The Realms of the Dragons 2

THE HUNTING GAME

Flamerule, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)

The caravan rolled along, the wagons creaking, the men coughing and cursing, and the horses whinnying, just as it had for miles and miles before across the Heartlands. The road to Baldur's Gate would be a long one, one that many of the gruff caravan guards had seen many times before. They were familiar with it, familiar enough to watch gullies, turns, stands of trees, and boulders that made up familiar ambush spots.

The scouts were so preoccupied with watching for trouble at their flanks, front, or rear, such that few paid attention to a dark shape in the sky.

Few except Alin Cateln.

Looking out the window, idly plucking at his harp as the wagon in which he rode jostled on, the young bard wondered absently if it was a wisp of cloud or some high-flying night bird. The trip had passed so uneventfully that he was eager to make up distractions for himself on this, the sixth day out of Hill's Edge. His seat tossed him up and down, but still it was more comfortable than a saddle.

"Say, what's that, do you reckon?" he asked the driver.

The gruff-faced man looked at the sky. "What?"

"That shape right there," Alin said, pointing.

"There? The only thing that ain't cloud?" he asked, and Alin nodded. "That'd be Selune, boy, on her nightly walk."

Alin rolled his eyes. Of course the man had not seen it. Just like that, the shape-if it had even existed outside his imagination-vanished.

The stopover in Hill's Edge had been entirely too long and torturous, for the warm Flamerule nights-especially in the hot Year of the Wave-had kept joviality and company outside the inns and taverns where he had needed to play for his lodging and meals. Dashing young men with songs on their tongues and blushing maidens with flaxen or dusky hair and faces tanned golden by the sun… too bad Alin had been trapped indoors.

The wagon gave a shake and disrupted his reverie. Tossing the dark hair that fell in spikes across his face, Alin plucked a sour note on his harp. Ever since that day when his father had sent him away for failing at the Cormyrean academy, Alin had always needed to sing for his supper, or for rides with caravans, and not make merry.

Even on the road, he had to compete with another, much more practiced minstrel: an adventuring bard by the name of Tannin, who traveled with the caravan along with his adventuring companions. The caravanners would surely put Alin off soon-he only hoped they waited until Triel.

There came shouts from outside, but he ignored them. Surely it was just another arguing match between two of the caravan guards.

Unbidden, the words of a song came to his lips, and he strummed a few notes on the harp.

"I walk the road both winding and true," he sang. "It leads to friends both old and new."

Alin was in the midst of remembering the third line when the front half of the wagon vanished in a flash of burning crimson fury. The force of the blast threw him back, shattering open the shutters on the wagon window as his body flew out. Immolated by flames spawned from the Nine Hells themselves, Alin screamed in pain and terror. Through the darkness, he could see only one thing-the flash of a terrible, dark eye wreathed in crackling flame.

Then he saw nothing.

When light came back into the world, Alin was aware of a sensation of softness surrounding his body. He wondered, for a moment, if he had made it to the Great Wheel and if he would see his mistress Tymora any instant.

Then, after a few happy breaths, Alin realized he was hungry-in fact, he was starving. A brief look around told him he was not quite in Brightwater yet. Instead, Alin was merely tucked under thick blankets and staring up at the ceiling of a bedroom.

He tried to rise, but his head exploded in lancing pain. At first, Alin was afraid his head had come free of his body, but he soon realized-by feeling with his fingers-that it was still attached to his neck.

What a terrible dream, Alin thought.

Finally, after many abortive attempts, Alin managed to lever himself out of bed. He was nude but he was not cold. The window, open to the night air, let in a pleasant breeze. The room was simple, bare, and small, with only a bed and a chair for furniture. His light tunic, indigo-dyed vest, and leather breeches, neatly folded, sat on the chair. Alin picked them up and inhaled their scent-not flowery, but clean.

For a moment, as he dressed, Alin wondered if it was all just a dream. Then he heard voices. The joyous sounds of a tavern rose to meet him from down a flight of stairs.

Still rubbing his head but smiling, Alin went down.

The atmosphere in the common room of Triel's Singing Wind Inn was on the somber side, though travelers still raised tankards and mugs in toasts to companions long gone and new friends made. Several spoke in hushed voices about a dragon attack, but Alin didn't know if it was for real, or just the ale talking. The rafters were smoke-stained and the air was thick with the scent of pipes, spilled ale, and unwashed bodies. A bard strummed on a harp and sung a tawdry ballad of gallant but stupid knights and the lusty barmaids who loved them.

Alin inhaled deeply and felt his lungs burn. He loved every moment of it.

Over in the corner, Alin glimpsed an unusual pair-a hulking man in dark leathers with a greataxe standing by the table and a thin woman in silks and robes who must have been half the man's size-sharing a quiet drink. He did not have time to see more, as a meaty hand came from the side to catch his shoulder.

"Hey, look who's up!" a friendly voice said.

Alin turned. Beside him was a hefty man in a gold and white tunic. His skin was fair, his hair gold, and he wore a thick mustache.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" asked Alin, who didn't know the face.

"If by 'met,' ye mean 'hauled yer half-dead carcass from the burning wreck of a caravan and healed ye while Thard carried ye back 'ere,' then aye, we've met," the man said. "After the dragon, ye're lucky to be alive-thank the Morninglord for young bones!"

It came back to Alin in a flash: the caravan, the flames, and the burning eye. Apparently, it had not all been a dream.

"You… you saved my life?" Alin asked. "How can I repay you?"

"Well, yer name would be a good start," the man said. He took Alin's hand. "Mine be Delkin Snowdawn, Morning Brother of Lathander, o' Luskan. And who might ye be?"

"A-Alin," the young bard managed through teeth clenched against the pain in his hand. Delkin's grasp was certainly a firm one. When the priest finally released his hand, Alin put it behind his back and rubbed it. "Alin Cateln, of Tilverton."

"Ah, a Cormyrean," Delkin said. "Good wine there-some o' the best."

Alin nodded dumbly. He was about to speak again when Delkin seized him about the waist and pulled him along.

"Ye've got to meet me friends, the other Moor Runners," he boomed. "And, seeing as how ye're awake, let me get ye a drink to put ye back to sleep."

Alin blinked, and the priest laughed and added, "Ah, I just be kiddin' with ye."

"Moor Runners?" Alin asked. That sounded familiar.

"Won quite a name for ourselves in the Evermoors, killing trolls," Delkin replied. "Though that be quite a while back, the name just stuck, ye know. Come o'er here."

Alin could not refuse as the priest half carried him over to the mismatched pair he had seen before.

