The entire Weyr assembled, loading passengers and supplies for an outing that was now scheduled for three days. K’vin allowed they would need that long to make a diligent survey of grub penetration. He brought with him maps and writing materials so he could make accurate records.

The morning had its moment of humor: getting Tisha aboard brown Branuth had been a struggle, involving not only Branuth’s rider, T’lel (who laughed so hard he had hiccups), but four other riders, the strongest and tallest.

Branuth, an extremely quizzical expression on his long face, craned his head around to watch and got a bad cramp in his neck muscles doing so. T’lel and Z’ran had to massage him.

“Stop that and get up here, T’lel,” Tisha was yelling, her thick legs stuck out at angles from her perch between the neck ridges. “I’ll be split. And if I’m split, you’ll suffer. I never should have said I’d come. I should know better than to leave my caverns for any reason whatsoever. This is very uncomfortable. Stop that guffawing, T’lel. Stop it right now. It isn’t funny where I’m sitting. Get up here and let’s go!”

Getting Tisha aboard Branuth had taken so much time that everyone else was in place and ready to go by the time T’lel did manage to get in front of Tisha.

“Not only am I being split, I’m also being bisected by these ridges. Did you sharpen them on purpose, T’lel? No wonder riders are so skinny. They’d have to be. Don’t dragons grow ridges for large people? I should have had K’vin take me up. Charanth is a much bigger dragon . . . Why couldn’t you have put me up on your bronze, K’vin?” Tisha shouted across the intervening space.

K’vin was trying to preserve his dignity as Weyrleader by not laughing at the sight of her, but he didn’t dare look in her direction again. Instead he swiveled his torso so he could scan everyone, pleased to see all eyes on him—rider, passenger, and dragon. He peered upward to the rim, where more dragons awaited their departure, poised well clear of the newly positioned Eye and Finger rocks. Now he raised his arm.

Charrie, they are to asswne their wing positions in the air

They know. Charanth sounded petulant, for this was a frequent drill. K’vin slapped his neck affectionately with one hand while he gave his upheld right arm the pump.

All the dragons in the bowl lifted, swirling up dust and grit from the Bowl floor with such a battery of wings, and then those on the rim rose, sorting themselves out in the air to form their respective wings. Zulaya and the other queens positioned above the others.

And information in jig time, too. Let’s go, Charrie.

With a great leap, Charanth was airborne. One sweep of his wings and he was level with the wings, another and he was in front of the queens. Heads turned upward and Charanth dutifully angled himself earthward so that all could see the Weyrleader.

Inform the Weyr that our destination is the Sea of Azov.

I have!

K’vin pumped his arm in the continuous gesture to signal Go between! The entire Weyr blinked out simultaneously.

Steady, he cautioned Charanth, pleased with that disciplined departure. Now we go!

Three seconds he counted and then the warm air above the brilliantly blue Sea of Azov was like the smack of a hot towel in his face. Charanth rumbled in pleasure.

K’vin was far more interested in discovering that the ranks of the dragons, wing by wing, had arrived still in formation. He grinned.

Please inform the wingleaders to take their riders to their separate destinations.

One by one the wings disappeared, with the exception of T’lel’s, which had picked the sea area for their excursion site. The queens started to glide toward the shore, too, for they carried quite a few of the supplies that Tisha would need to set up her hearths for the evening meal.

Let’s wait and let them all get safely to the surface, K’vin told Charanth, although part of him wanted to see how Tisha managed to dismount Branuth. He was therefore somewhat surprised, and at first a little concerned, when he saw a brown dragon detach itself from the main wing and glide in a landing, on the water, just short of the shore. Charanth had his head down and was observing the effort.

Branuth says she ordered it. She’s swimming free of his back. Charanth sounded amused, too, and K’vin chuckled.

That was much more dignified.

Branuth says it was easier on him, too, but he doesn’t think he should do the same back at Tel gar.

Not with the water that cold this time of year.

We can now land? Branuth says the sun is warm.

I thought you wanted to hunt.

Later NOW I want to get warm all over.

Charanth’s preference was almost unanimous as the dragons spread out over both the pebbled beach and the shoreline, which was covered with a shrub that, when bruised by large dragon bodies, gave off a rich pungent odor, not at all unpleasant.

