Tela's hysterics preceded her into Ruatha's ill-lit hall. Well, that had taken long enough! Fax had been wanting rid of Gemma for turns. He lowered his cup to the table and cast a warning glance at the captain of his guard. The dragonman - Fax didn't recall the name, but they all sounded like someone clearing their throat - was a touchy sort, and he'd been in close company with the woman for much of his so-called search. Odds were good that he wouldn't take the coming news well.
Still sobbing noisily, Tela staggered across the rush-strewn flags. "What news, woman?" Fax demanded as she drew close enough to hear him above the clamour of her cries.
"My Lord Fax, Lady Gemma, she, she, she…" The woman crumpled into a heap at his feet, and stared abjectly up at him. Her tears had left ugly tracks in the powder on her face.
"The Lady Gemma is dead?"
"Yes!" the woman wailed.
Fax could feel the dragonman's eyes boring into him from further down the table. He was an interfering, useless good-for-nothing, like all dragonmen were, but he had a dozen other riders at his command, and a wing of dragons waiting without. Not someone to dismiss out of hand. Not yet.
"And the child? Did she birth me a son, at last?"
Tela shook her head, and wiped a streak of mucous from her nose.
Fah! Fax gave the dragonrider a satisfied smirk. Let the weyrman try twisting his words if he could, but he wouldn't force Fax's hand now. Chuckling to himself, he prodded his woman in the thigh with a boot. "Tela, you pathetic flipskirt. If all you're going to do down there is wail, you can fetch someone more comely. Daskia will suit."
"Daskia…?"
"Yes, woman, Daskia!" He'd have to take another woman to wife again soon, but there was no need to rush into that choice. The western Holds had grown… cautious… of his reputation, but one of the eastern Lords might prove more amenable.
He nudged Tela again, and she started sobbing even louder - the fear that she'd lost his favour overtaking her false grief, no doubt. He was on the verge of losing his temper with her properly when a strident female voice cut through her cries.
"The child lives!"
A drudge, Fax saw, as scrawny and filthy as any, but with more spirit than most. He glared at her, hoping to cow her into silence before she said anything more. It didn't work.
"It is male," the drudge said.
Fax sprang to his feet, kicking Tela aside. "What are you saying, woman?" he demanded, daring her to damn herself.
"The child lives," she repeated. "It is male."
From a few tables over, a brief cheer erupted from a group of the Warder's men. Furious, Fax marked every last one of them for death.
"Ruatha has a new Lord!"
"No!" Fax bellowed, only to have his voice almost drowned out by a sudden roar that could only have come from the dragons outside. Them, them, it had been them all the time! Making a man misspeak himself, twisting his mind and inflicting all manner of indecencies upon the world. And the dragonmen had dared turn their beasts' power against his Hold? "No!" he yelled again, launching himself at the defiant drudge. His first blow swept her from her feet into a tumble down the steps that ended in a heavy crack of bones against stone.
Had he killed her? She was out cold at the very least; a few more blows would finish her off easily enough. He raised a foot, readying himself to kick her in the side of the skull, where it would do the most damage.
"Hold, Fax!"
Fax spun on a heel, fighting instincts kicking in instantly.
"It was heard and witnessed, Fax," the bronzerider said. "By dragonmen. Stand by your sworn and witnessed oath."
"Witnessed? By dragonmen?" Fah! Fax laughed, making his scorn abundantly clear. "Dragonwomen, you mean."
The insult had been a trifling one, but the rider immediately drew his blade. "Dragonwomen?"
Fax blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. To draw blade on a Lord Holder, in his very own hall! The man was either a fool of staggering proportions, or far more dangerous than he looked. Any doubt Fax might have entertained that this had been the Weyr's goal right from the start evaporated in the heat of his rising fury. Not in his Hold, and not in his lifetime! "Women!" he yelled back at the rider as he drew his own knife. "Parasites on Pern! The Weyr power is over, dragon woman, over!"
The dragonrider fought well. He was quick on his feet in spite of the bulk of his leather, and spent the first few minutes of their combat testing Fax as much as Fax was testing him. Well, he could be fast, too, Fax knew - faster than he thought the dragonman suspected. Decision made, he swiftly closed the distance, giving the rider no room to run. He tried to sidle away, but Fax had seen that tried before, and knew well enough how to counter it. Moments later he had the rider pinned, his blade edging towards the man's throat.
There was a desperate look in the rider's pale brown eyes as he struggled against Fax's greater strength. And then, all of a sudden, a weak and unnatural keen echoed through the Hold.
Fax knew instantly what it could mean. Seizing on the opportunity of the rider's momentary distraction, he plunged his knife into the man's throat.
The keening immediately intensified into a dreadful, echoing groan, and sounds of a scuffle erupted from one of the lower tables. The other riders, no doubt. "He drew first, dragon women," Fax hissed.
One of the riders was screaming. It was the man who'd been running the bronzerider's errands, Fax saw: his lover, or maybe his brother, though they were all so inbred it was hard to tell. Knowing weyrfolk, it might even have been both.
Fax nodded grimly at his captain, already in place on the far side of the hall. They were well trained, his guardsmen were, and knew exactly what needed to be done. Besides, fifty against twelve were even better odds than they were accustomed to.
"Seize them all," the captain bellowed. "Dragons or not, they die as easily as other men."
Fax returned to his seat, pausing only long enough to give the corpse of the drudge a solid kick in the ribs. It was a mere scrap of what she'd earned for herself prior to the rider's interruption, but he felt better for getting it out of his system. After that, while the wine was still bad and the meat barely edible, the rest of the evening's entertainment proved some of the best he'd had in turns, though too short-lived by far.
As the final dragonrider breathed his last, Fax settled on his strategy for the days ahead. Attacked in his own Hold, by thieving, unscrupulous, lustful dragonriders! They'd killed his lady wife and child-to-be, then had their dragons set fire to the place before his men had managed to kill the last of them. It would be a shame to waste valuable Cromcoal on the job, but a torched Ruath Hold would be far less of a drain on his profits than it was in its current state. Better than that, with this single act he'd surely win the entire Conclave to his side, unifying Pern against the Weyrs once and for all!
By the time his men had finished corralling the last of the holders inside, the golden sun had long since set. Smiling to himself, Fax gave the order, and watched Ruatha burn.
Author's Notes: And welcome to Crapsack Pern! This is really not a story that's meant to be taken seriously, but it's still fun to speculate. Did any of the riders get a warning out? Perhaps - C'gan might even have had a hand in spiriting Robinton to safety. Would R'gul have retaliated? Probably not. Might that result in a schism in the Weyr? It'd make for an interesting story, at any rate. It goes without saying that most of the dialogue in this one is Anne's, and much of the character actions too. The end result... is considerably less in her vein, given that I've killed off most of the cast. Oops. If you're interested in more commentary, check out the comments at AO3.