Suddenly Fax seized up a handful of fatty scraps from the meat tray and hurled them at F’lar. The dragonman ducked, and Fax closed the distance around the table with a rush. Instinct prompted F’lar to leap sideways as Fax’s flashing blade came within inches of his abdomen. 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. F’lar somehow got to his feet, attempting to straighten up to meet Fax’s stumbling charge. His very position saved him. Fax overreached his mark and staggered off balance. F’lar brought his right hand over with as much strength as he could muster, and his knife 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 dislodging the dagger from his chest bone so that an inch of the bloody blade reemerged from the point of entry.
A thin wailing penetrated the haze of pain and relief. F’lar looked up and saw, through sweat-blurred eyes, women crowding in the Hold doorway. One held a closely swathed object in her arms. F’lar could not immediately grasp the significance of that tableau, but he knew it was very important to clear his thoughts.
He stared down at the dead man. There was no pleasure in killing the man, 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 to 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.
He put the body on the high bed, then 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 dirt-encrusted but all the same, 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. She was not young enough, happily, to be Fax’s seed. One of the previous Lords’ by-blows? No, there was no taint of common blood here. It was pure, no matter whose 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.
“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 on his chest and then shifted suddenly to ease his sore arm.
“Your name, girl, and rank.”
She drew herself upright slowly, her features no longer blurred. Deliberately she slid back against the headboard so they faced each other across the length of 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 of her manner and her dress. “Oh, no. Besides, fair 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 clothes?”
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? What should I care for a Search? I have 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 his feet before he released his pressure. She laughed at him and had scuttled to one side and was on her feet and out the door before he could realize what she was about and 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 there.
“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 by her escape. Where had she gone to? “And of the 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 his 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 the 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 the unmistakable elation in Mnementh’s roar, followed by the curious warble of the 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 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, hi
s wings working to keep him balanced. Carefully he set the girl on her feet and carefully he formed a cage around her with his huge talons. She stood motionless within that circle, her face turned 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 to fly with, 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 again.
“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, my lady, 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—“the Lady Gemma might not now lie dead. She, brave soul, suffered far more at that tyrant’s hand than you.”
Something in her 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. “As well, too. Those Holds will all revert to their legitimate Blood, and time they did. One Hold and One Lord. Anything else is against tradition. Of course, you might have to fight others who disbelieve that precept: who have become infected with Fax’s greedy madness. Can you hold Ruatha against attack . . . now . . . in her condition?”
“Ruatha is mine!”
“Ruatha?” F’lar’s laugh was derisive. “When you could be Weyrwoman?”
“Weyrwoman?” she breathed, staring at him in shocked amazement.
“Yes, little fool. I said I rode in Search . . . it’s about time you attended to more than Ruatha. And the object of my Search is . . . you!”
She stared at the finger he pointed at her, as if it were dangerous.
“By the First Egg, girl, you’ve power in you to spare when you can turn a dragonman, all unwitting, to do your bidding. Ah, but never again, for I am now on guard against you.”
Mnementh crooned approvingly, the sound a soft rumble in his throat. He arched his neck so that one eye was turned directly on the girl, gleaming in the darkness of the Court.
F’lar noticed with detached pride that she neither flinched nor blanched at the proximity of an eye greater than her own head.
“He likes to have his eye ridges scratched,” F’lar remarked in a friendly tone, changing tactics.
“I know,” she said softly and reached out a hand to do that service.
“Nemorth has laid a golden egg,” F’lar continued persuasively. “She is close to death. This time we must have a strong Weyrwoman.”
“The Red Star?” the girl gasped, turning frightened eyes to F’lar. That alone surprised him, for she had never once evinced any fear.
“You’ve seen it? You understand what it means?” He saw her swallow nervously.
“There is danger . . .” she began in a bare whisper, glancing apprehensively eastward.
F’lar did not question by what miracle she appreciated the imminence of danger. He had every intention of taking her to the Weyr by sheer force if necessary. But something within him wanted very much for her to accept the challenge voluntarily. A rebellious Weyrwoman would be even more dangerous than a stupid one. This girl had too much power and was too used to guile and strategy. It would be a calamity to antagonize her with injudicious handling.
“There is danger for all Pern. Not just Ruatha,” he said, allowing a note of entreaty to creep into his voice. “And you are needed. Not by Ruatha.” A wave of his hand dismissed that consideration as a negligible one compared to the total picture. “We are doomed without a strong Weyrwoman. Without you.”
“Gemma said all the bronze riders were needed,” she murmured in a dazed whisper.
What did she mean by that statement? F’lar frowned. Had she heard a word he had said? He pressed his argument, certain only that he had already struck one responsive chord.
