F'lon let out an inarticulate cry of rage and rushed the captain.
"I'll see he regrets that, Rob!"
"Harpers, dragonwomen, much the same cowardly clutch."
"Keep your head," Robinton called to F'lon. He was too alarmed to feel pain and was grateful when someone wrapped a kerchief around the bleeding wound.
Simanith continued to bugle, and the other dragons picked up the challenge at the top of their lungs. If this didn't bring the other riders to help, surely the calls would alert the Lord Holder and he would be able to stop the fight before more blood was shed.
Perhaps that was why the captain surged forward, determined to finish before he could be interrupted. He was fast, he was clever with the blade, and he was determined. F'lon was equally quick on his feet, but he was livid with anger at the attack on the MasterHarper.
The captain drew first blood, slicing F'lon across the midriff through the loose shirt, causing a hiss of surprise and pain to escape F'lon's lips. At that F'lon lost all caution, rushing in to grapple his opponent's knife hand, trying to sink his blade in wherever he could. But the captain was stronger and far cooler.
F'lon was accustomed to fair fighting and opponents who would not risk the life of a dragonrider. The captain had no such inhibitions, and displayed a knowledge of tricks which had probably brought him victory in other brawls. He was also heavier and, letting fly a kick which had the crowd gasping out "foul play', he unbalanced F'lon and flung him breathless to the dirt. Diving on the prone dragonrider, he brought his knife up under F'lon's guard and into his ribs.
F'lon gave one massive jerk and died.
Simanith let out a hideous shriek of anguish and pain, launching between before the last breath of life left his rider. Robinton was rocked to his soul by that sound and the death of his friend.
An awful silence fell over the Gather. Even those far from the scene and ignorant of what had just happened were stunned by the dragon's cry and his disappearance. Then the keening of the other dragons informed the entire Gather that a dragonrider had died.
"Seize him," Robinton said, pointing to the captain before he, too, could slip away as Kepiru had done.
He knelt by F'lon, whose amber eyes were wide open in surprise, their light already fading. Robinton closed them and bowed his head, reeling emotionally and physically from the hideous end to a stupid, senseless encounter.
"I would have apologized," a small, scared voice said beside him.
Robinton lifted his head and put his hand on Larad's shoulder.
"No, Larad, you were not at fault."
"But he's dead," Larad said, his voice breaking. "A dragonrider's dead!"
"What this? What... Shards!" Lord Tarathel broke through the crowd and stumbled into the dusty circle. Larad ran to his father, burying his head against him and weeping.
"It was no accident, Lord Tarathel," Robinton said quietly and for the Holder's ears only. "No accident."
The captain was struggling with those who were quite glad to hold him, and less than gently. If no one had wanted to interfere in a dagger duel, no one had wanted the death of a dragonrider – nor the ear-splitting sounds of the grieving dragons.
R'gul and S'lel, with C'gan right behind them, arrived, their faces anguished. Seeing F'lon's lifeless body, R'gul's face became a study in conflicting emotions, none of which did the dragonrider any credit in Robinton's eyes. S'lel was at least honestly distressed, while unashamed tears streaked down C'gan's homely face as he knelt, hands hovering hopelessly over his wingleader's body.
"I've warned him often enough," R'gul murmured, shaking his head. "He would never listen."
Disgusted, Robinton turned away, and it was then that Tarathel noticed his bloody arm.
"For that alone, that man goes to the islands," Tarathel said, his voice taut with anger. "Surely he saw your Master's knots?"
"And disregarded them as easily as he ignored F'lon's rank," Robinton said, scanning the faces in the crowd. Fax should be arriving to view the result of his scheme – and that could be a second disaster. The law stated unequivocally that any man who deliberately killed a dragonrider was to be transported to one of the islands in the Eastern Sea. No trial was required if there were witnesses ... which there were. "R'gul, convey this man to the islands. Is that not correct, Lord Tarathel?"
"Yes, it most certainly is," Tarathel agreed. He had just listened to his son's account of what had happened. "Bronze rider, do you your duty."
"But there's been no trial," R'gul protested.
"By the First Egg, R'gul," C'gan said, horrified at the hesitation.
"I'll take him myself." He stepped forward to grab the captain by the arm.
"Release my captain!" cried Fax, shoving a rough path through the crowd. He caught the captain by the arm and started to pull him away from C'gan, glaring menacingly at the shorter blue rider.
C'gan had his knife drawn and, though he was much lighter than his would-be captive, his outrage provided him with greater strength: he did not relinquish his grip on the murderer.
"Your captain has just killed the Weyrleader," Tarathel said, every bit as resolute as C'gan.
"Who no doubt deserved what he got," Fax said, grinning and showing his teeth, and glancing about the crowd to gauge reactions.
"You know the law regarding murder, Fax," Tarathel replied.
"There is no recourse if a dragonrider has been slain. C'gan, since you have--"
"There's been no trial," Fax said.
"Since when did you reinstate trials?" Tarathel said ominously, his hand going to his knife hilt. "I am Lord Holder here. The death occurred on my lands and at my Gather. I judge your man guilty of unprovoked attack: first against my son, second against the MasterHarper, and finally and most outrageously against the Benden Weyrleader – an attack that ended in murder. For either of the two second counts, he merits banishment."
"I think not," Fax said. "Release him!"
Suddenly there were other men ruthlessly penetrating the crowd and stepping up to Fax, their aggression obvious in their eyes and manner. They all wore Fax's colours. Tarathel's eyes widened with fury.
"No!" Robinton cried, gesturing to the crowd. Fax's crew might be armed and dangerous, but there were only eight of them, while the crowd must number close to a hundred. "Telgar. Defend your Holder!"
With a roar of protest, Fax and his men were overwhelmed by those around him, grabbing at their arms and bodies and preventing them from drawing their weapons. Even R'gul and S'lel assisted while C'gan somehow tried to keep a firm grip on the murderer. Suddenly the blue rider cried for assistance as the man sagged and collapsed, a dagger through one eye.
And the dragons bellowed with triumph.
One look at the hilt of that slender throwing knife and Robinton knew who had cast it. He marvelled that Nip had been able to fling it so accurately through the milling crowd.
Fax and his men were hurried away to their camp, where they were forced to pack up. A force of fifty willing holders and crafters assembled to escort the unwelcome guests all the way back to their borders. Lord Tarathel supplied food and runner-beasts to those who had none.
R'gul, S'lel and the other dragonriders took the body of their dead Weyrleader back to Benden. With a fresh wound, Robinton was prevented by the Hold's healer from accompanying his friend, but he drummed the awful message to every Hold and Hall. Only when he had completed that task could he rest. Nip slipped into Robinton's guest room late that night, rousing the MasterHarper from a restless sleep.
"Bad wound?" Nip asked solicitously.