"Thard and Inri," Delkin introduced, indicating the hulking man and the slight woman in turn.

"My lord, my lady," Alin said with a low bow.

The man was even bigger close up. The woman was a petite elf maid, with hair like gold and a complexion to match. The two completely ignored Alin.

He stood there a moment, uncertain, and looked at Delkin, but the priest was already gone. He turned back to the companions. His mind racing fast, Alin did the only thing he could do: he searched for clues as to what he should say. His eye caught on the design etched in the blade of the greataxe.

"The blades of Tempus, emblazoned upon a swift steed," he said. "That means you are a warrior of the Sky Ponies, correct? Such a heavy axe-you must be a strong warrior."

The hulking man looked at him curiously and asked, "Aye, what of it?" His voice was rough and deep.

The bard turned to the elf maid next. "And you, fair lady, by your garb I make you to be a sorceress-shifting veils that change colors in the light, to reflect the chaos that is your magic, am I right?" he asked.

She looked at him for the first time, and her eyes were startlingly pink and red in hue.

"And your gaze, like the sunrise…" Alin began. "It reminds me of a ballad. Ah, many a time I've spent, on soft-packed ground with my dear lassie, watching the golden jewel climb lazily, my arm around her, gazing more into her eyes than the rise…'"

By the time Delkin brought him the promised drink, Alin was sitting with the two, rattling on and on about his journeys, art, and life story. Thard wore a soft, proud smile, and even Inri's eyes were dancing.

"Ye make friends quick," Delkin praised him as he passed tankards of ale around the table. The barbarian took his tankard and drained it off in one gulp.

"Your companions are fine adventurers," Alin said. "I was merely listening to their stories-they are the ones worthy of praise, not I."

"Mayhap," Delkin said. He eyed Inri suspiciously, and the elf maid's eyes twitched toward him. "Though they be having ulterior motives…"

Alin's brow wrinkled and he asked, "What ulterior motives? "

The Moor Runners looked at one another.

"I had doubted it before," Inri said. If moonlight could dance, Alin thought, it might have been her voice. "But not now. We wish to have you join us."

"As our skald… er, bard," Thard rumbled.

Delkin nodded and smiled broadly.

Alin was stunned. "But, what, why?" he asked. "You… you just met me, and now you want me to be part of your band?"

Delkin wrapped his arm around Alin. "Ye see, Alven-" he began.

"Alin," the bard corrected him.

"Right. Our bard, Tannin… well, he… ah, departed at the caravan, and we're looking for a replacement."

Alin's suspicions were confirmed-the Moor Runners were the adventurers who had been with the caravan.

"A replacement?" asked Alin. "And you want me?"

"That be yer trade, aye?" replied the priest. "We heard ye sing along the road, and-"

"I'd love to come with you!" Alin shouted, startling the Moor Runners. None had expected such a reply, and so quickly, but none protested.

"Good," Thard rumbled. "Been needin' a good tune, e'er since Tannin was killed."

"Killed?" asked Alin.

An unhappy Delkin flinched and glowered at Thard.

"In the dragon attack," Inri explained.

"Aye, wretched beast took us by surprise," Delkin mused. "Poor Tannin… 'Tis a risky line of work, adventuring and all…" He looked at Alin. "Er, not that ye'll be in any danger."

Alin realized he should have been terrified, but instead he felt excitement rushing through him.

"A dragon?" Alin asked. "You can kill such a creature, right?"

The Moor Runners looked at one another, dubious.

Finally Delkin shrugged and said, "Aye, definitely. Ah, well… mayhap. Well, ah, not actually, no. Well, what we really need…"

Just then, the doors of the Wind swung open and crashed loudly against the interior walls. The heads of the inn's patrons, as though pulled by invisible reins, jerked toward the disturbance, and more than a few breaths caught.

The fiery-haired woman who entered the common room was tall, slim, and stunning. Black leather and plate in the Thayan style, complete with spikes like talons, wrapped her muscular frame. A black half-cape fell from one shoulder and a sheathed, curved sword was thrust through her belt of dark reptile skin. A silver ring in the shape of a winged dragon swallowing its own tail gleamed from her right hand. A spiked gauntlet covered her left. Her pale face was lean and sharp, and her eyes-gleaming dark orbs-had a hungry look to them.

"Who be the beauty, I wonder?" Delkin said.

Inri looked sharply at him, then turned wary eyes back on the stranger. Alin said nothing. He just sat there, stunned.

The silence lasted only a moment before the woman spoke. Her voice was powerful, almost husky, and easily caught the attention of all who heard.

"I understand you've a dragon about," she said.

"Aye? What of it?" a one-eyed patron scoffed.

"I'm looking for a few brave souls who'll help me dispose of the beast," the woman replied. "I need a tracker and a mage, if possible."

"Help ye?" another man asked. Alin recognized him as a snide caravanner. "Some lass in ridiculous…"

He trailed off when a sliver of metal appeared at his throat. A gasp ran through the common room. No one had seen the woman so much as move, much less draw her blade. The man trembled, his mouth hanging open.

"Ryla Dragonclaw," she said from between clenched teeth. "Remember it."

The man quivered in fear under the intensity of her gaze.

"The Dragonslayer!" Alin blurted. His voice sounded blasphemously loud in the awed stillness.

Ryla's eyes flicked to him and she sheathed her sword with a flourish. Leaving a relieved caravanner behind her, Ryla walked toward the Moor Runners, her step smooth and confident.

"You know me," she said to Alin, her words meant only for him.

He tried to stammer out a response, but no words would come. Her direct speech and her burning gaze thrilled and stunned him. Struck dumb, the bard could only look at that vision of loveliness, her hair painting a crimson corona around her sensuous face.

"Well met, Lady Dragonclaw," Delkin started.

"Just Ryla," the dragonslayer said. "I am no lady, nor a knight."

The priest shrugged and went on, "Ryla, then. I be Delkin Snowdawn, captain o' the Moor Runners. This is Alin Catalan-"

"Cateln," Alin breathed.

"Right," Delkin said. "Alin Catalan of Tilverton-" he gestured to Inri and Thard-"and these be-"

"Ah, adventurers," she interrupted the priest, continuing to speak to the bard.

The two other Moor Runners narrowed their eyes. Ryla looked directly at Alin and mouthed his name, as though turning it over on her tongue. A shiver of thrill passed down his spine.

"Just what I need," the strange woman added.

Inri looked at Ryla, then at Delkin, but it was Alin who spoke. "To slay your dragon?" he asked with unmasked excitement.

