Realms of the Dragons vol.1

GORLIST'S DRAGON

The Year of the Trumpet (1301 DR)

Ten-year-old Gorlist stared with open-mouthed dismay at the gift that commemorated the end of his word-weaning years. His reward for surviving a decade in the squalid outer caverns of Ched Nasad, for endless hours struggling with the intricacies of the dark elven speech, hand cant, and written language, was a book. A book!

His tutor, T'sarlt, watched expectantly. Gorlist snatched up his gift and hurled it across the room.

Folding his thin arms, he leveled a mutinous glare at the old drow and said, "Soldiers don't have the time to read."

"The time, or the wit?" T'sarlt snapped. "Raise your aspirations, boy! Some drow are bred for battle fodder, but you-you are a wizard's son."

According to the laws and customs of the drow, Gorlist was no such thing. The wizard Nisstyre had — sired him and sent T'sarlt to teach and care for him, but Gorlist was Chindra's son-Chindra, the gladiator who'd won free of the arena and worked her way up the ranks of the city's elite guard.

Chindra's son, Gorlist concluded sullenly, should have had a dagger as his word-weaning gift.

T'sarlt retrieved the book from the rough stone floor and placed it open on the table. He tapped the faintly glowing markings with a spidery black forefinger.

"You are entering your second decade of life. It is time for you to learn simple spells."

The boy glanced at the book and quickly snatched his gaze away. The magical markings seemed to writhe and crawl on the page, like maggots feasting upon a rotting glowfish. He repressed a shudder and twisted his lips in an imitation of the sneer Chindra wore whenever talk turned to such matters.

"Magic," he scoffed, "is for weaklings. Give me a sword, not bat dung and bad poetry."

T'sarlt pushed the book closer and said, "There is power here, and Nisstyre wishes you to wield it."

"So? All of Nisstyre's wishes won't keep Chindra from putting this book in the privy and making good use of its pages."

"If that's your measure of this book's worth," he said in a voice tense with controlled rage, "you are as stupid as you are arrogant."

Gorlist shrugged aside the insult and said, "Any education worth having comes from blood spilled, not books read. You can tell that to my mother's cast-off parzdiametkis."

The vulgar term, most commonly employed in a brothel, found the limits of T'sarlt's patience. The old drow lunged for the boy, his long, skinny fingers curved like a raptor's talons.

Gorlist easily danced aside. He lifted one hand in a rude gesture as he darted out of the cave they shared with Chindra. He scampered down the narrow stone alley, leaping over piles of street offal and dodging his tutor's grasping hands.

T'sarlt soon gave up the chase and clung, wheezing, to one of the twin stalagmites framing the entrance to Dragonsdoom Tavern, the brothel that provided Gorlist with his colorful vocabulary, as well as the occasional coin.

"Gorlist, come back at once!" T'sarlt called. "You'll be whipped for this!"

No doubt he would be, but not badly. Since Gorlist could write a little, he could send word to his father. T'sarlt was too old to take on another drow youngling. If Nisstyre dismissed him, where would he go?

Perhaps Chindra would keep him on. A sly grin twitched Gorlist's lips at the thought of his tutor spit-polishing Chindra's boots. Chindra had never shown much interest in T'sarlt, or in Gorlist, for that matter, but Gorlist took pride in his mother's steadfast refusal to relinquish him to Nisstyre.

"Males claiming children? Can't be done," she'd proclaimed. "Sets a bad precedent."

The memory of his mother's clipped, military tone brought a smile to the boy's face. What need had he of books? Chindra couldn't read or write, but she had her own mark, and those who mattered knew and feared it.

Gorlist reached inside his tunic and ran his fingers over the crude pendant hidden there-a small, flat stone, onto which he'd scratched Chindra's mark. To him, it was as fine as any matron's gems.

He squeezed through the crowd lined up outside Zimyar's Exotic Mushrooms. Beyond the market cavern lay a maze of tunnels, lairs for Underdark beasts and would-be ambushers. Gorlist started running as soon as he broke free of the crowd, his mind fixed upon glories ahead.

