Dragonquest

“Will we have to burn the forests?” Lord Asgenar of Lemos rose to his feet. The quiet question was the plea of a proud man.

“Dragonriders burn Thread, not wood,” F’lar replied calmly but there was a ring in his voice. “There are enough Dragonriders,” and he gestured to the Weyrleaders on either side of him, “to protect Pern’s forests . . .”

“That’s not what’s needed most, Benden, and you know it,” Lord Groghe of Fort shouted as he rose to his feet, his eyes bulging. “I say, go after Thread on the Red Star itself. Enough time’s been wasted. You keep saying your dragons’ll go anywhere, anywhen you tell ‘em to.”

“A dragon’s got to know where he’s going first, man,” G’narish, the Igen Leader, protested, jumping up excitedly.

“Don’t put me off, young man! You can see the Red Star, plain as my fist,” and Lord Groghe thrust out his closed hand like a weapon, “in that distance-viewer! Go to the source. Go to the source!”

D’ram was on his feet beside G’narish now, adding his angry arguments to the confusion. A dragon roared so loudly that all were deafened for a moment.

“If that is the desire of the Lords and Craftsmen,” F’lar said, “then we shall mount an expedition to fly on the morrow.” He knew D’ram and G’narish had turned to stare at him, dumbfounded. He saw Lord Groghe bristle suspiciously, but he had the attention of the entire room. He spoke quickly, clearly. “You’ve seen the Red Star, Lord Groghe? Could you describe the land masses to me? Would you estimate that we had to clear as large an area as, say, the northern continent? D’ram, would you agree that it takes about thirty-six hours to fly straight across? More? Hmmm. Tip-to-tip sweeps would be most effective since we couldn’t count on ground-crew support. That would mean dragonweights of firestone. Masterminer, I’ll need to know exactly what supplies you have processed for use. Benden Weyr keeps about five dragonweights on hand at all times, the other Weyrs about the same, so we’d probably need all you’ve got. And every flame thrower on the continent. Now, dragonmen, I admit we don’t know if we can traverse such a distance without harm to ourselves and the dragons. I assume that since Thread survives on this planet, we can exist on that one. However . . .”

“Enough!” Groghe of Fort Hold bellowed, his face flushed, his eyes protruding from their sockets.

F’lar met Groghe’s eyes steadily so that the choleric Lord Holder would realize that he was not being mocked; that F’lar was in earnest.

“To be at all effective, Lord Groghe, such an undertaking would leave Pern totally unprotected. I could not in conscience order such an expedition now that I see how much is involved. I hope you will agree that it is far more important, at this time, to secure what we have.” Better to risk Groghe’s pride if necessary to defeat that premature ambition. He couldn’t afford to evade an issue that could become a convenient rallying cry for the disaffected. “I’d want to get a good look at the Red Star before I took such a leap, Lord Groghe. And the other Leaders would too. I can promise you that once we are able to distinguish some jumping coordinates acceptable to the dragons, we can send a volunteer group to explore. I’ve often wondered why no one has gone before now. Or, if they have, what happened.” He had dropped his voice on those last words and there wasn’t a sound in the Chamber for a long moment.

The fire lizard on Lord Meron’s arm squawked nervously, causing an instant, violent reaction from every man.

“Probably that Record deteriorated, too,” F’lar said, raising his voice to a level audible above the restless scraping and throat-clearing. “Lord Groghe, Fort is the oldest of the Holds. Is there a chance that your back corridors, too, hide treasures we can use?”

Groghe’s reply was a curt nod of his head. He seated himself abruptly, staring straight ahead. F’lar wondered if he had alienated the man beyond reconciliation.

“I don’t think I’d ever fully appreciated the enormity of such a venture,” Corman of Keroon Hold remarked in a thoughtful drawl.

“One jump ahead of us, again, Benden?” asked Larad of Telgar Hold with a rueful grin.

“I shouldn’t say that, Lord Larad,” F’lar replied. “The destruction of all Thread at its source has been a favorite preoccupation of dragonmen Turn after Turn. I know how much territory one Weyr can cover, for instance, how much firestone is used by a Weyr in a Fall’s span. Naturally we,” and he gestured to the other Leaders, “would have information unavailable to you just as you could tell us how many guests you can feed at a banquet.” That elicited a chuckle from many.

“Seven Turns ago, I called you together to prepare to defend Pern against its ancient scourge. Desperate measures were in order if we were to survive. We are in nowhere as difficult a condition as we were seven Turns ago but we have all been guilty of misunderstandings which have deflected us from the important concern. We have no time to waste in assigning guilt or awarding compensation. We are still at the mercy of Thread though we are better equipped to deal with it.

“Once before we found answers in old Records, in the helpful recollections of Master Weaver Zurg, Masterfarmer Andemon, Masterharper Robinton, and the efficiencies of Mastersmith Fandarel. You know what we’ve found in abandoned rooms at Benden and Fort Weyrs – objects made long Turns ago when we had not lost certain skills and techniques.

“Frankly,” and F’lar gri

There was an unexpected ripple of assent to that.

“I speak of the skill of working together, the technique of crossing the arbitrary lines of land, craft and status, because we must learn more from each other than the simple fact that none of us can stand alone and survive!”

He couldn’t go on because half the men were on their feet, suddenly cheering. D’ram was pulling at his sleeve. G’narish was arguing with the Telgar Weyr Second, whose expression was grievously undecided. F’lar got a glimpse of Groghe’s face before someone stood in the way. Fort’s Lord, too, was plainly anxious but that was better than overt antagonism. Robinton caught his eye and smiled broad encouragement. So F’lar had no choice but to let them unwind. They might as well infect each other with enthusiasm – probably with more effect than his best – chosen arguments. He looked around for Lessa and saw her slipping toward the hallway where she stopped, evidently warned of a late arrival.

It was F’nor who appeared in the entrance.

“I’ve fire-lizard eggs,” he shouted. “Fire-lizard eggs,” and he pushed into the room, an aisle opening for him straight to the Council Table.

There was silence as he carefully placed his cumbersome felt-wrapped burden down and glanced triumphantly around the room.

“Stolen from under T’kul’s nose. Thirty-two of them!”

“Well, Benden,” Sangel of Southern Boll demanded in the taut hush, “who gets preference here?”

F’lar affected surprise. “Why, Lord Sangel, that is for you,” and his gesture swept the room impartially, “to decide.”

Clearly that had not been expected.

“We will, of course, teach you what we know of them, guide you in their training. They are more than pets or ornaments,” and he nodded toward Meron who bristled, so suspicious of attention that his bronze hissed and restlessly fa

As soon as they fell to arguing, F’lar left the Council Room. There was so much more to do this morning but he’d do it the better for a little break. And the eggs would occupy the Lords and Craftsmen. They wouldn’t notice his absence.