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 with relief that he seemed not badly hurt. With Nisstyre's support, he made his way over to the huge corpse.
"Look at the breast plates," the wizard directed.
Gorlist looked. The red scales were mottled, and beneath the bright hue was another color.
"This was actually a green dragon, painted to appear red in the bright light," Nisstyre said with obvious chagrin. "I did not believe Slithifar would take the deception to another level."
"So the powder that should have quenched a red dragon's fire-breath had no effect on the cloud of gas."
"A little, fortunately, or you would be dead. I suspect that you were also aided by the magical smoke. Its purpose was to hold the poison in the arena, protecting the crowd. Slithifar is clever," Nisstyre concluded ruefully. "The light served three purposes: to put you at a disadvantage, to disguise the dragon's true nature, and to provide a misleading explanation for the poison filter."
Gorlist nodded, taking it all in.
"My face," he said, touching his burning cheek.
"The pain will fade," Nisstyre assured him, "but the mark will not. I took the liberty of giving you a magical tattoo, one that will glow with colored light-all but invisible to any eyes but a drow's-that corresponds to the color of any nearby dragon."
"A tattoo?" Gorlist repeated, finding the notion strangely appealing. Scars were unacceptable, but a magical tattoo that marked him as a dragon slayer? That he could wear with pride.
"Let it be a reminder to us both. Dragons are treacherous beasts, but it is possible to know their nature and predict their actions. This is not true of our most deadly enemy: our fellow drow. It is no longer safe for us in Ched Nasad."
Gorlist responded with a derisive snort.
His father waved the sarcasm away with a sharp, dismissive gesture and said, "I am without clan, which makes me anyone's meat. Once you leave the arena, you will leave behind the protection that successful gladiators enjoy. Do not think for a moment that Slithifar's wrath will not follow you."
"But what else is there? The wild Underdark?"
"The wide world," Nisstyre replied. "There are other males like us, other places we might go, other gods we might worship."
The blasphemy of that struck Gorlist like a fist, but the possibilities were intoxicating. He was still speechless when Murdinark approached, hands held out wide in a gesture of peace or surrender. As unobtrusively as possible, Gorlist gathered up a handful of dragon teeth and put the vial of poison among them. He clenched his hand, breaking the vial and coating the ivory daggers with the poison.
"Gorlist, I swear I knew none of it. It was Slithifar-"
Gorlist surged to his feet, slamming into Murdinark and driving them both several paces back. They struck the arena's stone wall. Gorlist shoved his forearm against the other drow's throat, all but cutting off his air. With his free hand he slammed a dragon tooth into Murdinark's upper arm.
"That's for the blue-metal sword."
He thrust a tooth though the fleshy part of Murdinark's nose.
"This for the tail swipe."
Another tooth went into the traitor's belly.