McCaffrey, Anne – DragonQuest. Chapter 7, 8

“She’s asleep, full up to the jawline.”

She was and daintily curled in the hollow by Canth’s left ear. Her belly was distended from the morning’s meal and F’nor dabbed it with sweet oil. She condescended to lift two lids but her eye was so dull she did not take notice of the additional visitor, nor Mnementh peering down at her. He thought her a very interesting creature.

“Charming. Lessa’ll want one, I’m sure,” F’lar murmured, a delighted half-smile on his face as he jumped down from Canth’s forearm on which he’d stood to observe her. “Hope she grows a little. Canth could yawn and inadvertently inhale her.”

Never, and the brown’s comment did not need to be passed to the bronze rider.

“If we’d only an estimate of how long it would take to train them, if they are trainable. But time’s as inflexible as an Oldtimer.” F’lar looked his half-brother squarely in the eye, no longer hiding the deep worry that gnawed at him.

“Not entirely, F’lar,” the brown rider said, returning his gaze steadily. “As you said, the greater evil is the sickness in our own …”

A dragon’s brassy scream, the klaxon of Thread attack, stopped F’nor mid-sentence. The brown rider had swung toward his dragon, instinctively reacting to the alert, when F’lar caught him by the arm.

“You can’t fight thread with an unhealed wound, man. Where do they keep firestone here?”

Whatever criticism F’lar might have had of T’bor’s permissiveness at Southern, he could not fault the instant response of the Weyr’s fighting complement. Dragons swarmed in the skies before the alert had faded. Dragons swooped to weyrs while riders fetched fighting gear and firestone. The Weyr’s women and children were at the supply shed, stuffing sacks. A message had been sent to the seahold where fishermen from Tillek and Ista had established a settlement. They acted as ground crew. By the time F’lar was equipped and aloft, T’bor was issuing the coordinates.

Thread was falling in the west, at the edge of the desert where the terrain was swampy, where sharp broad-edged grasses were interspersed with dwarfed spongewoods and low berry bushes. For Thread, the muddy swamp was superb burrowing ground, with sufficient organisms on which to feed as the burrow proliferated and spread.

The wings, fully manned and in good order, went between at T’bor’s command. And, in a breath, the dragons hung again in sultry air and began to flame at the thick patches of Thread.

T’bor had signaled a low altitude entry, of which F’lar approved. But the wing movement was upward, seeking Thread at ever higher levels as they eliminated the immediate airborne danger. Weyrfolk and convalescents swelled the seahold group as ground crew but F’lar thought they’d need low ground support here. There were only three fighting queens, and where was Kylara?

F’lar directed Mnementh to fly a skim pattern just as the ground crews arrived, piling off the transport dragons, and flaming any patch of grass that seemed to move. They kept shouting to know where the leading Edge of the Fall was and F’lar directed Mnementh east by north. Mnementh complied, and abruptly turned due north, his head barely skimming the vegetation. He backwinged so abruptly that he nearly offset his rider. He hovered, peering so intently at the ground, that F’lar leaned over the great neck to see what attracted him. Dragons could adjust the focus of their eyes to either great distances or close inspection.

Something moved — away, the dragon said.

The gusts of his backwinging flattened grasses. Then F’lar saw the pin-sized, black-rimmed punctures of Thread on the leaves of the berry bushes. He stared hard, trying to discern the telltale evidence of burrows, the upheaval of soil, the consumption of the lush swamp greenery. The bush, the grass, the soil stood still.

“What moved?”

Something bright. It’s gone.

Mnementh landed, his feet sinking into the oozing terrain. F’lar jumped off and peered closely at the bush. Had the holes been made by droplets of hot Thread during a previous Fall? No. The leaves would long since have dropped off. He examined every nearby hummock of grass. Not a sign of burrows. Yet Thread had fallen — and it had to be this Fall — had pierced leaves, grass and tree over a widespread area — and vanished without a trace. No, that was impossible! Gingerly, for viable Thread could eat through wher-hide gloves, F’lar dug around the berry bush. Mnementh helpfully scooped out a deep trench nearby. The displaced soil teamed with grub life, writhing in among the thick tough grass roots. The unexpectedly gray, gnarly taproots of the bush were thick with the black earth but not a sign of Thread.