And why, oh why, had Lady Gemma chosen that precious moment to go into labor? If her groan hadn’t distracted Fax, the fight would have begun and not even Fax, for all his vaunted prowess as a vicious fighter, would have prevailed against a dragonman who had her… Lessa’s… support! The Hold must be secured to its rightful Blood again. Fax must not leave Ruatha, alive, again!
Above her, on the High Tower, the great bronze dragon gave forth a weird croon; his many-faceted eyes sparkling in the gathering darkness.
Unconsciously she silenced him as she would have done the watch-wher. Ah, that watch-wher. He had not come out of his den at her passing. She knew the dragons had been at him. She could hear him gibbering in panic.
The slant of the road toward the crafthold lent impetus to her flying feet and she had to brace herself to a sliding stop at the birthing-woman’s stone threshold. She banged on the closed door and heard the frightened exclamation within.
“A birth. A birth at the Hold,” Lessa cried.
“A birth?” came the muffled cry and the latches were thrown up on the door. “At the Hold?”
“Fax’s lady and, as you love life, hurry! For if it is male, it will be Ruatha’s own lord.”
That ought to fetch her, thought Lessa, and in that instant, the door was flung open by the man of the house. Lessa could see the birthing-woman gathering up her things in haste, piling them into her shawl. Lessa hurried the woman out, up the steep road to the Hold, under the Tower gate, grabbing the woman as she tried to run at the sight of a dragon peering down at her. Lessa drew her into the Court and pushed her, resisting, into the Hall.
The woman clutched at the inner door, balking at the sight of the gathering there. Lord Fax, his feet up on the trestle table, was paring his fingernails with his knife blade, still chuckling. The dragonmen in their wher-hide tunics were eating quietly at one table while the soldiers were having their turn at the meat.
The bronze rider noticed their entrance and pointed urgently toward the inner Hold. The birthing-woman seemed frozen to the spot. Lessa tugged futilely at her arm, urging her to cross the Hall. To her surprise, the bronze rider strode to them.
“Go quickly, woman, Lady Gemma is before her time,” he said, frowning with concern, gesturing imperatively toward the Hold entrance. He caught her by the shoulder and led her, all unwilling, Lessa tugging away at her other arm.
When they reached the stairs, he relinquished his grip, nodding to Lessa to escort her the rest of the way. Just as they reached the massive inner door, Lessa noticed how sharply the dragonman was looking at them… at her hand, on the birthing-woman’s arm. Warily, she glanced at her hand and saw it, as if it belonged to a stranger: the long fingers, shapely despite dirt and broken nails; her small hand, delicately boned, gracefully placed despite the urgency of the grip. She blurred it and hurried on.
Honor those the dragons heed,
In thought and favor, word and deed.
Worlds are lost or worlds are saved
By those dangers dragonbraved.
Dragonman, avoid excess;
Greed will bring the Weyr distress;
To the ancient Laws adhere,
Prospers thus the Dragon weyr.
An unintelligible ululation raised the waiting, men to their feet, startled from private meditations and diversion of Bonethrows. Only Fax remained unmoved at the alarm, save that the slight sneer, which had settled on his face hours past, deepened to smug satisfaction.
“Dead-ed-ed,” the tidings reverberated down the rocky corridors of the Hold. The weeping lady seemed to erupt out of the passage from the inner Hold, flying down the steps to sink into an hysterical heap at Fax’s feet. “She’s dead. Lady Gemma is dead. There was too much blood. It was too soon. She was too old to bear more children.”
F’lar couldn’t decide whether the woman was apologizing for, or exulting in, the woman’s death. She certainly couldn’t be criticizing her Lord for placing Lady Gemma in such peril. F’lar, however, was sincerely sorry at Gemma’s passing. She had been a brave, fine woman.
And now, what would be Fax’s next move? F’lar caught F’nor’s identically quizzical glance and shrugged expressively.
