Ramoth screamed on high. The other queens answered her. What she challenged no one knew, but she suddenly winked out. F’lar had no attention to spare to wonder that she’d gone between without Lessa riding for he saw T’ron’s hand on his belt knife.
“We can settle our difference of opinion later, T’ron. In private! Thread falls . . .”
The bronzes had begun to land outside the Gate, juggling to let as many land close as possible.
The green rider from Igen had directed his beast to perch on the Gate. He was repeatedly yelling his message to the static, tense group below.
T’ron would not stop. “Thread falls, huh, F’lar? Noble Benden to the rescue! And it’s not Benden’s concern.” He let out a raucous shout of derisive contempt.
“Enough, man!” D’ram stepped up to pull T’ron aside. He gestured sharply at the silent spectators.
But T’ron ignored the warning and shook him off so violently that the heavy-set D’ram staggered.
“I’ve had enough of Benden! Benden’s notions! Benden’s superiority! Benden’s altruism! And Benden’s Weyrleader . . .”
With that last snarled insult, T’ron launched himself toward F’lar, his drawn knife raised for a slashing blow.
As the ragged gasp of fear swept through the ranks of spectators, F’lar held his ground until there was no chance T’ron could change his direction. Then he ducked under the blade, yanking his own out of its ornamental sheath.
It was a new knife, a gift from Lessa. It had cut neither meat nor bread and must now be christened with the blood of a man. For this duel was to the death and its outcome could well decide the fate of Pern.
F’lar had sunk to a semicrouch, flexing his fingers around the hilt, testing its balance. Too much depended on a single belt knife, a half-hand shorter than the blade in his opponent’s fingers. T’ron had the reach of him and the added advantage of being in wherhide riding gear whereas F’lar wore flimsy cloth. His eyes never left T’ron as he faced the older man. F’lar was aware of the hot sun on the back of his neck, the hard stones under his feet, of the deathly hush of the great Court, of the smells of bruised fellis blooms, spilled wines and fried food, of sweat—and fear.
T’ron moved forward, amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size and age. F’lar let him come, pivoted as T’ron angled off to his left, a circling movement designed to place him off balance—a transparent maneuver. F’lar felt a quick surge of relief; if this were the measure of T’ron’s combat strategy . . .
With a bound the Oldtimer was on him, knife miraculously transferred to his left hand with a motion too quick to follow, his right arm coming over and down in a blow that struck F’lar’s wrist as he threw himself backward to avoid, by the thickness of a hair, the hissing stroke of the foot-long blade. He backed, his arm half-numbed, aware of the shock that coursed through him like a drenching of icy water.
For a man blind with anger, T’ron was a shade too controlled for F’lar’s liking. What possessed the man to pick a quarrel—here and now? For T’ron had pushed this fight, deliberately baiting F’lar with that specious quibble. D’ram and G’narish had been relieved at his offer of help. So T’ron had wanted to fight. Why? Then suddenly, F’lar knew. T’ron had heard about T’kul’s flagrant negligence and knew that the other Oldtimers could not ignore or obliquely condone it. Not with F’lar of Benden likely to insist that T’kul step aside as Weyrleader of High Reaches. If T’ron could kill F’lar, he could control the others. And F’lar’s public death would leave the modern Lord Holders without a sympathetic Weyrleader. The domination of Weyrs over Hold and Craft would continue unchallenged, and unchanged.
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 wh
erhide 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.