DragonForce Ch. 05

F'nor was next, flung aside as though he wasn't there. The wingsecond hit the edge of the table, folding with a heavy thud.

As the avion spun back toward his target, he found himself facing a diminutive opponent. "That's enough, Darian," she warned.

He stared at her long enough to judge his striking distance then moved forward. As her hand started toward him, he spun to deflect it. Too late, he realized the blow was a feint.

Lessa's leg snapped out from the knee, and the charging Cygnan collapsed. She glared down at him, informing everyone, "Nobody hits F'lar. Nobody."

The dragonmen pulled themselves painfully to their feet, staring down at their crumpled adversary. The overlapping gasps for air made a distinct counterpoint to Selana's hysterical sobbing. The Masterharper stepped across the cramped battleground, helping Brekke ease the healer into a chair.

T'gellan peered at his Benden counterpart, shaking his head while he struggled to regain control of his breathing. R'kar reached for the table, steadying himself.

Across from them, the four men saw a hand tentatively reach up to grasp the countertop. Slowly, a fifth rider pulled himself up, swaying unsteadily. N'rad looked around the chamber, his eyes narrowing unevenly. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Sebell chuckled, watching the winded combatants drag themselves back to the table. Listening to the avion's agonized gasps, he turned a curious eye to Lessa. "Just where did you kick him?"

Benden's Weyrwoman didn't answer, at least not vocally. Her sadistic smile said it all.

From the other side of the table, the amused headwoman rendered an appropriate verdict. "Nuts!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

T'gellan lay in his bed, cursing the sleeplessness that plagued him. He listened to the sounds of slumber coming from the dragon beyond the curtain and from the dark-haired girl whose head lay at the junction of his chest and shoulder. Things were not going well.

It had proven a stroke of luck that Benden's wine had flowed so freely the night before last. Despite being thoroughly wasted, the Cygnan had been nearly uncontrollable. He shuddered to think what the fight would have been like if Darian had been sober. The healer had been so distraught that she was useless for the remainder of the night. Even now, the strange sequence of events made little sense.

'What's bothering you?' Monarth inquired, revealing that he was more alert than he sounded.

'Kelth,' the bronzerider replied. 'Could he really have done that?'

'Kelth said he brought them. He brought them.'

The Weyrleader sighed. Dragons had a way of making things sound so simple. No questions, no concerns, no fear of the future or regrets for the past. Things simply were. Life was accepted for what it brought, not what it might have been or what it might bring tomorrow. Not a bad way to look at things. 'I believe him. What bothers me is how.'

'I don't know. Does it matter?'

'In this case,' the rider told his beast, 'yes.'

Something stirred beside him. Glancing down, he saw sleepy eyes looking back at him. A drowsy smile formed below them.

"Morning, weyrling."

Mirrim yawned, stretching her arms, then wrapping them around her mate and pressing close against him. "Mmm," she replied.

He reached across his body with his right hand, tilting her chin up to meet his. Gently, he kissed her eyelids. "How about some breakfast?"

The smile on her face slowly faded, replaced by a soft frown tinged with green. She closed her eyes and groaned. "I don't feel like it."

"You're not eating much lately," he commented, cradling her with his arm. "You alright?"

She tried to snuggle closer then changed her mind. Turning away, she slid out of the bed and grabbed one of the fur coverings lying beside it. Hurriedly, she disappeared behind the curtain leading to the wash chamber.

'She is ill. Path is concerned.'

'Oh? What does Path say is wrong?'

'She doesn't know, only that something is different.'

T'gellan gazed at the swaying curtain. Path was a worrier by nature, like her rider, so that didn't bother him. Still, Mirrim had been acting strangely of late. She seemed to be sick all of the time, and she wasn't eating normally.

'She doesn't belong here. The queenrider should be your weyrmate.'

'We've been through this before, Monarth,' the bronzerider sighed. 'Trelka is happy with N'rad. I'm happy with Mirrim. If you were a proper dragon,' he teased, 'you'd fly Path instead of Regalth.'

'I am a proper dragon,' the bronze snorted. 'I have no interest in a green. If I didn't fly Regalth, Zarth would. The wingleader would be Weyrleader.'

T'gellan chuckled at the thought of the junior wingleader, still a teen, finding himself running a fighting Weyr. Despite the young man's competence that would be an interesting situation. 'Don't forget Ledeth,' he reminded Monarth, 'or someday N'rad may be Weyrleader.'

'Ledeth is a brown,' the beast replied confidently. 'I am a bronze.'

