Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9 Page 7

  Gorlist drew his mother's sword, won in combat and taken from her dead hand. "You'll have need of more subtle weapons," Nisstyre said. "I have heard rumors of your coming bout. It is no small thing to battle a dragon."

  "A hatching," Gorlist sneered.

  "Never dismiss a dragon. Even the young are cunning and resourceful."

  "The only resources the beast can command are teeth and claws. It is too young to bring its breath weapon to bear."

  "It would so appear," Nisstyre agreed. "But dragons are profoundly magical creatures. It is difficult to discern whether or not there's additional magic about them."

  Gorlist began to understand.

  "So Slithifar might have had the beast enchanted to appear younger than it is?"

  "Entirely possible. You should expect to face the dragon's breath weapon. A red dragon's weapon is fire."

  Gorlist's brow furrowed in puzzlement and he said, "But the dragon is green. I saw it."

  "I do not doubt that you saw a green dragon," Nisstyre said, "but you will not fight one."

  "Explain," Gorlist demanded.

  "There are ways to steal secrets with magic. I took from Slithifar the knowledge of two dragons: one green, one red. The green dragon was a secret you were meant to learn. There is always a second deception, which would be the illusion of the dragon's youth, the absence of danger from its breath. Surely Slithifar expects you to see through these ploys. She would have you prepare to battle a dragon that breathes gas, while planning to send you against one that breathes fire."

  Gorlist considered that. It made good sense, considering the source of the "secret." After all, Murdinark must have done something to earn those new weapons.

  "You are certain?" he demanded.

  "Where drow and dragons are concerned, little is certain. Slithifar went to great trouble and expense to bring dragons from the surface lands. She is confident you will lose."

  "How do you know?"

  Nisstyre smiled coldly and said, "She made a wager with me. My prize, should you win, is your freedom from the arena."

  "I will win."

  "Of course you will, because you will cheat."

  Before Gorlist could object, Nisstyre held up a small crystal object: a miniature dragon skull, marvelously rendered and filled with dust that sparkled and spun.

  "This holds a powder that quenches dragonfire. Throw it into the dragon's mouth if it draws breath to fuel its fires."

  The fighter regarded the object with distaste and said, "I dislike using magic."

  "I can assure you that Slithifar has no such scruples. In fact, she has no scruples at all."

  Nisstyre pushed up a voluminous sleeve, revealing a slender arm bearing Slithifar's personal mark. Revulsion shuddered through Gorlist, deepening when he noted the furrows in the wizard's flesh. A faint glow emanated from the old wound, speaking of powerful and no doubt painful magic.

  "An ever-burning acid quill," Nisstyre said succinctly. "Punishment for my attempt to purchase your freedom shortly after your mother sold you. You can expect this and worse, if you lose this fight."

  "I don't plan to lose."

  "No one plans to lose," the wizard snapped. "But he who doesn't plan to win will lose all the same. If you lose this fight, she can make you her parzdiamo.

  Believe me when I tell you this is not a fate to be envied."

  "You are free with your favors, father," Gorlist sneered. "Perhaps she had a son from you, as well?"

  An icy film slid over Nisstyre's eyes, an expression Gorlist had seen on many an opponent's face when a well-aimed blow sundered a beating heart.

  "A daughter," he said shortly. "You fought and killed her, fairly early in your arena career."

  Something almost like remorse gripped the young fighter.

  "I didn't know."

  "And now that you do, you see how little such knowledge is worth," Nisstyre said, his tone ringing with the finality of a subject closed. He handed Gorlist the crystal skull, then drew out a second vial.

  "You wear Chindra's sword," he said, "and so you know that every champion eventually falls. If you do not defeat the dragon, drink this poison. It will not hurt you, but some hours after Slithifar claims her prize, she will die screaming, and none will know why."

  Gorlist accepted both items and said, "With that image in mind, I almost regret my coming victory."

  "Your pride will strengthen your arm," Nisstyre said, "but remember that every drow uses hidden weapons. The wise fighter employs his enemies' as well as his own."

  The fighter regarded Nisstyre for a long moment, waiting for him to add detail to that cryptic advice. After several moments, the answer came to him. His lips curved in a small, secret smile. Perhaps there was something to be said for magic, after all.

