Dragon's Fire (31 page)

“You won’t beg?” Maril asked. He stood up and grabbed the bucket. “Then you’ll have to get it yourself.” Laughing, he carefully placed the bucket just to the left of Tarik’s booted foot, then, with a derisive snort, returned to the mine.

The air was dry; the mountain morning’s chill had worn off, replaced by an afternoon heat that bore down on Tarik. Thirst consumed him. At first he ignored the bucket by his foot, determined to last until either Maril relented or the shift ended.

Maril passed by him again with another cartload of firestone. On the way back, he rode the cart down into the mine, waving tauntingly at Tarik as he passed.

Tarik looked at the bucket. Maybe, he thought, he could hook the handle with his boot and drag it close enough to grab with his hand. He’d have to be quick; he didn’t know how long it would take before Maril appeared with another cartload of firestone. He was certain that Maril would take the bucket away if he thought Tarik could get it.

Tarik eyed the bucket, eyed the mine entrance, and paused. If he didn’t get the bucket, if it tipped over, what then? He was close enough to the mine shaft that the water from the bucket might flow to the entrance. Of course, he reminded himself, there was a deep gutter dug in front of the mine to carry any water away—water in a firestone mine would be disastrous.

Tarik’s thirst won out over his caution. He strained his toe forward and flicked it up. The first time, the end of his foot slid off the handle, flicking it up and back down again before he could get his foot under it. He paused and tried again. This time the handle flew up and he quickly kicked with his foot, hoping to get it under the handle before it fell back to the bucket’s side.

He kicked too hard. The bucket shuddered and fell over away from him. With a hoarse cry, Tarik watched as the precious fluid flowed away from him, downhill, toward the mine.

Everything would have been all right, if Maril hadn’t emerged from the mine at that moment. The water had lapped over the wooden rails the cart ran on; Maril, pushing from behind, didn’t see the stain of liquid and was taken off guard by the sudden change in resistance of his load. His pushing jarred the cartload, and a few pieces of firestone fell off the cart.

Tarik’s voice was too dry for more than the hoarsest of shouts, “Run!”

Maril didn’t hear him. He leaned over instinctively to retrieve the errant stone just as it fell into the water and burst into flame.

In an instant, the disaster was complete. The fire startled Maril, who leaped backward, tripped, and, struggling to stay upright, tugged the cartload of firestone back toward the mine. The cart of firestone caught flame even as it rolled back over Maril’s leg and into the mine, gaining speed on the slope.

A huge ball of flame, taller than a man, burst out of the side of the mountain where the firestone mine had been. The blast caught Tarik and threw him, still in the stocks, backward like a straw doll.

The flames licked the nearby trees, withering their limbs. And then the fires subsided, leaving the mine shaft a huge, black, smoking hole in the side of the mountain.

CHAPTER 5

C
ROM
H
OLD

D
’vin left them at the stands. Cristov climbed back up and, when he turned back, found that Halla had disappeared. He regretted that; he wanted to talk with her more about Jamal.

“They’re off again,” Fenner said as wings of dragons reassembled above the crowd. He turned to Cristov. “The next competition is for whole wings fighting Thread.”

“How is that judged, my lord?” Toldur asked politely.

“It’s about the same, I believe,” Lord Fenner said. “The queens throw Thread and the wings fight it. If any gets through, the wing is disqualified. If all wings succeed in fighting the Thread, the queens spread out and throw more.”

“Will we have to judge a tie again?” Britell asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

Fenner laughed. “No, this continues until there’s a clear winner.”

“That’s a relief,” the Masterminer said with a sigh. In response to Lord Fenner’s questioning look, he explained, “I’m afraid we’d hardly be considered impartial if every event was a tie and we had to judge.”

Lord Fenner snorted in agreement. “I daresay you’re right.”

At Lord Fenner’s nod, Kindan waved the hold’s flag high over his head, signaling that the games were to recommence. Again, the drummers on the far hill drummed their tattoo, and again dragons up high flamed their readiness.

Cristov craned his neck back to spot the queen dragons. He was amazed at how far up they were.

“How high can dragons fly?” Cristov asked Kindan in a low voice.

“It depends on the dragon and the rider,” Kindan replied. “The queens can fly higher than most, but the air gets too thin eventually.”

“What happens if a dragon flies too high?” Cristov wondered.

“I’ve been told that as the air gets thin, the riders start to feel as if they’re drunk,” Kindan said.

Cristov raised his eyebrows in surprise, wondering if Kindan was teasing him. Kindan caught his look and said, “No, seriously, I’ve heard that from many dragonriders. One even said that the color went out of his eyes and he only saw shades of gray until he got back down on the ground.”

“That can happen in the mines, too, if there’s not enough air, as you two know,” added Toldur, who had been listening in. Cristov and Kindan shuddered in memory.

The cave-in at Camp Natalon had been Tarik’s fault. He had skimped on the planking for the tunnel his shift was digging. Natalon had discovered this and, in the process of trying to repair the faulty tunnel, had been caught with most of his shift in the cave-in. Kindan, Toldur, and Nuella, Natalon’s blind daughter, had defied Tarik’s order that no one go into the mine. Cristov remembered the shocked look on Kindan’s face when he’d arrived with his axe to offer help.

Even with his help and the use of a secret passageway Natalon had dug when the mine was first surveyed, the rescue party was nearly overcome by the coal dust that had filled the mine after the cave-in. In the end, they discovered that the trapped miners were too far away to dig out, but Kindan somehow managed to convince Nuella that she could ride his watch-wher, Kisk, like a dragon
between
to rescue the trapped miners.

And somehow, the strange journey Nuella and the watch-wher made had bound the girl and the watch-wher together, allowing Kindan to pursue his desire to become a harper.

