CHAPTER III
Morning Over Lemos Hold
RAMOTH, Bendens golden queen, was in the Hatching Ground when she got the greens frantic summons from Lemos Hold.
Threads at Lemos. Thread falls at Lemos! Ramoth told every dragon and rider, her full-throated brassy bugle reverberating through the Bowl.
Men scrambled frantically from couch and bathing pool, upset tables and dropped tools before the first echo had rolled away. Flar, idly watching the weyrlings drill, was dressed for fighting since the Weyr had expected to be at Lemos Hold late that day. Mnementh, his magnificent bronze, sunning himself on a ledge, swooped down at such a rate that he gouged a narrow trench in the sand of the floor with his left wingtip. Flar was atop his neck and they were circling to the Eye Rock before Ramoth had had time to stamp out of the Hatching Cavern.
Thread at Lemos northeast, Mnementh reported, picking up the information from his mate Ramoth as she projected herself toward her weyr ledge for Lessa. Dragons were now streaming from every weyr opening, their riders struggling into fighting gear or securing bulging firesacks.
Flar didnt waste time wondering why Thread was falling hours ahead of schedule or northeast instead of southwest. He checked to see if there were enough riders assembled and aloft to make up a full low altitude wing. He hesitated long enough to have Mnementh order every weyrling to proceed immediately to Lemos to help fly ground crews to the area and then told his dragon to take the wing between.
Thread was indeed falling, a great sheet plummeting down toward the delicate new leafing hardwoods that were Lord Asgenars prime forestry project. Screaming, flaming, dragons broke out of between, skimming the spring forest to get quick bearings before they soared up to meet the attack.
Incredibly, Flar believed they had actually managed to beat Thread to the forest. That greens rider would have his choice of anything in Flars power to give. The thought of Thread in those hardwood stands chilled the Weyrleader more thoroughly than an hour between.
A dragon screamed directly above Flar. Even as he glanced upward to identify the wounded beast, both dragon and rider had gone between where the awful cold would shatter and break the entangling Threads before they could eat into membrane and flesh.
A casualty minutes into an attack? Even an attack that was so unpredictably early? Flar winced.
Virianth, Rnors brown, Mnementh informed his rider as he soared in search of a target. He craned his sinuous neck around in a wide sweep, eyeing the forest lest Thread had actually started burrowing. Then, with a warning to his rider, he folded his wings and dove toward an especially thick patch, braking his descent with neck-snapping speed. As Mnementh belched fire, Flar watched, grinning with intense satisfaction as the Thread curled into black dust and floated harmlessly to the forests below.
Virianth caught his wingtip, Mnementh said as he beat upward again. Hell return. We need him. This Thread falls wrong.
Wrong and early, Flar said gritting his teeth against the fierce wind of their ascent. If he hadnt been in the custom of sending a messenger on to the Hold where Thread was due …
Mnementh gave him just enough warning to secure his hold as the great bronze veered suddenly toward a dense clump. The stench of the fiery breath all but choked Flar. He flung up an arm to protect his face from the hot charred flecks of Thread. Then Mnementh was turning his head for another block of firestone before swooping again at dizzying speed after more Thread.
There was no further time for speculation; only action and reaction. Dive. Flame. Firestone for Mnementh to chew. Call a weyrling for another sack. Catch it deftly mid-air. Fly above the fighting wings to check the pattern of flying dragons. Gouts of flame blossoming across the sky. Sun glinting off green, blue, brown, bronze backs as dragons veered, soared, dove, flaming after Thread. Hed spot a beast going between, tense until he reappeared or Mnementh reported their retreat. Part of his mind kept track of the casualties, another traced the wing line, correcting it when the riders started to overlap or flew too wide a pattern. He was aware, too, of the golden triangle of the queens wing, far below, catching what Thread escaped from the upper levels.