DragonForce Ch. 02

"Could that be how we got here?" the avion asked.

"I don't know," T'gellan replied. "Can Astaroth travel between? "

"Not that I know of."

The bronzerider looked at his mate, who lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Do you remember anything else?"

"No," sighed the avion, "nothing. Just the cold, the darkness and waking up sick."

The service lift noisily hoisted fresh klah into the weyr. Mirrim took the tray to the table and served everyone.

"Well," interjected Selana, "it's a good thing you woke up when you did. If you hadn't bound those wounds, T'marek might have bled to death." She was instantly afraid that she had spoken out of turn. Turning pale, she said, "I'm sorry, Lord T'gellan. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's alright," the Weyrleader said, drawing a deep breath. "And you're right. It is fortunate that they showed up when they did." His brow furrowed as he took another mental step. The next comment was almost a question. "And where they did."

Darian wanted anything he could find right now to hold onto his sanity. This situation was incredible. Most importantly, he told himself, they were all alive. That was an absolute. Next, they had to determine what had happened and how to reverse it. In the meantime, they would need something meaningful to do to keep them occupied. Otherwise, the strain of their experience could unbalance them all. The young healer's comment gave him what he needed. "How is that dragon?" he asked, addressing Selana.

"We're not sure," she replied. "He seems to be healing physically, but he's in a terrible mental state. We keep him sedated most of the time." She looked away from Darian to her Weyrleader, speaking quietly. "With your permission, sir, I really should look in on Kelth and T'marek." She waited meekly until T'gellan nodded, then rose and headed for the entrance.

The avion was aware that he didn't want to stay any longer. He had lost his appetite, and the disturbing line of questioning had him confused and uneasy. He sensed a vague desire to stay with the healer. "Selana," he said, calling after her as she started for the tunnel, "I'd like to see them. May I accompany you?"

She stopped and turned, looking at T'gellan. Darian caught the significance of the expression. If nothing else, proper protocol could be observed. He remembered how the others had acted under these circumstances. Standing, he bowed toward the bronzerider. His voice was firm and even, showing no trace of the anger he had released moments before. "By your leave, Weyrleader?"

T'gellan looked at him thoughtfully. A thin smile crossed his lips at the stiff courtesy from someone obviously not Pernese. "Go ahead," he replied. "Enjoy yourself."

The Weyrleader watched as healer and alien disappeared, their footsteps echoing down the tunnel. He became aware of a soft hand on his shoulder. Lifting his arm slightly, he rubbed the fingers with his cheek. "Tell me, weyrling," he said quietly, "is Benden flying Thread today?"

"Yes," she answered, "I think they are."

T'gellan sighed dejectedly. "Wonderful."

Gernan Hold

(Same Day)

The forest was thin at the edge of the small farm hold. The rolling terrain made excellent grain land, serving equally well for grazing stock. The only hint that anything was less than idyllic was the smoking mountain in the sharply rising range on the western horizon. The haze from the peak had been steadily increasing, so that the late afternoon sun shone a dull orange.

A small group of men stood at the tree line, watching and listening to two others who knelt in the underbrush a short distance removed. Several dragons sat nearby, drawing occasional glances from the humans. A swarm of firelizards performed their peculiar brand of aerobatics in and around the trees. One dragonet, a brown, broke away from the main fair and swooped down to land on the shoulder of a tall, dark-skinned man. A strong hand reached up to scratch the soft eyeridge.

The burly, sun-tanned man kneeling in the foliage slowly turned over a piece of dark grey rock. He stared up into the surrounding softwoods, then dug at the soil next to him. His expression was thoughtful and worried.

"This is not good, bronzerider," announced Masterminer Hamian. "It is all of what your Weyrleader thought, maybe more."

Still stroking the brown firelizard, a third person joined the Masterminer and his companion. Tall and deeply tanned, with a surprising shock of light brown hair and chiseled, muscular features, he looked every inch the title of Lord Holder which he bore. At the moment, he was feeling greatly put upon. His time was being taken by a minor nuisance when he had major duties to look after at Southern Hold. "What are you two mumbling about?" Toric demanded.

C'nol glanced up at the Lord Holder, offering him a chunk of the rock he and the Masterminer had been examining. Toric accepted the stone, gave it a cursory inspection, and shrugged.

