The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [61]
From the Weyr and from the Bowl,
Bronze and brown and blue and green,
Rise the dragonmen of Pern,
Aloft, on wing; seen, then unseen.
Larad, lord of Telgar, eyed the monolithic heights of Benden Weyr. The striated stone looked like frozen waterfalls at sunset. And about as hospitable. A long moribund awe squirmed at the back of his mind for the blasphemy he and the army he led were about to commit. He stifled that thought firmly.
The Weyr had outlived its usefulness. That was obvious. There was no longer any need for the Holders to give up the profits of their sweat and labor to the lazy weyrfolk. The Holders had been patient. They had supported the Weyr in good part out of gratitude for past services. But the dragonmen had overstepped the borders of grateful generosity.
First, this archaic Search foolishness. So a queen-egg was laid. Why did the dragonmen need to steal away the prettiest women among the Holders when they had women of their own in the Weyr proper? No need to appropriate Larad’s sister, Kylora, eagerly awaiting a far different alliance with Brant of Igen one evening and gone on that ridiculous Search the next. Never heard from since, either.
And killing Fax! Albeit the man had been dangerously ambitious, he was of the Blood. And the Weyr had not been asked to meddle in the affairs of the High Reaches.
But this steady pilfering. That was beyond enough. Oh, a holder might excuse a few bucks now and again. But when a dragon appeared out of nowhere (a talent that disturbed Larad deeply) and snatched the best stud bucks from a herd carefully protected and nurtured, that tore it!
The Weyr must be made to understand its subordinate position in Pern. It would have to make other provisions to victual its people, for no further tithes would come from anyone. Benden, Bitra, and Lemos would come around soon. They ought to be pleased to end this superstitious domination by the Weyr.
Nevertheless, the closer they came to the gigantic mountain, the more doubts Larad experienced as to just how in the world the Lords would penetrate that massif. He signaled Meron, so-called Lord of Nabol (he didn’t really trust this sharp-faced ex-Warder with no Blood at all) to draw his riding beast closer.
Meron whipped his mount abreast of Larad.
“There is no other way into the Weyr proper but the Tunnel?”
Meron shook his head. “Even the locals are agreed.”
This did not dismay Meron, but he caught Larad’s doubtful expression.
“I have sent a party on ahead, to the southern lip of the Peak,” and he indicated the area. “There might be a low, scalable cliff there where the brow dips.”
“You sent a party without consulting us? I was named leader . . .”
“True,” Meron agreed, with an amiable show of teeth. “A mere notion of mine.”
“A distinct possibility, I agree, but you’d have done better . . .” Larad glanced up at the Peak.
“They have seen us, have no doubt of that, Larad,” Meron assured him, contemptuously regarding the silent Weyr. “That will be sufficient. Deliver our ultimatum and they will surrender before such a force as ours. They’ve proved themselves cowards over and over. I gave insult twice to the bronze rider they call F’lar, and he ignored it. What man would?”
A sudden rustling roar and a blast of the coldest air in the world interrupted their conference. As he mastered his plunging beast, Larad caught a confused panorama of dragons, all colors, sizes, and everywhere. The air was filled with the panic-stricken shrieks of plunging beasts, the cries of startled, terrified men.
Larad managed, with great effort, to drag his beast around to face the dragonmen.
By the Void that spawned us, he thought, struggling to control his own fear, I’d forgotten dragons are so big.
Foremost in that frightening array was a triangular formation of four great bronze beasts, their wings overlapping in a tremendous criss-cross pattern as they hovered just above the ground. A dragon’s length