"Tharas'kalagram," Ryla replied. "Yes. A red wyrm I've followed this far. I know where he's headed, and I need some brave and…" She looked Alin up and down. Her eyes were burning. "Hearty adventurers to help me kill him."

As she stared at Alin, she licked her lips ever so slightly, so only he could notice.

"My apologies, dragonslayer," Delkin said, taking the prompt from Inri. "We're a bit occupied at the moment replacing our bard, and we can't be bothered to-"

"We'll do it!" Alin said.

The other Moor Runners looked at him with expressions ranging from the shock on Delkin's face, to the surprise registering through Thard's features, and the horrified disdain in Inri's eyes.

Ryla's ruby lips curled up in the vestiges of a smile.

"Rest well, then, brave sir bard," she said. "We leave at dawn, for the Forest of Wyrms."

"Who gave you the right to speak for us?" Inri asked as soon as Alin came out of the inn, rubbing his eyes in the bright sunlight.

"What?" asked Alin as he finished securing the cuffs of his tunic. "I thought…"

The Moor Runners were all saddled and ready before Alin, who was unused to rising at first light. Atop a giant black stallion, Thard was a giant in furs and boiled leather. On a white mare next to him, Inri rode sidesaddle, clad in green and silver silks. In scale mail and a white tabard with the sunrise of Lathander, the priest Delkin looked nervous on his dun. With a whistle from her rider, Delkin's steed stepped in front of Inri's mare and the priest spoke to calm the sorceress.

"Alkin, I'm all for dragon slaying, but can we really trust this heroine o' yers?"

Alin didn't get a chance to correct him as Inri spoke up. "She wears a magical ring-and that is all. Would a dragonslayer really be so naked of magic?'

Thard nodded. Even though the Uthgardt people didn't make extensive use of magic, he had to agree. "Something seems wrong."

"Maybe she's just… amazing," the bard argued. He patted Neb, his strong Cormyrean steed. He was pleased the horse had survived the dragon's attack. "Thayan armor is renowned, and a katana-a Kara-Turan blade-is the finest sword ever made. Mayhap she doesn't need magic."

The Moor Runners were all about to protest, but something silenced them. Alin felt a presence behind him.

"Mayhap I don't," offered Ryla's sultry voice.

Striding up to them, the dragonslayer was radiant. The dark armor made a striking contrast with her milky skin and her hair seemed afire in the sunrise. Her eyes were fixed on Alin. He lost himself again in those smoldering eyes.

After a moment, Delkin cleared his throat. "You have no horse, Lady?" he asked.

"I've always preferred to carry myself," Ryla said without breaking the gaze she shared with the bard. She paused, but only for a breath before adding, "On my own two feet."

Delkin grinned, but saw-from a look at his companions- that lightening the mood was a lost cause.

"We shall outpace you for certain," Inri said. "Unless you run as fast as you draw steel."

Ryla looked away and fixed her deadly gaze on the elf maid, who met it, but soon shrank back, seeming to grow smaller on her steed. Thard fingered his axe, and a slight smile crossed Ryla's face.

"You can ride with me," Alin offered, startling all. They all looked at him-Inri in disbelief, Ryla with a slightly bemused smile. "As you wish," Inri said.

She turned to the north, muttering something under her breath in Elvish, and urged her steed into a trot. The mount gave a snort but started walking, and Thard's steed followed. Delkin shrugged and turned as well.

Ryla looked up at Alin with thanks written on her pale features and offered a playfully dainty hand. He pulled her up, and was startled at her grip-it was more powerful than that of Captain Agatan, the strongest soldier he had ever known. She mounted behind him and wrapped her arms gently around his waist. His face flushed, but he would not turn and let her see.

"Hold tight," he murmured.

"Always," replied Ryla. Her whisper, so close in his ear, startled and excited him.

The journey to the Forest of Wyrms took most of the day, with short breaks for meals and walking the horses. During the entire ride, Ryla had pressed her body close against Alin, and when they had walked the horses, she'd stayed close to him. It didn't seem she was doing it intentionally-indeed, Ryla hardly seemed aware of either her proximity or her effect on the bard-but Alin hardly cared. He could feel the soft swell of her slim stomach juxtaposed against the cool steel of her armor. The odd duality was thrilling.

"What is it you've got there?" the bard asked Delkin, trying to get his mind off the beautiful dragonslayer. He had wondered about Delkin's saddlebags all morning.

"Oh, ye mean these?" the cleric asked, unbuckling and lifting one of the flaps. Contained in the saddlebags were thick, heavy pots and pans, spoons, ladles, and other cooking utensils. "There ain't nothing beats a good meal on the road, I always say."

"You're a cook?" Alin asked, eyeing Delkin's ample belly.

The sturdy priest laughed. "No, no," said Delkin. "I'm more an eater than a cooker. But Thard's a cook to rival the finest in Waterdeep. He'll be cookin' dinner this e'en… ye'll see what I be meaning."

They broke for a highsun meal among a stand of boulders. Delkin broke out the trail rations and began dividing them, but Ryla declined the hardtack and dried fruit, saying she was not hungry. None of the Moor Runners protested. They fell to their meal while she went around one of the boulders.

After a few minutes of biting the hardened bread, Alin found he was not hungry either. Or, at least, not for trail rations. Rather, he hungered and thirsted for Ryla's presence. He excused himself and followed the dragonslayer. His exit drew glances ranging from the bemused, in Delkin's case, to the suspicious, in Inri's. Alin climbed the small mountain of giant rocks in search of a certain fiery-haired warrior.

It didn't take the bard long to find Ryla. The beautiful dragonslayer was perched on the highest boulder, gazing all around, like a queen surveying her lands. She was turned away from his approach, and her blade lay across her lap. As the sunlight played along the katana's length, it almost seemed that the crimson dragon etched on the steel was alive and dancing.

"Looking for our quarry?" Alin asked.

Ryla leaped to her feet and spun, blade up and ready. The bard, startled, stumbled back toward the edge of the boulder. He teetered on one foot and fought to keep his balance.

He realized Ryla was laughing. The woman had sheathed her katana and extended a hand to help him. He took it, and she pulled him up with seemingly little effort.

"You could say that," she replied. "Though, really, I'm just looking."

Almost the same instant Alin realized she was still holding his hand, Ryla let him go and moved away. She took up Her position on the rock again, one leg bent close to her chest. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight.

Breath was hard to come by for the bard, though he knew he would have to remember to breathe or he would pass out on his feet.

"Lady Dragonclaw?" Alin asked.