"Master Hamian confirms what we've been concerned about, Lord Toric," the bronzerider answered. "It could be very dangerous for the holders in this area."

The Lord Holder snorted. Dragonmen were always forecasting one disaster or another. If not Thread, then it was earthshakes. Now, they were spreading rumors about a volcano. Anything, it seemed, to keep themselves in demand and the holders dependent on them. "This is just another false alarm," Toric retorted. "And for what? Even the small holds in Southern are sturdy. They'll protect the holders."

"We're not sure of that," C'nol cautioned. "Remember, most of our experience with active volcanos is on the islands. We don't know what they could do to grain land or to exposed holders and stock."

"You dragonmen," Toric laughed, "always exaggerating! That mountain is miles away and this is one of the nearest holds. No one is in danger here."

The Masterminer turned from his scratchings. Although several turns younger than Toric, he was physically larger than his brother. He always remembered the correct deference to the Lord Holder, but he was not easily intimidated by Toric's size and domineering ways. "He isn't exaggerating, brother. The danger here is very real."

Toric glared sourly at his sibling. He didn't care to be contradicted, particularly not in front of a mere wingleader. It would serve no purpose to pull the holders back, not when there were countless others waiting to move even further out from the base hold at Southern. "What makes you so sure, brother?"

"That rock you are holding." Hamian pointed to the rough stone C'nol had passed on. "That rock has been fused by great heat. That's why it shines."

"So?"

Hamian grimaced, rising to speak on equal terms. "There are no such rocks anywhere in this area. That rock came from that volcano." He pointed for emphasis to the distant mountains.

"Ha!" Toric chided him, "Do you expect me to believe this stone was thrown five miles, just to land here so you could show it to me?" His haughty tone made it clear that he considered the possibility total nonsense.

"Brother," the Masterminer warned, "a full eruption of that mountain can throw stones that size twice this far."

The Lord Holder seemed momentarily at a loss for words. It was hard to conceive of anything propelling heavy pieces of rock such long distances. They had heard of the power of volcanoes, heard the Harpers describe them many times. Most of the songs were to be taken with a grain of salt or, better yet, a large goblet of wine. To hear the Masterminer confirm such stories was disconcerting. "Well," Toric relented, "if we have to, we'll pull the holders back. But," he quickly added, "it will be their decision. I will not force it on them."

C'nol nodded. He watched as Toric stared into the trees, his jaw pulling into a hard line. Something he saw obviously displeased him, prompting the rider to look behind.

"It occurs to me," the Lord Holder snapped, "that if you dragonmen spent more time doing your duty and less watching that mountain, these trees wouldn't be so badly Thread-scored!"

The wingleader clenched his teeth, not responding to the taunt. He peered carefully into the foliage, wanting to see whatever had provoked such a statement. There, even in the dim light among the branches, he could see the shredded leaves, burn marks among the branches and on the trunks, even on the roots where they stood above ground level. Indeed, these trees had been burned, some of them badly, but there had been no Threadfall expected in this area. Why hadn't they known about it?

"These trees aren't Thread-scored," announced Hamian.

Lord Holder and wingleader both stared at the Masterminer. He dropped to a deep crouch, pulling up a small handful of the grass at the edge of the meadow. Standing erect again, he held out his hand for the others to observe. A thick finger pointed to a coating of fine powder on the vegetation.

"This dust is everywhere," he explained, sweeping his arm outward to take in the entire plain. "I think it also comes from the volcano, as a part of that cloud."

C'nol knelt to the ground, scratching the surface with his fingers. He looked at his nails, seeing a moderate amount of the dust under them. "This burned the trees?" he asked.

"If it came from that mountain, yes. To begin with, it would be very hot. It may also have a high acid content."

Toric listened carefully, not liking the direction this discussion was heading. That mountain was threatening to become more than the minor nuisance he had thought. He grunted sourly. "My apology, bronzerider. It appears I spoke a bit too quickly."

C'nol shook his head slowly, still looking at the grass in the masterminer's hand. "No apology needed, Lord Toric. I, too, thought it was Threadscore."

Again, the Lord Holder grunted, satisfied to let the subject rest. Burning dust was another problem he did not care to be bothered with. "How much of this powder are we going to see?" he asked his brother.