'So you are, my friend. And I'm Weyrleader. I choose my own weyrmate.'

'Of course,' the bronze allowed. 'If you are happy, I'm satisfied.'

Someday, T'gellan realized, M'kel would be ready to be Weyrleader. When that happened, Zarth would be a formidable rival. He was nearly as large as Mnementh, his Benden sire.

Funny, but everything always led back to Benden. He and Monarth had been weyrlings there. F'lar's tutelage had made him a Weyrleader. Many times, the legendary bronzerider had been there when Eastern had wanted or needed assistance. Two nights ago had been no different. The Benden Weyrleader had helped him control the irate avion, while Lessa and Brekke had seen to the hysterical healer. The other riders and Betrella had all been present, but even with five dragonriders, the Cygnan had been a winged nightmare. It seemed miraculous that no one had been hurt. Of course, at least one of them had been beyond pain.

Yesterday's Fall had been a blessing in disguise. The ageless enemy served as a needed friend, allowing everyone in the Weyr to vent their frustrations. The dragons registered their riders' anger. The battle had been waged with a precision and ferocity he couldn't remember having seen. Better yet, no one had been injured. Well, almost no one.

Although the Weyrleader suspected he might not be at his best, Darian insisted on flying with the queens' wing. He had a nasty cheek score to show for his effort. It was quite a maneuver he had worked out with the queens. Unable to go between himself, and far from water, he'd flown to the nearest queen at the first sting of Threadscore. The gold dragon then took him between, freezing the spore into nothingness. For all his dislike of between, the Cygnan liked Thread even less.

After last night's discussion, the Masterhealer had asked for a meeting of Weyrleaders and certain craftmasters. The time had been set for late afternoon at Eastern. That would at least make it daylight at High Reaches. After arranging the conference, Oldive had complained that he was spending more time at Eastern than at Fort. He was probably right.

T'gellan swung out of bed, walking to the service shaft. His voice echoed down the conduit. "Klah for two, breakfast for one." He retraced his steps, pulling his trousers and tunic from the peg on which they hung. By the time he finished pulling on his boots, the service lift was squeaking toward the weyr.

Two mugs and a pitcher of klah were there. Bread, cereal, sausages and a treat adorned the tray. The Weyrleader breathed deeply at the fragrance of the spiced bubbly pie. Such delicacies usually only appeared on special occasions. What did the Headwoman want, he wondered?

Several sausages were gone by the time Mirrim reentered the main weyr. She reached for her mug and sipped at it. Her face was drawn and pale, her fingers trembling. The Weyrleader was not heartened by the sight. "Mirrim, please go see the healer. Find out what's wrong."

"There's nothing wrong with me," she brooded. "Just leave me alone."

"I'm worried about you," he said soothingly, trying his most disarming smile. His hand stretched out to take hers.

She pulled away, scowling at him. A pointless anger emanated from the emerald eyes. "Don't be," she snapped. "I said I'm alright!"

T'gellan ate the remainder of his meal in silence. After a few minutes, Mirrim started talking, spouting a litany of complaints about the past days. Everything from perceived slights by cavern drudges to her riding clothes feeling too tight was vented in an avalanche of invective. The Weyrleader listened quietly.

"... and even Path is getting on my nerves, always fussing about this or that, telling me I'm acting strange, telling me that she loves me... "

'I do love you.'

The greenrider's tirade stopped, an expression of exasperation on her face. She lifted the mug to her lips and sipped at it again, then set it down. 'I love you, too, baby, but there's nothing wrong with me.'

'If you say so. But I am worried.'

Mirrim screeched aggravation, flinging the mug against the weyr wall. The ceramic container shattered and hot klah painted the stone. She stared at the mess momentarily then buried her head in her hands.

T'gellan peered at his mate in astonishment. A strong suspicion was growing in him. His weyrmate's actions looked unnervingly familiar. A delighted smile crossed his face. Much to his mate's discomfort, he began to laugh.

From outside the chamber, a sunny greeting caught his attention. A moment later, N'rad stuck his head through the curtain. "Good morning, T'gellan! We've got visitors."

"Not again," Mirrim groaned.

The Weyrleader had to agree. A day hadn't passed since the gather when there hadn't been some lord, crafter, holder or rider who found a reason to show up at Eastern. Invariably, they ended up inquiring about Darian and Astaroth. He was beginning to think he should take them on a planet wide tour and charge admission. One good trip and he could probably retire.

"Who is it this time?" he asked.