“The child lives!” a curiously distorted voice announced, penetrating the rising noise in the Great Hall. The words electrified the atmosphere. Every head slewed round sharply toward the portal to the inner Hold where the drudge, a totally unexpected messenger, stood poised on the top step.
“It is male!” This announcement rang triumphantly in the still Hall.
Fax jerked himself to his feet, kicking aside the wailer at his feet, scowling ominously at the drudge. “What did you say, woman?”
“The child lives. It is male,” the creature repeated, descending the stairs.
Incredulity and rage suffused Fax’s face. His body seemed to coil up.
“Ruatha has a new lord!” Staring intently at the overlord, she advanced, her mien purposeful, almost menacing.
The tentative cheers of the Warder’s men were drowned by the roaring of the dragons.
Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening space, bellowing. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed down across her face. She fell heavily to the stone floor, where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.
“Hold, Fax!” F’lar’s voice broke the silence as the Lord of the High Reaches flexed his leg to kick her.
Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his knife hilt.
“It was heard and witnessed, Fax,” F’lar cautioned him, one hand outstretched in warning, “by dragonmen. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath!”
“Witnessed? By dragonmen?” cried Fax with a derisive laugh. “Dragonwomen, you mean,” he sneered, his eyes blazing with contempt, as he made one sweeping gesture of scorn.
He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which the bronze rider’s knife appeared in his hand.
“Dragonwomen?” F’lar queried, his lips curling back over his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glowlight flickered off his circling knife as he advanced on Fax.
“Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over. Over!” Fax roared, leaping forward to land in a combat crouch.
The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry behind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give the duelists space. F’lat could spare no glance at the crumpled form of the drudge. Yet he was sure, through and beyond instinct sure, that she was the source of power. He had felt it as she entered the room. The dragons’ roaring confirmed it. If that fall had killed her… He advanced on Fax, leaping high to avoid the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch with a powerful lunge.
F’lar evaded the attack easily, noticing his opponent’s reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there. But not much. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing experience than had he whose duels had always ended at first blood on the practice floor. F’lar made due note to avoid closing with the burly lord. The man was heavy-chested, dangerous from sheer mass. F’lar must use agility as his weapon, not brute strength.
Fax feinted, testing F’lar for weakness, or indiscretion. The two crouched, facing each other across six feet of space, knife hands weaving, their free hands, spread-fingered, ready to grab.
Again Fax pressed the attack. F’lar allowed him to close, just near enough to dodge away with a backhanded swipe. Fabric ripped under the tip of his knife. He heard Fax snarl. The overlord was faster on his feet than his bulk suggested and F’lar had to dodge a second time, feeling Fax’s knife score his wher-hide jerkin.
Grimly the two circled, each looking for an opening in the other’s defense. Fax plowed in, trying to corner the lighter, faster man between raised platform and wall.
F’lar countered, ducking low under Fax’s flailing arm, slashing obliquely across Fax’s side. The overlord caught at him, yanking savagely, and F’lar was trapped against the other man’s side, straining desperately with his left hand to keep the knife arm up. F’la
r brought up his knee, and ducked away as Fax gasped and buckled from the pain in his groin, but Fax struck in passing. Sudden fire laced F’lar’s left shoulder.
Fax’s face was red with anger and he wheezed from pain and shock. But the infuriated lord straightened up and charged. F’lar was forced to sidestep quickly before Fax could close with him. F’lar put the meat table between them, circling warily, flexing his shoulder to assess the extent of the knife’s slash. It was painful, but the arm could be used.
Suddenly Fax scooped up some fatty scraps from the meat tray and hurled them at F’lar. The dragonman ducked and Fax came around the table with a rush. F’lar leaped sideways. Fax’s flashing blade came within inches of his abdomen, as his own knife sliced down the outside of Fax’s arm. Instantly the two pivoted to face each other again, but Fax’s left arm hung limply at his side.
