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2860.05.02, Sunstone Hold in Kadanzer Weyr territory
H’sark paused to rest his aching knees and hips a moment on the long climb up the back-stairs to Sunstone Hold’s fireheights. His joints were always stiff first thing in the morning, and also when the weather was cold. Fortunately, the latter rarely occurred at Sunstone Hold.
His main problem was the Hold had not really been constructed with the needs of a watchrider in mind, let alone an aging one with troublesome joints. The bluerider’s accommodation was in the middle levels of the Hold, on the same floor where the Steward and his family resided. H’sark had a room and an ‘office’ which were small, but adequate to his needs. Certainly he had no complaints about the quality of the furnishings or the diligence of the women who kept everything clean. But there was certainly no space for a blue dragon in his rooms, even in the unlikely event his Skith decided to squeeze his way in through the shutters.
H’sark became aware of the aforesaid Skith’s sleepy thoughts, as his dragon began to wake. He smiled to himself and resumed his climb up the stairs. He enjoyed being there when his bondmate woke, sharing the first moments of the morning together. It was one of the ironies of life that as he got older he seemed to need less sleep, whilst Skith needed more. He must remember to ask greenrider Kelara – watchrider to Drake Hold – if the same was true for her and Blareth. Kelara was in her seventies now, so H’sark still had a ways to go before he caught up with her in age, but it would be useful to know what to expect.
One more flight to go. Sunstone Hold was built into a hill, which made for a lot of stairs. The back-stairs allowed support staffers – H’sark still had a hard time thinking of them as drudges – to reach the apartments of Lord Janol and his close relatives on the top floor of the Hold without getting in the way of their superiors whilst carrying basket loads of laundry or the like. The stairs also doubled as an indoor route for guardsmen to reach the fireheights or the watch positions on the top of the hill. And, of course, to allow one old bluerider to reach the ‘rooftop weyr’ which housed his dragon.
Skith was nudging open the metal-clad doors of his barn-like accommodation by the time H’sark exited from the top of the covered stairwell. The grey-muzzled blue gave a happy rumble as he sighted his weyrmate. It is warm today. I like it when it is warm. he padded out of the stone barn and tilted his head to let his rider scratch his eyeridges.
H’sark agreed that he too liked it when it was warm. It was cold that he dreaded. Cold that would set off his arthritic joints, turning a dull ache into crippling agony. The cold of between was the worst. No matter how warmly he wrapped up, it seemed that between could always pierce his defences and send stabbing pains for hours afterwards into his hips, knees and other afflicted joints. Then, of course, Skith would worry incessantly or get agitated as he perceived his partner’s suffering. It was joint-ail rather than any Threadfall injury that had retired him and Skith from the Wings to his current post here as Sunstone’s watchrider.
It sometimes felt unfair. There were days when H’sark felt he was letting his dragon down, by keeping him from the Weyr and the chance to fight his ancient enemy. After all, Skith was hale and hearty. It was he, H’sark, who had the infirmity that prevented them fighting Thread. His blue’s hide may be turning grey, but he was as agile as he was when the pair of them had first graduated into the Wings, forty two Turns ago.
Of course, Skith never voiced any such dissatisfaction. Dragon memory being what it was, Skith could not recall a life anywhere other than at Sunstone Hold, nor a duty other than watchrider. To H’sark the blue appeared perfectly contented with his at-a-distance involvement in the day to day activities of the Weyr. Nearly two hundred miles might separate Skith from his former wingmates, but telepathic contact was enough to reinforce the blue’s feeling of belonging. Even at this vast distance Skith apparently knew exactly how he fitted into the draconic hierarchy of Kadanzer Weyr. His blue was always delighted when other dragons came to visit, but had no regrets about being assigned watchrider.
The same could not be said for H’sark. It was a lonely life at times, being the only weyrbred in a community of holders. Being the only one who truly understood what the dragons and riders went through when they seared Thread from the skies above the Hold.
The only one in the whole place with a dragon.
# # #
Orylath will rise today.