Hamian shrugged, dropping the grass and brushing his hands off. "There's no way to say. A major eruption could bury everything we see."

The wingleader shuddered, slowly taking in the panoramic view about him. Forest, grainland, rolling hills, the icy stream at the foot of the gully, the idea of all this being covered with the burning dust was almost obscene. He knew the volcano could be dangerous, but not even Thread had that kind of destructive power.

"That isn't what bothers me, brother," the Masterminer added, again focusing both men's attention squarely on himself. He pulled his belt knife from its sheath. Kneeling, he began to dig at a portion of the earth. "This powder is extremely fine. I am no masterfarmer, but even I know that the ground, too, must breathe. It is possible..." he tugged upward, tearing a section of turf free in his hand, "...ah, just as I thought." Hamian rose, extending his upturned palm. Among the dirt and the maze of roots from the grass were a number of the slick-bodied grubs which protected the land by feeding on Thread. These grubs, however, were motionless. "That powder is so fine," the Masterminer explained, "that it seals out the air from the ground. It suffocates the land."

"Is that what killed those?" Toric inquired, loathe to touch the grubs.

"Probably," Hamian answered. "If not, it was either the heat or the acid content. Regardless," he paused, facing the wingleader, "after a major eruption, the ground will be defenseless against the Threads. It will be entirely dependent on you dragonriders."

C'nol looked at Toric with a sigh. "We'll be starting over."

Toric's answer was another snort.

The first of the sharp, glaring rays of sunset struck the corner of the bronzerider's eye. He saw the sun sitting low on the mountains, an ominous purplish-red through the haze. It was time to get back to the Weyr.

All three men returned to the party waiting for them. The holder, Gernan, bowed respectfully to Toric. A handsome man in his early fifties, he had left a limited future in the North to try again at Southern. His three sons accompanied him, his wife not having survived the voyage to Southern, his only daughter at the small cot hold. He was anxious to hear the decision concerning his grainland.

Toric addressed him quickly. "There is some apparent danger, how much we cannot be sure. The decision to stay or leave is yours. Know this, however: If you leave, I cannot guarantee holdership on your return. The land will be open to claim."

Without further comment, the Lord Holder excused himself from the gathering and strode to the waiting blue dragon. He seated himself just in front of the rider, turning to stare at the sunset and the angry mountain. The blue lifted into the air, then disappeared.

Gernan closed his eyes, stroking his temple and chin with the fingers and thumb of his right hand. He was obviously uncomfortable with the decision he had to make. "I can't leave here, bronzerider." he said. "This land is all we have. I can't risk losing it."

"I know," C'nol told him. He, too, had been holdbred. He had impressed late in his teens, only because a dragonrider on Search had seen something in him that he himself didn't recognize. But he had spent enough time in the hold to understand the bond between a man and his land, and the need to hold that land, no matter what the odds.

The holder stared at the two remaining dragons in his field. Gireth, the bronze, returned his gaze, while the green from Southern dozed. The sight of the great beasts brought a question to mind. "What about that young rogue who defied me? Has he been punished?" Gernan thought back to the liberties another dragonrider had taken with his daughter, against his will. He was forced to admit, however grudgingly, that it had not apparently been against hers.

C'nol drew a deep breath. He had hoped this incident would pass quickly. Apparently, it wasn't going to. "Yes, he's been punished, far more severely than the act warranted." The bronzerider waited for the holder to absorb the comment before continuing. "He and his dragon were seriously injured. They were caught in a minor eruption of that volcano."

"Not as severely as I'll injure him if I get the chance," came a sneering voice from behind them. "We don't want any bastard weyrbrats in our family."

Bronzerider, holder and Masterminer turned to look at a strongly built youth with an arrogant smirk on his face. Blue eyes flashed under long blond hair as he returned the look.

"Watch your tongue, boy!" Gernan corrected his oldest son, Brad. "Dragonmen deserve respect, no matter their offense." He watched the wingleader from the corner of his eye, noting the hand slowly sliding off the hilt of the belt knife. "He is only a boy, bronzerider," the holder explained, "trying to prove his manhood." He glared at the young man, who grudgingly turned and stalked away, his two younger brothers behind him. "In every way except by working for it," he called after the retreating youth.

"Southern is a good land," C'nol remarked, "a hard land. It will make a fine man of him."

