T’ron moved in, pressing the attack. F’lar backed, watching the center of the Oldtimer’s wherhide-cased chest. Not the eyes, not the knife hand. The chest! That was the spot that telegraphed the next move most accurately. The words of old C’gan, the weyrling instructor, seven Turns dead, seemed to echo in F’lar’s mind. Only C’gan had never thought his training would prevent one Weyrleader from killing another, to save Pern in a duel before half the world.
F’lar shook his head sharply, rejecting the angry line his thoughts were taking. This wasn’t the way to survive, not with the odds against him.
He saw T’ron’s arm move suddenly, swayed back in automatic evasion, saw the opening, lunged . . .
The watchers gasped as the sound of torn fabric was clearly heard. The pain at his waist had been such a quick stab that F’lar had all but decided T’ron’s swipe was only a scratch when a wave of nausea swept him.
“Good try. But you’re just not fast enough, Oldtimer!” F’lar heard himself saying; felt his lips stretch into a smile he was far from feeling. He kept to the crouch, the belt pressing against his waist, but the torn fabric dangled, jerking as he breathed.
T’ron threw him a half-puzzled look, his eyes raking him, pausing at the hanging rag, flicking to the knife blade in his hand. It was clean, unstained. A second realization crossed T’ron’s face, even as he lunged again; F’lar knew that T’ron was shaken by the apparent failure of an attack he had counted on to injure badly.
F’lar pulled to one side, almost contemptuously avoiding the flashing blade, and then charged in with a series of lightning feints of his own, to test the Oldtimer’s reflexes and agility. There was no doubt T’ron needed to finish him off quickly—and F’lar hadn’t much time either, he knew, as he ignored the hot agony in his midriff.
“Yes, Oldtimer,” he said, forcing himself to breathe easily, keeping his words light, mocking. “Benden Weyr concerns itself with Ista and Igen. And the Holds of Nabol, and Crom, and Telgar, because Benden dragonmen have not forgotten that Thread burns anything and anyone it touches, Weyr and commoner alike. And if Benden Weyr has to stand alone against the fall of Thread, it will.”
He flung himself at T’ron, stabbing at the horny leather tunic, praying the knife was sharp enough to pierce it. He spun aside barely in time, the effort causing him to gasp in pain. Yet he made himself dance outside T’ron’s reach, made himself grin at the other’s sweaty, exertion-reddened face.
“Not fast enough, are you, T’ron? To kill Benden. Or muster for a Fall.”
T’ron’s breathing was ragged, a hoarse rasping. He came on, his knife arm lower. F’lar backed, keeping to a wary crouch, wondering if it was sweat he felt trickling down his belly, or blood. If T’ron noticed . . .
“What’s wrong, T’ron? All that rich food and easy living beginning to tell? Or is it age. T’ron? Age creeping up on you. You’re four hundred and forty-five Turns old, you know. You can’t move fast enough any more, with the times, or against me.”
T’ron closed in, a guttural roar bursting from him. He sprang, with a semblance of his old vitality, aiming for the throat F’lar’s knife hand flashed up, struck the attacking wrist aside, slashed downward at the other’s neck, where the wherhide tunic had parted. A dragon screamed. T’ron’s right fist caught him below the belt. Agony lashed through him. He doubled over the man’s arm. Someone screamed a warning. With an unexpected reserve of energy, F’lar somehow managed to pull himself sharply up from that vulnerable position. His head rocked from the impact against T’ron’s descending knife, but it was miraculously deflected. Both hands on the hilt of his decorative blade, F’lar rammed it through wherhide until it grated against the man’s ribs.
He staggered free, saw T’ron waver, his eyes bulging with shock, saw him step back, the jeweled hilt standing out beneath his ribs. T’ron’s mouth worked soundlessly. He fell heavily to his knees, then sagged slowly sideways to the stones.
The tableau held for what seemed hours to F’lar, desperately sucking breath into his bruised body, forcing himself to keep to his feet for he could not, could not collapse.
