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Julian Bashir, who all but three other people on this planet now called J’lian, rider of brown Amorth, washed his hands one final time in a bowl of redwort and ran his mind back over the list of injured riders he’d treated in the wake of this morning’s disasterous Threadfall over Southern Boll. Three of them would have to be checked every four hours but one of the junior Healers could see to that; the rest, able to make their way to their weyrs under their own power, were under the watchful eyes of their dragons who could be counted upon to report any negative changes in their conditions. One rider, M’net, was dosed to the eyeballs with fellis juice: his dragon, green Tosorth, was not likely to survive the night. Julian winced at the thought, wiping his hands clean on a towel taken from one of the storeroom shelves; it was not his duty to prepare the mercy draughts for riders driven to seek death by the loss of their mounts, but he knew that it happened and that was more than disturbing enough.
Of course, if he lost Amorth, would he ask for any different fate?
No, not if he was honest with himself. But today had not proven to be that day, even though they’d also done their part in fighting the Threadfall that had threatened the territories of Southern Boll.
It was hard not to stumble as he exited the storeroom into the corridor leading back to the Bowl: last night had been a late one and he’d not slept half as long as he’d wanted before Garak, arriving back from Southern Boll Pass, had alerted the whole Weyr that Thread was falling in an unexpected place and pattern. Such occurrences were far too frequent these days, and nobody had a clue as to the cause or the solution. The refugee Offworlders couldn’t even offer to go scan the Red Star in their shuttle, which was still capable of subwarp travel — not with dragons of their own to care for.
Those unexpected patterns had played holy Hell with Fort’s forces this day. Fortunately most of the wounds were relatively minor, but poor M’net…
You did very well. Amorth’s even, calm voice in his mind helped ease the ache of his weariness. The dragon had been working almost as hard as he among the wounded, telepathically soothing injured and distressed dragons and dominating the blues and the greens when their riders alone could not control their pain — including Gark’s blue Ziolth, badly scored across his left forequarter. Thank God the cluster of Thread that they had materialized in the path of had caught his shoulder and the leading edge of his wing: if they’d come out ofbetween a fraction of a second later it would have devastated his wingsail, and forever ended his career as a flying fighting dragon.
“Thank you,” Julian told his mount, rubbing the back of his left hand across his eyes. “How are they doing?”
There was no need to specify who they were. He felt Amorth reach out in another direction, then return. Ziolth and G’rak both sleep. They feel no pain.
“Thank God.” In all this long, bitter day that had been the hardest hour, toiling over his own weyrmate’s wounds while Talliran, the Weyr’s chief healer of dragons, labored to save Ziolth’s flight ability. They’d both succeeded: Ziolth would be out of the air for a long time, but he’d fly again one day, and although Garak would bear the scars for the rest of his life he’d be back on his feet in fairly short order. It could have been much worse.
If they’d come out of between just a few feet to their left, and the clump of Thread had torn Garak out of the saddle…
No. He wouldn’t think about that. He couldn’t think about that. As he approached the wide arch leading into the open Bowl he could hear Amorth crooning out on the sands, a sound as palpably comforting as the dragon’s touch in his mind: They are not in pain. They sleep. They will be well. You should sleep too.
“And I will,” he assured him, emerging into the bright sunlight. It was only early afternoon but he felt as if he’d been awake for an entire day, and longer. Amorth, waiting for him close by the arch, extended his muzzle toward him as he approached, his great eyes whirling pale green.
You should eat, the dragon urged, as Julian’s stomach let out a corroborating growl.
“I should,” he agreed, trying to judge which need was strongest as he approached his tall lean mount, whose brown hide seemed even more yellow than usual in the direct glow of Pern’s star.
Eat, then sleep. Amorth was, as ever, the soul of practicality. One will aid the other. I will watch over them. Go.
Feeling an immense rush of pride and gratitude and love, Julian threw his arms around the extended head and scratched at the near eye ridge, feeling the happy responding rumble in every bone of his body. Suddenly he wasn’t half as tired as he had been only a second ago. Amorth often had that effect on him, filling him with more life and energy than a mere two bodies should contain. “Thank you, Amorth. I know you will, and a bowl of Fellari’s stew sounds absolutely wonderful right now.”
The dragon gently drew his head back, then nudged Julian away with the tip of his muzzle. I will keep Ziolth warm, and come when you need.
“An excellent idea.” He shielded his eyes from the sunlight with one hand, stepping well back to give Amorth room to spread his broad wings and crouch and leap skyward, heading for the weyr they shared with Garak and Ziolth. Watching the wonderful grace of his mount in flight he felt his heart soar with the dragon’s lithe body and wondered, yet again, how he could ever have been so lucky.
He sent the thought winging after him: Being stranded on this backwater planet wouldn’t have been my first choice in life, but you, my friend… you make it all worthwhile.
Love as warm and gentle as a dragon’s soft breath on his face was his answer, followed by another not-so-gentle nudge. Smiling, Julian headed for the Lower Caverns to put himself around a serving of Fellari’s justly famous cooking, knowing that whenever he asked, Amorth would always be there to meet him.
THE END