I dont understand, Gnarish protested loudly, staring up at Lord Laudey of Igen Hold who stood in stunned horror on the steps. Ive Sweepriders on constant patrol …
The dragons bugled on the heights just as a green burst into the air over the court, causing the crowd to scream and duck, scurrying to the walls for safety.
Threads fall at Igen southwest, came the message loud and clear. To be echoed by the Dragonriders in the court.
Where are you going, Flar? bellowed Lord Groghe as the Benden Weyrleader followed Gnarishs plunge to the Gate. The air was full of dragon wings now, the screams of frightened women counterpointing the curses of men.
To fight Thread at Igen, of course, Flar shouted back.
Igens my problem, Gnarish cried, halting and wheeling toward Flar, but there was gratitude, not rebuke in his surprised face.
Gnarish, wait! Where in Igen? Lord Laudey was demanding. He pushed past the infuriated Lord Groghe to catch up with his Weyrleader.
And Ista? Is the island in danger? Lord Warbret wanted to know.
Well go and see, Dram reassured him, taking his arm and urging him toward the Gate.
Since when has Benden Weyr concerned itself with Igen and Ista? Tron planted himself squarely in Flars way. The menace in his voice carried to the steps of the Hall. His belligerent stance, obstructing the way to the Gate, halted them all. And rushed to Nabols aide
Flar returned his scowl. Thread falls, dragonman. Igen and Ista fly winglight, with riders helping at Telgar Weyr. Should we feast when others fight?
Let Ista and Igen fend for themselves!
Ramoth screamed on high. The other queens answered her. What she challenged no one knew, but she suddenly winked out. Flar had no attention to spare to wonder that shed gone between without Lessa riding for he saw Trons hand on his belt knife.
We can settle our difference of opinion later, Tron. 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.
Tron would not stop. Thread falls, huh, Flar? Noble Benden to the rescue! And its not Bendens concern. He let out a raucous shout of derisive contempt.
Enough, man! Dram stepped up to pull Tron aside. He gestured sharply at the silent spectators.
But Tron ignored the warning and shook him off so violently that the heavy-set Dram staggered.
Ive had enough of Benden! Bendens notions! Bendens superiority! Bendens altruism! And Bendens Weyrleader …
With that last snarled insult, Tron launched himself toward Flar, his drawn knife raised for a slashing blow.
As the ragged gasp of fear swept through the ranks of spectators, Flar held his ground until there was no chance Tron 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.
Flar 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 opponents fingers. Tron had the reach of him and the added advantage of being in wher-hide riding gear whereas Flar wore flimsy cloth. His eyes never left Tron as he faced the older man. Flar 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.
Tron moved forward, amazingly light on his feet for a man of his size and age. Flar let him come, pivoted as Tron angled off to his left, a circling movement designed to place him off balance a transparent maneuver. Flar felt a quick surge of relief; if this were the measure of Trons combat strategy …