"Just Ryla," replied the dragonslayer. She glanced at him to accentuate her point. "I'm no lady."

"Oh, aye. I remember." Alin felt warmth rising in him at the familiarity. "Ryla… You must tell me about your travels-your exploits. I collect stories, and you're famous, after all."

"There's not much to tell." Ryla looked away and said, "I hunt dragons. 'Tis a game, nothing more." "A game?"

A smile played across Ryla's fine features. Alin felt self conscious and looked away.

She said, "To me, 'tis a game, as surely as you skip rocks over water or fought with wooden swords as a child. Some hunt foxes, some boars. I hunt dragons. A hunting game."

Alin drank in her words for a moment before he realized she had stopped.

"But…" he said, "but surely there is more!" He looked back, and she was smiling mischievously. "Like, ah, how many have you slain? How do you seem so young when your legend was told in my father's day? You are no elf maid! Why do you vanish for years at a time and return in the tales? Whence your armor, or your sword? Are they of some great epic make-a master smith, or an archmage?"

"Nothing so fancy," replied Ryla. "As to how many, surely you can count." Alin had noticed the twelve spikes on her armor before, but he finally realized what they were: dragon claws. "And 'tis not polite to ask a lady her age."

"I thought you were no lady," returned Alin.

Ryla gave him a devious smile. "Some secrets I'll keep," she said. "Except to observe that those stories you mention were probably told in your grandfather's day, not your father's."

Alin's eyes opened wide in surprise, but the dragonslayer's lips moved no more. He left her to her surveying and climbed back down, his mind roiling.

The sun was dipping in the east. The Moor Runners had been traveling over flat plains for a long while, and they were about to ride over a rise when they heard a bird's cry from above. Inri waved them to stop. The sorceress put out her arm and gave a fey whistle. In a moment, a black raven swooped down and landed on her bracer. Then the bird began speaking to Inri in perfect Elvish.

"Her familiar," Delkin explained.

Ryla gave a snort.

The raven finished and Inri nodded. At her short command, the bird squawked and flew off.

Inri turned to the Moor Runners and said, "Anthas says there is a war party of ores encamped immediately to the north-a score or more of them."

Delkin nodded and said, "Aye, then, we'll break here and camp."

The Moor Runners swung down from their horses and began unstrapping their saddlebags. Alin dismounted and offered his hand up to Ryla. The dragonslayer, however, did not notice.

With a suspicious look on her fine features, she glared at Inri from atop Alin's steed, and asked, "Why are we stopping?"

"It wouldn't make sense to waste our energy on a score of ores," Delkin explained as he unrolled his travel tent. "They're not hurting anyone at the moment-let them be for now."

"They're vermin," argued Ryla with a hiss. "They should be destroyed."

"But we're hunting a dragon," reminded Alin. "Not ores."

The dragonslayer regarded him with a venomous stare. He could see her temper flaring again.

"I hadn't forgotten," she said as she pulled the reins from his hand. "Don't make camp just yet. I'll be right back."

With that, she wheeled to the north and kicked Neb into a gallop. Fiery hair and black half-cape streaming behind her, she flew over the plains toward the ore camp.

"Morninglord's heel!" shouted Delkin.

The Moor Runners dropped their gear and scrambled to mount and follow. Deprived of his horse and pack, Alin began running after Ryla. Of course, the horse easily outdistanced him. As soon as he got to the top of the hill, he stopped and his jaw dropped in shock.

A hundred yards away, Ryla had just reached the ore encampment, where there were considerably more than a score of ores. There were perhaps three-dozen of the creatures, all with weapons close to hand. They leaped up with shouts of alarm but Ryla didn't even hesitate. The flame-haired woman pounced from the charging Neb, steel flashing in her hands, and slammed her feet into the first ore to rise. She rode him down and fell onto the others with blade and fist.

Logic told Alin that she was hopelessly overmatched, but Ryla didn't hesitate for a heartbeat. She laid into the ores with her blade, slashing left and right. Everywhere her blade fell, dead and dying ores tumbled down, and her fist slapped weapons aside and knocked more of the creatures from their feet. Blades struck her armor but she shrugged them off without pause.

Alin felt a song of battle coming to his lips, unbidden, and he sang as loud as he could, praying Ryla could hear him and take heart from his song.

In short order, though, he realized the ballad was not meant to encourage her. Rather, it merely praised her ferocity. There was no grace or finesse to her fighting, only sheer brutality and phenomenal strength.

After a single verse had been sung and a dozen ores felled, the other Moor Runners arrived and stared at the woman tearing through the ores like an incarnation of fury.

"By the dawn…" Delkin breathed.

Ryla slashed down, disemboweling a yelping ore on her right, and knocked a berserker down on her left with a punch. An ore stepped on her katana blade, held it pinned, and raised its greataxe over its head with a deep war cry. Ryla roared right back, jerked the blade up with a pulse of her mighty shoulders, throwing the ore off its feet into the air, and cut the hapless creature in two as it fell to the ground. Then she spun and caught a high slash from behind.

Neb, who had been left unmolested by the ores who were more intent on the wild woman attacking them, had circled around and soon trotted to a stop next to the loudly singing bard.

Alin's ballad cut off as he realized Inri was casting a spell. Tongues of flame curled and licked around her silvery bracers and condensed between her hands into a bead of crimson. Alin's eyes went wide-he had seen war wizards sling fire before-and moved to stop her, but Thard held him back. Alin realized he could not break Inri's concentration, or the spell might go awry and explode in the midst of the Moor Runners.

He watched, helpless, as the elf maid opened her eyes and threw toward the battle, where the last of the ores had surrounded Ryla. An inferno burst in the camp, and Alin averted his eyes. He could hardly hear the screams over the dull roar of the flames.

When he looked back, the camp was a smoldering ruin. His heart fell-he thought Ryla killed for sure-but then he saw movement.

Delkin motioned Alin to mount his waiting horse then he led the Moor Runners down the hill toward the blackened encampment.

Tapping her blade against her boot, Ryla was waiting for them. The fire had seared the blood from the katana blade and her skin, but had not blackened either. It seemed the flame had done nothing except purify her.

"You're alive!" the bard gasped in relief.

As Alin came closer, however, he saw that her legs were trembling. He leaped from his saddle and rushed to her. Weak, Ryla collapsed on his shoulder. She felt surprisingly light, almost frail in his arms.

"Didn't think… I could… handle it, eh?" Ryla asked, her breath short. She held up her right hand. The silver dragon ring glowed fiercely.

