The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [14]
“I shall kill him yet,” F’lar said to himself, and Mnementh spread his wings in concord.
F’nor dropped beside his bronze leader.
“Did I see him about to draw on you?” F’nor’s eyes were bright, his smile acid.
“Until he remembered I was mounted on a dragon.”
“Watch him, bronze rider. He means to kill you soon.”
“If he can!”
“He’s considered a vicious fighter,” F’nor advised, his smile gone.
Mnementh flapped his wings again, and F’lar absently stroked the great, soft-skinned neck.
“I am at some disadvantage?” F’lar asked, stung by F’nor’s words.
“To my knowledge, no,” F’nor said quickly, startled. “I have not seen him in action, but I don’t like what I have heard. He kills often, with and without cause.”
“And because we dragonmen do not seek blood, we are not to be feared as fighters?” snapped F’lar. “Are you ashamed of being what you were bred?”
“I, no!” F’nor sucked in his breath at the tone of his leader’s voice. “And others of our wing, no! But there is that in the attitude of Fax’s men that . . . that makes me wish some excuse to fight.”
“As you remarked, we will probably have that fight. There is something here in Ruatha that unnerves our noble overlord.”
Mnementh and now Canth, F’nor’s brown, extended their wings, flapping to catch their riders’ attention.
F’lar stared as the dragon slewed his head back toward his rider, the great eyes gleaming like sunstruck opals.
“There is a subtle strength in this valley,” F’lar murmured, gathering the import of the dragon’s agitated message.
“A strength, indeed; even my brown feels it,” F’nor replied, his face lighting.
“Careful, brown rider,” F’lar cautioned. “Careful. Send the entire wing aloft. Search this valley. I should have realized. I should have suspected. It was all there to be evaluated. What fools have dragonmen become!”
The Hold is barred,
The Hall is bare,
And men vanish.
The soil is barren,
The rock is bald.
All hope banish.
Lessa was shoveling ashes from the hearth when the agitated messenger staggered into the Great Hall. She made herself as inconspicuous as possible so the Warder would not dismiss her. She had contrived to be sent to the Great Hall that morning, knowing that the Warder intended to brutalize the head clothman for the shoddy quality of the goods readied for shipment to Fax.
“Fax is coming! With dragonmen!” the man gasped out as he plunged into the dim Great Hall.
The Warder, who had been about to lash the head clothman, turned, stunned, from his victim. The courier, a farmholder from the edge of Ruatha, stumbled up to the Warder, so excited with his message that he grabbed the Warder’s arm.
“How dare you leave your Hold?” The Warder aimed his lash at the astonished Holder. The force of the first blow knocked the man from his feet. Yelping, he scrambled out of reach of a second lashing. “Dragonmen indeed! Fax? Ha! He shuns Ruatha. There!” The Warder punctuated each denial with another blow, kicking the helpless wretch for good measure, before he turned breathless to glare at the clothman and the two underwarders. “How did he get in here with such a threadbare lie?” The Warder stalked to the Great Hall door. It was flung open just as he reached for the iron handle. The ashen-fased guard officer rushed in, nearly knocking the Warder down.
“Dragonmen! Dragons! All over Ruatha!” the man gibbered, arms flailing wildly. He, too, pulled at the Warder’s arm, dragging the stupefied official toward the outer courtyard, to bear out the truth of his statement.
Lessa scooped up the last pile of ashes. Picking up her equipment, she slipped out of the Great Hall. There was a very pleased smile on her face under the screen of matted hair.
A dragonman