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 \o 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 overreached 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 head?“ 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 cloths?“
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 his feet 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 towards 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.