"The Mastersmith," N'rad said brightly. "He has something to show you."

T'gellan rose and started for the entrance. Fandarel was not one to simply drop by and visit. If he was here, there was a good reason. It was always interesting to see what kind of gadget he'd come up with.

"By the way," N'rad offered as they walked out, "Darian and Astaroth took off early this morning. He had his bow with him, so I think they went hunting."

The bronzerider nodded. "Is there some reason I should know this?"

"Fandarel asked me about them when he got here. He might ask you. Thought you'd like to know."

"Okay, thanks."

At the entrance to the main cavern, the burly smith was engaged in a conversation with Betrella. T'gellan greeted him cordially but spoke first to the Headwoman. "The pie was delicious, thank you."

A shrewd smile graced Betrella's lips. With a hint of a laugh, she disclosed, "I'm glad you enjoyed it. You can pay for it later." She gave T'gellan a suggestive wink, patting his rump as she walked past. The Headwoman left a curious Weyrleader and a chuckling wingsecond behind.

The Mastersmith allowed himself a hearty chortle then walked to one of the large feeding tables. He lifted the oversized hide pouch he was carrying and laid it flat. The dragonmen watched with piqued interest as he withdrew a streamlined, lightweight crossbow. With a degree of care totally inconsistent with the size and roughness of his hands, he delivered the weapon to the fascinated bronzerider. "It is lighter, stronger, and easier to use than our previous designs," the smith said with obvious pride. "The bolts fly straighter, faster and farther and hit harder than any others on Pern. It is a highly efficient weapon."

T'gellan turned the bow over. Unlike the Cygnan's, it carried only a single arrow. The construction was of wood, light metal and a strong fiber cord. The arrows were wooden, with fiber stabilizers and a metal, tri-flanged warhead. He did not relish being on the receiving end of one. "Impressive, Mastersmith, most impressive," he allowed. "How many of these are there?"

"At the moment, two," Fandarel informed him. "This one is yours. The other was delivered, in your name, to the Benden Weyrleader."

T'gellan grinned at the smith. He could have thought of no more appropriate place for the bow. It was most considerate of the master to present it in his name.

Fandarel reached back into the pouch, withdrawing two small hide slings attached to cylindrical cases. The cases were filled with arrows. "One for you, one for Darian. Give him my thanks for letting me copy that marvelous design. Most efficient."

The Weyrleader's expression of appreciation was interrupted by the roar of the watchdragon. Simultaneously, both Monarth and Ledeth informed their riders of the arriving beast's identity.

N'rad turned an angry red, his face drawing into a narrow scowl. "K'trin! What does that idiot want? I told him to stay clear of Eastern!" The brownrider spun on his heel, about to intercept the visitor.

T'gellan caught his arm just before he strode away. "I'll handle this. You go back to my weyr. Take Mirrim to the healer if you have to carry her. Understand?"

The wingsecond glared at his leader. The fury in his eyes told T'gellan not to allow the youngster the chance for a confrontation.

"Now, N'rad."

The brownrider hesitated then moved off toward the rear of the cavern. T'gellan watched him disappear before starting for the Weyrbowl. He set the bow on the table, inviting the Mastersmith to accompany him. Fandarel grunted ominously. "That one is trouble, Weyrleader. Why is he here?"

"I don't know," T'gellan admitted, "but I'm going to find out."

Together, they strode rapidly into the morning sun, reaching the new arrival before he could get into the cavern. His brown dragon stayed on the sand, eyes whirling an irritated red. The rider stopped when he saw the pair approaching. T'gellan and Fandarel moved to within three paces and halted. They faced a large rider, bulkier than most, but deceptively tall and wiry. He bore numerous scars, not all of them from Thread. The smile on his face was friendly. "Good morning, Eastern," he called.

"It was. What do you want, K'trin?"

"Why, T'gellan, such hostility! Where's your hospitality for a fellow dragonman?"

"When you're involved, I have none. State your purpose and get back to Fort."

K'trin's smile faded. A threatening glare replaced it as his hands settled at his hips. "I want to see her. Please, T'gellan. I need to talk to her."

The Weyrleader stiffened. His jaw set in a hard line, arms taut at his sides. Under no conditions was this rider entering his Weyr. "You know I can't allow that. She's still afraid of you."

The brownrider's eyes narrowed. His tone took a dangerous edge. "It's been a long time. I can't believe she's still afraid of me. I just want to talk to her."

