K’tan says that there are thirty-one dragons with the illness, Lorana heard Drith say to Gaminth. And they are spread throughout the wings.
Tell him that it can’t be helped, we’ll sort it out later, was the reply Gaminth relayed from M’tal.
Kindan, who had started laying out the healer’s medical supplies, saw Lorana wince and approached her. “What is it?”
“The sick dragons are flying, too,” she reported dully.
Far above them, over Benden’s Bowl, wings formed into Flights, and Flights arrayed themselves in attack formation. And then, in one instant, three hundred and fifty-eight dragons disappeared-between.
For over twenty Turns M’tal had led Benden Weyr. In all that time, he had had just one thought: to prepare for Thread. This day-now-was the culmination of all he had worked toward.
It was a disaster.
Three dragons failed to come out of between. Their loss cast an immediate pall on the fight.
Worse, it threw off the organization of the wings.
The teamwork that M’tal had drilled his riders so assiduously in maintaining fell apart before the first of the Thread arrived. Ruefully, M’tal reflected that he had not considered training his dragonriders in sustaining losses.
M’tal’s own wing had lost blue Carianth and his rider, G’niall.
“Close up!” he shouted. “Gaminth, tell them to close up.”
M’tal cast a glance ahead and up, toward where Thread should be falling momentarily, and then another at the dragons in his wing as they re-formed without the blue. M’tal had had the Weyr arrayed in a line of multiple V formations. Now, with Carianth gone, the V of his wing was shorter on the left than on the right.
“Thread!” M’tal heard W’ren cry from behind him. He turned, following W’ren’s arm, and saw them-up high, silvery, shimmery wisps floating in the morning sun. Gaminth let out a bellow, echoed triumphantly in challenge by all the dragons of Benden Weyr, and craned his neck back to M’tal for a mouthful of firestone. M’tal found that he already had some in his hands, not remembering when he pulled it out of his firestone sack, and fed it to the bronze without thinking. That much of the training worked, he thought with bitter satisfaction.
As one, the dragons and riders of Benden Weyr rose to meet the incoming Thread. In unison, the dragons belched their fiery breath into the sky. Gouts of flame met clumps of silvery Thread, and the Thread wilted, charred, and fell harmlessly to the ground below.
The ease of the destruction of the Thread elated M’tal and all the riders. The dragons roared and charged to assault the next wave of Thread.
And then everything unraveled. The first cry of a Thread-scored dragon seared M’tal’s ears like a hot poker, thankfully cut off as the dragon went between where the freezing cold would destroy the Thread.
Then another dragon went between, and another-and that one did not return.
M’tal issued sharp orders to his wingleaders to regroup, but try as they might, the increasing casualties meant that they never quite recovered from the initial disorder.
The battle against Thread turned more dangerous, desperate. Worse, Gaminth informed him that many of the dragons going between and not returning to the Fall had not returned to the Weyr, either.
The pain of that additional loss weighed heavily on the remaining riders. Those riding ill dragons responded by doing their best to avoid going between-often with worse results. Four, then five dragons were Threaded at once and went between so terribly Thread scored that M’tal knew nothing could be done to save them.
And then it was over. The Thread tapered off until there were no more in the sky.
M’tal, struggling to create a tally of dead, injured, and able dragons found himself trembling with relief, rage, sorrow, and overexertion.
Have L’tor send out sweepriders, order K’tan back to the Weyr, and let’s go home, M’tal said to his dragon.
He knew that Thread had got through their flight and had burrowed into the grounds of Upper Bitra, where great stands of trees grew up toward the snow line on the mountains. He wished that Salina’s Breth was still alive. With two queens-and no danger from strange illnesses-they could have a small queen’s wing battling any missed clumps of Thread before they reached the ground. The queens, with their greater wingspan, could easily handle flying low to the ground for the length of a Fall. But Breth’s death meant that it was not to be and, because of it, the number of burrows would be higher than normal. It was too dangerous to risk Benden’s remaining adult queen dragon flying alone, let alone the distraction it would give the other dragons.
M’tal took a deep breath, surveyed the area one last time, then put the image of Benden’s Star Stones firmly in his mind and gave Gaminth the word to go home.
Mikkala, the headwoman at Benden Weyr, a stout, bustling woman who said little and kept her eyes open, tutted in disapproval of Kindan’s work.
“Never met a man who’s not happy the minute he’s done the least bit of work,” she said, sending a hard look toward the harper, who raised his hands in mock defense. Her look softened and she shook her head wryly. “Other people will be needing to find these bandages, not just you and the healer!”
“If you’re complaining about a man’s work, then you’ll need to ask Lorana,” Kindan told her.
So Lorana found herself in charge of laying out the medicine and bandages in preparation for injured riders and dragons.
Kiyary was detailed to help, and Lorana found herself so engrossed in setting up first aid trays and assigning tasks to the weyrlings that she didn’t have time to notice that Kindan had disappeared.
She heard the reports from Gaminth of the three dragons that failed to come between from the Weyr to Upper Bitra. She chided herself for not noticing their loss sooner, only to realize that she had felt a momentary worsening of the general pall that hung over her and everyone else in the Weyr, but had put it down to mere nerves.
It was only when Lorana had everything in order and sought to feed Arith that she noticed that the Weyr harper was nowhere in sight. She dismissed the issue in favor of ensuring that Arith was well fed and well oiled. She smiled proprietarily as she realized that her queen was nearly as big as some of the fully-grown smaller green dragons. Still, it would be years before Arith was ready to fly-or to mate, a thought that caused Lorana some vague discomfort.
In the meantime Arith was just as comforting, loving, considerate, confounding, wretched, ill-tempered, and fractious as any youngster could and should be. All of which meant that Lorana was glad to be able to see her marvelous friend happily ensconced on her freshly built bed of warm sand, curling up for a good after-food and after-grooming nap.
Lorana had just decided that Arith was fully asleep when she heard the piteous cries of dragons being Thread scored in the Fall at Upper Bitra. Their pain came to her thankfully dulled, like the remnant soreness of a wound not quite healed.
Arith picked up her unease and an echo of the pain she felt through their link and looked over at her, eyes blinking sleepily.
“I’m sorry,” Lorana cried aloud. “I can’t help it. Try to sleep, little one.”
There is no need to apologize, Arith said. I am glad that you can hear the other dragons. It is a gift.
“A gift?” Lorana repeated.
Yes, the queen replied. You hear us the way we hear each other. It’s special. I like that.