McCaffrey, Anne – DragonQuest. Chapter 9, 10

“What’s wrong, T’ron? All that rich food and easy living beginning to tell? Or is it age. T’ron? Age creeping up on you. You’re four hundred and forty-five Turns old, you know. You can’t move fast enough any more, with the times, or against me.”

T’ron closed in, a guttural roar bursting from him. He sprang, with a semblance of his old vitality, aiming for the throat. F’lar’s knife hand flashed up, struck the attacking wrist aside, slashed downward at the other’s neck, where the wher-hide tunic had parted. A dragon screamed. T’ron’s right fist caught him below the belt. Agony lashed through him. He doubled over the man’s arm. Someone screamed a warning. With an unexpected reserve of energy, F’lar somehow managed to pull himself sharply up from that vulnerable position. His head rocked from the impact against T’ron’s descending knife, but it was miraculously deflected. Both hands on the hilt of his decorative blade, F’lar rammed it through wher-hide until it grated against the man’s ribs.

He staggered free, saw T’ron waver, his eyes bulging with shock, saw him step back, the jeweled hilt standing out beneath his ribs. T’ron’s mouth worked soundlessly. He fell heavily to his knees, then sagged slowly sideways to the stones.

The tableau held for what seemed hours to F’lar, desperately sucking breath into his bruised body, forcing himself to keep to his feet for he could not, could not collapse.

“Benden’s young, Fort. It’s our Turn. Now!” he managed to say. “And there’s Thread falling at Igen.” He swung himself around, facing the staring mass of eyes and mouths. “There’s Thread falling at Igen!”

He pivoted back, aware that he couldn’t fight in a torn dress tunic. T’ron had on wher-hide. He let himself down heavily on one knee and began to tug at T’ron’s belt, ignoring the blood that oozed out around the knife.

Someone screamed and beat at his hands. It was Mardra.

“You’ve killed him. Isn’t that enough? Leave him alone!”

F’lar stared up at her, frowning.

“He’s not dead. Fidranth hasn’t gone between.” It made him feel stronger somehow to know he hadn’t killed the man. “Get wine, someone. Call the physician!”

He got the belt loose and was pulling at the right sleeve when other hands began to help.

“I need it to fight in,” he muttered. A clean cloth was waved in his direction. He grabbed it and, holding his breath, jerked loose the knife. He looked at it a second and then cast it from him. It skittered across the stone, everyone jumping from its path. Someone handed him the tunic. He got up, struggling into it. T’ron was a heavier man; the tunic was too big. He was belting it tightly to him when he became aware again of the hushed, awed audience. He looked at the blur of expectant faces.

“Well? Do you support Benden?” he cried.

There was a further moment of stunned silence. The crowd’s multihead turned to the stairs where the Lord Holders stood.

“Those who don’t had better hide deep in their Holds!” cried Lord Larad of Telgar, stepping down on a level with Lord Groghe and Lord Sangel, his hand on his knife belt, his manner challenging.

“The Smiths support Benden Weyr!” Fandarel boomed out.

“The Harpers do!” Robinton’s baritone was answered by Chad’s tenor from the sentry walk.

“The Miners!”

“The Weavers!”

“The Tanners!”

The Lord Holders began to call out their names, loudly, as if by volume they could redeem themselves. A cheer rose from the guests to fall almost instantly to a hush as F’lar turned slowly to the other Weyrleaders.

“Ista!” D’ram’s cry was a fierce, almost defiant hiss, over-taken by G’narish’s exultant “Igen” and T’bor’s enthusiastic “Southern!”

“What can we do?” cried Lord Asgenar, striding to F’lar. “Can Lemos runners and groundmen help Igen Hold now?”

F’lar lost his immobility, tightened the belt one further notch, hoping the stricture would dull the pain.

“It’s your wedding day, man. Enjoy what you can of it. D’ram, we’ll follow you. Ramoth’s already called up the Benden wings. T’bor, bring up the Southern fighters. Every man and woman who can fit on the dragons!”

He was asking for more than complete mobilization of the fighters and T’bor hesitated.