T'gellan sensed his hand reaching toward the belt knife but thought better of it. The Fort rider had an infamous reputation as a fighter, one that was well deserved. Considering his height and reach advantage, the Weyrleader didn't want a fight if it could be avoided. His chances wouldn't be good. "In this Weyr, you believe what I tell you," the bronzerider snapped. "If not, you are free to leave."

K'trin's hand moved to the hilt of his blade. "I don't want a fight, T'gellan," he said bluntly, "but I need to see her. Now, please, move aside. Don't make me move you."

Fandarel backed away as the Weyrleader shifted into a crouch, reaching for his knife. The brownrider was about to move forward when an icy tone stopped him.

"Touch that knife and I'll kill you."

Three heads snapped upward, seeking the source of the threat. Ten feet above them Darian hovered silently, three-channeled crossbow lowered on the Fort rider. He settled at T'gellan's side, eyes frozen on the intruder. "Get on your dragon and leave," he ordered.

"A crossbow," K'trin snapped, "against a man with a belt knife. You haven't taught your guest the rules of combat on Pern, Weyrleader."

"I fight by Cygnan rules, brownrider," the avion informed him.

"Really? And what might those be?"

Darian stared at him, tightening his finger on the trigger. "Win."

"Such poor manners," the brownrider grinned maliciously. "After all, birdman, this is Pern. We believe in honorable combat, with equal weapons, not in hiding behind a bow."

"Good for you," Darian snapped. "Do you believe in life after death?"

The sneer dropped from K'trin's face, replaced by cold fury. He glared at the Cygnan, easing his hand away from his weapon. Hatred oozed from his lips as he warned his adversary, "Take care, whatever you are. I still have the most powerful weapon here."

Darian caught a motion behind the rider. The dragon's wings were moving outward as it coiled to spring. Years of training made his next move instinctive. "Astaroth! Hold!"

A shadow flashed above the combatants, followed by a deafening roar. Dragon and rider looked upward to find a black demon twenty feet away, hovering soundlessly.

"If he so much as twitches," the Cygnan ordered, "smoke 'im."

K'trin spun back on the avion. "You wouldn't dare!" he screamed.

"Try me."

The Fort rider stood fuming, his dragon equally motionless. Above them, an ebony beast waited. Seconds stretched into a seeming eternity. Finally, the brownrider stepped backward. "You haven't heard the last of this, Weyrleader," he threatened. His murderous gaze shifted to the Cygnan. "I'll be back for you, birdman."

Darian smiled, baring his fangs. "I'll be here, dragonman."

The rider spun around, moving to his beast in long, rapid strides. As he mounted, a command was given, loud enough to ensure he heard it clearly. "Perimeter integrity. See that our guests leave. If they're reluctant, motivate them." The black moved up and back, staying in an observant hover.

Rider and dragon lifted quickly out of the Weyr, going between as they cleared the ledge. Astaroth eased into a gentle glide and landed.

Resting the bow against his shoulder, Darian turned on the Weyrleader. With a curious squint, he asked, "What was that all about?"

T'gellan shook his head. "Thank you. That was about to get ugly."

"I doubt it, Weyrleader," Fandarel contradicted.

"What do you mean?"

The Mastersmith stepped backward, using his arm to point toward the cavern entrance. There, watching closely, stood N'rad. The new crossbow was held lightly in his hands.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'A bit further back. There, yes.'

Monarth was enjoying a thorough rubdown, one of the few he'd gotten in the past weeks. His rider worked handfuls of sweet oil into the glistening hide, soothing away the itch and softening the leathery skin. 'That feels good. Thank you.'

'Anytime, my friend,' the bronzerider replied. 'I should be taking better care of you.'

The dragon's eyes whirled a deep blue, gazing contentedly at the Weyrleader. He gently nudged the man with his muzzle. 'You spoil me now.'

T'gellan grinned, giving the soft nose an affectionate pat. His reverie was interrupted by the Cygnan. "That's quite an animal, Lord T'gellan."

"That he is," the Weyrleader agreed, massaging the great thigh. A few flakes of dry hide came free, but the skin was in excellent condition. Monarth released a satisfied croon.

Outside, they heard the watchdragon's call, followed by the reply of another. Both men looked toward the weyr ledge.

'It's Lioth.'

'About time,' the bronzerider grumbled.

Shortly thereafter, the Fort Weyrleader strode into the quarters. N'ton was surprised by the presence of the avion, leaning against the far wall, bow still tucked between shoulder and wing. The Weyrleader looked at him thoughtfully. "Afternoon, T'gellan, Darian."