“Benden’s young, Fort. It’s our Turn. Now!” he managed to say. “And there’s Thread falling at Igen.” He swung himself around, facing the staring mass of eyes and mouths. “There’s Thread falling at Igen!”
He pivoted back, aware that he couldn’t fight in a torn dress tunic. T’ron had on wherhide. He let himself down heavily on one knee and began to tug at T’ron’s belt, ignoring the blood that oozed out around the knife.
Someone screamed and beat at his hands. It was Mardra.
“You’ve killed him. Isn’t that enough? Leave him alone!”
F’lar stared up at her, frowning.
“He’s not dead. Fidranth hasn’t gone between.” It made him feel stronger somehow to know he hadn’t killed the man. “Get wine, someone. Call the physician!”
He got the belt loose and was pulling at the right sleeve when other hands began to help.
“I need it to fight in,” he muttered. A clean cloth was waved in his direction. He grabbed it and, holding his breath, jerked loose the knife. He looked at it a second and then cast it from him. It skittered across the stone, everyone jumping from its path. Someone handed him the tunic. He got up, struggling into it T’ron was a heavier man; the tunic was too big. He was belting it tightly to him when he became aware again of the hushed, awed audience. He looked at the blur of expectant faces.
“Well? Do you support Benden?” he cried.
There was a further moment of stunned silence. The crowd’s multihead turned to the stairs where the Lord Holders stood.
“Those who don’t had better hide deep in their Holds,” cried Lord Larad of Telgar, stepping down on a level with Lord Groghe and Lord Sangel, his hand on his knife belt, his manner challenging.
“The Smiths support Benden Weyr!” Fandarel boomed out.
“The Harpers do!” Robinton’s baritone was answered by Chad’s tenor from the sentry walk.
“The Miners!”
“The Weavers!”
“The Tanners!”
The Lord Holders began to call out their names, loudly, as if by volume they could redeem themselves. A cheer rose from the guests to fall almost instantly to a hush as F’lar turned slowly to the other Weyrleaders.
“Ista!” D’ram’s cry was a fierce, almost defiant hiss, overtaken by G’narish’s exultant “Igen” and T’bor’s enthusiastic “Southern!”
“What can we do?” cried Lord Asgenar, striding to F’lar. “Can Lemos runners and groundmen help Igen Hold now?”
F’lar lost his immobility, tightened the belt one further notch, hoping the stricture would dull the pain.
“It’s your wedding day, man. Enjoy what you can of it. D’ram, we’ll follow you. Ramoth’s already called up the Benden wings. T’bor, bring up the Southern fighters. Every man and woman who can fit on the dragons!”
He was asking for more than complete mobilization of the fighters and T’bor hesitated.
“Lessa,” for she had her arms around him now. He pushed them gently to one side. “Assist Mardra. Robinton, I need your help. Let it be known,” and he raised his voice, harsh and steely enough to be heard throughout the listening Court. “Let it be known,” and he stared down at Mardra, “that any of Fort Weyr who do not care to follow Benden’s lead must go to Southern.” He looked away before she could protest “And that applies to any craftsman, Lord Holder or commoner, as well as dragonfolk. There isn’t much Thread in Southern to worry you. And your indifference to a common menace will not endanger others.”
Lessa was trying to undo his belt He caught her hands tightly, ignoring her gasp as his grip hurt.
“Where was Thread seen?” he yelled up to the Igen rider still perched atop the Gate Wall.
“South!” The man’s response was an anguished appeal. “Across the bay from Keroon Hold. Across the water.”
“How long ago?”
“I�
��ll take you there and then!”
The ripple of cheering grew as it spread back, as people were reminded that the Weyrs would go between time itself and catch Thread, erasing the interval of time lost in the duel.
Dragonriders were moving toward beasts who were impatiently keening outside the walls. Wher-hide tunics were being thrust at riders in dress clothes. Firestone sacks appeared and flame throwers were issued. Dragons ducked to accept riders, hopping awkwardly out of the way, to launch themselves skyward. The Igen green hovered aloft, joined by D’ram and his Weyrwoman Fanna, waiting for Mnementh.