  "Chindra would never have fathomed so subtle a revenge," the wizard said.

  The young fighter responded with a grim smile and said, "So? Who is this Chindra, and what is she to me?"

  On the day of Gorlist's bout, he would have no one but Murdinark help him prepare. His friend carefully clipped Gorlist's hair close to his head, then helped him into his leather armor. Murdinark tested the edge of Gorlist's weapons and slid them into sheaths attached to the fighter's forearms, boots, and weapons belt. Throughout it all, he freely betrayed Slithifar's secrets.

  "… trainers say the dragon fights primarily with its teeth. Its forepaws have but little reach. Avoid its bite, and you will fare well."

  "… the wings have been trimmed to keep it from flying, so you have nothing to fear from the wing claws…"

  "… should take this spell scroll for a bubble of pure air, in case the dragon can breathe a poison cloud…"

  "Enough, Murdinark," Gorlist said at last.

  He managed a smile and held out his hand for a comrade's grasp. Murdinark took the offered hand in both of his own. His smile froze, and his eyes widened.

  "Damn me for a drider, I almost forgot!" He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of gloves. He held one open for Gorlist and said, "Very fine leather, excellent grip. They belong to Slithifar." He grinned. "I thought it might please you to wear them until you can replace them with gloves of dragonhide."

  Gorlist joined the drow in a dark chuckle and donned the gloves. With one hand on the hilt of Chindra's sword, he swaggered into the arena. A chorus of ululating cheers greeted him. A full house.

  Smudge pots ringed the arena, and goblin slaves tended the coals. Gorlist noted Nisstyre in the stands before colored smoke began to rise from the pots, obscuring the audience from his view. Since Gorlist could see no purpose to the smudge pots, their presence made him uneasy.

  Then the gate opened, and the dragon trotted into the arena. It was, as Nisstyre had predicted, a red dragon, considerably larger than the young green.

  Gorlist threw a fulminating glare back at the arena gate.

  Murdinark shaped the hand signals for, J did not know. This I swear.

  The fighter sneered and turned to meet his foe. He drew Chindra's sword-

  Which promptly flew from his hand.

  The sword struck a ringing blow against a blue metal shield hanging on the wall.

  "Oh, well done, Murdinark," Gorlist said softly.

  He did not anticipate that his "friend" might have a third sword of magnetic metal, one with a hilt resembling Chindra's sword.

  He drew another sword from the scabbard on his back. He'd fastened his own baldric, and that weapon he trusted.

  Then the light hit him, and his confident smirk turned into a rictus of pain.

  Terrible light filled the arena, bright as the sun that interrupted the joyous carnage of surface raids and sent the dark elves fleeing back to their deep places. Suddenly Gorlist understood the purpose of the smudge pots. The crowd sat in comfortable shadows, watching the fight though a filtering haze of smoke rising from magical braziers while he was forced to fight in near-daylight conditions.

  So be it.

  It took all his streng
th and will to endure the punishing illumination. He would not fall to light, pain, or treachery. Tears poured in rivulets from his burning eyes, but he did not so much as squint. He let out a roar, one that reverberated through the cavern.

  After a moment, Gorlist realized that another voice had joined his. The clamor of the crowd gave way to hushed anticipation. The roar of a dragon, even a soft-scaled youngling such as the one he faced, was sufficient to awe even that jaded crowd.

  Gorlist fisted his watering eyes and struggled to focus. Blood-bright scales reflected light like vengeful moons as the dragon came on. It moved like a lizard, with an undulating crawl, but there was also something in its approach that reminded Gorlist of a displacer beast: the feline grace, the promise of a sudden pounce amplified by the wings held high and curved, ready for the downbeat that would launch it into flight. It hissed, catlike, revealing stiletto teeth.

  But the dragon's first attack had nothing to do with teeth and talons. Its long red tail slashed toward Gorlist like a priestess's whip. The drow nimbly leaped, but the dragon was quicker still. The blow caught him in the air and sent him flying. Gorlist rolled to deflect the force of impact and came swiftly to his feet.

