Dragon's Fire (32 page)

“By the egg of Faranth!” Lord Fenner declared, staring in horror at the brilliant fireball above them.

“What happened?” Toldur asked.

“The firestone must have come in contact with some water,” Britell said, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“It exploded?” Cristov asked. Britell could only nod, eyes wide with shock.

“And the dragon? The rider?” Cristov looked from the Masterminer to the Lord Holder, but the expressions of both were identical.

“At least it was quick,” Fenner said somberly.

“They’re dead?”

“Nasty stuff, firestone,” Britell murmured, still shaking his head in disbelief. “The slightest bit of water and…”

All around him, dragons keened for the lost weyrling. D’vin shook his head angrily.
That
shouldn’t have happened!

His thoughts returned to the instant, still seared in his eyes, when the weyrling emerged from
between,
trying to see what had caused the explosion, but he couldn’t. Firestone was too difficult, too impossible to handle. He could remember at least three times when the storage cavern at High Reaches had exploded.

It burns,
Hurth agreed. D’vin nodded absently. The large bronze must have felt the movement of his rider’s body on his neck, for he dropped his neck suddenly in an expression of irritation.
It burns
wrong.

D’vin cocked an eye down at the huge neck of his friend. Firestone had always been dangerous. He couldn’t imagine how the dragons survived it and was appalled at the risks he’d taken as a weyrling when it had been his task to haul it to the older riders.

D’gan asks if you’ll withdraw,
Hurth reported.

Withdraw? D’vin shook his head angrily. What tribute would that be to the lost rider and dragon?

We will continue,
D’vin replied.
Tell the rest of the flight.

D’gan says good luck,
Hurth told him.

D’vin looked over to where the Telgar flights were arrayed and gave them an exaggerated wave. Good luck, indeed!

Let’s show them what High Reaches can do,
D’vin told his dragon.

The crowd cheered encouragement as High Reaches began their next run. As the queens threw down a new hail of ropes, D’vin’s wing raced forward, flaming it all to char, backed High Reaches’s other two wings.

They almost made it. Just at the end, two riders headed for the same cluster, missing a single clump that fell behind them. At D’vin’s urging, Hurth dove toward the clump, but Hurth was out of flame and the clump fell, unburned, to the ground. Below him, the crowd groaned sympathetically.

Sorry,
D’vin said to his dragon.
We tried.

“That’s a pity,” Britell remarked, “but it’s not unexpected.”

Lord Fenner looked less sanguine, and the Masterminer gave him an inquiring look.

“I don’t deny their prowess, nor that they’ve suffered a tragedy,” the Lord Holder explained, “but I hope that the Weyrs can recover more quickly from their losses when Thread really
does
start to fall.”

“I think they will, my lord,” Kindan said from his place by the flags. “That’s part of the purpose of these games, to train for the worst.”

Fenner and Britell both nodded.

Cristov wasn’t listening. He was too busy wondering why the dragons depended upon such a dangerous rock as firestone for their flame. Coal was bad enough, but something that exploded on contact with water was just incredible. How could anyone work with such a difficult mineral?

The explosion above the crowd was all Tenim needed to make his greatest theft of the day. He’d been by the Smithcrafthall tent early on and had spotted the lovely dirk set proudly on display—well guarded by no less than three apprentices.

“That?” A journeyman had said in response to his questioning. “That dirk’s been made special for Lord D’gan, the Weyrleader himself.”

It was a beauty, Tenim decided. Its hilt was decorated with several rare jewels and embossed with gold. The blade itself was sharp enough to cut wherhide, as was demonstrated by the proud Smiths. It was a valuable piece.

And Tenim wanted it. He had had too few pretty things in the past several Turns. It was time his luck changed. And the explosion in the sky was all the change he needed.

In one swift moment he jostled against the apprentices, pocketed the dirk, and took off before anyone could react.

Far enough to be lost in the crowd, he flipped over his tunic and ruffled it up, while at the same time removing his cap and patting down his hair. He switched his belt around and changed the buckle for a Smithcraft piece. No one would recognize him now.

Yes, his luck had changed.

It was then that he spotted Cristov up in the Lord Holder’s stand. Tenim’s lips tightened and he frowned. He knew that Moran was hoping to use the lad the same way they’d used Tarik.

Tarik had cost him dear. Except for a quiet visit in the dark of the night, Tenim was certain that Tarik would have talked and cost Tenim even more dearly. Tenim was still not ready to have an “S” brushed on his head.