“You can’t come, love,” F’lar told Lessa, confused that she was following him out to Mnementh. She could handle Mardra. She’d have to. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.
“Not till you’ve had this numbweed.” She glared up at him as fiercely as Mardra had and fumbled at his belt again. “You won’t last if you don’t. And Mnementh won’t take you up until I do.”
F’lar stared at her, saw Mnementh’s great eye gleaming at him and knew she meant it.
“But—he wouldn’t—” he stammered.
“Oh, wouldn’t he?” flashed Lessa, but she had the belt loose, and he gasped as he felt the cold of the salve on the burning lips of the wound. “I can’t keep you from going. You’ve got to, I know. But I can keep you from killing yourself with such heroics.” He heard something rip, saw her tearing a sleeve from her new gown into bandage-length strips. “Well, I guess they’re right when they say green is an unlucky color. You certainly don’t get to wear it long.”
She quickly pressed the material against him, his wound already numbing. Deftly overlapping the outsized tunic, she tightened the wide belt to hold the bandage securely in place.
“Now, go. It’s shallow but long. Get the Threadfall under control and get back. I’ll do my part here.” She gave his hand a final grip and, picking up her skirts, half-ran up the ramp, as if she were too busy to watch him leave.
She’s worried. She’s proud: Let’s go.
As Mnementh wheeled smartly upward, F’lar heard the sound of music, gitars accompanying a ragged chorus. How like the Harper to have the appropriate music for this occasion, he thought
Drummer, beat, and piper, blow.
Harper, strike, and soldier, go.
Free the flame and sear the grasses
Till the dawning Red Star passes.
Odd, thought F’lar, four hours later, as he and Mnementh returned to Telgar with the wings from Igen, it was over Telgar, seven Turns ago, that the massed Weyrs flew against the second Fall of Thread.
He stifled keen regret at the recollection of that triumphant day when the six Weyrs had been solidly in accord. And yet, the duel at Telgar Hold today had been as inevitable as Lessa’s flight backward in time to bring up the Oldtimers. There was a subtle symmetry, a balance of good and bad, a fateful compensation. (His side ached. He suppressed pain and fatigue. Mnementh would catch it and then he’d catch it from Lessa. Fine thing when a man’s dragon acted nursy. But the effects of that half-kettle of numbweed Lessa’d slathered on him were wearing off.) He watched as the wings circled to land. All the riders had been bidden back to Telgar.
So many things were coming back to their starting point: from fire lizards to dragons, a circle encompassing who knows how many thousands of Turns, to the inner circle of the Old Weyrs and Benden’s resurgence.
He hoped T’ron would live; he’d enough on his conscience. Though it might be better if T’ron . . . He refused to consider that, in spite of the fact that he knew it would avoid another problem. And yet, if Thread could fall in Southern to be eaten by those grubs . . .
He wanted very much to see that distance-viewer T’ron had discovered. He groaned with a mental distress. Fandarel! How could he face him? That distance-writer had worked. It had relayed a very crucial message—faster than dragon wings! No fault of the Smith’s that his finely extruded wire could be severed by hot Thread. Undoubtedly he would overcome that flaw in an efficient way—unless he’d thrown up his hands at the idea, what with being presented with a powerful, fully operative distance-viewer to compound the day’s insults. Of all the problems undoubtedly awaiting him, he dreaded Fandarel’s reproach the most.
Below, dragonriders streamed into the Court illumined by hundreds of glow baskets, to be met and absorbed into the throng of guests. The aroma of roasted meats and succulent vegetables drifted to him on the night air, reminding him that hunger depresses any man’s spirits. He could hear laughter, shouts, music. Lord Asgenar’s wedding day would never be forgotten!
That Asgenar! Allied to Larad, a fosterling of Corman’s, he’d be of enormous assistance in executing what F’lar saw must be done among the Holder Lords.
Then he spotted the tiny figure in the gateway. Lessa! He told Mnementh to land.
About time, the bronze grumbled.
F’lar slapped his neck affectionately. The beast had known perfectly well why they’d been hovering. A man needed a few minutes to digest chaos and restore order to his thinking before he plunged into more confusions.