The information came as bluerider H’sark was finishing his breakfast in Sunstone Hold’s Main Hall. He lowered the mug of klah he had been about to sip as he listened to his dragon. Sunstone was a little to the east of Kadanzer, so the latter’s day started a tad later. Time enough for H’sark to rise, see to Skith and head back down the stairs for breakfast before the Weyr’s inhabitants were awake.
The bronzes gather. Akrenth tells me he will fly Orylath. Fordath says the same.
H’sark gave a snort of amusement as Skith relayed the boasting of their former wingmates in StormWind. There was nothing like a gold rising to bring out a bronze’s ego!
“Watchrider H’sark?” The voice of Guard Captain Fasco interrupted his thoughts. The man’s voice had taken on that slightly guarded tone it always did when he realised the bluerider had tuned out his immediate surroundings to communicate with his dragon. Others at the table – including Steward Belidern – were staring his way with open curiosity, obviously wondering what had triggered H’sark’s sudden amusement.
Sunstone’s watchrider gave a courteous nod towards Fasco. “Nothing to trouble you, Captain. Skith merely informs me that gold Orylath will rise today and the bronzes are being very boastful about their chances.”
“Ah.” Fasco nodded in turn. The Captain’s expression settled into something neutral, but not so some of the others with whom H’sark ate his meals.
Uneasy glances and uncomfortable expressions were the norm whenever the Sunstone Holders were confronted with some of the realities of Weyr life. Mating flights was one of the topics that always caused a certain undercurrent of consternation, even amongst such men of the world as Fasco’s guardsmen or Steward Belidern and his assistants. Why, their holder morals would silently scream, Goldrider Revanne could end up sharing the furs with anyone (or at least anyone who possessed a bronze dragon). It was totally scandalous!
It didn’t help, of course, that Lord Janol had a distaste for dragonkind bordering on a phobia. Some of that attitude was bound to rub off on his holders. H’sark had been watchrider at Sunstone for five Turns now, and had worked out who he could tease or banter about such matters and for whom the topic was taboo… or at least not to be talked about openly in front of underlings or superiors. He decided to change the subject.
“Has Lord Janol decided whether he wishes Skith to take you and Heir Fallon to the coast again?” he asked Steward Belidern. The estuary channels at the mouth of the Boca River were silting up, and Lord Janol was not satisfied with the coastal holders’ efforts to dredge them. Belidern and Fallon had been sent several times to inspect the progress, and to consult with the Seacraft and the Smithcraft on the best way to deal with the problem. Janol’s dislike of dragons may keep his own trips a-dragonback to a minimum, but didn’t stop him sending his sons or his Steward hither and yon as the Hold’s needs dictated.
Belidern shook his head. “Not this sevenday or the next. The next trip will be after the Harvest Gather, I suspect.” The man went on to outline a few trips a-dragonback that might be necessary as the gather day drew near.
H’sark gave a nod of acknowledgement, silently considering the best way to space those trips out, and which of them might be politely declined without causing offence. The whole Hold would doubtless soon be consumed by the preparations for the gather. The effect of betweening on one old man’s joint-ail was far from their thoughts.
# # #
Later, as Skith bathed in the river at a suitable distance from any livestock or skittish holders, the blue kept him informed of the progress of Orylath’s flight as it took place. H’sark mused on the betting that was likely going on back at the Weyr. Since this was an open flight for a junior gold who carried the fabled Benden Blood of old, there were many visiting bronzes from other Weyrs participating. He imagined such things had thrown all sorts of quirks into the established betting system. Brows were doubtless furrowed as people tried to guess the odds on a stranger winning the flight, and whether it would be disloyal to bet on a bronze from another weyr.
Such betting was another of the things that H’sark could not really discuss with the Sunstoners. Holders seemed unable to disengage from the fact a mating flight ended in sex, and placing bets about sex was Simply Not Done. Horse races, arm wrestling and even dog fighting; all those were acceptable things to bet on. But not mating flights.
Holders, H’sark mused as he checked Skith’s hide for signs he required oiling, were a strange lot.
# # #
2860.05.04
Wake, rider, wake!