He made his way to the guard's training cavern without incident. Skirting the main entrance, he climbed the rough-hewn rocks to a small, secret cave high above the battleground. There he'd spent many stolen hours, watching the females train.

Two soldiers were on the field, moving together in a tight circle. His eyes went immediately to the taller female, a well-muscled drow whose shaved head was shiny with sweat and oil. That could be none but Chindra. Other females valued the beauty of flowing white hair, but Chindra refused to give her opponents the benefit of a hand-hold.

A happy sigh escaped Gorlist as he watched his mother. T'sarlt had often chided him for that dangerous affection.

"The heart is a subtle weapon," he'd cautioned. "It will be turned against you, if you're fool enough to hand it to another drow."

Gorlist cared nothing for his tutor's cautions. He loved everything about Chindra-her fierce grace in battle, the tune she whistled whenever she headed for the taverns, the welter of scars on her forearms. He'd asked her about them during one of her rare good moods, and was rewarded with the longest conversation they'd ever shared.

"Tangled as Lolth's web," she'd said proudly, turning her arms this way and that to display her battle scars. "Get in knife fights, and you're going to get cut. The skill is managing how and where, and how deep. You'll learn the way of it, if you live long enough."

"Will you teach me?" he'd asked eagerly.

That had amused her.

"Are you so anxious to bleed, drowling? Watch to learn, learn to wait. The rest will come in time."

That very day he'd followed Chindra to the practice field for the first time. After all, where better to watch and learn?

Gorlist took his treasures from a cranny in the rock wall: a broken whetstone and a once-rusty sickle he'd found in a garbage heap. He settled down and began to smooth the stone over the slim, shining blade as he watched the battle below.

The fighters were testing new weapons-thick gloves tipped with curving metal talons. Gorlist watched, heart pounding, as the two females circled and slashed. The smaller female took a vicious swipe at Chindra. She leaned out of reach and countered with a quick, snatching movement that, captured her opponent's hand. She clenched, forcing her opponent's claws to bite into her own hand. Chindra's claws followed, disappearing into her opponent's flesh.

The smaller drow shrieked and slashed out with her free hand. Chindra repeated the capture, then threw their entangled hands out wide, yanking the female toward her. Her forehead slammed into the other drow's face. The female's nose flattened into a sodden mess, and her eyes rolled up until the whites gleamed.

Chindra held her grip while the fighter slumped senseless to the stone floor. Then she peeled off her gloves, one at a time, leaving the claws embedded in the warrior's fisted hands. She dropped the gloves and the female together, as casually as she might discard a soiled garment. It was a gesture of magnificent contempt, and the watching fighters stomped and roared their approval.

Their chant swept Gorlist to his feet. He stomped and hooted along with the warriors, shaking his crescent blade overhead in imitation.

When the applause had died down and the fallen fighter hauled off to the healers, he regarded his small scythe and to his surprise and delight, saw that it was ready. The dull-bladed sickle meant for harvesting mushrooms boasted keen edges on its inner and outer curves. It was not the heart-seeking dagger of his dreams, but it was a start.

Perhaps, he thought with a grin, he would test its edge on the bindings of T'sarlt's wretched book.

Sickle in hand, Gorlist slid down the wall. He sauntered down the stone passage, practicing a soldierly swagger. He was nearly home when he heard a faint rustling in a side tunnel-not a foot passage, but a fetid, steep-sloping midden shoot.

Kobolds swarmed out of the midden hole like the rats they resembled. There were at least seven of the two-legged lizards, each nearly as tall as the drow child. Confident of an easy kill, they came on, yapping excitedly.

Gorlist planted his feet in unconscious imitation of his mother's battle stance. He ducked under the first kobold's grasping hands and drew his sickle across its soft-scaled belly. He danced back a step or two, then lunged back to slash the nearest kobold's snout. Before the startled creature could react, Gorlist reversed the blade's direction. The curved tip bit into the kobold's neck and hooked its wind pipe.