“You’ve won here. Let the babe”—he saw her startled rejection of that idea and ruthlessly qualified it—“Gemma’s babe—be reared at Ruatha. You have command of all the Holds as Weyrwoman, not ruined Ruatha alone. You’ve accomplished Fax’s death. Leave off vengeance.”
She stared at F’lar with wondering eyes, absorbing his words.
“I never thought beyond Fax’s death,” she admitted slowly. “I never thought what should happen then.”
Her confusion was almost childlike and struck F’lar forcibly. He had had no time or desire to consider her prodigious accomplishment. Now he realized some measure of her indomitable character. She could not have been above ten Turns of age herself when Fax had murdered her family. Yet somehow, so young, she had set herself a goal and managed to survive both brutality and detection long enough to secure the usurper’s death. What a Weyrwoman she would be! In the tradition of those of Ruathan Blood. The light of the paler moon made her look young and vulnerable and almost pretty.
“You can be Weyrwoman,” he repeated with gentle insistence.
“Weyrwoman,” she breathed, incredulous, and gazed around the inner Court bathed in soft moonlight. He thought she wavered.
“Or perhaps you enjoy rags?” he said, making his voice harsh, mocking. “And matted hair, dirty feet, and cracked hands? Sleeping in straw, eating rinds? You are young . . . that is, I assume you are young.” His voice was frankly skeptical. She glared at him coolly, her lips firmly pressed together. “Is this the be-all and end-all of your ambition? What are you that this little corner of the great world is all you want?” He paused, then with utter contempt added, “The Blood of Ruatha has thinned, I see. You’re afraid!”
“I am Lessa, daughter of the Lord of Ruath,” she countered, stung to responding by the Blood insult. She drew herself erect, her eyes flashing, her chin high. “I am afraid of nothing!”
F’lar contented himself with a slight smile.
Mnementh, however, threw up his head and stretched out his sinuous neck to its whole length. His full-throated peal rang out down the valley. The bronze communicated his awareness to F’lar that Lessa had accepted the challenge. The other dragons answered back, their warbles shriller than Mnementh’s male bellow. The watch-wher which had cowered at the end of its chain lifted its voice in a thin, unnerving screech until the Hold emptied of its startled occupants.
“F’nor,” the bronze rider called, waving his wing-leader to him. “Leave half the flight to guard the Hold. Some nearby Lord might think to emulate Fax’s example, Send one rider to the High Reaches with the glad news. You go directly to the clothmen’s Hall and speak to L’to . . . Lytol.” F’lar grinned. “I think he would make an exemplary Warder and Lord Surrogate for this Hold in the name of the Weyr and the baby Lord.”
The brown rider’s face expressed enthusiasm for his mission as he began to comprehend his leader’s intentions. With Fax dead and Ruatha under the protection of dragonmen, particularly that same one who had dispatched Fa
x, the Hold would be safe and flourish under wise management.
“She caused Ruatha’s deterioration?” he asked his leader.
“And nearly ours with her machinations,” F’lar replied, but having found the admirable object of his Search, he could now be magnanimous. “Suppress your exultation, brother,” he advised quickly as he took note of F’nor’s expression. “The new queen must also be Impressed.”
“I’ll settle arrangements here. Lytol is an excellent choice,” F’nor said, although he knew that F’lar needed no one’s approval.
“Who is this Lytol?” demanded Lessa pointedly. She had twisted the mass of filthy hair back from her face. In the moonlight the dirt was less noticeable. F’lar caught F’nor looking at her with an all too easily read expression. He signaled F’nor with a peremptory gesture to carry out his orders without delay.
“Lytol is a dragonless man,” F’lar told the girl, “no friend to Fax. He will ward the Hold well, and it will prosper.” He added persuasively with a quelling stare full on her, “Won’t it?”
She regarded him somberly, without answering, until he chuckled softly at her discomfiture.
“We’ll return to the Weyr,” he announced, proffering a hand to guide her to Mnementh’s side.
The bronze one had extended his head toward the watch-wher, who now lay panting on the ground, its chain limp in the dust.
“Oh,” Lessa sighed, and dropped beside the grotesque beast. It raised its head slowly, crying piteously.
“Mnementh says it is very old and soon will sleep itself to death.”
Lessa cradled the repulsive head in her arms, stroking the eye ridges, scratching behind its ears.
“Come, Lessa of Pern,” F’lar said, impatient to be up and away.
She rose slowly but obediently. “It saved me. It knew me.”
“It knows it did well,” F’lar assured her brusquely, wondering at such an uncharacteristic show of sentiment in her.
He took her hand again, to help her to her feet and lead her back to Mnementh.
Dragonflight Page 6