As was usual on a day when Thread was due to fall over Sunstone Hold very early in the morning, Skith’s mental voice roused H’sark from sleep long before the staffer assigned to the same task had even appeared. Thread was the one thing guaranteed to wake Skith long before his rider, even given the dragon’s propensity for sleep. The blue was mentally in sync with dragons back at the Weyr, and was excited by the shared knowledge Thread was coming here, and he had a part to play. The blue would relay information on the preparations of whichever Flight was due to fight – in this case WindFlight – and chivvy H’sark into keeping pace with them, even though it would be hours before Thread passed over the vicinity of Sunstone Hold itself.
Yes, lad. Be there soon. H’sark hurried through his morning routine, and was pulling on his flying jacket when the expected tap on the door came. He opened it to find the expected support staff girl – Mirga – bearing a bread roll and a mug of klah in acknowledgement H’sark would not make it to the Main Hall for breakfast this morning. He muttered thanks, and wolfed down the bread, taking the klah with him on the long trip up the stairs to the fireheights and the excited Skith.
Dawn was barely creeping over the horizon. Skith was a blacker bulk against the darkness, and H’sark drained the last of his klah and left the mug in the stairwell, moving a glowbasket outside to give him a bit of light.
There is no Thread yet. Skith was scanning the north-east horizon, just in case Thread decided to break its pattern and fall early. He continued to stare in that direction as H’sark fitted his riding straps, and even when Captain Fasco and a trio of guardsmen arrived to do one last inspection of the fireheights. One guard would be left behind with H’sark, it being his and the bluerider’s duty to light the protective fires when Skith’s long-sighted eyes spotted the first signs of Thread approaching. It was not a favoured posting for the guardsmen, no more than being outside with the groundcrews was. Holders liked to be safely hidden behind thick stone walls when Thread fell.
“Started yet?” Captain Fasco nodded in the direction Skith was staring. The man’s sentences tended to become more and more terse when danger loomed.
“Not yet,” replied H’sark. “The Wings are still preparing to go between.”
“Enough firestone?”
“Plenty, yes, thank you.” H’sark was aware that Fasco asking was likely just pre-Fall nerves. He and Skith were never short of firestone. If there was one thing Lord Janol feared more than dragonkind, it was Thread, so there were always sackfuls aplenty in Skith’s weyr. Enough that H’sark could be cajoled now and then by Hold youngsters into giving a flaming demonstration.
Skith abruptly sat up on his haunches, starling the guardsmen. They go between now! A brief pause and then: They are at the coast. They see Thread over the sea.
H’sark affected not to have noticed the holders’ reaction to his dragon’s abrupt motion. “It’s begun, Captain,” he said.
# # #
The Wings drew ever closer, as Thread swept across the skies above Sunstone territory, heading inexorably for the Main Hold and the nearby Tannercraft Hall. The watchpair’s altitude on the fireheights and Skith’s long-sighted dragon eyes gave them plenty of warning of its approach, except on days when the weather was unusually foul. Today there was no such problem – the sun had crept upwards into clear skies, and Skith called out his first sighting when the battle was about four miles away, and turned his head from the sight to accept the firestone his rider offered.
When Skith had finished chewing, H’sark and the guardsman diligently lit the fire pits around the roof of Sunstone Hold. As far as the bluerider was aware, Thread had never fallen directly on Sunstone Hold in living memory, but better safe than sorry. He called out an affirmative to the guardsman’s query about all the fires being lit, allowing the man to scurry back inside the shelter of the Hold’s stone walls.
Just you and me now, lad, he said to Skith. The blue rumbled in agreement and crouched to allow his rider to clamber stiffly onto his neck. That simple action took a great deal longer now than it did in H’sark’s prime. At least the joint-ail didn’t afflict his fingers. It would be embarrassing beyond belief to have to ask a holder to fasten his riding straps for him.
Skith’s hindquarters bunched, and then his powerful leg muscles thrust him upwards in synchrony with a forceful down-stroke from his wings. The pair ascended at a leisurely pace, despite the excitement that coursed through both their veins. They took up station at a low altitude – even lower than that at which the Queen’s Wing fought – and flew a wide circle which encompassed the Tannercraft Hall and the Main Hold. Their low altitude and path would not interfere with the tactics of the Queen’s Wing, but offered additional protection to the buildings.
