Anne Mccaffrey_ Dragonriders of Pern 20 Read online

  “I will send them up to the Hold,” Murenny decided. “Most of them will go to Bemin and his folk.” He glanced at Kindan. “You should be able to get to a hatching in ample time.”

  “Better,” M’tal suggested, “assign him up there.” Kindan started to protest, but M’tal held up a hand. “For now.”

  “What about Mikal?”

  “When he’s ready, I’ll come for you,” M’tal promised.

  “Thank you, Weyrleader,” Kindan said, feeling honored.

  “I feel partly to blame,” M’tal said. “If I’d been a bit quicker, I would have heard him myself.”

  Kindan furrowed his brow in confusion.

  “And then he would have fought me,” M’tal explained.

  “But you’re a dragonrider!” Kindan exclaimed, appalled at the thought of Vaxoram striking the Weyrleader with a sword.

  “Which would have given me the right of weapons,” M’tal said with a grin. He held up his hands in a fighter’s style. “I wouldn’t have killed him, but he would feel it for the rest of his Turns.”

  Kindan grinned back at him, imagining the look of horror on Vaxoram’s face as he squared off against the older, stronger, taller, and fiercer dragonrider.

  CHAPTER 3

  Be sparing with your wrath

  Take not the angry path

  Lest harsh words create harsh deeds

  And fill your heart with bitter seeds.

  ALEESA’S WHERHOLD

  I hear you let your green go to a girl,” Master Aleesa said when Kindan and M’tal arrived at the wherhold two days later.

  “Yes, Master,” Kindan replied.

  “I hear she did good,” Aleesa added. “Flew between just like a proper dragonrider and saved her father.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I was there.”

  Aleesa stared deep into his eyes before nodding. “You did a good thing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And now you’re here to take Mikal?”

  “Not unless he wants to go,” Kindan replied.

  Aleesa glanced beyond him to M’tal, then back. “This dragonrider says you’re here to learn how to fight someone.”

  “Yes,” Kindan agreed.

  “Over a girl,” Aleesa said.

  “No,” Kindan corrected, shaking his head. “For women harpers.”

  “Women harpers?” Aleesa repeated, chortling. “Women harpers,” she said again, more softly, shaking her head. “What next?”

  “I’ve met many strong women in my time,” M’tal remarked.

  “Anything is possible,” Kindan said, meeting Aleesa’s eyes squarely. “When women harpers become respected, all women will be more respected.”

  Aleesa mulled this over for a silent moment. Finally, she said, her expression hardening, “You be sure you win.”

  “Yes, Master,” Kindan agreed.

  “Mikal!” Aleesa called, turning back to the cave the wherholders inhabited. “Your youngster is here!”

  “How is Aleesk, Master?” Kindan asked.

  “You can see her tonight,” Aleesa replied, turning away from him and retreating slowly into the dark cave. “She’ll be awake then, as you should well know.”

  Kindan remembered how the nocturnal behavior of his watch-wher had driven him to distraction. Aleesa’s irritability was mostly fatigue, he guessed—although he’d never heard of her being anything other than grouchy.

  A silver-haired man met her at the entrance and waved to Kindan.

  “Aleesk will send word when we’re done,” Mikal told M’tal as they got within earshot. The ex-dragonrider eyed Kindan critically, then said, “Are you prepared to get hurt?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kindan replied.

  “And you’ve brought blades?”

  Kindan nodded, indicating the long bundle on his back.

  “Good,” Mikal said. “Start now with fifty push-ups.” He walked over to a rock. “I’ll watch from here.”

  “I just want to learn to fight left-handed,” Kindan reminded the older man.

  “And I want to see you live through it,” Mikal told him, gesturing for Kindan to get on the ground. “Start with those push-ups.”

  “I’ll leave him in your hands, Mikal,” M’tal called.

  Mikal merely grunted in response, not quite meeting the bronze rider’s eyes. M’tal nodded and strode quickly out of sight. Kindan knew that M’tal had carefully landed his Gaminth out of Mikal’s sight, just as Mikal had steadfastly remained in the wherhold until the last possible moment; even the sight of a dragon was torment to a man who had lost his own.