Tisha had some of the Weyrfolk off finding kindling and stones to make campfires, and to see what fruits might be ripe, and another group to fish where boulders had tumbled down into the sea like a breakwater.

“I’m going for a long swim,” Zulaya called out to him as he and Charanth glided to a landing. She was already stripping off her jacket. “Meranath wants one, too.” She touched down long enough to strip off the rest of her clothing, which she left in a neat pile on a boulder before making her way to the water.

“What about the grubs?”

“They’ll wait,” she yelled over her shoulder, wading out until the water was deep enough for swimming.

We don’t have to go find grubs now, do we? asked Charanth plaintively, and the eyes he turned up to his rider whirled with a yellow anxiety.

“No, we don’t,” K’vin said. “Grubs were an excuse to leave the Weyr for a few days.”

He shucked his clothes, and dragon and rider joined the others in the warm Azovian waters.

 

It might not have pleased K’vin to learn that almost every rider procrastinated over the stated objective of the journey south: grubs were, in fact, probably the last thing on anyone’s mind. Sunning, swimming in the pleasant waters, hunting for dragons, and food-gathering for humans took precedence—and space and time for absolute privacy.

P’tero and M’leng asked permission of V’last, their wingleader, to take their dragons hunting.

“Remember what K’vin told you about the sport creatures down here,” V’last said, serving the same warning to the other riders wishing to hunt their dragons.

P’tero and M’leng nodded obediently but, as soon as they left the clearing where their wing had landed on the Malay River, they laughed at the very notion that any creature could be dangerous to their dragons.

“It’s really hot here,” M’leng said, glancing back at the river.

“We’ll be hotter after we’ve hunted the dragons,” P’tero said. “But once that’s done we really don’t have to do another thing until dinner.”

“So let’s not come back here until just before,” M’leng said, laughing recklessly. “Or we’ll end up having to hunt or fish or gather it.”

“There’re enough Weyrfolk with us to do all that. And enjoy,” P’tero said, rather condescendingly. “Let’s get out of here.”

He made a running jump and neatly vaulted onto Ormonth’s blue back. M’leng simultaneously boarded green Sith.

“What game shall we go after?” M’leng asked. “Whatever we see first,” P’tero replied, and pumped his arm to send them both aloft. M’leng preferred him to be leader.

They didn’t have far to go to see grazing herds of runner beasts, smaller than the ones they were accustomed to seeing in the holds. But when they also saw other dragons in the sky, gliding in to hunt, P’tero signaled M’leng to fly on, in a southwesterly direction. They hadn’t gone very far before both found it necessary to strip off their flying jackets, and then their shirts, which were winter weight anyhow. P’tero admired M’leng’s compact body. The green rider was small-boned, which had always delighted P’tero, with a surprisingly strong and agile wiry frame. He was also winter-white, right to his collar. P’tero giggled. He looked so funny, as if he had two different skins.

Then the blue rider became fascinated with the tropical terrain around them, subtly different from the North’s warmer holds. Nerat was rain forests and vast tracks of almost impenetrable jungle except along the western side, whereas Ista was sharp hills and deep valleys, also densely vegetated. But here, a vast grassland, similar in some respects to the plains of Keroon, spread out in all directions, dotted by upthrusts of bare yellow rock, occasional copses of angular trees with fronds spilling from the crests, and large, wide-branched trees like islands. The dragons’ flight over some of these caused flocks of wherries and other avian forms to debouch in frantic escape.

Can I eat them? Ormonth inquired of his rider, speeding up in case he was allowed to give chase.

What? Those tough mouthfuls? P’tero asked scornfully. Then he cupped his hands and shouted at M’leng. “Ormonth’s hungry enough to eat wherries!”

“Sith wanted to, as well. We’d better feed them,” M’leng yelled back. “Over there!” and he pointed to one of the rock piles. One of the spreading trees had grown right up against the pile, shading the long incline to the top.

P’tero thought the formation looked like the prow of a ship, with midships plunging into the sea of ground. And the tree a muchly misplaced mast.