Ihyanith welcomes us, Skith informed him as the massed ranks of WindFlight drew nearer and nearer, and then abruptly were directly overhead.
If necessary they could be called to temporarily ascend to the Queen’s Wing and fight alongside them. In reality such a thing happened very rarely. More frequent was a call from one of the golds to investigate a possible missed strand; and thus, of course, a possible burrow.
Skith flew a criss-crossing path beneath the formation of the golds and lesser colours of the Queen’s Wing. Occasionally he flamed, but the Thread that came their way was already blackened fragments with no threat left in it. Still, it gave Skith an immense feeling of satisfaction to sear this debris, and H’sark enjoyed the vicarious feelings he received from his dragon.
The Fall passed over the Main Hold without incident and swept onwards. H’sark and Skith stayed with the Wings until – despite the warmth of the day and the low altitude at which they flew – the wind chill of Skith’s flight began to nip at H’sark’s joints.
You hurt, rider. Skith’s tone was concerned.
It’s alright, lad. I’ll be good for a while yet. The pain wasn’t much yet – not like the agony that could result from going between.
The golds say I must always tell them when you begin to hurt. I tell them, and Ihyanith says we must return to our weyr. Even as he relayed this information, Skith veered away from the Queens’ Wing and began to flap steadily back in the direction of Sunstone Hold.
H’sark sighed. Can’t argue with a gold, eh lad?
No, of course not. Skith sounded puzzled by the very contemplation of such a thing. Golds are Senior.
# # #
By the time he and Skith had flown all the way back to the Hold, the Wings had crossed out of Sunstone lands, and were following the path of the ‘Fall along the border between Waterfall and Kadanzer.
H’sark left Skith entertaining himself by venting the last of his flame on various dragon-proof portions of the fireheights, and headed down one flight of the backstairs to locate a guard and pass on the message Thread was safely beyond Sunstone’s borders. Then back up again – with a few pauses to rest aching knees – and outside to roll a big wooden tub to where Skith could regurgitate the remains of the firestone he had chewed. Fortunately it was the support staffers’ task to haul the tub away and dispose of the mess. He’d heard they mixed it with manure and used it on the Lady Alayn’s flower gardens. He hoped the flowers had a strong scent.
Pelagrath and Brelyeth arrive, Skith informed him, as one green burst into the air above the hold, then another a heartbeat and a dragonlength behind her. The sweepriders began to spiral downwards.
Fashine and Faizah’s greens were tasked today with checking the ground overflown by the Weyr. They had dutifully done so, assisting the groundcrews to scour the lands behind the front where the actual Threadfighting went on. Post-Fall sweep wasn’t a favoured task, but was one suitable for a green who could later be swapped out for a tiring wingmate on the front lines.
Let’s join them, shall we, lad? It would be far faster for H’sark to descend to ground level on Skith’s back, than to make his slow and careful way down the backstairs.
They joined the other dragons in the space in front of the Hold’s main doors. H’sark called out a warm greeting to his fellow dragonriders as Skith squatted so he could dismount without putting too much strain on his knees. Then, Lord Janol’s proclivities being what they were, all three dragons winged back to the fireheights and thus safely distant from the anywhere the nervous Lord might want to walk. The trio could use the time to share whatever passed for dragon gossip.
“Burrows?” H’sark asked as he joined the two greenriders. He was not aware anything had got through for the small portion of Fall he had flown, but that did not mean there were none.
“Only the one,” Faizah reported. “Up near the coast. My Brelyeth got the ground crews from Shifting Sands Hold onto it. The crop has already been harvested in that field, so no harm done.”
H’sark doubted Lord Janol would view it that way, but kept silent. To the Lord Holder a few square yards of Thread-despoiled and charred soil was a disaster akin to having all his daughters carried off by bandits. Janol never gave thought to the thousands of strands flamed to oblivion. As watchrider, H’sark sometimes felt like one of the oft maligned hold felines – no matter how many tunnelsnakes they killed, it took only one to be spotted by a hold lady and the poor beasts would be berated for a sevenday afterwards.