  “Stop thinking and start working,” Mikal growled at Kindan. “You’ve only a sevenday at best.”

  Kindan got into a prone position, then, putting all his weight on his arms, lifted up and began the push-ups.

  By the end of the day, Kindan nearly wished he were dead. He didn’t know which exercise proved the greatest torment, although arguably the worst was running with a heavy rock clenched in each of his outstretched arms.

  On the second day, Mikal began fencing with him in earnest.

  “We’ll start right-handed,” the ex-dragonrider informed him, tossing a blade to Kindan and sweeping a blade up for himself. He made a quick salute, then took the en garde position.

  “But I already know how to fight right-handed,” Kindan grumbled.

  “Then show me,” Mikal said, lunging suddenly. Caught off guard, Kindan was struck on the shoulder.

  By evening, Kindan was a mass of scratches and bruises, even though the padded practice leathers had deflected the worst of the blows.

  Kindan spent the first part of the next day learning how to bruise tomatoes.

  “You’ve got to have control of your blade,” Mikal had told him, showing him how to lunge and twist in such a way that the ripe tomatoes showed only the slightest of scratches on their surface. By midday, Kindan was covered in tomato juice, much to the amusement of the wherholders.

  In the evening, Mikal insisted that Kindan sing or play around the warm coal fire that the wherholders kept inside their quarters.

  “Murenny’s supposed to send us a harper,” Mikal remarked that night, eyeing Kindan consideringly. “But while I’m here they don’t need it.”

  Kindan cocked an eyebrow. The ex-dragonrider was well known at the Harper Hall: He had originally settled into a cave in the hills not far from the Hall, where even the Masterhealer was not above seeking him out for his amazing ability to heal others with herbs and crystals. It was only recently that Mikal had moved from the Harper Hall to Aleesa’s wherhold.

  “They’re afraid I’ll leave,” Mikal added with a bark of a laugh and a shake of his head. He jerked his head toward the others. “Stand up and sing them the Hold song.”

  Kindan groaned and almost protested but instead stood up, thinking of Nonala’s beautiful voice. He put his sore hands to his side, ignored his aching chest as he filled his lungs and began the long, slow song that named all the Holds, major and minor, the Lord and Lady Holders, and their relative locations throughout Pern.

  He went to bed late that night and woke up early the next morning, kicked none too gently by Jaythen.

  “Arrows today,” the irascible wherman told him. “Mikal says you’re to hunt with me.”

  Kindan’s protests died on his lips. He forced himself up and nodded in acceptance. In three more days he would be fighting for his life and his friends, and while he couldn’t see what hunting had to do with fighting Vaxoram, he trusted that Mikal had a good reason.

  By the end of the day, Jaythen and Kindan had scored two wild-hens and a smallbeast. It was not a great haul, but they had lost none of their arrows, Jaythen insisting that Kindan race after every shot.

  Again that evening, sorer and more tired than he’d ever felt, Kindan found himself in front of the wherholders, singing songs and teaching ballads. He practically crawled into his bed that night.

  “Up!” Mikal barked into his ear early the next morning. When Ki
ndan rolled over, trying to find his energy, Mikal doused him with a bucket of cold water. “Up—now!”

  Then Mikal forced a soaked Kindan out into the cold morning air. “Run until you’re dry,” he ordered.

  Kindan obeyed, and when he returned, his clothes fully dry, he was surprised to realize that he felt better than he’d ever felt before.

  “Come with me,” Mikal ordered then, hiking a carisak to his shoulder and taking off at a brisk pace. They were far beyond the wherhold by the time he stopped—evidently at a spot that suited him specifically, though Kindan could see no distinction between it and any other place—and ordered, “Close your eyes.”

  Kindan obliged and felt Mikal roughly tie a strip of cloth over his eyes.

  “Now fight me,” Mikal ordered, thrusting a practice blade into Kindan’s right hand.

  “Uh…” Kindan began uncertainly. A sharp pain struck him on his left chest.

  “Parry,” Mikal ordered. Kindan blindly twisted his blade and was surprised to feel it connect with another blade. “And again.”

  Again and again Kindan parried, then thrust, then probed.

  “Stop,” Mikal ordered after several minutes. “Listen. What do you hear? Smell. Where are the scents?”