"Your ring blocks fire?" asked the bard.

Ryla gave a weak laugh. "Something… like that," she replied.

As Alin helped her mount Neb, Ryla flashed a look at Inri… a little smile that set the elf maid bristling as though at a thinly veiled threat.

The Moor Runners set up camp a mile outside the Forest of Wyrms. At a distance, the forest looked peaceful, almost inviting. The towering redwoods were spread out enough to accommodate several men walking abreast, and rose majestically into the sky. Alin could not help singing a soft ballad about the place that he'd learned in Cormyr. The Moor Runners seemed comforted by his voice-except for Ryla, whose expression was unreadable.

"A bold and epic tale will be our deeds, or a dark and tragic one will be our deaths," Alin sang. He felt a little thrill run through him, and he hesitated to begin another verse.

"Restrain yer enthusiasm," Delkin said with a clap on the shoulder that startled Alin out of his tune. The bard looked at the priest in shock, but Delkin smiled. "And getyeself some rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow." He gestured at Alin's rapier. "I haven't even asked. Ye know how to use that thing?"

"Ah… of course!" Alin said. "I've taken lessons since I could walk, and-"

"Good," the cleric rumbled. "Ye might need it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"There be dragons 'ere, boy," Delkin said. "Hope ye paid attention at those lessons, though them beasts don't take to fencing much."

The priest rumbled with laughter and walked back to where Thard was cooking, a dozen paces away.

Alin smiled. He pulled his harp out of his saddlebags and unwrapped it carefully. Easing it into its accustomed position against the calluses inside his arm, he strummed a few notes on the strings. He wondered if he might spend a few hours that evening working on the new lay he was composing: The Ballad of Dragonclaw.

"Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire…" he sang. "Surveying the land, queen of the hunting game…"

He stopped himself. He had not meant to sing those words. It was just something Ryla had said, words that were running through his mind. The hunting game…

"A dangerous game," he breathed.

"I can't eat this!" Ryla's angry voice came. "It's practically raw."

Alin turned his head just in time to see Ryla hurl a haunch of venison in Thard's face. The barbarian barely caught the seared meat before it smacked into his nose. Sizzling juices still came off the meat, however, spattering his skin, beard, and fur coat.

" 'Ware, ye wench!" he roared, as though castigating an impulsive child who was throwing a tantrum. He slapped the meat aside and into the dust.

Delkin tried to save the venison but his fingers were too clumsy and he dropped it.

"Justiciar's hand!" the priest cursed. "It's ruined!"

Delkin rounded on Ryla and the Moor Runners fell silent. From the looks on their faces, Alin guessed that he had just discovered how one went about making the normally ebullient cleric furious: wasted food. Putting his hands on his hips, he gazed death at the dragonslayer.

Ryla was not about to back down. She drew herself up even taller than her intimidating frame should have allowed and faced the broad-shouldered priest. Her pursed lips said nothing but Alin could see them trembling a tiny bit. He got the distinct sense, however, that it was not from fear.

Delkin seemed to have composed himself, though Alin could see his hands trembling." 'Twas cooked in the Uthgardt style," he rumbled. "Perfectly seasoned, lovingly handled. Thard is a master cook, and ye have insulted him. Apologize." It was not a request.

"It wasn't cooked enough," Ryla retorted with a dismissive wave. "Your master cook is a master fool."

" 'Twas well done-half burned, even, just as ye asked!" Delkin roared. "Apologize!"

"I refuse," responded Ryla.

"Ye insult all o' us!" Delkin shouted. "Apologize!"

"No."

There was silence. The four adventurers stared at the dragonslayer in varying degress of shock. Thard's gaze was stony, Inri's suspicious, and Delkin's outright furious. Alin looked at Ryla with sympathy, and he could not keep the longing out of his gaze.

The dragonslayer looked around at the four faces and found nothing that pleased her in any of the gazes. Her lip curled up in a self-righteous sneer.

"Is this what passes for heroism these days?" she asked. "Rudeness? Discourtesy? Suspicion?" She looked at Delkin,

Thard, and Inri respectively as she spat those three words. "Are all of you adventurers this unwelcoming to those who would call you friend?"

There was no response. The Moor Runners looked at her with wide eyes, but no one spoke. Alin gaped. Thard brooded. Delkin flushed. Inri just looked at Ryla with a baleful glare.

Ryla made a dismissive sound in her throat then said, "Pathetic-"

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the campsite toward the trees.

The three Moor Runners looked at Alin, dumbfounded.

"She'll get over it," the bard assured them. "She's not really angry."

"I hope a dragon eats every one of you!" the dragonslayer shouted back, rage hot in her voice.

The Moor Runners, all but Inri suitably chagrined, sent helpless looks the bard's way.

"Ye go and talk to the lass," suggested Delkin with downcast eyes. "She be in no mood for any o' us."

Before the suggestion even passed the cleric's lips, Alin was already following the dragonslayer.

She walked only a short way before picking up the pace, and even began running. The bard followed without hesitation, clutching his deep indigo cloak against the night's chill. She was making excellent time, and his talents had never exactly run to running.

Alin decided to file that joke away for future use.

In a few minutes, Ryla passed between the tall redwoods at the edge of the Forest of Wyrms and Alin pulled up short, perhaps a hundred yards behind her.

He reached into his tunic and drew out a silver coin on a leather thong. Then he gave a short prayer. "Lady Luck, for the love I bear thee, don't let a dragon pounce on me!"

He kissed the symbol and jogged toward the wood. Clouds came over the moon, so he pulled out a sphere of glass and strummed a high note on his harp. With the touch of his bardic magic-little more than a cantrip of power-the large marble began to glow with a soft, red-white radiance akin to a torch.

He came upon Ryla in a small grove near the edge of the forest. Her katana discarded, she was punching one of the trees with her spiked gauntlet, taking off chunks of reddish wood with each left-handed strike. The bard watched for a moment, awed at her strength, and cleared his throat.

Ryla stopped punching the tree and leaned against it, her back to him, as though the strength had gone out of her.

He took a step forward and said, "Ryla…"

She turned, her eyes burning. Her features were luminous and almost feral under Sehine's glow. Water had stained her cheeks and seemed to gleam crimson in his magelight.

"What do you know?" she demanded. "What gives you the right to judge me?"

"I'm not judging you," Alin said.

"Then why are you here?" pressed Ryla.

"I…" The bard trailed off. How could he speak, when she was so beautiful in the moonlight? Somehow, he managed, "I only thought I'd ask you… about my ballad."

"A ballad?" Ryla looked intrigued. "What ballad?"