The creature fell, gurgling and pawing its ruined throat. Gorlist let out a savage whoop and threw himself at the next foe, slashing in joyous frenzy.

The kobold pack did what kobolds do when faced with unexpected resistance: they fled, squeaking curses. Gorlist stomped on a ratlike tail and cut the creature across the spine. It arched its back in a spasm of agony. The drow child seized one of the kobold's small horns, pulled the head back, and drew the sickle across its throat. He threw the body aside and sprinted after the others. Launching himself into a flying tackle, he brought down one of them-who, in its frantic scramble to escape, tripped one of its kin.

When both slaughters were completed, Gorlist staggered to his feet. He leaned against the stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gulps. For the first time in his life, he felt fully alive.

The wondrous battle frenzy ebbed all too soon. Gorlist took stock of the situation. His tunic and hands were sticky with kobold blood, and he ached in every joint and sinew. Remarkably, he was unmarked by any kobold tooth, claw, or weapon.

Gorlist all but danced back to Chindra's cave. His tutor glanced up sharply. Before he could comment, Chindra strode in. Her brief, dismissive glance sharpened into a soldier's accessing gaze.

"How much of that blood is yours?" she asked the child.

Gorlist's chin came up proudly and he answered, "None."

"Whose, then? No merchant's whelp, I'm hoping. Too short of coin to pay the blood price."

"It's kobold blood."

Her crimson eyes widened. "Dead kobolds in the tunnels. Yours?" In response, he brandished his still-bloody sickle. A grin split Chindra's face.

"A fine harvest!" she crowed. "Five kobolds! How did you learn to fight?"

"By watching you."

Because that seemed to please her, he gave her the salute he had seen so many times, that of one soldier to another.

Her hand flashed toward him like a striking snake and caught his wrist.

"Not that," she said firmly. "Never that. No male may give or get honor among the guard." Her eyes grew reflective. "But there are other ways…" Her gaze focused, snapped to his face. "You would be a fighter?"

He managed a fervent nod.

"Then you will learn as I did. Come."

She strode through the market, Gorlist following like a small shadow. Excitement filled him, moving him beyond a child's enthusiasm for adventure-he had long desired to see the gaming arena-and into the wonder of unforeseen possibilities. Chindra was a soldier, so of course that was Gorlist's goal. But she had first been a renowned gladiator. He would match her fame, and follow her path from its beginning.

Gorlist padded silently after her down a series of side tunnels, narrower than those leading to the practice arena. He did not have to be told why: The better to defend the city should any of the arena's beasts escape- or for that matter, if by some marvel the arena fighters decided to band together in common purpose.

The stone corridor opened, and the arena lay before them. It was a huge chamber, ringed with tiers of seats. Slim walkways crossed overhead. Gorlist gave the structures scant attention. His eyes were fixed on the arena floor. Wondrous beasts, creatures never seen in the tunnels around Ched Nasad, fought and died there.

So, apparently, did drow gladiators. Several fighters sprawled on bloodied stone. Two others hacked at a hideous, gray-skinned creature with long limbs and astonishing powers of regeneration. A severed arm writhed on the arena floor, forgotten. The torn shoulder knitted. A bud of flesh appeared and blossomed into five gray petals. Those grew claws, which flexed and wriggled as a hand took shape at the end of the swift-growing new arm.

"I learned here," Gorlist's mother said, "and so will you."

Joy flared bright in the young drow's heart.

"I will win every fight," he promised.

She laughed and clapped him on the shoulder-a soldierly gesture Gorlist had never seen her offer a male. It was the proudest moment of his young life.

Chindra scanned the warriors who stood to one side, then raised her hand in a hail.

"Slithifar, Mistress of the Ring!"

