The Dragonriders of Pern Page 6

  If it survives, the words echoed in Lessa’s mind. Survives to be Lord of Ruatha. One of Fax’s get? That had not been her intention, although . . .

  The Lady Gemma grabbed blindly for Lessa’s hands, and despite herself, Lessa responded with such comfort as a strong grip would afford the woman.

  “She bleeds too much,” the birthing-woman muttered. “More cloths.”

  The women resumed their wailing, uttering little shrieks of fear and protestation.

  “She should not have been made to journey so far.”

  “They will both die.”

  “Oh, it is too much blood.”

  Too much blood, thought Lessa. I have no quarrel with her. And the child comes too early. It will die. She looked down at the contorted face, the bloodied lower lip. If she does not cry out now, why did she then? Fury swept through Lessa. This woman had, for some obscure reason, deliberately diverted Fax and F’lar at the crucial moment. She all but crushed Gemma’s hands in hers.

  Pain from such an unexpected quarter roused Gemma from her brief respite between the shuddering contractions that seized her at shorter and shorter intervals. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she focused desperately on Lessa’s face.

  “What have I done to you?” she gasped.

  “Done? I had Ruatha almost within my grasp again when you uttered your false cry,” Lessa said, her head bent so that not even the birthing-woman at the foot of the bed could hear them. She was so angry that she had lost all discretion, but it would not matter, for this woman was close to death.

  The Lady Gemma’s eyes widened. “But . . . the dragonman . . . Fax cannot kill the dragonman. There are so few bronze riders. They are all needed. And the old tales . . . the star . . . star . . .” She could not continue, for a massive contraction shook her. The heavy rings on her fingers bit into Lessa’s hands as she clung to the girl.

  “What do you mean?” Lessa demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  But the woman’s agony was so intense that she could scarcely breathe. Her eyes seemed to start from her head. Lessa, hardened though she had become to all emotion save that of revenge, was shocked to the deeper feminine instinct of easing a woman’s pain in her extremity. Even so, the Lady Gemma’s words rang through her mind. The woman had not, then, protected Fax, but the dragonman. The star? Did she mean the Red Star? Which old tales?

  The birthing-woman had both hands on Gemma’s belly, pressing downward, chanting advice to a woman too far gone in pain to hear. The twisting body gave a convulsive heave, lifting from the bed. As Lessa tried to support her, Lady Gemma opened her eyes wide, her expression one of incredulous relief. She collapsed into Lessa’s arms and lay still.

  “She’s dead!” shrieked one of the women. She flew, screaming, from the chamber. Her voice reverberated down the rock halls. “Dead . . . ead . . . ead . . . ddddd,” echoed back to the dazed women, who stood motionless in shock.

  Lessa laid the woman down on the bed, staring amazed at the oddly triumphant smile on Gemma’s face. She retreated into the shadows, far more shaken than anyone else. She who had never hesitated to do anything that would thwart Fax or beggar Ruatha further was trembling with remorse. She had forgotten in her single-mindedness that there might be others motivated by a hatred of Fax. The Lady Gemma was one, and one who had suffered far more subjective brutalities and indignities than Lessa had. Yet Lessa had hated Gemma, had poured out that hatred on a woman who had deserved her respect and support rather than her condemnation.

  Lessa shook her head to dispel the aura of tragedy and self-revulsion that threatened to overwhelm her. She had no time for regret or contrition. Not now. Not when, by affecting Fax’s death, she could avenge not only her own wrongs but Gemma’s!

  That was it. And she had the lever. The child . . . yes, the child. She’d say it lived. That it was male. The dragonman would have to fight. He had heard and witnessed Fax’s oath.

  A smile, not unlike the one on the dead woman’s face, crossed Lessa’s as she hurried down the corridors to the Hall.

  She was about to dash into the Hall itself when she realized she had permitted her anticipation of triumph to destroy her self-discipline. Lessa halted at the portal, deliberately took a deep breath. She dropped her shoulders and stepped down, once more the colorless drudge.

  The harbinger of death was sobbing in a heap at Fax’s feet.