F’lar darted in, pressing his luck as the Lord of the High Reaches staggered. But F’lar misjudged the man’s condition and suffered a terrific kick in the side as he tried to dodge under the feinting knife. Doubled with pain, F’lar rolled frantically away from his charging adversary. Fax was lurching forward, trying to fall on him, to pin the lighter dragonman down for a final thrust Somehow F’lar got to his feet, attempting to straighten to meet Fax’s stumbling charge. His very position saved him. Fax over-reached his mark and staggered off balance. F’lar brought his right hand over with as much strength as he could muster and his blade plunged through Fax’s unprotected back until he felt the point stick in the chest plate.
The defeated lord fell flat to the flagstones. The force of his descent dislodged the dagger from his chestbone and an inch of bloody blade re-emerged.
F’lar stared down at the dead man. There was no pleasure in killing, he realized, only relief that he himself was still alive. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and forced himself erect, his side throbbing with the pain of that last kick and his left shoulder burning. He half-stumbled to the drudge, still sprawled where she had fallen.
He gently turned her over, noting the terrible bruise spreading across her cheek under the dirty skin. He heard F’nor take command of the tumult in the Hall.
The dragonman laid a hand, trembling in spite of an effort to control himself, on the woman’s breast to feel for a heartbeat… It was there, slow but strong.
A deep sigh escaped him for either blow or fall could have proved fatal. Fatal, perhaps, for Pern as well.
Relief was colored with disgust. There was no telling under the filth how old this creature might be. He raised her in his arms, her light body no burden even to his battle-weary strength. Knowing F’nor would handle any trouble efficiently, F’lar carried the drudge to his own chamber.
Putting the body on the high bed, he stirred up the fire and added more glows to the bedside bracket. His gorge rose at the thought of touching the filthy mat of hair but nonetheless and gently, he pushed it back from the face, turning the head this way and that. The features were small, regular. One arm, clear of rags, was reasonably clean above the elbow but marred by bruises and old scars. The skin was firm and unwrinkled. The hands, when he took them in his, were filthy but well-shaped and delicately boned.
F’lar began to smile. Yes, she had blurred that hand so skillfully that he had actually doubted what he had first seen. And yes, beneath grime and grease, she was young. Young enough for the Weyr. And no born drab. There was no taint of common blood here. It was pure, no matter whose the line, and he rather thought she was indeed Ruathan. One who had by some unknown agency escaped the massacre ten Turns ago and bided her time for revenge. Why else force Fax to renounce the Hold?
Delighted and fascinated by this unexpected luck, F’lar reached out to tear the dress from the unconscious body and found himself constrained not to. The girl had roused. Her great, hungry eyes fastened on his, not fearful or expectant; wary.
A subtle change occurred in her face, F’lar watched, his smile deepening, as she shifted her regular features into an illusion of disagreeable ugliness and great age.
“Trying to confuse a dragonman, girl?” he chuckled. He made no further move to touch her but settled against the great carved post of the bed. He crossed his arms sternly on his chest, thought better of it immediately, and eased his sore arm. “Your name, girl, and rank, too.”
She drew herself upright slowly against the headboard, her features no longer blurred. They faced each other across the high bed.
“Fax?”
“Dead. Your name!”
A look of exulting triumph flooded her face. She slipped from the bed, standing unexpectedly tall. “Then I reclaim my own. I am of the Ruathan Blood. I claim Ruath,” she announced in a ringing voice.
F’lar stared at her a moment, delighted with her proud bearing. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“This? This crumbling heap?” He could not help but mock the disparity between her manner and her dress. “Oh, no. Besides, Lady, we dragonmen heard and witnessed Fax’s oath renouncing the Hold in favor of his heir. Shall I challenge the babe, too, for you? And choke him with his swaddling cloth?”
Her eyes flashed, her lips parted in a terrible smile.
“There is no heir. Gemma died, the babe unborn. I lied.”
“Lied?” F’lar demanded, angry.
“Yes,” she taunted him with a toss of her chin. “I lied. There was no babe born. I merely wanted to be sure you challenged Fax.”
He grabbed her wrist, stung that he had twice fallen to her prodding.