A tall female looked up, frowning. Something about her gave Gorlist the impression of many snakes, melded by some mad wizard into a single dark elf. Her white hair was plaited into several braids, and she carried a bone-handled whip of leather thongs. Her face was as angular as a pit viper's, her gaze as flat and soulless.

But she lifted one hand in recognition and strode over to meet the newcomers. She and Gorlist's mother clasped forearms in a fighter's salute.

"What brings Chindra back to the games?" the ring mistress asked. "Come to show these younglings how fighting's done?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she responded, dropping her gaze to the child at her side.

Slithifar's white brows lifted. "And who is this bloody urchin?"

"Gorlist, Son of Chindra," the soldier said. "He is blooded indeed, and none of it his own."

The ring mistress ran a finger along Gorlist's stained tunic then touched it to her lips.

"Kobold?"

"Seven of them," Chindra lied proudly. "Hacked into fish bait with a mushroom sickle."

Slithifar slid a calculating gaze over the drow child, then turned back to his mother and said, "A worthy feat."

"Worth much," Chindra countered.

They went on in that vein for quite some time. Gorlist wandered over to the railing to watch the fighting. One drow still battled the gray monster, too intent to notice the severed limb slithering up behind him. Long knobby fingers seized the unwitting drow's ankle. The fighter let out a yelp of surprise and pain. Gorlist laughed with derisive delight.

A strong hand landed on his shoulder, lacquered nails biting into his flesh. He jumped, then grimaced. His response, and more importantly, his inattention, was too like the drow below to suit his pride.

"A troll," Slithifar said. "Good for training. It heals as fast as our younglings can slice it, and it eats those who lose."

Gorlist shifted his free shoulder in an impatient shrug. What was that to him?

His mother chuckled and said, "You see? He is not afraid."

Slithifar spun him to face her, and her red eyes licked over him like twin flames. "He will be," she promised.

Without looking up, she tossed a small bag to Chindra, who caught it deftly. She saluted the ring mistress and sauntered off. Gorlist started after her, but the butt of Slithifar's whip slammed into his gut, driving the air from his body.

"You are mine now," she said. "You go and do on my bidding. Do you understand?"

In truth, he did not. Then Chindra began to whistle her tavern tune. A trio of goblin slaves, scenting her good humor, held out importunate hands. She reached into the little bag, tossed the beggars a coin, and disappeared around the corner without a backward glance.

"She sold me," he said, his voice a raw whisper. "To you."

Tor more than you're worth… yet."

Gorlist noted her leer, and young though he was, he understood that, too. He returned her assessing gaze, letting her see his hatred and fury. Slithifar threw back her head and laughed with dark delight.

"Oh, you will earn your price and more! Come along, my little troll bait."

He followed, for he had no other choice. As he went, he tore the leather thong from around his neck and dropped the stone bearing Chindra's mark onto the rough path. Blinking strangely moist eyes, Gorlist forbade himself to mark where the stone fell.

His mother hadn't looked back, and neither would he.

The Year of Dreamwebs (1323 DR)

Years sped past. Gorlist grew as tall and well-muscled as Chindra.had been. And he'd kept the promise made the day she'd sold him into slavery: he had won every fight.

His grim dedication was upon him as he sparred with Murdinark, his training partner and the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had.

As was their custom, they loosened their muscles in a bout with quarter staves. Gorlist met Murdinark's flamboyant, sweeping attacks with precise movements, and answered with deft counters that got through his friend's guard more often than not. Gorlist was the better fighter, but the crowds loved Murdinark. He suspected they came not to see Murdinark fight, but to watch him bleed. Gorlist took great pride in the fact that he himself was unmarked, flawless. Undefeated.

Even as the thought formed, Murdinark twisted his staff apart into two shorter sticks, each tipped with a metal hook. He raised both, caught Gorlist's descending staff in a cross parry, then whipped his arms out wide. The hooks sliced through Gorlist's staff like a knife through new cheese. The upper end clattered to the stone floor, and Murdinark kicked it aside.

