Authors: Anne McCaffrey
F’lessan nervously eyed the still-calm surface of the wide bay until a spray of sand announced the return of the man who had gone to check the cotholds.
“Everyone’s out, Binness.”
“Then we’re for the steps, dragonrider. Mount and I’ll give the knot to your bronze.”
Just then the sea seemed to creep up the sands, leaving behind a wide lacy border. Binness stared at it.
F’lessan swept his eyes across the sea but he could see nothing that looked like the crest of a tsunami. The shoals were at least fifty meters out, where the dolphins had been swimming. And shoals were bad when a tsunami was rolling shoreward.
“Lift, dragonrider,” cried Binness, knot in one hand, waving urgently with the other.
F’lessan obeyed, Golanth rising and craning his head down, trying to look between his front legs. F’lessan felt Golanth catch the knot and take up the slack in the lines. They had barely risen a
few feet from the sands when they saw Binness, arms and legs pumping as the fishman raced toward the steps.
It isn’t that heavy
, Golanth reassured his rider, but it took him time to lift so as not to unbalance his load or lose his grip on the rope cradle. The summit was alive with people and goods, leaving no clear spot for the dory. Shouting orders from her rocking chair, the old woman solved the problem. It was with great relief that F’lessan felt the tension ease in the bronze shoulders as Golanth succeeded in getting the third dory landed. Golanth soared up, bugling with his success. Well, it wouldn’t be their problem to get the dories back down to the shore.
Not today!
Golanth tilted northward, dipping low around the granite outcrop, so that they could see the last of the seaholders reach the top of the rough stairs, crawling a little farther from the cliff edge. Rider and dragon could see Binness still racing for the first step. The man stumbled, obviously winded, and regained his balance with difficulty.
That’s when F’lessan saw the water being sucked back, away from the beach, all along the shoreline.
He will not make it!
Golanth did not wait for an order but dove sideways toward the man who was straining with effort, head up, arms carried tight to his chest, elbows flaring to suck air into his labored lungs, knees pumping.
The bronze intercepted him, dipping to secure the man in his front paws.
Binness looked up at the outstretched claws, panic contorting his face. Out of the corner of his eye, F’lessan could see the wall of water that was rising higher, higher, higher and coming straight at them. He saw the cliff looming up: if the tsunami didn’t drown them, they’d smash against the cliff. Having slowed to catch Binness, Golanth did not have enough air speed to gain altitude!
Between
had never been so cold or so comforting. Eight seconds, four deep gasping breaths, and then a watery deluge all but drowning them.
The wave is nearly as high as this cliff
, Golanth said, sounding amused. He had changed position to bring them out of
between
not far from the point where they had first entered over Sunrise Cliff Seahold.
The bronze had also
timed
that rescue! On his own initiative!
Dazed, F’lessan stared down at the tremendous tsunami wave that should, by any rights, have drowned them. Water splashed high, its topmost point lapping the summit. Behind the first, a second tsunami roared ashore, battering the land, taking with it the steps that had so recently led the way to safety.
I will put him down near the others
, Golanth said, backwinging, hovering in front of the terrified seaholders who were clutching at each other, watching as the crest of the second wave just missed the summit. Mealth and Galuth had spread their wings high, providing some cover from the windblown spray for the ancient woman sitting very upright in her chair that was rocking in the wind.
I hope my claws did not scratch him badly
.
He’s lucky to be alive to be scratched
, F’lessan responded weakly. He couldn’t quite believe they had survived the double peril. One more second and the three of them would have been pasted on the cliff face!
I knew you wouldn’t mind getting here before that happened
. Golanth turned his huge head to his left as the tsunami flooded inland, boiling up the streambed. Almost daintily, Golanth turned on his forequarters and paused midair, lowering Binness safely to the damp ground.
F’lessan stared down at the man, supine on the thick drenched ground cover. There were indeed red marks on Binness’s bare arms, where the dragon had clutched him. The bronze rider sagged across Golanth’s neck ridge. He was aware of a booming noise, not like the shock wave but frightening in its intensity. Water splashed high on the cliff again, as if seeking to regain a victim that only the initiative and quickness of his dragon had rescued. He did feel Golanth land; he was aware of Golanth tucking his wings loosely along his back, of the darkness that had replaced the bright sun, of the cries of those who had seen the tsunami curl and nearly inundate their summit refuge. These were dim, background noises to the rush of blood pounding in his body, the dryness in his throat, the extreme weariness he felt.
