Out of one hundred and seventy-two dragons, fifteen already were out of action, some only for a day or two, however.
A thought struck Lessa. If N’ton had actually ridden Canth, maybe he could ride out on the next dragonade on an injured man’s beast, since there were more injured riders than dragons. F’lar broke traditions as he chose. Here was another one to set aside if the dragon was agreeable.
Presuming N’ton was not the only new rider able to transfer to another beast, what good would such flexibility do in the long run? F’lar had definitely said the incursions would not be so frequent at first, when the Red Star was just beginning its fifty-Tum long circling pass of Pern. How frequent was frequent? He would know, but he wasn’t here.
Well, he had been right this morning about the appearance of Threads at Nerat, so his exhaustive study of those old Records had proved worthwhile.
No, that wasn’t quite accurate. He had forgotten to have the men alert for signs of black dust as well as warming weather. As he had put the matter right by going between times, she would graciously allow him that minor error. But he did have an infuriating habit of guessing correctly. Lessa corrected herself again. He didn’t guess. He studied. He planned. He thought and then he used common good sense. Like figuring out where and when Threads would strike according to entries in those smelly Records. Lessa began to feel better about their future.
Now, if he would just make the riders learn to trust their dragons’ sure instinct in battle, they would keep casualties down, too.
A shriek pierced air and ear as a blue dragon emerged above the Star Stone.
“Ramoth!” Lessa screamed in an instinctive reaction, hardly knowing why. The queen was a-wing before the echo of her command had died. For the careering blue was obviously in grave trouble. He was trying to brake his forward speed, yet one wing would not function. His rider had slipped forward over the great shoulder, precariously clinging to his dragon’s neck with one hand.
Lessa, her hands clapped over her mouth, watched fearfully. There wasn’t a sound in the Bowl but the flapping of Ramoth’s immense wings. The queen rose swiftly to position herself against the desperate blue, lending him wing support on the crippled side. The watchers gasped as the rider slipped, lost his hold, and felllanding on Ramoth’s wide shoulders. The blue dropped like a stone. Ramoth came to a gentle stop near him, crouching low to allow the weyrfolk to remove her passenger.
It was C’gan.
Lessa felt her stomach heave as she saw the ruin the Threads had made of the old harper’s face. She dropped beside him, pillowing his head in her lap. The weyrfolk gathered in a respectful, silent circle. Manora, her face, as always, serene, had tears in her eyes. She knelt and placed her hand on the old rider’s heart. Concern flicked in her eyes as she looked up at Lessa. Slowly she shook her head. Then, setting her lips in a thin line, she began to apply the numbing salve.
“Too toothless old to flame and too slow to get between” C’gan mumbled, rolling his head from side to side. “Too old. But ‘Dragonmen must fly/When Threads are in the sky… .’ ” His voice trailed off into a sigh. His eyes closed. Lessa and Manora looked at each other in anguish. A terrible, ear-shattering note cut the silence. Tagath sprang aloft in a tremendous leap. C’gan’s eyes rolled slowly open, sightless. Lessa, breath suspended, watched the blue dragon, trying to deny the inevitable as Tagath disappeared in mid-air.
A low moan sprang up around the Weyr, like the torn, lonely cry of a keening wind. The dragons uttered tribute.
“Is he … gone?” Lessa asked, although she knew.
Manora nodded slowly, tears streaming down her cheeks as she reached over to close C’gan’s dead eyes.
Lessa rose slowly to her feet, motioning to some of the women to remove the old rider’s body. Absently she rubbed her bloody hands dry on her skirts, trying to concentrate on what might be needed next.