power that had brought them victory in battle after battle with the strongest foe they’d ever faced, the dragonkin of dread Thauglor, and his fellow warriors all knew it. That was why he’d been chosen for this meeting, as well as for his fearless demeanor and quick wit.
The dragon, for his part, was well aware of the elf’s lack of fear, but dignity demanded a fitting entrance. He had met this one before, and it would not do for the lord and master of the forest to come crawling like a lizard to any humanoid, regardless of what power the small creature might wield. Even-or especially-this small one, so mighty in his magic. The dragon towered over the one who strode to meet him, the elf appearing like nothing more than a small green dot against a living wall of black and purple.
The two smaller dragons, one red, one blue, flanked the great blackscaled beast a respectable few yards behind their liege. They were younglings, newly out of their shell, their colors as bright as the forest around them. That, too, was a sign of power from the dragon. He confidently chose inexperienced youths as his seconds.
“Iliphar Nelnueve,” said the largest dragon in a booming voice, “who is called Lord of the Scepters.”
“Thauglorimorgorus,” replied the elf, bowing slightly, “who is called Thauglor the Mighty and Thauglor the Black Doom.”
The dragon beckoned with one wing, then the other. “Gloriankithsanus.” The blue made a solemn bob of his neck. “Mistinarperadnacles.” The red made a jerky, coltish nod as well, her eyes already scouting the surrounding woods for elven ambushers. “Did you bring your witnesses?”
Not seconds, thought the elf lord, but witnesses. “They are within the tower and await my command.”
“You have good cause to summon me to this parley?” asked Thauglor, a warning rumble behind his precise and polite words.
“Ask, not summon,” Iliphar returned calmly. “I appreciate your coming, for we have need to discuss matters of our two peoples. I trust you are well.”
“As well as can be expected,” said the dragon as calmly, “given the continual battles between our two kindreds. I trust the wounds you acquired at our last meeting have fully healed.”
Despite himself, the elf touched the jagged scar that crossed his face from temple to chin, the only mark that marred his otherwise smooth skin. It was a souvenir of his last encounter with Thauglor, a reminder that even proud elf lords should think twice before entering into battle with the Black Doom.
The elf ran a finger along the scar, hesitated when he saw the slow, toothy spread of the dragon’s smile. The elf lord had flinched first, after all.
“Our healing spells are sufficient,” Iliphar said steadily. “I trust that draconian curative spells have similarly undone the damage inflicted on you?”
The dragon’s fang-studded smile grew broader. “Damage? Oh, a few scales lost, and a bit of blood, but little in the way of major harm. Thank you for asking, but I doubt such concern was the reason for your summons.”
“I wish to talk about the difficulties between our peoples. The strife that ends not, between dragons and elves,” said the Lord of Scepters. “Our battles must come to an end.”
“Battles?” said Thauglor, mock indignation coloring his tone. “Do you mean our little games of hunter and prey? Or the valiant attempts of pointed-ear sneak thieves to steal into our homes? Or the red fires and black bile of our brethren burning out nests of the invading elven vermin? Are these the battles you speak of?”
“I mean the battles in which elf and dragon perish needlessly,” said the elf lord.
“You are ready to surrender to my authority, then?” asked the dragon in tones of quiet triumph.
“I am prepared to show you that you have no such authority,” Iliphar replied as quietly.
“Then this discussion has ended before it has begun,” said Thauglor silkily, spreading his wings and flexing his lower haunches, preparing to leap into the air. “This was not,” he added warningly, “worth rousing me from my slumber.” The other, lesser dragons spread their wings and lowered their necks, ready to leap into the sky.
Iliphar raised a hand. “Hold a moment. This is our last chance to speak.”
The dragon drew in his wings again, brow quizzical. “Speak then, little intruder,” he said, cocking his massive head to fix Iliphar with one cold eye.
“There are more of my people coming. Already elf and dragon have been fighting in this beautiful woods, my kin to defend themselves, yours to destroy what we have built. Neither race is as numerous as humans or goblins, any loss is felt.”
“Your people are the invaders,” Thauglor corrected coldly. “My families, and those of other dragons, seek to defend our hunting grounds. We must live and hunt as we have always lived, free and unfettered.”
“There is still a chance for us to live in this place together,” the Lord of the Scepters told the ancient wyrm. “You have merely to respect those areas that elves have claimed.”
“And what,” snarled the dragon, “avoid them? Restrict ourselves in where we hunt? Little humanoid, know you that this land has belonged to dragons before the hatching of my eldest known ancestor, and I have hunted here for a time that is long even to the proudest elf. For almost all of those passing years, I have defended these great forests against the depredations of other wyrmkin, and through hard battle have come to dominate them-the redscales, the mighty blues, and the greenwings such that now, and for a thousand years before now, my word is and has been law from the eastern peaks to the western and from the northern range to the narrow sea. And if, as you oh so subtly threaten, there are more of your kind coming, will the lot of you not soon force us from our hunting grounds entirely?”
As the thunder of his roar echoed back from the horn tower, the dragon rose to his full height and added almost casually, “We should stop you elves now, before you take any more of our domains as your own.”
“Very well, then,” Iliphar replied. “Stop us now.”
Thauglor the Black regarded the slender elf at his feet in surprise, wondering just what the small one with the raised and ready scepter was planning this time. He had not long to wait.
“You speak for all the dragons in this forested basin?” said Iliphar. It was more confirmation than question.
“By blood and by Feint of Honor, I am master,” snarled the dragon. “My words are those of every bog- dwelling black, mountain-hunting red, and forest-lairing green. That is my authority, and I demand you recognize it.”
“1 recognize it as authority over dragons, not elves,” replied Iliphar. “And I represent my people as well.” He pulled a small golden scroll from inside his cope. “This is a document of my people, from mighty Myth Drannor to the north. It gives me hegemony over the elves of this land.”
“The elves, but not the land itself,” sniffed Thauglor. “You are invaders, and like the human wanderers and orc barbarians, you will recognize my sovereignty or be destroyed.”
“We recognize no sovereignty of yours,” said the elf, “but at my command, I can empty this region of elves. We can abandon this place and set our borders at the northern range.”
“For your people’s sakes, I hope you do,” said Thauglor, a small reptilian smile tugging the corner of his jaw. “Though they do make tasty treats.”
“I said ‘can,’ old wyrm.” Iliphar kept his face solemn, not rising to the dragon’s baiting tone. “Not will. Not unless you can convince me.”
“Convince?” replied the dragon, suddenly sterner. “How may I convince you of anything, if you are not wise enough to see that your people court their own deaths by opposing us? Your kind are not welcome here. Not welcome to hunt, not welcome to farm, not welcome to stay. Use your authority over your fellow creatures and leave us to our land.”
“You say you represent all of your people,” said Iliphar, drawing himself up to his full height. “If you tell them to leave us in peace, will they do so?”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you proposing?”
“I propose a Feint of Honor,” said Iliphar.
The dragon made a harsh, barking noise that might have been a laugh. “A Feint of Honor with a mammal? How droll. Feints are between dragons, to settle their differences without killing one or both parties.”
“A battle until one is subdued and surrenders to the other,” the elf went on, nodding. “You represent your people, and I represent mine. The winner takes the forest country.” Iliphar stopped there, holding his tongue and waiting to see if the dragon would take the bait.
A silence descended on the forest, broken only by the rustle of leaves in the autumn breeze. The red wyrmling was still skittish and kept craning her neck around, looking for attackers. Her blue cousin seemed deep in thought.