Breathe deep
, said his dragon with proud affection.
We’re all safe now
.
“Who has the wineskin?” The rasping voice cut through his self-absorption. “Help him down. Can’t you see he’s wore hisself out saving us. Give him a drink. Cona, go help your man. He thinks he’s dead of drowning.”
“It was real close, Granddam,” a young voice said.
A hand tugged at his sleeve. “Dragonrider, here’s the wineskin.”
St’ven and C’reel had to help him down, Golanth crouching as low as possible to make that easier. The brown riders propped him up against his dragon and put the spout of the wineskin against his lips. He opened his mouth to accept a sip of wine. It was a rough sort, but its effect was more important than its quality.
“Get a cup, someone!” Lady Medda ordered. “Can’t have a dragonrider who saved our lives drink like a sot right from the skin!”
“Get several cups …” St’ven yelled over his shoulder.
“Could only find one,” said a woman, a moment later extending it to the brown rider. “Everything’s mixed up.”
“But it’s here,” said Lady Medda. “Lias, Petan, haul Binness back outta all that splashing. Then come back and carry me to shelter. Don’t aim to sit in all this wet any longer’n I have to. You fixing to stay longer, dragonriders, you’d better get under cover, too. Never saw a storm blow up so fast.”
“It’ll pass,” F’lessan whispered to C’reel who repeated his words loud enough to be heard.
The wine revived F’lessan sufficiently to get to his feet, propping himself against Golanth, hoping no one but his bronze noticed his trembling.
Ramoth says to come back to Landing
, Golanth said. Evidently an order which Mealth and Galuth heard because the brown riders straightened up at the same time.
“We are ordered to return to Landing …” F’lessan began.
“Can ye get that far?”
F’lessan turned himself toward the sound of her anxious voice. “Yes!”
Lady Medda had pushed herself to her feet—she had a cane on
which she leaned heavily—as she extended her right arm in a gesture that still retained a vestige of youthful grace.
“We owe you, dragonriders. We owe you much.” Behind her, the wet and bedraggled seaholders paused in transferring their belongings and, as one, bowed!
“We owe you much, dragonriders.”
The dignified simplicity of their tribute rewarded all three riders for the effort they had made to save the ships. Then Lias and Petan waited until Binness’s dam had reseated herself before they carried her into the shelter of the forest.
“Send the lads out to see what fruit’s on the ground. Find enough dry wood to build a fire …” Lady Medda was saying as she went.
“Thought you were dead, F’lessan,” C’reel murmured, his face wet. “Here, get your arms in your jacket or you’ll freeze solid
between
.”
“When St’ven saw F’lessan’s hands trembling, he did the jacket fastenings, then found F’lessan’s helmet and put that on, too. Then he and C’reel heaved the bronze rider astride Golanth. “You’re some Wingleader, F’lessan. Proud to fly with you!”
“I, too, bronze rider,” C’reel said and saluted before he ran to his waiting brown.
“
I’ve
got to break the news to Toric?” F’nor demanded, staring first at his half brother, then at Idarolan who nodded emphatically.
“You and K’van are the logical messengers,” F’lar said. “I’d send G’bol as my emissary but he’s …” He quirked one eyebrow expressively. “… making time.”
K’van shrugged, raising both hands in reluctant acceptance. The expression on his angular, tanned face did not suggest great enthusiasm for the task. “We could take Sintary with us. He’s used to dealing with Toric.”
“He respects me,” Idarolan said with one of his fierce growls.
“Get him organized and we can proceed on to assist at Southern Boll,” he added with a quick sideways glance at young Janissian. He’d heard good things about her, taking hold with her grandmother ever since old Sangel became so erratic. This might be an excellent time for the girl to show her leadership qualities. She was the best of Sangel’s blood. “Unless, of course, Master Curran,” and he deferred amiably to the successor of his rank, “you have need of me.”
“I have need of you, Master Idarolan,” Ciparis of Nerat put in quickly, almost apologetically. “Nerat has more coastline to be affected.” He glanced at F’lar. “We’ll need so much help.”
