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.'
