McCaffrey, Anne – DragonQuest. Chapter 9, 10

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 deal 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 wher-hide-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 …