She took a step toward him.

"Ah! A-about you," he stammered. "The ballad of-of Dragonclaw."

"A song about me?" Ryla said, one scarlet eyebrow rising.

As she walked toward him, her hands deftly unbuckled the black breastplate she wore and slid it over her head. It fell to the ground, revealing her gray undershirt-an undershirt soaked with sweat and clinging tightly to her skin.

Alin swallowed. It had grown even harder to think coherently.

"Ah, yes… a ballad."

She stepped within reach, unbuckled her black leather skirt, and stepped out of it.

"Wri-written b-by me." Alin stuttered. He felt warm all over.

"Tell me, good sir bard," Ryla purred. He had had no idea she could sound like that. She raised her right hand and ran the back of her fingers down his cheek. Her touch sent tremors through his body. "Is there anyone… special, back home, waiting for her dark-haired, blue-eyed hero to come home a dragonslayer?"

She stepped closer and stared into his eyes.

"N-no," Alin said.

Ryla pressed her body against his, and chills shot through him. He could see tiny flecks of what he thought was crimson in her eyes. She was so beautiful…

"Though I… I've always loved… the lady Alusair… from afar."

"A princess, eh?" Ryla murmured. She pressed her lips against his cheek and her breasts against his chest. "I can hardly compete."

"Oh, it's just-" she kissed his neck and ear-"a boy's fantasy."

"A fantasy…" she whispered.

She pushed him down, and Alin fell on his rump. One foot on either side of him, Ryla towered over him. She pulled the tunic over her head and stood in the moonlight in only her boots and ring. Her hair was a fiery cascade and her flawless skin sparkled. She put her hands on her hips. The movement only emphasized her curves.

"Who is your princess now?" she asked with a lusty smile.

"Y-you are," the bard stammered.

"Perfect answer."

Then Ryla slid down onto him, and Alin lost all ability to think. He didn't need to.

"What's new with ye, boy?" Delkin asked Alin, clapping him hard on the shoulder.

The bard didn't even notice. They were deep in the Forest of Wyrms, one of the most dangerous places in Faerun, with certain death all around, but he hardly thought about it. His star-struck eyes were fixed on Ryla's smooth shoulders as she strode ahead of them, her black half-cape shifting in the light breeze, and her hair a scarlet cascade.

"Oh, nothing," the bard replied. "Just musing over a dream I had last night."

The dragonslayer's face, by chance, half turned to him. An errant strand of hair fell across her face. Alin felt warm all over.

"Several times, last night," he added.

"By the looks of yer musing, it must've been a good 'un," the priest said with a snicker. Then Delkin's expression turned serious. "Don't let it distract ye. There be dragons 'ere, and ye needs be on yer guard. What can ye tell us o' this place?"

Shaking his head to clear it of his daydreams, Alin pursed his lips. He recalled all the stories he had ever heard of the Western Heartlands and the Forest of Wyrms.

"It's said green dragons have claimed this place," explained Alin. "And for good reason. The beasts infest the forest as thickly as jackrabbits."

"Keep yer eyes open," said Delkin with a nod.

Alin nodded. He looked at the other Moor Runners as they picked through the dense helmthorn brush, trying not to be stabbed by needles that were as long as a man's hand. Scanning the ground in front of them, Thard was impassive as always, but his hand was on the axe at his belt. Ryla followed close behind him, ready to draw her blade at a moment's notice. Only Inri's attention seemed not focused on the task at hand. Instead, she watched Ryla's every move with suspicion, and more than once Alin caught her hand moving through the gestures of a spell.

"What's with Inri?" the bard asked Delkin.

Delkin wore a bemused smile when he turned to Alin and said, "Oh, Madam Sorceress isn't too happy she's no longer the on'y lass around us Moor Runners anymore. Women kin be competitive, if'n ye know what I mean. At least she 'as Thard."

Alin's mind filled in the details. "Is that all?" pressed Alin.

"An' she be suspicious," the priest admitted. "Lady Dragon-claw's magic be concealed."

Alin raised a finger to his lips in thought.

"Aye, a mystery," agreed Delkin. He looked up at the front of the group. "Lady Dragonclaw, ye're sure our dragon's here? I haven't seen or heard anything."

"My apologies, but you're a priest, not a scout," Ryla said, not bothering to correct him regarding her name. "And yes. I saw him land here, and he hasn't left since the attack on the caravan."

Reassured, the Moor Runners continued on, looking all around, all the time. Alin pressed all his senses into service, using the techniques he had learned from his master to extend his hearing into the surrounding trees.

Thus, he was startled when Inri appeared at his side, seemingly from nowhere.

"Is she not suspicious?" the elf asked. "How could she have seen thisTharas'kalagram land here, when she was near Triel with the rest of us?"

Alin turned a scowl to her. "Find someone else to listen to your suspicions," he said. "Focus on the task ahead."

"Quiet you two," Ryla said. "I hear something."

"What is it?" Delkin asked.

Ryla turned to him and said, "A dragon."

At that moment, a huge green wyrm burst from the trees with a roar, not ten paces from the dragonslayer. The beast was at least forty feet long and muscles pulsed along its entire serpentine body. Fiery eyes glared death down upon the five adventurers, and putrid green spittle dripped from its daggerlike fangs. Delkin shouted, raising his symbol of Lathander high, even as Thard drew his axe and Inri prepared a spell.

The creature rose up above them, its jaws opening wide. Alin would not have been surprised to see two cows from back home fit between those jaws.

Tempus!" Thard shouted, swinging his greataxe with shattering force against its foreleg.

The dragon screeched as several of its scales caved in and green blood sprayed the barbarian.

It lashed out at him with its other claw, an attack he barely ducked. The sword-length talons slashed a nearby tree in two. Thard kept rolling, for the fangs were not far behind.

Standing behind Delkin, Inri finished her chant and pointed over his shoulder, sending a bolt of lightning at the beast. It slammed into the dragon's chest, causing the huge body to spasm with electricity. Enraged, the beast breathed in and its chest bulged.

"Dragonbreath!" Delkin shouted, then immediately fell into a chant to Lathander.

The shout jarred Alin, who realized he had been watching open-mouthed as the dragon attacked, unable to respond as quickly as his fellows. His first order of business was to shut his gaping mouth, then he dived behind the priest.

At that instant, the creature exhaled, and a vast spray of corrosive green gas fell upon them. Alin screamed, for he saw choking, burning death coming for him, but the gas didn't sear his flesh. Instead, it billowed and raged around them, pushed aside by a shimmering golden shield surrounding Delkin's holy symbol.