“Sweepriders are already out informing holders,” F’lar said, “but, Master Idarolan, if you will share those invaluable charts of yours?”
“They can be copied, indeed, they can.” Idarolan slid out the relevant sheets.
Idarolan was, F’lar thought, the only one who had come at all prepared to this meeting. An early riser by nature, he was in the habit of scanning the morning skies for weather signs, so he had seen the fireball. He was also aware of the phenomenon of tsunami and had immediately consulted his charts and logbooks. As Erragon had done, he had used red for the most vulnerable seacoast, orange for danger, and blue for easily accessible highlands. Before the Benden Weyrleader appeared to ask for his help, he had a pretty good idea how serious the situation was.
“Here!” With a deft finger Idarolan extracted an open sheet and flicked it toward F’nor. “Toric likes charts and maps and details. This’ll give you what he needs to know. He’d have—let’s see …” Idarolan turned his eyes up, mentally figuring.
“Eleven hours, minus the time of this meeting,” Erragon said with an apologetic nod to the old MasterFishman for giving the answer, “before the tsunamis meet the shoreline of his hold.”
“At that he’ll get off lightly. And consider himself ill-used to be assaulted from east and west,” Lessa said, her expression inscrutable. F’nor gave her a long wide-eyed look. She responded with a smirk as Erragon agreed with her.
“But not entirely. He has many seaside holdings.”
“Southern Boll will be hit harder,” Idarolan said, nodding solemnly at Janissian. “And Tillek.”
“More rock face than shallows along that south-facing coast of ours,” Ranrel said, speaking almost for the first time; he’d been taking copious notes. “We are very lucky that there has been such advance warning.”
“The
Yokohama
has more than justified her continued existence,” Idarolan said with a slightly sanctimonious air, glancing sideways at Kashman of Keroon.
“I wonder what the Abominators will say about this,” Jaxom remarked in a deliberately languid tone.
Into the dismayed silence that greeted that comment, F’nor noisily pushed back his chair, reached across the table for the sheets Idarolan had sent in his direction and finished the last of the klah in his cup.
“C’mon, then! We can send a fire-lizard to apprise Sintary of our arrival.” He looked to Lessa and F’lar.
“Might as well,” Idarolan said, also rising to his feet. “I shan’t be long, Lord Ciparis, and then I’m yours to command. But I’ll point out that the Keys, and Long Beach at the head of Nerat River, will reduce the violence of the tsunami there. The Tip of Nerat, Bent Ridge, Grethel, Saluda, and Berea will be affected and the river may flood all the way up to Waneta. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll return Janissian to Southern Boll,” Jaxom said, “once we’ve copies of all this for you and Curran, Ranrel, and for us.”
The instinct that saved dragons from colliding during Threadfall kept Golanth and his rider from disaster as they came out of
between
over a Landing that, at first, seemed covered by dragon wings, like a vast multicolored sunshade.
Ramoth says to land on the square. We are to rest!
And, without waiting for F’lessan’s comment, Golanth pivoted wearily on one wing tip, gliding over to the edge of the wide Gather square. F’lessan had time enough in that spin to see Ramoth, perched
behind and above Admin, wings half open as she constantly swung her head from side to side across the area below her. Two more queens—the juniors from Benden who were accustomed to working with Ramoth—sat on either side, slightly below her position. They also were watching and, quite likely, directing dragon traffic in and out of Landing.
Golanth was making his way toward the roasting pits and the nearest open space.
She is here
.
Wearily F’lessan blinked his eyes at the several green dragons immediately below him.
Both shes?
F’lessan asked, trying to inject some humor into his voice. His body felt as battered as if they had been rolled by a tsunami.
Both. I land. Should you see a healer?
I’ll be fine when I’ve had some rest
.
Golanth’s thought rumbled with disbelief but he landed, flicking his wings up so that the tips and claws touched over his head and he didn’t touch the greens on either side of his chosen landing site. Zaranth was on his right, several shades lighter than she had been that morning. The other green had curled her head under one wing and was asleep, her rider’s head pillowed on her wrist. With narrowed, blurry eyes, Zaranth watched Golanth settle. When the green extended her head to nuzzle the bronze’s shoulder, F’lessan, tired as he was, felt a spurt of surprise. The touch was more caress than acknowledgment.