  Kindan listened carefully. He heard the few noises of mid-autumn, the soft rushing of a stream, the gentle hissing of leaves in the wind. Then he heard it—the faintest of crunches as Mikal moved forward. He parried and connected. He heard Mikal move away, then nothing. He waited tensely for several moments. Then, from his right side he smelled it—the faintest odor of sweat with a hint of smoke. Kindan wheeled and raised his blade. He connected again.

  “Better,” Mikal told him. “Now, I’ll stop being so easy on you.”

  The pace increased, the time between decreased. The sounds and the telltale smells of an impending attack grew harder to detect—masked, Kindan guessed, by leaves, flowers, or other greenery. Blows landed on him and he whirled around defensively, only to connect with nothing. He started sweating, his breath became ragged, his nerves flared.

  “Stop,” Mikal ordered. Kindan stopped. “Rest. You can’t win when you’re winded.”

  Kindan was about to protest that he couldn’t win when he was blind, either, but stopped as he realized that not only could he win, but that he already had. He calmed himself, took several deep, steadying breaths, and listened carefully. He heard the merest of noises, smelled the faintest of smells, then he whirled and connected, hard, with Mikal’s blade.

  “Better,” Mikal said, his voice full of approval. “Now, take your blindfold off and fight me left-handed.”

  By the end of the day, Mikal had Kindan parrying alternate blows with either hand.

  “Tomorrow,” Mikal told him as they trudged back to the wherhold, “I’ll teach you how to go for the eyes.”

  “I don’t want to blind him,” Kindan said, aghast.

  “But he wants to kill you,” Mikal replied. “Think what you’re going to do about that.”

  All through his dinner and singing, Kindan mulled over the ex-dragonrider’s words. Even as he crawled into his bed, he thought them over.

  Kindan slept fitfully that night.

  “No one fights well when they’re worried about their eyes,” Mikal told Kindan as they started their practice the next morning. “And, as you’ve seen, it’s nearly impossible to fight when blinded.”

  Kindan could only nod, appalled at the thought of blinding someone. His friend Nuella was blind, and though she coped with it very well, Kindan knew from first-hand experience—walking through the dark, dust-laden mines just after a cave-in—what that meant to her.

  He knew that Vaxoram was bigger, heavier, older, and had the greater reach.

  “A person’s reaction to a thrust to the head is instinctual,” Mikal went on. “They will always parry the blow.”

  In a quick series of exchanges, Mikal demonstrated this on Kindan. Kindan felt sweat and cold fear running down his back—and he knew that Mikal would not hit him.

  “Now, I want you to attack my head every third strike,” Mikal said.

  “But I might hit you!” Kindan protested.

  Mikal looked around the practice area he’d chosen. “There are no rocks or holes here,” he said. “If you get me within a sword’s length of the edge, we’ll break. Otherwise, I’ll be able to take care of myself.” He raised his sword, one of the heavy wooden practice blades they’d been working with. “And this is more likely to give me a black eye than a permanent injury.” And with that, Mikal thrust forward, sword raised toward Kindan, giving him the choice of fighting or being hit. Kindan fought.

  They continued for two hours, breaking only four times. Once, Kindan nearly landed a blow on Mikal’s cheek, just below the left eye. Mikal, on the other hand, landed a solid blow on Kindan’s right cheek; Kindan knew that it would be black and blue in the morning.

  “Good,” Mikal said as he lowered his blade after their last bout. “We’ll get some water and food. When we start back, we’ll use a dummy.”

  After a quick bite to eat and a gulp of water, Mikal brought Kindan over to a hastily built figure. It was dressed in Mikal’s old clothes, a stick forced into the ground with a crosspiece tied to it at shoulder height representing arms. The clothes were filled out with old straw, so that the overall effect was that of a scarecrow. However, Mikal had rigged ropes to the “hands” so that he could pivot the scarecrow around the upright pole. The scarecrow’s head was a gourd with two large holes in it where eyes would be. In the holes Mikal had placed two ripe tomatoes.

  He handed Kindan a steel blade and walked back to grab the ropes behind the scarecrow.