But the price had been the coal they’d stashed. It had taken little work on Tenim’s part to expose it and break a trail that led to it, a trail marked only with Tarik’s boot prints.

All the wood that Tarik had stashed had been found, too.

In the end all Tenim got for all his efforts was a small sack of coal, the only one he dared keep from the hoard that he and Tarik had laid down. The sack of coal hadn’t been worth more than three marks.

Tenim had learned quickly enough that his final plan had been ruined by Cristov, when the boy had helped save Natalon. Tenim felt that he owed little Cristov—though he was no longer quite so little—the same treatment that his father had been given. Wouldn’t it be fitting for Cristov to get the same blue “S” his father wore?

Yes, Tenim decided, nodding to himself, it would. He felt the dirk hidden under his tunic and smiled. He knew just how to do it. The dirk would be a small price for such a sweet revenge.

The horror of the weyrling’s loss was soon overcome by the excitement of the last event of the Games. Ista had been eliminated in the first round, and High Reaches had fallen out at the second round. Fort, Benden, and Telgar competed with astonishing passes in the third round. It seemed as though the sky was alive with the rope Threads. The crowd gasped in regret when Fort was disqualified by a single Thread in the third round. The fourth round was only between Benden and Telgar.

“Telgar, without a doubt,” Fenner declared loyally. Masterminer Britell nodded in agreement.

“It’d better be,” Kindan quipped to Cristov with a grin. “I’ve heard that D’gan’s commissioned a fancy dirk for himself as a reward.”

“It’s never a wise course to bet on your success,” Toldur opined.

Kindan nodded, but added, “It’ll be his solace if he loses.”

“Oh, so he plans on the dirk either way?” Toldur asked. When Kindan nodded again, the older miner continued, “Then why does he wait for the outcome?”

“If he wins, he’ll have Lord Fenner present it to him ceremoniously,” Kindan said.

“And savor the reward all the more,” Britell remarked.

“Look! Benden missed some!” Lord Fenner shouted, drawing them back to the event overhead.

“So Telgar’s the winner,” Cristov said.

“Only if they complete this round without letting Thread through,” Kindan corrected, shaking his head. “Otherwise it’s a tie.”

“If they tie, they’ll split the points and Telgar will win anyway,” Bitrell noted.

Cristov frowned at that, while trying to do the math in his head. First place was worth five points and second place worth two, so Telgar would earn only three and a half points if they tied with Benden. Add that to the five points that Telgar already had for winning the wing event and Telgar would have eight and one half points. Ista had seven points and Benden would add three and a half to its two points, so neither would beat Telgar. Satisfied, he nodded in agreement.

“Did that without moving your lips,” Britell said to Cristov with a smile. “I’m impressed.”

Cristov turned red with embarrassment.

A cheer erupted around them and Cristov looked up. The skies were clear of the rope Thread. Telgar Weyr had won.

“Raise the Telgar flag,” Fenner instructed, but Kindan was way ahead of him, raising and waving the Telgar flag to indicate the winner of the Games.

“D’gan will be well pleased,” Bitrell said.

“And he’ll get his dirk,” Kindan said to Cristov with a smile and a broad wink.

Cristov smiled back, wondering what sort of dirk a Weyrleader would covet.

A crowd rushed toward the stand.

“Here comes D’gan!”

Some enthusiastic revelers rushed up onto the stand itself, pushed by the cheering crowd. Cristov was bowled over and had a hard time getting up, buried under the crush of several holders.

When Cristov stood up again, his clothes felt different, heavier. He started searching his clothing for what had changed.

“Cristov, stand up, D’gan’s coming,” Toldur hissed in warning.

Hastily Cristov straightened up and sidled over to Toldur, peering out over the stand to where the crowd had parted wide to let one group pass through.

The dragonriders all bore the strange, hot, burning smell of firestone and the lean look of those who’d mastered their craft. They looked haughty, proud, determined—and they had earned the right.

As D’gan stepped upon the platform, the holders and crafters in the Gather burst into cheers.

“Telgar! Telgar! Telgar!” they shouted.

D’gan nodded and waved at them, his face beaming with pride.

“Lord Fenner,” D’gan called out, extending his hand imperiously. “Do you have something special to mark this occasion?”

Fenner turned to the group of smiths who were approaching and told D’gan, “I believe that the Smithcrafters of Telgar have created something special for you, Weyrleader.”

“My lord,” the eldest of the smiths called out, in despair, “it’s been stolen!”

“Stolen?” D’gan cried in amazement.

Cristov suddenly identified the strange weight in his clothes. With a metallic clatter it fell to the ground.