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