"Ha ha!" came Ryla's shout.

The dragonslayer flew out of a nearby tree and drove her katana deep into the crown of the dragon's head. The wyrm shook and roared, but Ryla held on, wrapped her legs around its forehead, and pulled the katana out, only to plunge the blade into it again and again.

Thard came at the dragon's body again, swinging and hewing its green scales with his axe. He again went for the wound he'd made on the beast's leg, and more blood flew. The dragon, distracted with Ryla, made only half-hearted attempts to pull its injured claw away. Meanwhile, it pawed at its head with the other talons.

Alin felt a surge of triumph and leaped to his feet. Harp in hand, he plucked a discordant note and sent a wave of disharmony toward the dragon. The sound struck the creature and it recoiled for the barest of instants, keeping it from knocking Ryla from its head.

The dragonslayer screeched again and sliced her katana into one of the wyrm's eyes. The dragon roared and shook its head frantically, throwing her off. She flew, limbs spiraling wildly, over fifty feet through the air. She landed on her face a dozen paces away from Alin.

"Ryla!" Alin shouted, running from the circle of the priest's power.

"Alin, no!" snapped Delkin, dropping his shield as his concentration broke.

Thard may have been fast, but he was not fast enough to dodge the dragon's bulk as the creature lunged into their midst, barreling the hulking barbarian aside like a discarded child's toy. As Alin leaped at Ryla to cover her body with his own, a sweeping tail struck him in the midsection, launching him through the air. As he flew, he heard the screams of the other Moor Runners.

Then he slammed against a great redwood, and he heard nothing at all.

When he woke, a soft hand was touching his forehead. At first, he tried to kiss it, but then he realized it was not Ryla but Inri who was waking him.

"We were all knocked cold, but Ryla killed the beast," Inri said before he could ask.

He sat up at once, a hundred questions on his lips, but Inri cut them off with a silent command to follow as she started away. The bard stood, finding his body aching but whole, and made his way after the sorceress. She mercifully slowed her walk to allow him to follow.

When they arrived back at the spot where the dragon had come upon them, Alin was chilled to the bone. Thard peeked from beneath a bloody bandage across his forehead and leaned heavily on a long shovel. Arms crossed, Ryla seemed unhurt-causing Alin's heart to leap-but wore a grim frown. Even Inri had not escaped unscathed; she wore one arm in an improvised sling.

It was the fifth member of their party who caused Alin's breath to catch.

Delkin lay half buried in a shallow grave. His face, burned black by the dragon's breath, was unrecognizable-Alin could only tell it was him by the honey-gold curls.

With a strangled cry, Alin dropped to his knees by the priest's grave.

"Don't touch him!" Inri shouted. "The acid will burn your flesh as well."

Alin might have ignored her and reached for his friend, but Thard caught him in time. As it was, he merely wept into the barbarian's strong arm.

Ryla gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you we didn't have time to bury him," she said. "The night is coming, and when the dragon wakes-"

"For pity's sake," Inri begged. "Just a few more minutes."

The dragonslayer rolled her eyes but shrugged in acceptance.

Alin stood and walked toward her. He looked at Ryla with a shocked expression, and she flashed him a seductive smile. When he gave no response, she turned and pointed.

Just up the path, a bloody ruin decorated the small clearing: the remains of the green dragon. Dozens of tree trunks lay snapped and splintered on the ground. Some trees even lay pulled up by the roots. Blood and bits of dragonflesh spattered the trees that were left standing a sickly green color. The creature looked as though it had been torn in half lengthwise, and huge gashes had torn its thick carapace to ribbons. Many of its exposed bones were splintered, as though some great force had thrown it against those broken trees.

Alin's thoughts leaped to Ryla-he had known the dragonslayer was strong, but how strong was she?

The bard looked back, a question in his eyes, and Ryla smiled.

"And I know where its lair is," she said.

The dragon's lair was huge, a yawning cave bored in the side of a small volcano. Two rotting green dragon carcasses lay outside, grim watchguards that delivered a dark message to any brave or foolish enough to enter. The bodies were fresh, and assailed the cave with a foul odor.

"At least he won't smell us," Alin observed to no one in particular.

Ryla smiled and waved the party of four forward. Thard, axe in hand, took point, with the dragonslayer and Inri following close behind. Alin, rapier drawn, took up the rear, but he didn't know how effective he would be in an attack. His sword seemed woefully inadequate compared to the others' weapons.

Entering the place was a shock, for the cave's darkness was much warmer than the light outside. The adventurers could see nothing in the blackness, and Alin recast his light spell. The light extended only a few feet in every direction, and the darkness pressed upon it like a living, breathing foe. Unrecognizable bones and bits of arms and armor littered the wide tunnel. The occasional snap of bones or metallic rustle of armor was the only sound. No rats, spiders, or other vermin scuttled by their feet. Alin suspected that few living creatures would survive long in the lair of a dragon.

They didn't have far to go through the oppressive blackness to reach Tharas'kalagram's inner lair. Less than a hundred paces in, they came upon a glowing cavern. Peering over the lip of a higher ledge, the four could see a gargantuan serpentine beast slumbering amidst piles of gold and gems. The horde was huge, a treasure out of a bard's epic tale. Gold and silver sparkled and dazzled, threatening to blind any who looked upon it at the wrong angle. The dragon that slept upon it was even larger, at least double the size of the green wyrm that had attacked them in the forest.

"Good, he's asleep," Ryla whispered. "Let's go."

With that, she disappeared into the forest of stalagmites.

"Ryla?" Alin asked. "Ryla!"

He slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his shout when they all heard a rumbling sound from below. They didn't have time to look over the edge, though, as another earth-shaking snore came up from the lair.

"She gives us no strategy?" Inri asked. "What…?"

Ryla reappeared from behind the stalagmites, an irritated expression on her face.

"All right, all right," she growled. "Thard, you strike from hiding, then run-that rocky outcropping there." She pointed down in the dragon's lair toward a smaller tunnel and fallen boulders that would provide cover. "Inri, you stay up here and hit the beast with all the magic you can muster. Alin, help Inri."

"What about you?" the bard asked.

The end of Ryla's mouth turned up in a smile. "Once Thard hits him, Kalag-the dragon-will awaken. When it attacks him, that's when I go on top of it and take out its eyes. When the dragon is blinded, we have the advantage."

Thard and Alin nodded. Only Inri looked unconvinced.

"Magical protections?" she prompted, as though reminding a youngster.

