The Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey [397]
What caught Robinton’s horrified attention was the fact that F’lar had no knife in either hand. His left was closed about T’kul’s right wrist, straining to keep the man’s long knife—no short-bladed belt but a skinning tool—away from his collarbone. His fingers began digging into the tendons of T’kul’s wrist, trying to force the fingers open, or to deaden the nerves. His right hand held T’kul’s left arm down and out from their sides. T’kul writhed savagely; the maniacal gleam in his reddened eyes told Robinton that the man was beyond himself. As he must have intended, thought Robinton.
One of Baldor’s men was trying to shove a knife in F’lar’s hand but F’lar had to keep T’kul’s left hand engaged.
“I’ll kill you, F’lar,” T’kul said through gritted teeth as he struggled to force his right hand down, closer and closer, the blade slanting toward the bronze rider’s neck. “I’ll kill you. As you killed my Salth. As you killed us! I’ll kill you!” It sounded like a chant, the beats emphasized by the spurts of strength T’kul called up from the depths of his madness.
F’lar saved his breath, the strain of holding off that knife showing in the cords that stood out in his neck, in the drag on his face muscles, the tension in his legs and thighs.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you as T’ron ought! I’ll kill you, F’lar!”
T’kul’s voice now came in ragged gasps as the point of the knife inched toward its goal.
Abruptly, F’lar kicked out with his left leg and, twining it about T’kul’s left, yanked the foot out from under the crazed, overbalanced Oldtimer. With a yell, T’kul fell forward into F’lar, who neatly twisted him over and down, breaking T’kul’s left-hand hold but keeping his own left hand firmly locked on T’kul’s right wrist. The Oldtimer kicked out, caught F’lar viciously in the stomach. Although the bronze rider did not release the knife hand, he was doubled up, windless. A second kick from T’kul knocked his feet out from under him. F’lar fell heaving as T’kul wrenched his knife-hand free and scrambled to fall on the younger Weyrleader. But F’lar continued the roll with an agility that astonished the watchers, coming to his feet again even as T’kul stood up and launched an immediate attack. But that interval had been time enough for F’lar to grab the belt knife from Baldor.
The two antagonists faced each other. Robinton knew by the grim determination on F’lar’s face that this time, with the man’s beast already dead, the Benden Weyrleader would finish off his opponent. If he could.
Robinton disliked having doubts about F’lar’s skill as a fighter, but T’kul was no ordinary antagonist, driven as he was by the grief-madness of Salth’s death. The man, older by some twenty Turns, had the reach of F’lar, and a longer, more deadly blade in his hand. F’lar would have to elude that slashing blade long enough to wear T’kul past the point of the mad energy that possessed the Oldtimer.
An exultant shout burst from the Weyrwoman’s room and her piercing shriek followed. That was just enough to divert T’kul. F’lar was ready for that tiny break in concentration. He dove at T’kul, knife arm down and, before the man could parry and guard himself at the lower angle, F’lar’s thrust went up and through the ribs to the heart. T’kul, eyes protruding, fell dead at his feet.
F’lar sagged, dropping to one knee, gasping with his exertions. Wearily he scrubbed at his forehead with the back of his left hand, every line of his body emphasizing the dejection he was experiencing.
“You could have done nothing else, F’lar,” Robinton said softly, wishing he had the strength to move to F’lar’s side.
From the Weyrwoman’s chamber came the rejected suitors, dazed by their participation in the mating flight. They came out in a mass, and Robinton couldn’t figure