“Are you well, bluerider?” Fashine enquired as the trio walked to the vast stone doors. Faizah gave him a nod.
“Well enough, greenrider,” H’sark replied. “Yourselves?”
“Nothing to complain about on my part, said Fashine.
“Rather be fighting than scouting for burrows,” muttered Faizah, then looked suddenly embarrassed as she remembered it was a watchrider she was addressing. H’sark gave her a smile to show he took no offence.
The massive doors of the Hold swung open and the three entered to make their report to Lord Janol.
# # #
After the sweepriders departed, H’sark spent the rest of the morning scrubbing the stink of firestone out of Skith’s hide down at the river and then taking a bath to soak it out of his own. The hot bath also had the added benefit of soothing the aches and twinges from his joints.
He wrapped himself in a large towel – never underestimate the prudishness of holders – and returned from the bathing rooms to his quarters. He opened the door to find the support staff girl, Mirga, loitering about while ostensibly collecting his laundry.
“Did you want something?” he asked. She was a skittish one, that Mirga, apt to flinch at raised voices and doubtless told by her peers that one day the dragonman would ravish her or carry her off the Weyr or some such nonsense.
“Apologies, bluerider H’sark.” The girl bobbed a curtsey, which might have been more elegant if her arms had not been full of unwashed underthings. “It’s just that… well we heard… We heard there was a burrow!”
Ah, that was it. Mirga had been press-ganged into seeing what gossip she could wrangle out of her charge. Lord Janol might cross examine the sweepriders inside out and backwards about Thread burrows on his land, but he was not much concerned with passing the report onto those of his holders whom he deemed beneath his notice. Or perhaps it suited his purpose that laundry girls and field-hands lay aquiver in their beds, imagining Thread burrowing a mere dragonlength from their door?
“Yes, there was a burrow,” H’sark said. “Near to Shifting Sands Hold. Green Brelyeth spotted it, and her rider set the ground crews onto it. They burned it out in good order.”
The girl’s eyes had been getting rounder and rounded as she listened to this. “Shifting Sands?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, up by the coast.”
“Not near here, then?”
“No, not near here.” He didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated by the relief in her expression.
“Thank you, bluerider.” Mirga flashed him an unexpected smile, bobbed another curtsey and dashed off with her arm-load of laundry. She was barely out the door when he heard her voice in the corridor, excitedly passing on what his words to her compatriots, to the accompaniment of girlish giggling.
The old bluerider shook his head. Holders were an odd lot indeed.
# # #
2860.05.07
No! Skith slumped to the ground in an undignified spawl, flattening his head and neck against the stone flagstones of the fireheights, so it was impossible to put on his riding straps. The blue’s eyes whirled violet with anxiety. You are hurting, rider. You hurt a lot. Tell that man that I will not go between until you are not hurting!
H’sark stared at his dragon, half aghast at the rebellion and half relieved that his bondmate was fighting his corner for him. Truth tell, his hips were afire this morning, and other joints were beginning to join in the chorus of pain, despite a pinch or two of featherfern in his klah. They pair of them had been between twice yesterday and several times the day before on various hold errands associated with today’s Harvest Gather. Now Steward Belidern had some urgent need to go to the Vinterhall in Paradise River before the high-ranking guests began to arrive. H’sark had hinted subtly he was not quite up to the trip, but the Steward had not been one for taking the hints.
Skith, however, did not do subtle. He took one look at the Steward in his flying gear and H’sark heading for the pegs where the flying straps were stored and belly flopped to the ground.
Belidern stepped back in alarm. “Is he ill?” he asked.
“No,” said H’sark. “But he thinks I am. I’m sorry, Steward Belidern but we cannot go to the Vinterhall just at this moment. Perhaps later in the day…?”
The Steward looked astounded and not a little put out. “But Lord Janol expressly requested...” He trailed off, looking sternly at H’sark. It was the sort of look weyrlingseconds gave their charges when they were late to class, or had forgotten to bring a scrubbing brush to the bathing beach. “It is imperative we get another two casks of brandy before his Lordship’s guests arrive!”