A flicker of something passed over Ryla's face, but it was gone before Alin could read her features.

"If you must," she said in apparent exasperation.

"Thard will need the most," Inri said.

She began casting spells upon the barbarian, keeping her voice low. Alin did the same, ransacking his brain for spells he knew that might help the man. Finally, he settled on one of his most powerful charms-a spell of invisibility.

Inri nodded as he cast it, as though grateful.

"Take this spell too," said the sorceress. "It will allow us to converse without speaking."

She chanted a few arcane syllables under her breath, and a silvery radiance fell over them. Ryla flinched but grudgingly remained in the aura of radiance.

Gods! Alin said through the bond.

Yes, came Inri's voice in his mind. Try not to fill our minds with meaningless exclamations, though.

Instead of shutting his mouth, Alin emptied his mind, suitably chastened.

When they were finished, Thard picked Inri up so they could share a kiss. Cheeks flaming from embarrassment at the passionate feelings he felt through the mental bond, Alin stole a longing glance at Ryla, but the dragonslayer looked preoccupied with planning. He could also feel no thoughts coming from her-perhaps she knew how to hide her thoughts from others, even with Inri's spell. He turned away before she could read his thoughts.

The Moor Runners took up their places, Thard heading down closer and Ryla disappearing up the wall. Excitement shivered down Alin's spine as he waited. Thard looked like a hero of legend, picking his way between stalagmites as effortlessly as though they were tree trunks. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed upon the dragon's slumbering form and his hand on his axe handle.

Is it asleep? Inri asked Thard.

They could feel the barbarian's mental confirmation.

Alin clutched his rapier hilt firmly but dared not draw it, for he feared the sound it would make. Besides, he reminded himself, such a tiny blade would be nigh useless against the colossal dragon that awaited them. He called to mind his bardic tricks and the magic that would summon them, but even there he could do little but conjure dancing lights or perform feats of legerdemain. Once again, he felt useless in a fight, but he didn't feel out of place. Rather, he was there to bear witness to the epic battle sure to unfold-he would write it into The Ballad of Dragonclaw and-

Then they heard Thard's confusion in their minds. Wait, this is not the beast that attacked the caravan.

What? asked Alin. He could feel Inri's confusion and suspicion as well.

The scars are different.

At that moment, the dragon's eyes opened and its gaze fixed on Thard. Crimson, fiery death filled its mouth and its eyes were burning with terrible laughter.

Tempus!" the barbarian shouted, throwing himself forward.

Through the mental link, they felt more than saw his scorching doom. "No!" Inri screamed. "Ryla!" She began a spell of escape.

But then the words stopped as a blade protruded through her chest and blood leaked from her lips. Ryla slid the katana out and spun the elf around. Inri blinked, too stunned even to gasp in pain, and the dragonslayer took her head off with a backhand slash. The headless body tumbled over the ledge, and down into the dragon's lair.

Alin looked up at Ryla with absolute confusion. The dragonslayer smiled and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she made her way down toward the dragon, stripping off her armor piece by piece as she went. When she reached the bottom, she stood before the beast with only the silver ring on her right hand.

The dragon growled and pulled back, as though to pounce, but Ryla laughed. Laughed!

"Oh, come now Kalag," she said. "Surely you recognize me."

"You broke the rules, Rylatar'ralah'tyma," the dragon growled.

Alin's limbs froze at the mighty sound, but his hair rose for an entirely different reason. The name-Rylatar-he had heard that name before.

The dragon continued, "You're not allowed to change. The rules-"

"Are our rules, anyway," she countered with a dismissive wave. Then Ryla ran her hands down her arms and over her beautiful, bare skin. "Really Kalag, you'd rather I were horribly scarred by some lowly green's acid gas? My beautiful body…"

The wyrm scoffed. "You're hideous as it is," he hissed.

A lovely pout appeared on Ryla's lips. "You don't like the ring?" she asked, holding it up as though modeling it for him. The silver sparkled in the firelight.

The dragon's lips pulled back in a sneer.

Ryla shrugged and said, "Fine."

She slipped the ring off her finger, and the bard watched with a mixture of horror and wonder as her body rippled and grew, her skin sloughing off and revealing crimson scales and deep indigo wings. Her head lengthened and her sparkling white teeth became fangs. Within a breath, Ryla had grown to the size and shape of the other dragon. Her red scales sparkled in the firelight.

"Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire," Alin found himself singing under his breath.

His mind seemed far away. As it stretched and snapped, he was vaguely aware that he had lost something.

"A thought occurred to me, about the age," Ryla growled. "We should assume elf bodies in the future… just so we don't seem too young."

"'We'?" Kalag asked.

"Oh, yes," Ryla said. Her talon held out the tiny silver ring to the other dragon. "I'm done being the hunter-time for me to be the hunted. I found you, now it's your turn to hunt me."

The dragon looked at the ring and asked, "Why do you do it?The adventurers? Why?"

Ryla rumbled, as though with mirth. "I enjoy the deception," she said. "And I brought you meat. What are you complaining about?'

"I wonder, sometimes, if you're not fond of them," Kalag growled.

"I'm not fond of anything," retorted Ryla.

"Sharp death in hand, whose passion knows no name…" Alin sang as he felt reason fleeing.

He fought the desire to babble incoherently, but it wasn't for fear that the dragons would hear him, but only because it would disrupt his song.

"Then you won't object when I eat the little bard who's hiding up there," reasoned Kalag.

"Actually, I would object," Ryla replied.

Kalag shot her a look that could only be a dragon's form of jealousy, and Alin would have shivered if he had maintained his sanity. Instead, he chuckled.

Ryla caught the glare and said, "I propose a new hunting game: one where we're the hunters, he's the hunted, and he gets a head start."

Alin's ears pricked and shivers of terror shot down his spine. His shattered mind hardly registered the threat, though. It was too busy putting words to his music, music twisted by madness.

"Mercy? From you, Rylatar?" Kalag smiled. "Very well then. How much of a head start?"

"Oh, five years will suffice," she said. "The lives of dragons are long-it will be but a summer's day to us, but a lifetime of fear for him."

"This bard must be special, to warrant such treatment."

At the notion, Ryla scoffed-an action that sent flame lancing out to melt a stalagmite.

"If you must know," she said. "It's because he's composing a very nice ballad. This way, he'll have time to finish it."

"Ruling her land, queen of the hunting game!" the maddened bard sang with a smile as he climbed to his feet.

Then came the most hideous sound he had ever heard- and would always hear as he ran-booming and thunderous, but dark and mocking:

A dragon's laugh.