"Hidden weapon. Well done," Gorlist admitted as he brought his shortened staff back into guard position.

"Your staff would have done that, too. You just had to know where to twist it."

"When did you intend to pass that information along?"

Murdinark flashed a cocky grin and said, "After I'd won, of course."

He tossed aside the divided staff and pulled a short sword from his belt. Gorlist followed suit. To his surprise, the taller drow hauled back his arm and launched the weapon into tumbling flight.

"Xipan-letharza!" he shouted.

An unseen hand tore the sword from Gorlist's grasp. It spun away, chasing after Murdinark's weapon. The two blades clashed together an instant before they hit the stone floor.

Intrigued, Gorlist strode over. The weapons lay together, as closely stacked as bodies in a commoners' crypt. He stooped to reclaim his sword. Murdinark's clung to it as if the two swords had been welded together.

He turned over the enjoined weapons, noting the engraved pattern-a macabre design depicting skeletons entangled in posthumous orgy. The metal revealed by the etching held a faint bluish tinge.

"The magnetic orc found in the lower levels of Drumlochi Cavern?" he asked.

Murdinark grinned and replied, "Good guess, especially for someone who's never set foot out of Ched Nasad."

His words held a slight taunt. Arena fighters who won their bouts earned certain privileges: trips to the bazaar, visits to taverns and festhalls, even an occasional surface raid. Gorlist preferred to exercise the winner's right to decline any female's advances, so he let the jibe pass and resumed his inspection of the sword.

"Where did you get this?" asked Gorlist.

"From Slithifar. A morning gift," he said with a wink.

A wave of revulsion swept through Gorlist. "How can you endure that two-legged snake?"

The other drow shrugged and said, "It means rewards and pleasures."

Gorlist's gaze raked across his friend's forearm, which bore a stylized mark.

"Such as being branded like a he-rothe?" Gorlist said.

"You'll wear her mark, you know," Murdinark replied, all the humor fled from his face. "The first time you lose."

"I haven't lost yet," Gorlist reminded him, "and I don't plan to."

His friend glanced around to see if any might be listening, then he leaned in close and said, "Then you'd better get yourself down to the beast pens."

That advice seized Gorlist's attention. Slithifar had been practicing a rather tedious economy when it came to the purchase of new and exotic creatures for the arena.

"What is it this time?" he said, affecting a boredom he did not feel. "A displacer beast? Another drider?"

"A dragon. From the surface."

For a long moment Gorlist stared at his friend. Murdinark confirmed that extraordinary news with a nod. Without a word, Gorlist strode toward the holding pens.

Finding the dragon was not too difficult. A creature from the World Above would require more light than Underdark dwellers. He followed the sputtering, smoking torches thrust into wall brackets to a deep, brightly-lit pit. When his eyes adjusted, an incredulous snort of laughter burst from him.

The dragon was a juvenile, no more than twenty feet long. Its scales were bright green and probably still soft enough to cut with a table knife. As Gorlist watched, a rat darted past. The dragon sucked air as if to fuel its breath weapon. Instead of poisonous gas, it loosed a hiss and some foul-smelling spittle.

Gorlist sneered. What did Slithifar expect the creature to do? Drown him in saliva?

He returned to his quarters to change his clothes in preparation for the midday meal-and to steal a few private moments to ponder Slithifar's latest test. To his surprise, Nisstyre awaited him there.

His wizard sire was slender and graceful, with long hair of an unusual coppery hue and features handsome enough to catch many a female's eye. His size and strength, however, would not carry him through a single bout in the arena. Despite all, Gorlist was not sorry that he resembled his mother.

"I have spoken to Slithifar," the wizard said without preamble. "She is not pleased with you."

"Slithifar's pleasure is the least of my concerns," Gorlist told him.

"Curb your arrogant tongue, boy! Without the mistress's favor, without magic, how can you expect to survive in this place?"

"Magic hasn't kept me alive these many years. This has."

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 strength 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.