  “Now go for the eyes,” he ordered. Kindan lunged, but Mikal pulled the scarecrow around so that Kindan’s stroke hit the side of the gourd. He pulled his blade free and prepared to strike again.

  In twenty minutes he scored ten times, none of them on the eyes.

  “We should take a break,” Mikal said.

  “No,” Kindan replied, his sides heaving, “let’s continue.”

  Again he thrust and missed. And again. And then—“Excellent!” One of the tomatoes was skewered and remained stuck on the end of Kindan’s blade. Kindan looked at it and his triumphant smile died on his lips as he grew pale and turned away from one-eyed scarecrow. He pivoted swiftly and moved his blade just enough to get it out of the way as he heaved his guts.

  Some time later, Mikal handed him a flask of water and Kindan realized that the ex-dragonrider had dropped his ropes and was kneeling behind him, gently rubbing his shoulders.

  “Drink and spit it out—it’ll clear out the aftertaste,” Mikal told him softly. Kindan obeyed, his insides still shaking. After a while, he felt better. “Are you able to stand?”

  Kindan nodded and stood up. He was glad to get away from the stench of his own vomit. As he stood, he caught sight of his blade once more, with the tomato neatly skewered at the end. It was just a tomato.

  “Kindan,” Mikal called softly. Kindan turned to him. “Now you understand what you’re doing, don’t you?”

  Kindan nodded mutely.

  “And you understand what Vaxoram will do?”

  “He’ll kill me,” Kindan answered. “But that’s stupid.”

  A trace of a smile crossed the old man’s lips. “So don’t let him.” He gestured for Kindan to pick up his blade and return to the exercise.

  Gingerly, Kindan retrieved the blade, flicked it so that the tomato flew off, and moved toward the dummy. He noticed that it once more had two tomato eyes.

  Mikal moved behind the dummy and grabbed the control ropes once more.

  “Now,” he called, “go for the eyes!”

  They practiced for another three hours, by which time Kindan had exhausted Mikal’s store of tomatoes.

  “Maybe we should stop,” the ex-dragonrider suggested.

  Kindan shook his head. “No, I’ve an idea. Let’s see if I can score just below the eye.”

>   “Why?”

  “I want to convince Vaxoram that I can have his eyes anytime I want,” Kindan replied. “If he understands that, perhaps he’ll surrender.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then he’ll lose an eye,” Kindan replied staunchly, his stomach in a tight knot.

  “And if he doesn’t stop then?” Mikal persisted.

  Kindan heaved a deep sigh. “Then I’ll blind him and leave him fighting his own shadows.”

  Mikal locked eyes with him over the distance and then nodded in acknowledgment of Kindan’s conviction. “If he knows that you won’t stop, he’ll surrender.” He tugged on the ropes once more. “Very well, let’s begin.”

  Kindan worked for two more hours, fighting with both his natural right and his newly trained left hand.

  As the sun set, Mikal called a halt.

  “Tomorrow you’ll practice with Jaythen, then Aleesa,” Mikal told him.

  Kindan looked surprised at his mention of the elderly wherhandler.

  “She fights dirty,” Mikal told him with a wink.

  Kindan was just as tired that night, but instead of going to bed exhausted, he found himself led to his quarters by Arella, Aleesa’s daughter.

  “Strip, and lie down there on your stomach,” she ordered, pointing to a raised platform. “Put your head in the hole.”

  All feeble concerns Kindan had over nudity were completely banished by her next words: “Mikal has asked me to give you a massage.”

  As with all harpers, Kindan had received some training in healing and so, from that, he already had some training in massage and understood its benefits to not only muscle tone and skeletal alignment but also just peace of mind. His nostrils pricked as he recognized the smell of warmed, scented oil.

  The head hole was well padded with furs and let Kindan relax completely on his stomach without tilting his head to one side or the other. He let out a deep sigh as he settled in, aware only of the cold air on his back. That was soon relieved by a soft fur bundled over his butt and legs. The sounds of Arella pouring and rubbing oil on her hands alerted Kindan to the start of the massage. She first got his back well covered with the oil, then started on his muscles, massaging shoulders and neck first, and then moving down to the base of his spine. In moments Kindan was lost in the luxurious feeling of having the kinks in his muscles all worked out.