  He lofted his sword and ran in. The dragon lifted an armored foreleg to accept the blow, then traced a deft, circular movement, eerily similar to the move a swordsman would make to disarm an opponent-provided that opponent had too tentative a grip on his weapon.

  To Gorlist's surprise, the tactic worked. His sword flew from his hand. As he ducked the next swipe of the dragon's paw, he quickly smeared one glove against his cheek. The leather had been oiled. Wearing such gloves, he could never hold a sword for long.

  He danced back, stripping off the gloves, burning with the twin fires of betrayal and pride. The dragon had been trained to know Gorlist's imposed weakness.

  It had disarmed him, a feat no drow had ever been able to accomplish.

  The dragon advanced. Gorlist ripped a shield from the wall and thrust it up to meet the coming blow. The creature's forepaw shredded the tough hide. Gorlist shield-smashed the snout, and the dragon spat teeth.

  Roaring in pain and anger, it reared up, rampant. Crimson breastplates shifted with the swelling intake of air as the creature prepared a killing blast. Confident in his father's magic, Gorlist hurled the tiny crystal skull into the dragon's open mouth.

  The dragon let out a mighty belch. What came from its mouth was not the smoke of a quenched flame, but a cloud of foul-smelling gas.

  Gorlist staggered back, gagging and choking. His burning, streaming eyes perceived the huge red bulk closing in on him. He went for his dagger and found that it had been peace-bound into its sheath.

  Silently cursing that new treachery, Gorlist rolled aside and came up holding a bloody tooth. He sliced the leather thongs with it and jerked the dagger out. He thrust up blindly as the huge weight descended, bearing him down into the darkness.

  Gorlist awoke to a strange silence, interrupted only by the high-pitched whine in his ears. He shook his head to clear the noise, and instantly regretted it. Nausea swept through him. Strong hands helped him sit, steadied him while he was brutally sick.

  When the sickness passed, Gorlist realized he was still in the arena. It had emptied of spectators. The dragon was dead, and the hilt of a long dagger protruded from between two chest scales. Gorlist's face burned, and he was covered in blood.

  "Whose?" he demanded, indicating the red stain. A familiar face swam into focus, a narrow foxlike face surrounded by coppery hair. "Not yours, not the dragon's," said Nisstyre. "What, then?"

  "If you can stand I will show you."

  Gorlist nodded and allowed Nisstyre to help him to his feet. The first stiffness soon gave way, and he noted with relief that he seemed not badly hurt. With Nisstyre's support, he made his way over to the huge corpse.

  "Look at the breast plates," the wizard directed.

  Gorlist looked. The red scales were mottled, and beneath the bright hue was another color.

  "This was actually a green dragon, painted to appear red in the bright light," Nisstyre said with obvious chagrin. "I did not believe Slithifar would take the deception to another level."

  "So the powder that should have quenched a red dragon's fire-breath had no effect on the cloud of gas."

  "A little, fortunately, or you would be dead. I suspect that you were also aided by the magical smoke. Its purpose was to hold the poison in the arena, protecting the crowd. Slithifar is clever," Nisstyre concluded ruefully. "The light served three purposes: to put you at a disadvantage, to disguise the dragon's true nature, and to provide a misleading explanation for the poison filter."

  Gorlist nodded, taking it all in.

  "My face," he said, touching his burning cheek.

  "The pain will fade," Nisstyre assured him, "but the mark will not. I took the liberty of giving you a magical tattoo, one that will glow with colored light-all but invisible to any eyes but a drow's-that corresponds to the color of any nearby dragon."

  "A tattoo?" Gorlist repeated, finding the notion strangely appealing. Scars were unacceptable, but a magical tattoo that marked him as a dragon slayer? That he could wear with pride.

  "Let it be a reminder to us both. Dragons are treacherous beasts, but it is possible to know their nature and predict their actions. This is not true of our most deadly enemy: our fellow drow. It is no longer safe for us in Ched Nasad."

  Gorlist responded with a derisive snort.

  His father waved the sarcasm away with a sharp, dismissive gesture and said, "I am without clan, which makes me anyone's meat. Once you leave the arena, you will leave behind the protection that successful gladiators enjoy. Do not think for a moment that Slithifar's wrath will not follow you."