Cristov envied Kindan his freedom to follow his dreams. Wistfully he recalled one of his conversations with Jamal when they had stared up skyward at the last Games. Jamal had pointed up to one of the dragons and exclaimed, “I’d like one like that!”

“A bronze?” Cristov said, peering upward.

“Sure,” Jamal replied. “And then I’d become Weyrleader.” He blew out a sigh and asked wistfully, “Do you think the dragonriders will Search when the Games are over?”

Cristov shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Wouldn’t you like it, Cristov? Wouldn’t you love to Impress a dragon?”

Cristov looked over at Jamal, then back up to the brilliant formation of dragons—bronze, brown, blue, and green. For a moment he imagined himself on the Hatching Grounds, the excitement as the dragon eggs burst open and the dragonets scrambled awkwardly out of their shells, multifaceted eyes whirling anxiously, searching for their life mates. Cristov imagined how he’d feel, his face splitting wide in surprise and joy as a dragon
—his
dragon—spoke telepathically to him and told him that he would forever have a friend, a champion. He tried to imagine how his father would react—and could only see him frowning.

“It’ll never happen,” he had said firmly, turning away from Jamal. “Father says I’m only fit to be a miner.”

And now Tarik was Shunned, and Cristov stood here next to the Masterminer and Crom’s Lord Holder not knowing what was in store for him, and Jamal was nearly three Turns dead.

Cristov locked his eyes on one of the high-flying bronze dragons and tried not to be envious of his rider.

The pace picked up immensely as Fort began its second run. The sky that seemed practically black with the Thread that the queen riders had thrown down was suddenly bursting into flame. And then the sky was clear—except for one strand that sailed harmlessly to the ground.

A groan of sympathy rose up from the Gather crowd as they realized what had happened. Kindan waved a black flag to show that they’d been disqualified.

The rest of the Weyrs completed the second round. The wing from High Reaches was disqualified in the third round. For a moment it even looked like Telgar had let some Thread through but, as the crowd watched anxiously, it broke up into harmless char just before hitting the ground.

“Now they’ll have to fly three times as far,” Lord Fenner muttered as the queens spread for the fourth round.

Benden flew flawlessly but just a little too slow to get to the last of the Thread before it hit the ground, so they were disqualified.

Kindan, who was friendly with Benden’s Weyrleader, M’tal, groaned sympathetically.

“Third place isn’t bad,” Toldur assured him.

It was down to Telgar and Ista. The Telgar wing flew the extended, thickened Fall flawlessly with a speed that seemed to Cristov like lightning. The Istan wing got off to an even faster start, and it looked certain that there would be a sixth round.

“Look!” Fenner shouted, pointing skyward. “They missed some!”

Sure enough, a clump of rope fell to the ground uncharred.

Britell raised an eyebrow at Crom’s Lord Holder. “Didn’t you say that Telgar would win?”

“I did,” Fenner agreed, “but this—!” He gestured to the sky and shook his head. “Ista flew well and deserved to win.”

“Ista placed second, so they’re ahead on points,” Britell noted.

“There’s still the final competition,” Lord Fenner reminded him. He cocked an eye speculatively at the Masterminer. “Are you willing to wager, then?”

Britell snorted. “Telgar will win the final event, I’m sure.”

“What if they don’t?” Toldur asked.

“D’gan will be impossible,” Lord Fenner replied with a shudder.

“They have to win the next event or they’ll only be able to tie with Ista,” Britell noted.

“At best,” Lord Fenner agreed with a grimace.

Cristov looked puzzled. Toldur noticed.

“The overall placing is based on points,” Toldur explained. “First place is worth five points, second place is worth two points, and third place is worth one point. The Weyr with the most points at the end of the Games is the winner.”

“There’s a lot of gambling on the outcome,” Kindan added.

“But Telgar always wins,” Cristov declared loyally.

“Which is why most people bet on which Weyr will place second and third,” Lord Fenner told him with a twinkle in his eyes.

“If Telgar wins the last event, they’ll have ten points, and the best Ista could get then would be second place in the event for a total of nine points,” Kindan continued.

“And if either High Reaches or Benden wins the next event, they’ll tie with Ista,” Masterminer Britell noted.

“That won’t happen,” Lord Fenner declared stoutly.

“One thing’s certain,” Britell said, “the betting’s going to be fierce.”

Cristov, casting an eye over the crowd below and seeing how excitedly people were talking amongst themselves, silently agreed.

D’vin looked at the movement of the crowds far below him. He could see enough to spot bettors exchanging marks and wished he had a few to wager himself. Certainly things were interesting, and he was glad they were. Of all the events, the relay was his favorite—the one event he felt most tested a Weyr’s true ability to fight Thread.

The first round of the relay would be nothing special: Three wings from each Weyr would fly against the rope Thread in rapid succession. It was the next round, when the queens spread out more and thickened the fall of Thread that things would start to get interesting.

Far below him, someone on the Lord Holder’s stand waved Fort’s flag. Nearby, a Fort dragon belched flame. The relay began.

Fort did well, as did all the other Weyrs, just as D’vin had expected. He turned back from his run on Hurth with all three wings of High Reaches dragons warbling in elation at their run. They’d done well.

The queens spread out more. And then Fort’s flag was waved again for the next run.

Soon it would be High Reaches’s turn.

Make sure everyone has enough firestone,
D’vin reminded his dragon.

Telenth needs more,
Hurth responded. D’vin craned around to spot the small blue and saw P’lel wave as a weyrling appeared from
between.

Just as suddenly as the weyrling had appeared, there was a brilliant explosion by its side. The deafening sound shook the afternoon sky.

As D’vin’s eyes recovered from the flash of the explosion, he saw that the weyrling had disappeared.

Where are they?
D’vin asked Hurth.

They are gone.