The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [55]
R’gul’s eyes darted around the semicircle of bronze riders, trying to pick out who had called in these two. And Lessa knew R’gul hated as well as feared F’lar. She could sense, too, that F’lar had changed. There was nothing passive or indifferent or detached about him now. Instead, there was tense anticipation. F’lar was done with waiting!
Ramoth roused, suddenly and completely awake. Her mind was in such a state that Lessa candidly realized F’lar and K’net had arrived none too soon. So intense were Ramoth’s hunger pangs that Lessa hastened to her head to soothe her. But Ramoth was in no mood for placation.
With unexpected agility she rose, making for the ledge. Lessa ran after her, followed by the dragonmen. Ramoth hissed in agitation at the bronzes who hovered near the ledge. They scattered quickly out of her way. Their riders made for the broad stairs that led from the queen’s weyr to the Bowl.
In a daze Lessa felt F’nor place her on Canth’s neck and urge his dragon quickly after the others to the feeding grounds. Lessa watched, amazed, as Ramoth glided effortlessly and gracefully in over the alarmed, stampeding herd. She struck quickly, seizing her kill by the neck and furling her wings suddenly, dropping down on it, too ravenous to carry it aloft.
“Control her!” F’nor gasped, depositing Lessa unceremoniously to the ground.
Ramoth screamed defiance of her Weyrwoman’s order. She sloughed her head around, rustling her wings angrily, her eyes blazing opalescent pools of fire. She extended her neck skyward to its full reach, shrilling her insubordination. The harsh echoes reverberated against the walls of the Weyr. All around, the dragons, blue, green, brown, and bronze, extended their wings in mighty sweeps, their answering calls brass thunder in the air.
Now indeed must Lessa call on the strength of will she had developed through hungry, vengeful years. Ramoth’s wedge-shaped head whipped back and forth; her eyes glowed with incandescent rebellion. This was no amiable, trusting dragon child. This was a violent demon.
Across the bloody field Lessa matched wills with the transformed Ramoth. With no hint of weakness, no vestige of fear or thought of defeat. Lessa forced Ramoth to obey. Screeching protest, the golden dragon dropped her head to her kill, her tongue lashing at the inert body, her great jaws opening. Her head wavered over the steaming entrails her claws had ripped out. With a final snarl of reproach, Ramoth fastened her teeth on the thick throat of the buck and sucked the carcass dry of blood.
“Hold her,” F’nor murmured. Lessa had forgotten him.
Ramoth rose, screaming, and with incredible speed landed on a second squealing buck. She made a second attempt to eat from the soft belly of her kill. Again Lessa exerted her authority and won. Shrilling defiance, Ramoth reluctantly blooded again.
She did not resist Lessa’s orders the third time. The dragon had begun to realize now that irresistible instinct was upon her. She had not known anything but fury until she got the taste of hot blood. Now she knew what she needed: to fly fast, far, and long, away from the Weyr, away from these puny, wingless ones, far in advance of those rutting bronzes.
Dragon instinct was limited to here-and-now, with no ability to control or anticipate. Mankind existed in partnership with them to supply wisdom and order, Lessa found herself chanting silently.
Without hesitation, Ramoth struck for the fourth time, hissing with greed as she sucked at the beast’s throat.
A tense silence had fallen over the Weyr Bowl, broken only by the sound of Ramoth’s feeding and the high keening of the wind.
Ramoth’s skin began to glow. She seemed to enlarge, not with gorging but with luminescence. She raised her bloody head, her tongue forking out to lick her muzzle. She straightened, and simultaneously a hum arose from the bronzes ringing the feeding ground in silent anticipation.
With a sudden golden movement Ramoth arched her great back. She sprang into the sky, wings wide. With unbelievable