“You provoked a dragonman to fight? To kill? When he is on Search?”
“Search? Why should I care about a Search? I’ve Ruatha as my Hold again. For ten Turns, I have worked and waited, schemed and suffered for that. What could your Search mean to me?”
F’lar wanted to strike that look of haughty contempt from her face. He twisted her arm savagely, bringing her to her knees before he released his grip. She laughed at him, and scuttled to one side. She was on her feet and out the door before he could give chase.
Swearing to himself, he raced down the rocky corridors, knowing she would have to make for the Hall to get out of the Hold. However, when he reached the Hall, there was no sign of her fleeing figure among those still loitering.
“Has that creature come this way?” he called to F’nor who was, by chance, standing by the door to the Court.
“No. Is she the source of power after all?”
“Yes, she is,” F’lar answered, galled all the more. “And Ruathan Blood at that!”
“Oh ho! Does she depose the babe, then?” F’nor asked, gesturing toward the birthing-woman who occupied a seat close to the now blazing hearth.
F’lar paused, about to return to search the Hold’s myriad passages. He stared, momentarily confused, at this brown rider.
“Babe? What babe?”
“The male child Lady Gemma bore,” F’nor replied, surprised by F’lar’s uncomprehending look.
“It lives?”
“Yes. A strong babe, the woman says, for all that he was premature and taken forcibly from his dead dame’s belly.”
F’lar threw back his head with a shout of laughter. For all her scheming, she had been outdone by truth.
At that moment, he heard Mnementh roar in unmistakable elation and the curious warble of other dragons.
“Mnementh has caught her,” F’lar cried, grinning with jubilation. He strode down the steps, past the body of the former Lord of the High Reaches and out into the main court.
He saw that the bronze dragon was gone from his Tower perch and called him. An agitation drew his eyes upward. He saw Mnementh spiraling down into the Court, his front paws clasping something. Mnementh informed F’lar that he had seen her climbing from one of the high windows and had simply plucked her from the ledge, knowing the dragonman sought her. The bronze dragon settled awkwardly onto his hind legs, his wings working to keep him balanced. Carefully he set the girl on her feet and formed a precise cage around her with his huge talons
. She stood motionless within that circle, her face toward the wedge-shaped head that swayed above her.
The watch-wher, shrieking terror, anger and hatred, was lunging violently to the end of its chain, trying to come to Lessa’s aid. It grabbed at F’lar as he strode to the two.
“You’ve courage enough, girl,” he admitted, resting one hand casually on Mnementh’s upper claw. Mnementh was enormously pleased with himself and swiveled his head down for his eye ridges to be scratched.
“You did not lie, you know,” F’lar said, unable to resist taunting the girl.
Slowly she turned toward him, her face impassive. She was not afraid of dragons, F’lar realized with approval.
“The babe lives. And it is male.”
She could not control her dismay and her shoulders sagged briefly before she pulled herself erect.
“Ruatha is mine,” she insisted in a tense low voice.
“Aye, and it would have been, had you approached me directly when the wing arrived here.”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“A dragonman may champion anyone whose grievance is just. By the time we reached Ruath Hold, I was quite ready to challenge Fax given any reasonable cause, despite the Search.” This was not the whole truth but F’lar must teach this girl the folly of trying to control dragonmen. “Had you paid any attention to your harper’s songs, you’d know your rights. And,” F’lar’s voice held a vindictive edge that surprised him, “Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She suffered far more at that tyrant’s hand than you.”
Something in his manner told him that she regretted Lady Gemma’s death, that it had affected her deeply.
“What good is Ruatha to you now?” he demanded, a broad sweep of his arm taking in the ruined court yard and the Hold, the entire unproductive valley of Ruatha. “You have indeed accomplished your ends; a profitless conquest and its conqueror’s death.” F’lar snorted; “All seven Holds will revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One Hold, one lord. Of course, you might have to fight others, infected with Fax’s greed. Could you hold Ruatha against attack… now… in her decline?”
Wings of Fire Page 32