  "But what else is there? The wild Underdark?"

  "The wide world," Nisstyre replied. "There are other males like us, other places we might go, other gods we might worship."

  The blasphemy of that struck Gorlist like a fist, but the possibilities were intoxicating. He was still speechless when Murdinark approached, hands held out wide in a gesture of peace or surrender. As unobtrusively as possible, Gorlist gathered up a handful of dragon teeth and put the vial of poison among them. He clenched his hand, breaking the vial and coating the ivory daggers with the poison.

  "Gorlist, I swear I knew none of it. It was Slithifar-"

  Gorlist surged to his feet, slamming into Murdinark and driving them both several paces back. They struck the arena's stone wall. Gorlist shoved his forearm against the other drow's throat, all but cutting off his air. With his free hand he slammed a dragon tooth into Murdinark's upper arm.

  "That's for the blue-metal sword."

  He thrust a tooth though the fleshy part of Murdinark's nose.

  "This for the tail swipe."

  Another tooth went into the traitor's belly.

  "And this for the peace-tied dagger."

  Gorlist had several grievances and enough dragon teeth to lend emphasis to the recital. When only one was left, he lifted it to Murdinark's face, prepared to drive it into his eye.

  After a moment, he released the gasping warrior and threw the tooth aside.

  "Every drow has hidden weapons," he said dully, "and you were Slithifar's. No warrior melts down a sword because it was used against him. Go to Slithifar, tell her I will return to the arena in a tenday. I will challenge and defeat her, as I did Chindra."

  He sent a quick glance toward Nisstyre, and received an almost imperceptible nod of approval. Every drow had hidden weapons. Gorlist would use Slithifar's against her. He gave the poisoned drow a final, contemptuous shove and followed his father out of the arena, away from Ched Nasad.

  And he never glanced back.

  THE KEEPER OF SECRET

  Ed Greenwood

  The Year of the Weeping Moon (1339 DR)

  It was the eve of the Revel of Storms, and as the gods usually seemed to want such an evening to be, it was a warm, breezy night in crowd
ed and stinking Waterdeep, with the sort of eager rising wind that meant rain was coming.

  Laughter and eager chatter carried far on the scudding airs, and folk were out in plenty on the streets. Little of that restless wind, however, found its way past the smoke-blackened tapestries that shrouded the inner booths of Darth's Dolphyntyde, a tiny fish-and-quaff corner shop on south side Watchrun Alley, to stir the stinks of its deepest, darkest corners.

  The fat bulk that most of Waterdeep knew rather unfavorably as Mirt the Moneylender sat in the rearmost booth, the awakened power of his ironguard ring tingling on one finger.

  Blades in the ribs were a peril all too easily offered hereabouts not to spend the magic-and Darth himself was one who owed him coin, and would shed no tear if something befell Mirt in a dark corner of the Dolphyntyde.

  The beads of the booth curtain rattled slightly, and Mirt's forefinger tightened on the trigger of the cocked and loaded handbow that lay ready in his lap, under the table.

  "If you slay me now," a nasal voice came from the darkness beyond the curtain, "you'll see far less than what I owe. Far, far less."

  "But I'll be rid of all the waiting in places like these for ye, Yelver," Mirt growled. "Ye're late-as usual."

  "So arrive late yourself, and save the waiting," Yelver Toraunt hissed, sliding in through the curtains like a wary snake in an uneasy hurry. "I fear I've no welcome words for you this night, where're the gods smile."

  "Ye can't pay off thy debt just now," Mirt said, his words a judgment rather than a question. "As usual."

  Yelver Toraunt shrugged and said, "I can't find coin for so much as a raw eel to eat, just now. Rooms, clothes-all gone. Just Yelver, trying to scare up coins owed to him, so as to have something to hand to you. Times are hard."

  The fat moneylender scowled, "So they say, loud and often, yet 'tis strange that not every last one o' my sometime business associates fail to hand me some o' the glint, when 'tis due. Thy tardiness'll cost ye an extra four dragons-and none o' thy shaved gold, neither!"

  "Fair enough, I s'pose," Yelver replied with a shrug. "Blood-written?"