Gernan continued to watch his sons. His foot nervously pawed at the ground. "I hope so," he said. "I only hope his brothers don't follow his lead too far. There are some mistakes that don't grant a second chance." The holder turned to the bronzerider, asking further, "Will the young man and his dragon survive?"

"We don't know yet," C'nol admitted, "but the healer is hopeful."

"I see. I'm sorry. We can't afford to lose any riders or dragons these days."

The wingleader nodded his agreement, echoed by a grunt from the Masterminer.

"With respect, wingleader," Hamian informed him, "I must be getting back to Southern. The hour grows late."

"That it does," concurred C'nol, observing the brilliant streaks now stretching across the sky. "My best to you, Holder Gernan."

The holder bowed courteously, and his visitors moved toward the waiting dragons.

Eastern Weyr

(Two days later, August 17)

Darian gazed sullenly from the weyrledge. The early morning squall splattered cold rain at his feet, painting the sky a leaden grey. He was depressed enough this morning without the miserable weather to add to his mood. The breakfast tray sat untouched in the inner weyr, only the cup of klah having been disturbed. He had no appetite at the moment, at least not for cooked food.

Astaroth lay in the weyr opening. His tail thumped slowly against the stone wall in a bored, uncomfortable rhythm. He had eaten well in the past few days, but his stomach churned with frustration and a growing uneasiness. The chagrin and irritability of dragon and avion reinforced each other, fed and grew upon each other. The stalker, too, sensed the slowly increasing disquiet. He lay in a motionless heap at the northern end of the cave entrance, the tip of his tail lashing in nervous agitation. Only Akira seemed satisfied, curled up in three long loops under the bedframe, a sizeable lump evident in his midsection.

The teamleader stretched his wings slowly, feeling the mild cramping caused by the recent lack of use. There had been little opportunity to fly, since he had no idea of where to fly to. Where they were wasn't nearly as big a concern as how they had gotten here. More than that, he mused, how were they going to get back? He could just hear the patrol monitor cursing them famously, wondering how and why an entire quad-squad had just disappeared during a routine patrol. True, there hadn't been much happening recently, but the Plateau was prime poaching ground, and Cerinite incursions were on the rise. It wasn't a good time for an experienced patrol dragon like Astaroth to be off-line. Astaroth wasn't the best patrol dragon on Cygnus, but he was close. They were going to have a wonderful time explaining this when they got back. If they got back.

Cold water sprayed into his face, pushed by a sudden gust of wind. Although it startled him, it felt good. It was a refreshing taste of something natural, something that made sense. He felt the urge to take to the air. 'Feel like getting wet?' he queried the black.

'I'm already wet,' Astaroth replied. 'I don't want to fly. My stomach hurts.'

Darian glanced at his companion, not relishing the thought of another day spent with a grumpy dragon. The lack of anything meaningful to do was getting to all of them. 'Is it something I can help with?' he asked, genuinely concerned about his massive friend.

'No,' the dragon replied. He slowly and pointedly closed his eyelids and curled his tail across his face.

Darian sighed and returned to his rain-watching. One of the brightly colored miniature dragons sped across the Weyrbowl, disappearing in an opening in the eastern face. The little creatures had shown up in the past day in rather substantial numbers. They were firelizards, or so Betrella had told him. It was hard to say how large or small they really were, or even what they looked like. None of them would get close to him or any of his companions. He wondered about them, running his tongue across his lips.

'Too small,' answered the somnolent dragon.

'For you, maybe,' the avion chuckled. He heard the footsteps in the tunnel even before Loki's ears snapped erect. The stalker swiveled his head, looking back over his shoulder, then came to his feet and trotted toward the inner weyr. The pulsing rumble started as the footfalls reached the outer weyr entrance. "What do you want, Selana?" Darian asked.

The healer hesitated at the tone of his voice, intimidated by the bitterness and hostility. She answered from the inner weyr. "I just came to visit. Are you alright?"

He bridled at the innocent concern in her voice. The last thing he needed or wanted was a teenage caretaker. "I'm fine," he replied bluntly.

She was standing in the doorway, watching him. He could feel her eyes, imagining them wide and imploring as she waited for him to turn. He didn't. Only Loki's purring and the slap of raindrops broke the heavy silence. "I'm sorry," she finally said. "I didn't mean to bother you."