M’leng nodded vigorously in approval and pumped his arm, kicking Sith into a wide curve so that they came up to the prow to land. A fine breeze blew against them from the south, cooling the perspiration on their bare torsos.

As soon as they landed, the two young men stripped off their heavy flight pants and boots. They had to put their socks back on for the rock was far too hot for bare feet.

M’leng, who had good distance vision, covered his eyes with one hand, peering to the west, where a long dark line seemed to be moving.

“Oh, good, herd beasts.” He hauled Sith’s head around and then pushed it in the right direction. “See? You can eat those. Much better than wherries. Off you go now!” And he gave Sith a thump of dismissal.

“Follow Sith, Ormonth,” and P’tero shoved the blue’s head to the right. “Hunt with him, and you can’t get into any trouble that way. We’ll watch from here.”

Ormonth shifted weight from one diagonal to the other, his eyes whirling with a trace of anxious yellow.

“What’s the matter with you?” P’tero demanded, wanting both dragons to be away so he and M’leng could have some real privacy. And if the pair were busy enough hunting and eating, they’d pay no attention at all to what their riders were doing.

Smell something!

“M’leng, does Sith smell anything?” P’tero was annoyed but you didn’t ignore your dragon.

“Different smells down here, that’s all.” M’leng shrugged, his eager expression indicating that he wanted the dragons away as much as P’tero did.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” P’tero assured Ormonth, and slapped him peremptorily to be on his way.

The two launched upward at the same moment, and P’tero watched with some pride the blue’s elegant flight attitude as he made height before he would glide down toward his prey.

M’leng slipped in under P’tero’s arm. “Oooh, your hide is hot. We’d best be careful not to burn in this sun.”

“We’ll be all right if we move a lot.”

“And we will, won’t we?”

They enjoyed each other’s company so much that neither were aware when the breeze altered to the west. It still cooled their bare bodies, drying the sweat they had generated. They weren’t even aware of much until two things happened at the same instant: Ormonth’s angry scream reverberated in P’tero’s skull and he was rammed down hard against M’leng so that he cracked his chin on the rock as sharp things tore into his buttocks.

“ORMONTH!” he shrieked mentally and vocally.

M’leng was limp under him as he writhed in agony from whatever was attacking him.

Help me! he howled, struggling to turn and see what was trying to eat him.

A dark shadow and the air pressure above him seemed compressed: a most hideous roar sent a carrion stink and hot breath across his bare back. The talons were ripped from his flesh, causing him to shriek again. Something heavy and furry was being hauled across his tortured legs and away. He caught a glimpse of green hide and then blue. And then something large and tawny that seemed to come from nowhere. A blue tail curled protectingly around him. Above his head he heard Ormonth roaring, which turned to shrieks of pain and anger, but mostly anger. He was mentally assailed by vivid images and emotions of revenge that were totally alien to a dragon mind.

As waves of almost unendurable agony gripped him, he realized that Ormonth and Sith were rending whatever had attacked him into shreds; showering blood and gobbets of hot flesh all over him. Then he realized that he was lying on top of M’leng, who was suddenly being pulled away. To his horrified eyes, he saw a great brown paw, dirty big yellow claws unsheathing and curling into his weyrmate’s shoulderbiade, blood welling up. Despite the pain in his legs and back, he lurched across M’leng and beat at the paw, struggling to lift the claws out of his lover’s body.

More noise, more draconic roars, and suddenly there was space above him, letting in fresh air, and the sight of other dragons. Two were attacking the tawny lean creatures that were swarming up the rock outthrust. The dragons hauled them backward by their tails or hindquarters while the creatures writhed and roared and spat defiance, turning to attack the dragons. One had curled itself around a brown’s forearm, slashing out at a dragon face.

“M’leng, M’leng, answer me!” P’tero cried, turning his lover’s face toward him, slapping his cheeks.

Booted feet stopped by M’leng’s head.

“Oh help us, help us!” he pleaded, clutching at the boots. “Help me! I’m dying!” The pain in his legs was so awful . . .

“Who’s got the fellis? Where’s the numbweed?” As P’tero felt himself slipping into oblivion, he wondered how under the sun Zulaya had got here and if he was dying.