'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.'