  Lessa gritted her teeth against redoubled hatred for the overlord. He was glad the Lady Gemma had died, birthing his seed. Even now he was ordering the hysterical woman to go tell his latest favorite to attend him, doubtless to install her as his first lady.

  “The child lives,” Lessa cried, her voice distorted with anger and hatred. “It is male.”

  Fax was on his feet, kicking aside the weeping woman, scowling viciously at Lessa. “What are you saying, woman?”

  “The child lives. It is male,” she repeated, descending. The incredulity and rage that suffused Fax’s face was wonderful to see. The Warder’s men stifled their minadvertent cheers.

  “Ruatha has a new Lord.” The dragons roared.

  So intent was she on achieving her purpose that she failed to notice the reactions of others in the hall, failed to hear the roaring of the dragons without.

  Fax erupted into action. He leaped across the intervening space, bellowing denials of the news. Before Lessa could dodge, his fist crashed down across her face. She was swept off her feet, off the steps, and fell heavily to the stone floor, where she lay motionless, a bundle of dirty rags.

  “Hold, Fax!” F’lar’s voice cut across the silence as the Lord of the High Reaches lifted his leg to kick the unconscious body.

  Fax whirled, his hand automatically closing on his knife hilt.

  “It was heard and witnessed, Fax,” F’lar cautioned him, one hand outstretched in warning, “by dragon-men. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath!”

  “Witnessed? By dragonmen?” cried Fax with a derisive laugh. “Dragonwomen, you mean,” he sneered, his eyes blazing with contempt, one sweeping gesture of scorn dismissing them all.

  He was momentarily taken aback by the speed with which the bronze rider’s knife appeared in his hand.

  “Dragonwomen?” F’lar queried, his lips curling back over his teeth, his voice dangerously soft. Glow-light flickered off his circling blade as he advanced on Fax.

  “Women! Parasites on Pern. The Weyr power is over! Over for good,” roared Fax, leaping forward to land in a combat crouch.

  The two antagonists were dimly aware of the scurry behind them, of tables pulled roughly aside to give the duelists space. F’lar could spare no glance at the crumpled form of the drudge, yet he was sure, through and beyond instinct sure, that she was the source of power. He had felt it as she entered the room. The dragons’ roaring confirmed it. If that fall had killed her . . . He advanced on Fax, leaping away to avoid the slashing blade as Fax unwound from the crouch with a powerful lunge.

  F’lar evaded the attack easily, noticing his opponent’s reach, deciding he had a slight advantage there. He told himself sternly that wasn’t much advantage. Fax had had much more actual hand-to-hand killing experience than had he whose duels had always ended at first blood on the practice floor. F’lar made due note to avoid closing with the burly Lord. The man was heavy-chested, dangerous from sheer mass. F’lar must use agility as a weapon, not brute strength.

  Fax feinted, testing F’lar for weakness or indiscretion. The two crouched, facing each other across six feet of space, knife hands weaving, their free hands, spread-fingered, ready to grab.

  Again Fax pressed the attack. F’lar allowed him to close, just close enough to dodge away with a backhanded swipe. He felt fabric tear under the tip of his knife and heard Fax’s snarl. The overlord was faster on his feet than his bulk suggested, and F’lar had to dodge a second time, feeling the scoring of Fax’s knife across his heavy wher-hide jerkin.

  Grimly the two circled, looking for an opening in each other’s defense. Fax plowed in, try
ing to turn his weight and mass to advantage against the lighter, faster man by cornering him between raised platform and wall.

  F’lar countered, ducking low under Fax’s flailing arm, slashing obliquely across Fax’s side. The overlord caught at him, yanking savagely, and F’lar was trapped against the other man’s side, straining desperately with his left hand to keep the knife arm up. F’lar brought up his knee, timing a sudden collapse with that blow. He ducked away as Fax gasped and buckled from the pain in his groin. F’lar danced away, sudden fire in his left shoulder witness that he had not escaped unscathed.

  Fax’s face was red with bloody anger, and he wheezed from pain and shock. But F’lar had no time to follow up the momentary advantage, for 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 his injury. The slash felt as if it had been scored by a brand. Motion was painful, but the arm could be used.

  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 Gem
ma 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, his 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.”