Mnementh agreed as he landed smoothly. He craned his neck around, his great eyes gleaming affectionately at his rider.
“Don’t worry about me, Mnementh!” F’lar murmured in gratitude and love, stroking the soft muzzle. There was a faint odor of firestone and smoke though they’d done little flaming. “Are you hungry?”
Not yet. Telgar feeds enough tonight. Mnementh launched himself toward the fire ridge above the Hold, where the perching dragons made black, regular crags against the darkening sky, their jeweled eyes gleaming down on the festal activities.
F’lar laughed aloud at Mnementh’s consideration. It was true that Lord Larad was stinting nothing, though his guest list had multiplied four-fold. Supplies had been flown in but Telgar Hold bore the brunt of it.
Lessa approached him with such slow steps that he wondered if something else had happened. He couldn’t see her face in the shadow but as she slipped into step beside him, he realized that she’d been respecting his mood. Her hand reached up to caress his cheek, lingering on the healing Thread score. She wouldn’t let him bend to kiss her.
“Come, love, I’ve fresh clothes and bandages for you.”
“Mnementh’s been telling on me?”
She nodded, still unusually subdued for Lessa.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she assured him hastily, smiling. “Ramoth said you were thinking hard.”
He squeezed her and the gesture pulled the muscles, making him wince.
“You’re a trial to me,” she said with mock exasperation and led him into the tower room.
“Kylara came back, didn’t she?”
“Oh, yes,” and there was an edge to Lessa’s voice as she added, “she and Meron are as inseparable as their lizards.”
She’d had a standing tub brought in, the water steaming invitingly. She insisted on bathing him while she reported what had happened while he’d fought Thread. He didn’t argue, it was too pleasant to relax under her ministrations, though her gentle hands sometimes reminded him of other occasions and . . .
T’ron had been taken directly to Southern, swathed in heavy felt. Mardra had contested F’lar’s authority to exile them but her protests fell on the deaf and determined front of Robinton, Larad, Fandarel, Lords Sangel and Groghe. They’d all accompanied Lessa and Kylara when Mardra was escorted back to Fort. Mardra had been certain she’d only to appeal to her weyrfolk to ensure her position as Weyrwoman. When she discovered that her arrogance and shrewishness had robbed her of all but a few adherents, she’d retired meekly to Southern with them.
“We nearly had a fight between Kylara and Mardra but Robinton intervened. Kylara was proclaiming herself Fort Weyrwoman.”
F’lar groaned.
“Don’t worry,” Lessa assured him, briskly kneading the tight muscles across his shoulders. “She changed her mind directly she learned that T’kul and his riders were leaving th
e High Reaches Weyr. It’s more logical for T’bor and the Southerners to take over that Weyr than Fort since most of the Fort riders are staying.”
“That puts Kylara too near Nabol for my peace of mind.”
“Yes, but that leaves the way clear for P’zar, Roth’s rider, to take over as Fort Weyrleader. He’s not strong but he’s well-liked and it won’t upset the Fort people as much. They’re relieved to be free of both T’ron and Mardra but we oughtn’t to press our luck too far.”
“N’ton’d be a good Wing-second there.”
“I thought of him so I asked P’zar if he’d object and he didn’t”
F’lar shook his head at her tactics, then hissed, because she was loosening the old, dried numbweed.
“I’m not so sure but what I’d prefer the physician—” she began.
“No!”
“He’d be discreet but I’ll warn you, all the dragons know.”
He stared at her in surprise. “I thought it odd there were so many dragons shadowing me and Mnementh. I don’t think we went between more than twice.”
“The dragons appreciate you, bronze rider,” Lessa said tartly, encircling him with clean, soft bandages.
“The Oldtimers, too?”
“Most of them. And more of their riders than I’d estimated. Only twenty riders and women followed Mardra, you know, from Fort. Of course,” and she grimaced, “most of T’kul’s people went. The fourteen who stayed are young riders, Impressed since the Weyr came forward. So there’ll be enough at Southern . . .”
The Dragonriders of Pern Page 51