Dragonflight Read Online Free Page B

hidden at Ruath Hold in these times? Well, bronze rider, all of Ruathan Blood are dead. Fax’s blade was thirsty that day. He knew the truth of those harpers’ tales, that Ruathan Lords gave full measure of hospitality to dragonmen and the Ruathan were a breed apart. There were, you know”—Lytol’s voice dropped to a confiding whisper—“exiled Weyrmen like myself in that Line.”
    F’lar nodded gravely, unwilling to deprive the man of such a sop to his self-esteem.
    “No, there is little, very little left in Ruatha Valley.” Lytol chuckled softly. “Fax gets nothing from that Hold but trouble.” This reflection restored Lytol to a semblance of normal behavior, and his face twisted into a better humor. “We of this Hold are now the best clothmen in all Pern. And our smithies turn out a better tempered weapon.” His eyes sparkled with pride in his adopted community. “The conscripts from Ruatha tend to die of curious diseases or accidents. And the women Fax used to take . . .” His laugh was nasty. “It is rumored he was impotent for months after.”
    F’lar’s active mind jumped to a curious conclusion. “There are none of the Blood left?”
    “None!”
    “Any families in the holdings with Weyr blood?”
    Lytol frowned, glanced in surprise at F’lar. He rubbed the scarred side of his face thoughtfully.
    “There were,” he admitted slowly. “There were. But I doubt if any live on.” He thought a moment longer, then shook his head emphatically. “There was such resistance at the invasion and no quarter given. At the Hold Fax beheaded ladies as well as babes. And he imprisoned or executed any known to have carried arms for Ruatha.”
    F’lar shrugged. The idea had been a probability only. With such severe reprisals, Fax undoubtedly had eliminated the resistance as well as the best craftsmen. That would account for the poor quality of Ruathan products and the emergence of the High Reaches’ clothmen as the best in their trade.
    “I wish I had better news for you, dragonman,” Lytol murmured.
    “No matter,” F’lar reassured him, one hand poised to part the hanging in the doorway.
    Lytol came up to him swiftly, his voice urgent.
    “Heed what I say about Fax’s ambitions. Force R’gul, or whoever is Weyrleader next, to keep watch on the High Reaches.”
    “Is Fax aware of your leanings?”
    The haunted, hungry yearning crossed Lytol’s face. He swallowed nervously, answering with no emotion in his voice.
    “That would not signify if it suited the Lord of the High Reaches, but my guild protects me from persecution. I am safe enough in the craft. He is dependent on the proceeds of our industy.” He snorted, mocking. “I am the best weaver of battle scenes. To be sure,” he added, cocking one eyebrow waggishly, “dragons are no longer woven in the fabric as the comrades of heroes. You noticed, of course, the prevalence of growing greens?”
    F’lar grimaced his distaste. “That is not all we have noted, either. But Fax keeps the other traditions. . . .”
    Lytol waved this consideration aside. “He does that because it is basic military sense. His neighbors armed after he took Ruatha, for he did it by treachery, let me tell you. And let me warn you also”—Lytol jabbed a finger in the direction of the Hold—“he scoffs openly at tales of the Threads. He taunts the harpers for the stupid nonsense of the old ballads and has banned from their repertoire all dragonlore. The new generation will grow up totally ignorant of duty, tradition, and precaution.”
    F’lar was not surprised to hear that on top of Lytol’s other disclosures, although it disturbed him more than anything else he had heard. Other men, too, denied the verbal transmissions of historic events, accounting them no more than the maunderings of harpers. Yet the Red Star pulsed in the sky, and the time was drawing near when they would hysterically re-avow the old allegiances in fear for their very lives.
    “Have you