Skith interceded before H’sark could answer, extending his talons and snaking his head back and forth, like some sort of demented watchwher.
Belidern took another involuntary step backwards, then recovered his composure somewhat. “I, ah… I take it that’s a no, then?”
“That’s a no,” agreed H’sark. He was hard pushed not to laugh at Skith’s performance.
Tell that man I will take him to the Vintnerhall, but not you! Skith said.
H’Sark was startled. Really? That went outside all his experience of dragonkind.
Tell him! the blue insisted.
H’sark looked at his dragon doubtfully a moment and then shrugged. “Um… Skith suggests a compromise. He says to tell you that he will transport you to the Vintnerhall, but without me.”
If anything, Steward Belidern looked more discomfited by this than by the watchwher act. “On my own? Just me and him?” The latter came out as rather a croak.
“Yes.” H’sark nodded vigorously, catching on to what Skith was up to. “It will just take a moment to put on his riding straps…”
“No, no!” Belidern held up a hand to forestall the action. “That will not be necessary, bluerider. Perhaps later in the day, as you said.” And with that the Steward departed as fast as if Thread was chasing him.
Skith sat up with a happy rumble. H’sark walked over to scratch his eyeridges. That was very underhand, he said. Would you really take someone to the Vintnerhall without me?
No, said the blue. But he did not know that!
# # #
The ‘later in the day’ trip never materialised, the hospitality and festivity of Sunstone Hold apparently well able to survive without those two particular casks of brandy. H’sark went for a lie down for a while, listening to Skith happily name each dragon one by one as they arrived for the Harvest Gather. Eventually, when the sun was at its zenith, the old watchrider felt up to venturing out to join the festivities. A few hours sitting in the sun, a cup or two of wine and the company of some weyrfolk would do him the world of good.
Skith had obviously passed word to other dragons that his rider was heading for the Gather Square, so he found his former wingmates R’wan and Perone guarding an empty seat for him, and Shyla fending off all comers from a skin of wine. H’sark sank gratefully into the chair, noticing someone had managed to procure a cushion from somewhere, and sipped at the proffered drink.
“What news from the Weyr?”
Skith always passed on what he heard from other dragons, of course, but that was not the same as hearing it first hand from a fellow rider.
The trio regaled him with news and gossip, covering topics ranging from Weyr trivia to Holder politics, and in doing so slaking a thirst which was always there – the need to hear things from a dragonrider’s perspective. Things like open gold flights were discussed without a hint of scandal, their only concern whether the Weyr would benefit. Perone told him about the latest riders to be recruited into StormWind, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of their dragons in ‘Fall. Shyla told him the latest odds on how many bronzes might hatch from the current clutch of eggs on the sands. R’wan departed for a while to dance with some pretty bluerider than H’sark didn’t recognise and then the brownrider – true to form – couldn’t remember her name when he came back to their table. H’sark in turn told them about Skith’s ‘angry watchwher’ antics. This caused Shlya an attack of the giggles which turned into hiccups, followed by a plethora of useless advice from all and sundry on how to get rid of them.
StormWind riders – old and new – came and went from their corner of the Gather Square, making it feel homely and welcoming. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine this was a Hatching feast back at the Weyr, rather than a harvest festival in Sunstone Hold. It was a nice sundream for a while.
But then, of course, in ones and twos, the dragonriders began to depart. First the watchriders of distant holds and halls, carrying Lords and Craftmasters back to timezones in Landing and Eastern. Later went those who didn’t want to make too late a night of it plus weyrlings under strict instruction to be back before midnight.
Soon only the most dedicated party-goers of FireStorm Wing were left. H’sark sat with them a while, drinking klah rather than wine now, to ward off the cooling air of the night. But eventually even FireStorm’s hardiest realised that they had homes to go to. A very sleepy Skith bade each and every dragon farewell as they jumped between.
H’sark plodded slowly to his quarters, passing supports staffers already engaged in the monumental task of clearing up after the gather festivities. He overheard some of them tutting about dragonrider antics, and the way that some greenrider women would flirt with just anyone, including married men.
The bluerider sighed and headed for the stairs. Sometimes it was hard to be a Weyr of one.