The firelizard eggs hatched just after lunch one bright spring day. Much to the twins delight Reelon's egg hatched a blue, and a lively debate broke out between them over the matter of a name. Vadeed, Reelon's apprentice hatched a green that he happily stuffed to fullness before returning to his task of helping the Herdman shear the ovines, the tiny green dragonkin tucked into his vest pocket and sleeping soundly through the task.
"Have you decided on a name for the little lad?" Shelt asked when the cot reconvened for dinner. By this point neither twin was speaking to the other.
"Yes. His name is Echo." Reelon nodded, causing both girls to look up in surprise.
"Why Echo?" Tibitha asked, heartily glad neither of her sisters had named the lizard.
"Because, Tiblet, our lad is only an echo of Charrie's Vaeth." Reelon explained to his youngest daughter. Tibitha had grown bored of her sisters' company, now that the winter over students had gone back to their own holds. Even Shelt was getting ready to leave, having lingered with his friends this long just to make sure the eggs hatched without mishap.
"And your fair lady?" He turned to Vadeed, who smiled bashfully.
"Wisp. Because she's just a wisp of a thing."
"She won't stay small forever." Shelt laughed, and passed the bread basket around the table. "If you need help training her, I'll swing back this way in the autumn. For now, feed her bottomless pit and keep her oiled. Everything else will fall into place."
"Where are you headed first?" Gwedli, nursing Liree as the others ate, asked from her rocking chair.
"I need to speak to Chethal's parents about his progress, so I will head south first, to Yellow Fork Holding." Shelt explained, passing his green a morsel of sausage.
"Would you mind taking a package for me?" Gwedli glanced up. "I promised Thalia I'd make a copy of my recipes."
"I should be delighted to be your pack runner." Shelt mock bowed, eliciting laughter from those around the table.
Glanees sat down next to Redell. The WherLord was reading reports from his Wher Wing, surrounded by maps and descriptions.
"Glanees, look here." He passed a carefully drawn map of a long narrow island, little better than a large sand bar with a series of dunes. The report was that the bar was thick with scrubby grass, and most interesting of all, a shallow depression of fresh water.
"The island has grubs?" She queried, although it seemed a foregone conclusion.
"Yes. In fact it's so crowded with them we will be able to transfer them to all the surrounding islands. But I was wondering, do you think it could sustain a small herd?"
"Once Thread stops falling? Perhaps. You will want stock from Igen, something that's used to the heat and poor fodder. Also, you might consider asking that Farmer's journeyman about trees to anchor those dunes. The last thing anyone needs is the dunes shifting and burying the watersource." Glanees replied thoughtfully, as Redell made some notes on his slate.
"Good. When Thread stops falling, I'd like to move all of Retribution to the Southern Islands."
"All, Lord?" Glanees regarded him with surprise, for this was news to her. "How will we get metal goods?"
"Trade, as always. But I should like for Retribution to become a WherHall. A place to breed and train the Wher Wings of the future." He looked up and smiled faintly at her. "Farkin is the only one left, my lady. I must think past my revenge if we are going to have a future." He gently placed a warm hand on her belly, and she blushed deeply.
"How did you know?" She whispered, covering his hand with her own.
"You have been ill first thing in the mornings. You have been trying to hide it from me." He frowned at her, but his tone was teasing. "You have no idea how happy you make me Glanees." He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Thank you, for giving me back my future."
Bukset waited patiently for Ruatha's Lord to leave the holding of his elder son, Garkin. He knew what awaited the Lord inside those innocuous stone walls, the dead laying in their beds, except for the Lord's son and daughter-in-law. There was no snow now to hold the tracks of the attackers, but Bukset had no doubt that only one thing could break the neck of the brown watchwher that laid twisted outside the gate. The old wherhandler had been found untouched in a padded chair, where, the Healers were fairly certain he died of heartstrain, at his wher's passing. The seven inhabitants of the holding all had their throats cut -all except Garkin, and his wife Shaeshel. They had been dragged down into the kitchen, Garkin pinned to a wall, run through with a spear, Shaeshel stripped naked and tied to the spit, roasted alive. The Healers had taken the bodies down and respectfully covered them before Farkin had arrived.
"Was no one spared?" Maulul, the young woman who had just walked tables and traveled with the Harper asked softly. She had been a last minute addition, sent by the Master Archivist. Bukset sighed. "We haven't found the babies. Garkin's daughters are both being fostered at Ista. The Herdman and his apprentice was out in the fields with their beasts. The only ones here were the Holders involved in Redell's capture last time."
"How many babies?" Maulul gave him a troubled look. She had not seen the dead, the reports from the Healers had been enough to quash her curiosity.
"Three. My grandson among them." Farkin told her, emerging from the hold to hear her question. Maulul stammered an apology, which he ignored to glower at Bukset. "I want his head, Harper. And I want to mount it on the Gates."
"Naturally, LordHolder."
The Harpers waited for Farkin to mount, then fell in behind him. His guard, eight men armed to the teeth and wearing metal chest plates spread out before and behind them. Farkin moved only in daylight with an armed escort at all times now. Bitterly, Bukset wondered if they would make any difference if Redell brought his wher to bear. Namul still insisted his wounding of the monsterous bronze was more luck and muscle memory than any actual planning. Given the dragonkin's ability to hear the thoughts of others, he rather suspected Namul was being very honest rather than humble.
The procession moved in relative silence, winding back over the mountain paths to the main Hold. Other than a disheveled traveler with a brown firelizard leading a pair of shaggy mountain runners, they encountered no one and made it back before the late afternoon.
"Harper, my quarters. Cal, tell the Master of the guard I expect him and the wherhandler to join us." The guard saluted him, and hurried off to find the others. Maulul started to follow, then winched when Farkin closed a door in her face. Bukset quickly reopened it, and apologetically requested her to water their mounts and keep them ready to ride. He certainly didn't expect to rely on Farkin's hospitality that night.
"Is my grandson still alive, Harper?" Farkin asked in quiet desperation. He was standing at a window, the Thread shutters open, leaning on the sill.
"I think so. He has not killed any babies in the past."
"That you know of." Farkin growled.
"Contrary to popular belief, watchwhers do not find man flesh particularly favorable." Bukset replied with the certainty born of experience. "So put that fear to rest."
"Who's left, Harper? Who among those who wronged him still lives?" Farkin demanded rounding on the Harper. Sopra hissed warningly.
"You. The Telgar wherhandlers. J'kil of Telgar."
"That's a distressingly short list, Harper."
"I know, my Lord."
"Be sure your Masterharper does as well. You are dismissed."
Hello all.
A special thank you to all the folks who commented during my hiatus. I haven't given up on the world of Pern. I will be bouncing back and forth between Pern and WarHammer, just so I don't get burned out.
Please feel free to contact me with comments or questions, I hope to get a little more free time soon to go back and fix all the grammatical and spelling and wrong word choice errors in past chapters soon.
Once more, thank you for reading,
Inu