Anthology - Realms of the Dragons vol.1

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."

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.